I'm practicing paying attention to my emotions and feelings. Well, neighbor, let me tell you — I went on quite a ride today! They grabbed me by the heels, held me upside down, and shook HARD. Damn!

The physical adrenaline rush alone was enough to keep me zooming for days. My instinctual, habitual, fear-and-people-pleasing-fixing brain pathways were LIT UP. I mentioned a few days ago how I’d serendipitously reconnected with some old friends and acquaintances, and I was looking forward to blossoming renewed connections and sharing and — holy shit — so much for those delusional expectations! I can say more clearly now: I have opportunities galore to practice my new skills... with some old fart friends.

This morning, I received a text message informing me that being friends with me would "compromise their values." Strange doesn’t even begin to cover it. I started tracking the feelings as they arrived: first up, adrenaline — with no particular direction to the energy, just ZING. Next came defensiveness and explaining — a flashing impulse to set the record straight. I was obviously and egregiously misunderstood, right? OF COURSE the best, most normal thing would be to correct the error! Immediately! Vigorously! Off I'd go, building an argument, constructing examples, spinning up explanations like a maniacal cotton candy machine. Surely, surely I was the victim here. Surely!

Along with defensiveness came a big fat serving of "being right" and "looking good." How could she think that of me? She didn't even talk to me about it! Cue the old familiar soundtrack: wronged, misunderstood, mistreated, unfair, blah blah blah. SPINNING.

I took more than a few deep breaths. I managed — miracle of miracles — to stay standing as the observer, not the participant. I allowed. I accepted. I talked calm and peace to myself. I let the justifiable rage and righteous upset float on by. There I sat — on the riverbank, smiling gently — when grief came roaring in next.

Tears. Sadness. Ached-out heart. Sadness for the state of affairs: that people can be so attached to their own beliefs. That connections can close so fast. That intimacy and friendship can turn to dust with no conversation. But I didn't let the "Why? Why? Why?" machine fire up too hard. Deep breath. Tears. Another deep breath. Another wave passed.

And then — finally — gratitude. Gratitude that the would-be friend at least recognized their discomfort and acted with integrity. (Or, you know, acted in some way.) I'm guessing it wasn’t an easy message to send. At least I hope not. Gratitude for the clarity. Gratitude for the closure. Gratitude for the truth that hurt but freed.

Then, forgiveness. For her. For me. For the pain-bodies and trapped emotions that collide all day long in all of us, just trying to do our best.

I'm noticing echoes now — echoes of the first flood of feelings: defending, people-pleasing, fixing, justifying, explaining, spinning wild reasons and scenarios in my head to prove (to whom?) that I am right, wise, good, fair, better, smarter...

STOP. Practice. Practice. Practice. Out of the floodwaters. Back to the shore.

What an amazing experience. Thank you, old friend for a smashing, parting gift. Out of the water, onto the shore — over and over — until the message finally tattoos itself into my neurons: No need to dive down that dark alley. No need for the spinning. No need for external validation to know my own worth.

I am also exceedingly grateful — and here, I one thousand percent concur with David Sedaris — WHAT DO PEOPLE DO WHO CAN'T WRITE ABOUT THIS SHIT??? Thank you, Spirit, for giving me the glorious outlet of writing.

No need for more wondering, questioning, analyzing, or proving. Just standing here, letting the waves break... and roll on down the river. Grateful. Forgiving. Free.

The image of the body as a living book (The Body of Stories 11/2024) has stayed with me. Not just a book to be read, but one to be rewritten, revisited, and reimagined over time. This body, this mechanism, remains a constant storyteller — shifting, flowing, revising. The stories haven’t stopped unfolding; they have only deepened.

Since that first vision months ago, I find myself in a new phase of listening. Some chapters feel familiar — pages I’ve skimmed before but now have the patience to read more carefully. Other chapters seem to have appeared from nowhere, surprising me with their complexity, tenderness, and weight.

My mantras still hold true — There is nothing to fear. There is nothing to prove. There is nothing to fix. There is nothing wrong. There is nothing missing. But now they feel less like something I’m reciting and more like a natural hum beneath my days, shaping the way I meet myself. I don’t have to work so hard to remember them. They are starting to remember me.

Meditation is no longer a morning chore, no longer a battle to overcome habitual grumpiness. Something has shifted — perhaps the release of so many trapped emotions has finally cleared a wider channel. Whatever the cause, the background noise in my mind has softened into a kind of calm grace. Where there was once defending, resisting, and protecting, there is now a steady, quiet openness.

And seriously, this is huge. I notice it in all kinds of small moments: standing in line, sitting across from a friend, driving alone. I can pull back what feels like a thin veil — a veil of watchfulness, anxiousness — and simply listen, open-hearted and unguarded.

It reminds me of standing inside a greenhouse in winter. At first, everything seems cold, brittle, and silent. But if you stand still long enough, you realize it’s full of life: the small creak of growing branches, the almost inaudible hum of energy rising. That’s how this new listening feels — like stepping into a living space that doesn’t need my defense, my opinions, or my point of view to survive. I don’t have to perform. I don’t have to prove anything. I can just be there, breathing.

Life, of course, hasn’t stayed still either. In recent weeks, I’ve discovered the Landis Arboretum, a beautiful place for walking, wandering, and scheduling Artist’s Dates with myself. The idea of solo adventures, once so tentative, now feels natural and nourishing. My calendar has also filled up, gently and serendipitously, with new dates: old acquaintances who have appeared seemingly out of nowhere, offering renewed friendship, conversation, and laughter at just the right time. And then there’s California. A trip I decided on with almost no overthinking — an instinctive yes. Jo, a friend from Australia, is leading a seminar there, and it felt easier, lighter, more fun to fly across the country than to wonder endlessly whether or not I should go. Will I simply observe? Will I jump in and participate? I don’t know yet. But it doesn't matter. Any adventure is a lovely adventure. The spirit of exploration itself feels like the right answer.

I came across a Rumi poem this morning that I hadn't heard before. His words have been shadowing me too — especially a few stanzas from "The Community of Spirit" that seem to capture everything I’m learning, everything I’m living right now:

Close both eyes
to see with the other eye.

Open your hands,
if you want to be held.

Sit down in this circle.
Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!

Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?

Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence.

Flow down and down in always
widening rings of being.

I’m beginning to enjoy the mystery again. Not because I solved it, but because I finally stopped trying to manage it. This is what space creation was always about — not a performance, not a purge, but an invitation. And now, with so much static cleared, I can feel the payoff: a naturally calm background where the goodness just flows, no longer blocked, no longer tangled. I didn’t force it. I just made room. And something wise and kind rushed in to fill the space.

There is nothing to fear. here is nothing to prove. There is nothing to fix. There is nothing wrong.
There is nothing missing. Honestly, it feels like switching from dial-up internet to fiber optic soul-speed. Static quieter. Drama more distant. Subscription to chaos: unsubscribed. Thank you, Spirit. Thank you, nervous system. Thank you, stubborn human heart. May it stay quiet and glorious for a good long while. (And let’s not get crazy, but maybe let Spirit hide the map where I can’t lose it.) ​Over and out — and tuned in.

“Please just fill in your first name and stick the name tag on your left upper chest. Thanks so much—then I can see it easily when you’re seated.” I probably repeated that sentence thousands of times. I was the seminar leader. I even developed the course myself: PRIDE (People Respecting Individual Diversity Extravaganza). Decades ago—before diversity was a thing—I had insights and practices for being just a bit kinder and gentler to yourself and others. Extravaganza? Why yes, of course. It was NOT a "work" shop.

Part of the daylong experience included a closer look at what your values are. What can’t you live without? Family. That was the answer. Frequently. Repeatedly. Honesty, God, and Love came up a lot too. I’d nod thoughtfully when people said “family,” as if it were obvious. But it never felt obvious to me. I thought maybe I just didn’t “get it.” Or maybe it was something broken in me. Still, I led the exercise with conviction. That’s the funny thing about teaching—you don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to create space for the truth to emerge.
 
Now, all these years later, I think I finally understand: I never actually rejected “family” as a value—I just confused it with a Disney fantasy. The truth that emerged recently had everything to do with my actual, local, right-in-front-of-me family experience. My father-in-law passed not long ago, and I had a front-row seat to what real, present-day family looks like—his wife, daughters, grandchildren, and friends all orbiting around him with care and presence. No drama. No resentment. Just wine, blankets, connection, love. All that attention and acknowledgment—it was a blessing to witness. And, if I’m being honest, a bit of a gut punch. Because while I watched all that connection unfold around him, part of me was thinking: That’s what people mean when they say “family.”
 
And just like that, I realized something: I hadn’t rejected the value—I’d just been grieving the version of it I thought I was supposed to have. The fantasy family. The someday sisters. The effortless intimacy that never quite showed up. In the past, I would’ve spun out. Played the victim like it was my part-time job. Blamed everyone and their dog. I could’ve milked it for days—weeks—years, even. But I’ve since learned that blaming “the family” doesn’t actually work. It doesn’t get me anywhere new. In plain old business-speak: it’s ineffective. The ROI on that kind of drama is abysmal. So, when that old inclination pops up, I treat it like a spam call: decline, delete, and move on. And truthfully, I didn’t have a lot of tools back then. Emotional intelligence wasn’t modeled. There was no communication—just silence. “No talk, no touch, no eye contact please!” could’ve been our family crest.
 
It reminded me of the often-hesitant women in my PRIDE seminars—sitting in small circles, nervously sharing truths they’d never considered before. Some proudly claimed family as their core value. Others whispered about Friendship, Joy, and other aspirational values they weren’t quite sure they were allowed to want. And I always said: there’s no right answer—only the one that’s real for you. Turns out, that’s the lesson I needed too. Not the value that sounds noble or looks good on paper. Not the one you inherited by default. And definitely not the one you stitched together in your head with a Norman Rockwell background mural and a backup theme song. Just the value that’s real—for you.
 
So, I’ll ditch the fantasy. Let go of the memo on how to act ‘properly’—you know, the one no one ever actually got. Book the ticket. Go see my mom in September. This time, though, I’m doing it differently—not out of duty or guilt or some weird inherited script, but because I finally understand: I get to create what family means for me now. I get to shape the value of “family” with my one primary remaining blood relative—my mom. I don’t have to follow anyone’s definition. I can be intentional, tender, even bold about it. I can show up with care, with curiosity, and with an eye toward the future. I can build something that makes me feel more present, more connected, more free.
 
I had this strange old belief that I needed to include her new husband, like it would be rude not to. But… hello?! Permission granted. I get to have time with just her. I can whisk her away like a Thelma & Louise movie heroine with a convertible and a rockin' playlist.
 
Is it perfect? No. But it’s personal, it’s present, it’s for real—and it’s mine. Turns out, you don’t need a fantasy family. Just a plane ticket, a mom who still answers your calls, the guts to be real, a playlist that doesn’t include childhood trauma, and a well-earned, awake-and-aware gold star in Living My Actual Life—PRIDE-style. Glitter optional.

This one floated in like a wink from the universe—equal parts ancient knowing and playful reminder. I didn’t sit down to write a poem, I sat down to remember something I'd almost forgotten. Life isn’t a punishment or a puzzle to solve. It’s a game. A treasure hunt. A deeply personal, often hilarious, sometimes maddening adventure in trust and love and letting go.

And once you stop trying to win or finish or get it right—once you let the heart speak—you start to hear it whisper: "Love the game." Enjoy.

Love the Game
I feel it rising--
a spark, a pull,
a plan not of the mind
but of the heart.
A wish.
A dream.
A soul-deep signal
I can almost remember.

My soul has a hunch.
A scent on the wind,
a shimmer on the path.
This is not new.
It’s a treasure hunt--
Hide & seek
across lifetimes...

A game I've played
for centuries.
And centuries more
will unfold before it's done.
Enjoy THIS journey.

Stop asking why.
Just play the game,
Be bliss, now.
All is well--
so says my heart to me.

Beyond what eyes can see,
trust is alive.
Each moment brims--
no waiting, no holding back.
Just dive in.
No worries.

The bonds I form,
the skills I gather--
they’ll travel with me
into the next round.
So Love, scoop them up--
both the pain and the pleasure,
the agony, the awe.
No harm, no foul.

You’re collecting treasures.
Each one,
a different face
of the same sacred coin.
Perhaps or not.
No matter.

So trust the game.
Play full out.
And when in doubt—laugh.
A lot.

Because really--
there’s no prize for suffering,
no points for perfection,
no villain,
no flaw,
no missing piece.

And I am certain, truly—  
there’s nothing to fear,  
nothing to fix,  
nothing to prove,  
nothing wrong,  
and absolutely nothing missing.

​Tag, you’re it.
Game on.

I’ve heard it said—and I believe it—that every experience has a bright side, a learning opportunity. As humans with free will, how we choose to observe and interpret each moment is one of our built-in superpowers. That said, let’s be real: some emotions are sticky and stormy, unwilling to reveal their purpose, plan, or lesson. Anger, for instance. For most of my life, I’ve shoved it aside, numbed it out, softened the edges. Rarely do I allow myself to honor it, honestly and fearlessly.

And let me tell you—yesterday, it refused to be ignored. It wasn’t just a 'weird-dream' morning crankiness—I’ve danced that dance. This was deeper, sharper, and harder to shake. This was insatiable. Unquenchable. I tried movement shaking and dancing it away. Still there. It clung to me like static and insisted on closer inspection. Fine. What?! What?? And there it was. Not just anger. FURY. A tidal wave.

“I want to be thin!” it screamed. 
​
Not politely or wistfully. Not in a wellness-goal, intention-setting, affirming kind of way. This was primal. Rageful. A red-hot eruption that cut through all my delusional bypassing. It didn’t care about cultural expectations or body-positive compassion or moderate, reasonable self-talk. It did not want balance. It wanted TRUTH. And apparently, the truth was: I’m fed up.

I’m fed up with the excuses, the gentle indulgences, the soothing stories. I’m sick of being hungry, of negotiating with cravings, of pretending I’m at peace when my body is screaming for more. It felt good to admit it. Even to hate it. Even to hate myself for the never ending sabotage and inevitable spiral. I wrote furiously: 

​"I’m sick and tired of being HUNGRY. I don’t want to be hungry ever again. FUCK you, hunger! I can’t trust you. You LIE! I am not in need of anything for 14 days."

What a relief. That’s the power of fury—it doesn’t negotiate. It slices through the noise and lays it bare. Beneath all my gentle intentions was a core truth: I’d been pretending balance and moderation were enough, but I was faking it. Something inside me knew it wasn’t right—I was waiting for the shoe to drop, for old behavior to sneak back in. I couldn’t detach. I was tangled in familiar patterns and wishful thinking. Fury cut through all of it like a hot knife. Brutal, yes—but brilliantly clear. My goal wasn’t aligned with what my body really wanted. Fury to the rescue—who knew? Without it, I might still be fake-moderating my way through madness, AGAIN!

So I made a decision* (cut off all other options). I’m fasting. Cleansing. Just tea and water. Nothing to fix, just a system reset. And you’d be shocked by how right it feels. Everything I’ve done up to this point—clearing out trigger foods, hoarding detox tea (Nettle, Hibiscus, Chaga, Burdock Root, Ginger, Mango Ginger, Smooth Move, Fenugreek, Raspberry, Mullein… I could open a shop)—all of it suddenly clicked. Even aspirin made the cut. (Caffeine withdrawal is no joke.)

By the afternoon meditation time, I wasn’t glowing—I was quiet. Hollowed out, in the best possible way. Not because the hunger had vanished, but because something deeper had surfaced: a decision that felt cellular. The old part of me—the excuse-maker, the gentle negotiator, the saboteur—had stepped aside (at least for the moment). Not with drama, but with a kind of weary bow. In her place was something stripped down, steady, and certain. I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt emptied. Clear. Like the hunger had finally named itself, and with that truth came peace.

During that afternoon's meditation, so many thoughts drifted past like boats on a river—some familiar, some surprising. No need to chase or catalog them. But somewhere mid-stream, something different floated by—something quieter, but undeniable. I caught a glimpse of what it might mean to give away my emptiness. To surrender that vague, gnawing sense of not enough. That restless current of longing—for acknowledgement, for intimacy, for stillness—that never quite names itself, never feels fully satisfied. It was just there, bobbing gently in the flow, waiting for me to notice. A subtle shimmer beneath the surface. And I saw it. I COULD LET GO OF EMPTINESS ITSELF.  I could actually turn that over. Let that go.

Not fix it. Not soothe it. Not embrace or honor it. Just let it go.

And honestly? I was floored. How had I missed this? After all that searching, it turns out, this emptiness inside wasn’t some sacred portal or cosmic to-do list item. It was just... noise. A drama queen with a fog machine. Hunger’s shady cousin wearing a different costume. Spiritual static dressed up as deep longing. And suddenly, I didn’t need to decode it or dive into it or drag it to therapy. I could just laugh, wave, and let that slippery bastard float downstream. Poof.

​​Fury, it turns out, is brilliant—when you let her have the mic. Not forever. Not on repeat. But for that one knockout moment of clarity? She slaps. She doesn’t whisper affirmations or light candles—she kicks the door in, points at the truth, and dares you to deal with it. And when you do? When you really listen and let her burn off the bullshit? You don’t just feel lighter. You are lighter.

So yeah, I’m sipping my absurd teas, giving my saboteur a well-earned nap, and leaning into this strange, radiant relief. Hunger can take a hike. Emptiness too. For now, I’ve got fury in my corner—and she’s not here to coddle. She’s here to set me free.

* decision(n.) mid-15c., decisioun, "act of deciding," from Old French décision (14c.), from Latin decisionem (nominative decisio) "a decision, settlement, agreement," noun of action from past-participle stem of decidere "to decide, determine," literally "to cut off," from de "off" (see de-) + caedere "to cut" (from PIE root *kae-id- "to strike"). (Source: https://www.etymonline.com/word/decision)