This morning, I was cruising down the meditation highway—top down, wind in my hair, metaphorical of course—when Lucy Love dropped a 20-minute guided track called Love Wash. Within seconds, I was swept into that space where love lives. The kind that glows and buzzes and vibrates around you like a force field. My brain tried to label it—unconditional, palpable, effervescent—but honestly, it felt more like easing back into a cosmic rocking chair. One that reclines not just into comfort, but into space.

Not just outer space. Inner space. That expansive detachment I’ve tasted before. It reminded me of the kind of space I notice when I drop into the rhythm of this: I set aside everything I think I know. Everything I believe to be true. All my expectations and judgments. I set aside proving, defending, looking good, and being right. All this in exchange for an open mind and a new experience of life. That morning, I didn’t say the prayer, but the feeling matched. I was off the launchpad. No gravity. That rocking chair wasn’t just comfortable—it was a cosmic recliner, easing me into orbit. Spacious, weightless, no agenda. Just curiosity and the hush of something holy.

So I’m gathering visual cues to get me there on demand. The flick of a light switch—click, glow. The feeling of rose-colored glasses settling on my nose—weightless but definite—and realizing how the same scene softens through the tint of rose detachment. It’s not denial. It’s grace. Then there’s the hidden room behind the wall of my everyday life. I stumble backward—accidentally, naturally—and land in a quiet hallway that feels like it’s always been waiting. At the end? A two-way mirror. Or is it one-way? Either way, it lets me watch the whole scene unfold without having to leap into the fray. Just me, the moment, and the miracle of not reacting.

Michael Singer likes to remind us we’re specks on a spinning planet, careening through space. Which, yes, is helpful when you're stuck in a traffic jam or fighting with a microwave. But I wanted something more immediate. Something I could feel, not just know. A mental zoom-out is nice, but sometimes you need a full-body portal. Like, “Beam me up outta this reaction before I do something dumb.” That’s where the fly came in.

How about being a fly on the ceiling? Or sitting next to one? That’s a fun visual. Because while my body is on the floor—flinching, vibrating, overpacked with emotion—my spirit floats up and joins that fly. And from there, I can breathe. From there, I see my life from the edge instead of the center. Not to escape, but to observe. That fly’s-eye view? Weirdly freeing. It's the same detachment Singer points to, just closer. Smaller. With wings.

That perspective would have been helpful recently when I had a full-body freakout over a car insurance email. (Spoiler alert: it was not about love, peace, or higher vibrations.) See, I recently fulfilled a bucket list dream and bought myself a cherry red BMW convertible. Midlife fantasy, meet your match. I ordered it online, configured every detail like I was building a spaceship, and when it arrived—oh honey, it PURRED. It hugs the curves, it grumbles at stoplights, it turns heads like a damn runway model.

But apparently, if you buy a brand new 2026 vehicle, insurance companies lose their minds. Rates shot through the roof. I called my agent, Robert, and asked him to shop it around. He found me a better rate with Hartford, scheduled the switch, and I figured—done. Handled. Enter peace. Except… the next morning I get an email from my old insurer demanding $700+. Cue the claws. In that moment, I lost it. Snapped a pic of the email. Sent an all-caps text to Robert. Then opened a new tab to write a carefully crafted email to his boss, complete with customer service training recommendations and a few polite-but-pointed zingers.

That’s when the inside voice—the intuitive warning, that hint of “you’re about to make a fool of yourself”—whispered: Wait. So I did. Barely. I sat on my email, still fully convinced I was right, helpful, and maybe even noble in my outrage. Then Robert called. Calm as ever. Turns out the invoice had gone out before he canceled the policy, and I’d actually be getting a refund. The drama? All mine.

What saved me wasn’t logic or virtue—it was the pause. It was that tiny gap where I remembered to listen instead of launch. Had I floated up to sit with the fly or ducked behind that mirror, I would’ve seen the story I was writing—and realized I had the pen. The power’s not just in the pause. It’s in the space I create when I stop trying to be right and remember to be free.
​
So I’m collecting imagery now. A rocking chair that leans into the cosmos—equal parts therapy and space travel. A spirit-fly with front-row seats to my unraveling. A switch that flips the scene from chaos to clarity. Rose-tinted glasses that turn judgments into curiosities. A secret passageway, tucked just behind the drywall of my daily panic. A mirror that says, “You don’t have to fix this—you can just see it.” And a convertible that reminds me: joy is not something to earn—it’s something to choose. Preferably with the top down and the volume up. Whatever visual helps me wake up and shift, I’ll take it. Because this life is for freedom. And freedom starts in the space I remember to create.

I am the oldest of my siblings and cousins. First-born grandchild. All eyes were on me—until they weren’t. Around age seven, my mother remarried and decided to start a second family. Enter Mark and David, born when I was nine-and-three-quarters and eleven-and-some-change. They were night and day—Mark, a bold and boisterous firecracker; David, a quiet and cautious shadow. Together? My personal pint-sized chaos committee. They tattled, pried, cried, and raided my room like it was their full-time job.

I was fourteen and “in charge” of a three- and four-year-old. At sixteen, I had a five- and six-year-old under my weary wing. I was more resentful older sister than willing stand-in parent, and by the time college loomed, I was fantasizing daily about my exit strategy. But here’s what stuck: those two, in all their boundary-pushing glory, taught me how to hide. If I wanted privacy, peace, or a moment alone for any reason, it had to be covert. Mark was obvious in his mischief. David was invisible. And me? I perfected the art of getting away with things quietly, undetected. Honestly, I should’ve earned a merit badge.

I got so good at it, I once scaled the olive tree next to our pergola just to sneak a smoke. I’d tightrope the beams, haul myself onto the flat gravel roof of our mid-century modern house, and hide out with my cigarettes, a journal, and my Vivitar camera. It was my personal rebel retreat: above it all, alone, and free—at least until I had to quietly shimmy down again like nothing ever happened. I did this regularly, mind you. Not exactly “occasional contraband.” This was a daily creativity exercise in stealth, privacy and pleasure. Honestly, part of me still loves how ingenious it was... but also, wow. That’s a lot of effort just to find five quiet minutes, have a puff, snap a cloud photo, and avoid being observed by a duo of toddlers with loose lips.

Let’s talk sneaky. Like dirty talk, but less sexy and more... strategic dysfunction. I recently had a meditation session where my inner guidance—my DMGS—lovingly called me out. It showed me how sneaky has survived into my current life as a subtle, habitual form of self-sabotage. Not bold or dramatic, just slippery. A muttered internal “just this once” or “don’t mention it and maybe it won’t count.” And I’m noticing: it’s not just a behavior. It’s a vibration.

Take the chocolate almond incident. A few nights ago, I was rummaging for a cooking tool and stumbled across a container of Trader Joe’s dark chocolate covered almonds. I'm pretty damn good at hiding shit from myself, mostly! Instant trigger, Sneaky activated: Don’t tell Chris. He’s on a diet. I'll ration them, make them last. Uh huh. Night one: too many almonds, bad sugar hangover. Night two: I made a show of putting some in a bowl, out in the open... but said nothing. Chris said nothing. We both knew. The energy was weird and weirdly familiar. That’s what got my attention.

This wasn’t about almonds. It was about access, control, and the ancient belief that if I don’t hide what I want, I won’t get it—or worse, I’ll be judged for it. Sneaky is how I learned to survive when I didn’t feel articulate enough to explain, confident enough to claim, or worthy enough to ask. It’s not just about avoiding consequences. It’s about preemptively disqualifying myself from authenticity.

But here’s the thing: I’m turning 60 next month. I’ve got tools now. I’ve got pause, breath, awareness, and a very sassy inner guidance system. I know that when I feel that slippery sneakiness arise, I can wait. I can raincheck my reaction. I can trust that clarity will come. I can speak from integrity without bracing for attack. I don’t need to squirrel away what I want like I’m still under surveillance. I can be honest. I can be seen. I can be free.

And while we’re at it, can we talk about the invisible audience in my head? The peanut gallery of imaginary critics who seem deeply invested in how I load the dishwasher or whether I’m using enough elbow grease in the shower? Who are these people? Ghosts of judgment past? An inner panel of exasperated relatives? The worst part is, they never leave—it’s more of a vague disapproval cloud, like I’m being watched by someone who’s perpetually unimpressed. Even when I’m alone. Even when I’m doing something incredibly helpful, like shoveling snow so no one breaks an ankle. Apparently, my inner surveillance team isn’t big on gratitude. But now that I see them clearly, I’m tempted to wave and say, “We’re good here. You can go.” Or better yet—hand them a clipboard and put them to work for a change.

Here’s the connection I didn’t see before: sneakiness is a response to imagined judgment. If I didn’t feel like I was being watched, evaluated, or silently disapproved of—why would I need to be sneaky at all? Sneakiness only exists when there’s someone to hide from, even if that someone is a dusty inner voice from the 1970's. The surveillance feeds the sneak. The sneak confirms the need for surveillance. It’s a self-sustaining loop of unworthiness, and every time I act from it, I reinforce the idea that I can’t be real and be safe at the same time.

But I see it now. The pattern. The payoff. The cost. I can shift it. I can pause, take a breath, and check in with my actual self—not the jury. I can move from this weird little jail of judgment and manipulation into something that feels a hell of a lot better: freedom, creativity, transparency. A kind of badass clarity that says, I want this. I don’t need permission. I trust myself. Sneaky had its time. But this next chapter? This one’s wide open. No secrets. No surveillance. Just me, free and clear.

Here's a few fun affirmations to help me remember in the moment. I'll print them and put them around for a few days! (or longer)

Eventually, I guess it finally happened. The dark grey, cloudy, chilly, cold, and damp outside weather navigated its way inside my head. Damn. It took a lot of meditation—and a healthy dose of sunshine—to finally snap me out of my doll drums. (Yes, doll drums. You read that right. Melancholy with a few pink sparkles and a pouty lip.)

I’ve been experimenting with a new morning meditation. One word. Love. That’s it. Just a daily exploration of what love means for me. What does it feel like? How does it show up? What happens when I stop demanding that it look a certain way?

Like the word God, the word Love has been firmly parked on my internal “Use With Extreme Caution” list for a while now. Whether it was my original interaction with those words, or the way they’ve been hijacked, inflated, and twisted into cringe-inducing memes and overly idealistic frameworks—I had long since tossed them into the metaphorical baggage car of my personal history train. Still unpacked. Still heavy. Ready for an adventure I wasn’t quite willing to take. And yet, apparently, both words are central—core even—if I want to fully live from and communicate with my DMGS. So, fine. I’ll unpack Love first. Then maybe I’ll peek at the other one. (Maybe.)

This new practice started about a week ago. I’ve been wandering Insight Timer like a curious mystic, searching for guided meditations that might offer a doorway—or even a doggie door—into a felt sense of love. Not the concept. The experience. To begin, I needed to narrow the field. I’d rather start with adjectives than synonyms. I mean, should I be looking at Love the noun? Love the verb? Geeze.

Here are a few obvious definitions that I’ve eliminated so far: A strong feeling of emotional attachment. An intense attraction or profound likeability. A person you love, respect, or lust after. A favorable inclination or enthusiasm for something. Reverence for someone or something. The act of engaging in coitus (sex). An intimate relationship between two people. Obsessional enthusiasm or extreme liking. Polite greetings or good wishes.

It was easy to eliminate all definitions that related to another person or that had attachment, obsession, or coitus included. However, staring at definitions and dissecting usage just sent me into a tailspin. So instead, I dropped the dictionary and dropped in. I used the meditations to feel what was already there, beyond the noise and associations. And here’s what I found so far: I am not deficient in love. Not lacking, not empty. (I originally thought I had to "heal" something for love to flow.) This thing I’m calling Love—it’s not scarce. It’s not transactional. It’s not earned or withheld or measured out like medicine. It is literally everywhere, all the time, without exception or doubt.

When I try to visualize love, the only impression I receive is: BIG. POWERFUL. Unconditionally flowing. Always moving, always available. Love isn’t a feeling—it’s a living field. It moves through everything, responds to nothing, and welcomes it all.

One meditation was especially fun—it guided me through hallways and doors inside the mind, leading to my personal library which comes fully stocked with every drop of wisdom the universe has ever offered—no late fees, no gatekeepers, just me and the infinite. I imagined mine nestled inside a great ancient tree, glowing and translucent like a greenhouse. I actually noticed a book titled LOVE and cracked it open, half-expecting something preachy or profound. Instead, it read like a permission slip: It radiated acceptance. No rules. No punishments. No criticisms. Just welcome mats in every direction. I had no idea what to do with that, so I sat there blinking—delighted and confused. To even imagine a space without the slightest hint of judgment was disorienting… and delicious. And it’s unconditionally indifferent to my choices.

That last bit startled me. Love isn’t a mom coming to kiss a scraped knee. It’s not reward or punishment, not approval or disapproval. It’s not optimism or pessimism, not good or bad. It is not rooted in judgment, in any form. And yet, it’s not apathetic either. It’s not a shrug or a void. It’s more like a presence that says: “I’m here. I’ve always been here. You can tap in whenever you want—but I’m not chasing you down.” It nourishes when asked. Period. No preconditions. No history check. No future requirements. It doesn't care what I’ve done, am doing, or plan to do.

In the library of my mind, Love is the space itself. It’s the hall and the shelves, the ceiling and the floor. It’s the trapdoors and secret passageways behind the walls. Like the sky holds all clouds and all winds—rage storms and soft breezes alike—Love holds all I am, all I’ve been, and all I’m becoming. It’s the container. The backdrop. The deep pulse of safety and trust that says: You’re allowed. All of it. Always.

That’s all for now, folks. If God is Love and I’m supposed to love my neighbor as myself, then learning to love me isn’t extra credit—it’s the whole enchilada. The adventure’s off to a promising start as I finally get around to unpacking that dusty old trunk marked LOVE, tucked away in the back of my train—and apparently filed somewhere in my Multiverse Personal Library all along.  Stay tuned - this one’s finally getting unpacked. How's your luggage compartment?