Traveling around the country was part and parcel of my job description for a good portion of my career. I’m so grateful—and frankly amazed—to have experienced a little bit of nearly every state in this wide, wild country. Sometimes it was a quick turnaround: a week, a few nights, a school district tucked into a main city… or just as often, the middle of absolutely nowhere. I enjoyed both equally. Turns out, I was either born to be curious or just naturally more curious than afraid. The people I met were always interesting and wonderfully unique—southern sayings and slow pace, northern confidence and steel. Our world is busting at the seams with every possible combination of experience, temperament, and disposition. And yet, what tickled me to no end was how many townsfolk seemed to have a favorite saying. I used to think we were special in Denver where I grew up, but nope. We had one of those sayings too. “If you don’t like the weather, just wait ten minutes.”

I’ve now heard that same exact line in more zip codes than I can count—coast to coast, sea to shining sea. The timing may vary (two minutes in Juneau, fifteen in Austin or Portland, pick your coast), but the vibe is the same. People are convinced their weather is uniquely unpredictable. What I find most entertaining is the pride people seem to have in their weather’s mood swings, as if the clouds are performing just for them. And it’s not about climate change, by the way. This little nugget of humor has been around way before that topic blew in. Weather’s always been chaotic. Nothing new there. Look, humans are responsible for a lot of shit, but I’m pretty sure the weather isn’t one of them. My opinion. Grandiosity is rampant—especially in the media—and I think we overestimate our reach. The Earth’s evolution? She’s got it handled. We are not steering this spaceship, friends. The nature of nature is change. If you’re dissatisfied with the current condition, chances are 100% that it will be different shortly. It may not tickle your fancy, but I can guarantee it’ll change.

Change, like gravity and sun and death and taxes, is one of those constants you can count on. That’s why this whole ramble belongs in the Getting Your Bearings section of the book. You can bitch about it, resist it, pretend you’re immune to it—or you can work with it. Either way, it’s coming. Personally, I’ve started using the inevitability of change as a powerful ally. A kind of spiritual Swiss Army knife. In fact, it’s proven to be one of the most beneficial tools in my kit: the awareness that this too shall pass.

There’s an old story, often traced back to Persian Sufi poets, about a wealthy king who was deeply depressed and desperate for peace of mind. He searched high and low across his kingdom, asking wise men and mystics for a wisdom he could carry with him through both triumph and despair. Finally, one monk—or in some tellings, a court advisor—offered him a simple ring inscribed with four words: This too shall pass. That ring became the king’s most prized possession—not because it sparkled, but because it grounded him. The phrase gained wider fame through a 19th-century retelling by Edward FitzGerald, who echoed its message as both humbling and comforting. The most expensive, treasured, soul-saving reminder wasn’t a jewel or a castle—it was the truth that whatever you’re feeling, facing, or fumbling through... will pass. Good or bad, elated or ashamed, righteous or totally humiliated. Hang on, because another gust of life is blowing in soon enough.

When I’m swirling in emotional fog or feeling personally attacked by the cosmos, it helps to get that divine nudge—whether it’s a synchronicity, a God wink, or my internal guidance system blinking like a dashboard light—reminding me to pause. To breathe. To wait. If I burn my finger, it’ll heal. If I stub my toe, breathe, it’ll be fine. If someone offends me or I say something awful and stew in shame, this too shall pass. It’s the ultimate one-two punch—a combo so common it’s become cliché, but when delivered with just a touch of precision and regular practice, it’s still surprisingly effective. The jab? A pause. The cross? That quiet whisper (or growl, or mutter): “This too shall pass.” Doesn’t matter if you’re a rookie in the ring or a seasoned soul boxer—practice is the difference between flailing and flow. The power to shift your entire emotional weather pattern is right there, tucked in your back pocket... or blinking helpfully on your DMGS dashboard.
​
If you’re new to this, “this too shall pass” can be a solid cry for help—take it. That’s what it’s there for. Desperate or not, the phrase still works. But with time, with repetition, with some solid reps under your spiritual belt, it can transform into something else entirely: a friendly reminder. A wink. A breadcrumb on the trail. I like to imagine those words etched onto a small compass I carry inside. It doesn’t shout or demand. It just gently points me toward the next right moment. The next breath. The next shift. So while everyday people in everyday American towns are saying it about the weather—from Anchorage to Amarillo—here’s what I say now, inside and out: Just wait a minute, sweetheart. The weather (inside your soul and outside your window) is about to change. 

Greetings and salutations, fellow travelers. I appear to be in the throes of a patchy, rough spot. The terrain is craggy with discontent and a few emotional sinkholes. Lately—well, at least at this particular moment—my thoughts have been spinning in what some might label the “wrong” or negative direction. It's like my mind woke up, strapped on combat boots, and decided to stomp through every single inconvenient truth and perceived irritation it could find..

This morning, I considered removing all friends, weeds, trees, newsfeeds, and minor deities that seem to drive me mad with the urge to fix, correct, avoid, or cancel them. I fantasized about a massive mute button. A cosmic unsubscribe. But alas, I'm not the editor of the universe.'
​
I’m seriously pissed at the weeds in my garden and the damage the deer have done—again. And don't even get me started on the eye doctor, who just smiled with a suspicious sparkle the entire time I ranted about having to finally cave and wear physical glasses full-time. His silent grin seemed to say, “Welcome to the inevitable, sweetheart.” Life sucks compared to my seriously perfectionistic perspective. And then, of course, I’ll die. Rant, rant, rant… let it flow and go, right?

Except it doesn’t just go. It lingers, festers, pokes. I’ve been clinging to the exhausting belief that if I could just remove all the negative things out there, I could finally have peace. But removing what I perceive as negative out in the world? Yeah, no. Certifiably impossible. Deer will continue to munch, doctors will continue to sparkle smugly, and weeds—those relentless bastards—will always find their way back.

And so, with a massive sigh and irritation still bristling on my skin, I move onward and upward. Or sideways. Or somewhere. Because the only terrain I have even a smidge of influence over is the landscape inside my own head. And let me tell you, even that smidge feels pretty dull and lazy today. Still, here I am. Letting the negative vibes flow, trusting (or at least hoping) they will go eventually.

Just yesterday, I was fully immersed in the concept of responsibility. Not the heavy, guilt-ridden kind—but the internal kind. The kind that asks me to set aside any and all thoughts that feel unkind, blaming, avoiding, victimy, performative, right-fighty, or just plain mean. I was even trying not to say them out loud, which is a spiritual bootcamp in and of itself.

And the weird thing is—I can tell the difference now. I can feel it. I can sniff out a negative vibe before it fully takes hold. Not always, but more often than I could before. Which makes it even more annoying when the shitty thoughts land anyway. It’s like my brain goes, “Oh look! We know this is useless and unkind… let’s dive in anyway!”

Honestly, just the idea that it’s even possible to experience a space with zero negative vibes is kind of sensational. Like, whoa! I wonder what that would feel like? Is it quiet? Buoyant? Purple and floaty? (Insert blissy daydream sequence here…)

I’m now wondering if this barrage of inner grump and outer judgment is a kind of backlash. A cosmic boomerang slamming back in response to yesterday’s noble attempts at peace. Maybe this is part of the process—maybe as I learn to deal with the backlash, the intensity will fade? Kind of like emotional detox. Like peeling off a scab only to find another layer of healing underneath, still pink and tender, but somehow a bit less inflamed.

There are a couple of people who show up in my thoughts regularly, without invitation or clear reason. No trigger, no recent contact—just an ongoing presence, like emotional wallpaper I never picked out. They’re clueless, as far as I know. I’ve never brought it up, and I don’t need to. I know it’s all in my head. I’m the one choosing to rehearse resentments, recycle vapor-like judgments, and quietly wish they’d behave differently. Lately, I’ve been experimenting with a new internal reply—just one line: “I send you love.” That’s it. No drama, no fixing. And weirdly, it seems to work. The loop softens, the replay fades. Small, boring, barely-noticeable progress. But real.

For now, I’m letting it all be here. Every bristly, bitchy, triggered piece of it. I’m making a mental list of everything that still annoys me—things I have yet to "manage," meaning things that still challenge my expectations, poke my perspectives, or expose my most cherished illusions and delusions. The weeds. The deer. The inner critic. The sacred cows and old beliefs that refuse to die quietly.

I imagine reading this little slice of honesty five years from now and thinking, Wowsers. Look how far I’ve come. That alone makes me want to keep writing it all down. Not just the polished moments, but the unfiltered ones too. The not-so-spiritual rants. The tantrums disguised as insights. The humanity of it all.
​
So I return to the practice. Again. Letting go—whatever it is. Dropping the story. Loosening the grip. Observing the tension instead of feeding it. Asking, as Dr. Hawkins put it, “How long do I want to go on suffering? When am I willing to give it up? When is enough enough?”
Very, very good question, Dr. Hawkins. I’ll get back to you on that.

“I have been a seeker and I still am, but I stopped asking the books and the stars. I started listening to the teachings of my soul.” – Rumi

For most of my life, I’ve been the classic overpacked wanderer. A seeker dragging a bulging backpack full of tools, tips, truths, and tangled directions. I chased constellations and cracked open retreat workbooks like they held the way to the Holy Grail. If a practice promised results, I tried it. But somewhere along the trail, I internalized the wisdom of Rumi and began tuning "in" instead. Not to the gurus, stars or the books—but to something quieter. Something native. Something already inside.

It was during a recent morning meditation themed around trust and love that something deep began to shift. Not a big bang or a sudden insight—just a steady, soft unraveling. I’ve had emotional releases before while sitting in stillness, but this was different. Not dramatic or chaotic—just exquisitely tender. Quiet sobbing. Tears whispering trails on my cheeks, heart pulled wide open. No story, no reason. Just waves. I didn’t try to analyze it or chase the “why.” For once, I simply let it come. Let it wash me. Blow my nose. Move on. Except this time, I didn’t move on. Not right away. I lingered with the afterglow, the imagery, the warmth. The emotional weight had opened something I didn’t want to close back up.

What I wanted wasn’t to understand it with my mind but to honor it with presence. I picked up a pen. What emerged wasn’t a journal entry or an explanation. It was a poem. And shortly after, a conversation—more like a dictation. From a voice I’ve come to call Ev (rhymes with "rev"). Short for Evollla, my mashed-up, reversed spelling of “All Love.” My name for the quiet voice of inner truth I’ve started to trust more than all the external shouting.

The essence of that experience was unmistakably affectionate. The imagery was physical—hugs, cuddles, warmth. I wasn’t alone in this vision; I was held. Cradled. Cherished. The weeping wasn’t grief exactly. It was the ache of remembering something so real it makes this world feel a little less so. I noticed how incredibly vulnerable I felt in that state—so raw, so open, and also so beautiful. No armor. No performing. Just tenderness. And then something even deeper surfaced: homesickness. A bone-deep longing, not for a person or place on Earth, but for some realm just behind the veil—something I’ve always known but can’t quite name.

I didn’t resist it. I didn’t try to fix it. I let the energy move through me like wind. The emotion didn’t need an explanation. It just needed space. And in that space, I realized something subtle and enormous: I can go back. Not just during meditation, but anytime. This inner refuge—what I now call my foxhole—isn’t a metaphorical escape hatch. It’s essential gear. A kind of built-in shelter I forgot I had—camouflaged in the thicket of daily noise, but always there when I pause long enough to look. It’s mine. Always accessible, always welcoming. I don’t need a key or a code. Just willingness.

That’s the practice now. To return. To visit the foxhole not just when I’m raw or unraveling, but whenever I want to reconnect with that part of me that already knows. That remembers. That loves. I wrote the poem below not as a conclusion but as a compass—a map back to that moment, that place.

My Foxhole
My inner sanctum
has hugs.
deep and warm
cushy and soft.
Safe, loving embraces.

My foxhole
has freedom
security
tears of joy
and cozy snugness.

Words fall short
expressing the
cherishment I feel
in there.

There is nothing
missing except
Judgement – Fixing
Fear and Worry.
(Past - Present - Future)

Going in I get to notice
these and leave them
in umbrella stand or
on the mudroom hooks.

“Aww – There YOU are!”
a kindly voice
vibrates (it's Ev!).

In my innocent
vulnerable sweetness.
I am all beauty and fragrance,
no thorns or flaws .

I am held, leaning back
gently sobbing
tears flow warm
tickling my cheeks.

Beloved I am.
Treasured,
caressed – stroked
with gentle kindness.

Soothing coos
Immortal grace
brilliant arms
fold solid, firm.

Delicate attention
Listening – knowing
My deepest soul weeps.
No words.

Wave upon wave
I am loved,
treasured, cherished
accepted, understood.

Unconditional
tenderness lives
breathes – waits
in the shelter of
my foxhole.

My refuge echoes
reflections
and shadows
of my home.

My true home
is not here
Not in this plane,
time or form.
And I am very, very
homesick.
​
6/14/2025

So I’ve added this to my inner field kit—not as a shiny new tool I’ve mastered, but as a well-worn map to a place I now know exists. A secret passage to an inner safe house. My foxhole isn’t just a last resort anymore, or some mysterious floodgate that opens during meditation. It’s a real-time option. A practice in progress. My intention—loose but loving—is to visit more often. To duck in moment by moment as I travel this trail and stumble across rough terrain, tangled emotions, or, you know… mean, shitty people. (Or perfectly lovely people having spectacularly shitty days.) Remember I am safe and loving. With a little repetition and a lot of curiosity, maybe this sacred shelter will stop feeling like an escape—and start feeling like home base. So, stay tuned - I'm learning to use this essential gear without accidentally crushing the daylights out of it.

I was chatting with my friend Sally, who had just landed what could be her dream job. She’s trying to stay open-minded, bless her, but so far it’s been more nightmare than dream. The onboarding is chaotic—scattered training, unclear expectations, too many projects, not enough time or money. Add in a clientele that behaves more like middle schoolers in detention than adults—gossip, drama, ego explosions—and it’s no wonder she’s feeling frayed.

Her first instinct? Run. Her second? Cry. I could feel both in my own body as she spoke. I managed to sneak in a whisper: “Remember, you can’t control anyone's behavior. But you do get to choose how you respond.” In that moment, I remembered something I’ve leaned on a lot: the way other people act is totally outside my control. REALLY! Let that sink in and notice how even when you think you know this, you keep trying to fix and control people or harbor unrealistic and uncommunicated expectations for which you totally hold them accountable.  That’s been one of the most surprising discoveries of the last few years: even in chaos, there are still choices OTHER than expecting, controlling, fixing and blaming. Not comfortable, not easy ones, and not always obvious, but they’re there—often hidden inside the pause. It's easy to forget that in the gut punch of a powerful trigger. Step one: ride the trigger's adrenaline surge without biting anyone’s head off. Step two: do your best poker face and maybe keep your mouth shut for a beat. Or five.

Every new job—every new anything, really—comes with a grab bag of grace and grit. There are boundaries to test and people to decipher. Friend or foe? Fickle or solid? Kind or kind of terrifying? The hard part is remembering that it’s not your job to fix anyone or earn your worth by changing them. If someone’s behavior lights up your nervous system like a pinball machine, great! You just found a button you’d lost track of. Time to uninstall.

Yippee, another chance to practice OHR (Observe Honor Release) - Observe the reaction (especially the physical bits; the heat, the heart racing, the flushed face), Honor the emotion, then Release - let it go. Not because it’s “spiritually correct,” but because it's liberating. Then, I get to ask the fun question: what else is possible here? More interesting choices, guaranteed. Especially if I remember: You are safe. You are not in danger. All is well, even if it’s loud, clunky, or weird.

Still, it’s wild how often I forget that. Especially in the moment. My first reaction, more often than I’d like to admit, is still to blame, defend, escape, or shut down. Sometimes I argue—in my head, out loud, with the person or with a completely imaginary version of them. Occasionally all at once. But every now and then, I catch it before it spills out. A half-second of space. Just enough to breathe. Why is it so hard to see our choices in the moment? Because our first instinct isn’t usually wisdom. Mine sure isn’t. It’s some cocktail of defensiveness, blame, argument, or avoidance. Flight or fight or... snarky internal monologue. But if I can hold my tongue long enough not to lash out or run away, that’s already a win.

I have a tattoo on my right wrist to help me remember. It says WONDER—woven with tiny animal paw prints running through it. The message? Paws to Wonder. Pause to wonder. And yes, that pun was absolutely worth etching into my skin. Because there’s no access to choice without the pause. If I’m barreling down the trail of panic or projection, the path narrows to one: react. But if I pause? Oh, the wild freedom that lives in that moment.

The truth is, the "essential gear": I have a choice in every situation. Always. I can curse or bless. Sit still or phone a friend. Storm out or stay silent. There are always at least five options, even if one of them is “wait and see.” And as fun as it might feel to act like a toddler (“I don’t wanna and YOU can’t make me!”) or a teenager (“You’re wrong and I’m leaving!”), those knee-jerk reactions don’t get me where I actually want to go.

These days, I experiment with pretending I’m an actual grown-up. It’s strangely effective. Especially when paired with another discovery: I’m allowed to take my time. No rush! Even when everything in me screams for quick resolution or escape, I’ve learned—often the hard way—that time and space are choice’s best friends. My presence to choice and my ability to choose are not the same. I may have every tool in the toolbox, but if I’m too spun out to reach for them, they don’t help much. The pause is the reach.

I’m not talking about life-or-death situations here. Our brilliant nervous systems will always kick in if a tiger shows up. But let’s be honest: for most of us, “life-threatening” is almost never the case. Ego-threatening? All the time. Which is why we need to train ourselves to pause—to notice the difference. You’re not being hunted. You’re just being triggered. These days, I’m trying to notice that too—just notice it—without making it wrong. It’s just one more data point in this strange and beautiful dashboard called being human.

When I think about Sally and her new job, I can feel that edge—the tipping point between curiosity and collapse. I’ve walked it so many times. The story she chooses to tell about what’s happening makes a huge difference in how she may move through it. Her DMGS may start asking different questions: What if this is the dream job, just not the dream I expected? What would it feel like to let it unfold slowly, without demanding instant clarity?

OMG, this is the "adult" thing to do, right?! I get to ask myself: "So what do I want this experience to feel like? How do I want to walk through this opportunity, this challenge, this invitation to grow? Journaling helps. So does meditation. And, yes, so does tattooing reminders on my wrist if that’s what it takes to remember: I can pause. I can wonder. I can choose. I recently made a personally tough decision... a John Kabat-Zinn inspired decision making guided meditation found it's way to my play now list! Yeah! Thank you!

The pause isn’t passive. It's a portal to power and the most underrated tool in my essential gear. The one that turns chaos into curiosity, and reactivity into reflection. Even if nothing around me changes, something inside always does. And from there, I see more: five quiet doors creaking open, each one a possibility I couldn’t access while pounding on the old, familiar one. So when I forget (because I will), I’ve got this tattoo, this practice, this reminder: Paws to wonder. It changes everything.

I was only trying to sit still—just a few quiet minutes of meditation, maybe catch a breath before the to-do list came barging back in. But instead of peace, I got a full-blown inner flash mob: the Chaperone showed up, clipboard in hand, barking orders. The Rebel stomped in next, all attitude and eye-rolls. And then came the strangest revelation of all: I am not either of them. I’m not the one with the rules, and I’m not the one breaking them. I’m the one watching the whole scene unfold. The one sitting in the space between. And suddenly, that space—the one I usually rush to fill—became the most important place I could possibly be.

I know the Chaperone intimately. She’s a mashup of the stereotypical Catholic school nun—tight-lipped, ruler-wielding, impossible to please—and my workaholic father, who believed that play was for the lazy and vacation was for the weak. Joy, unless it had a measurable ROI, was suspect. The Chaperone inherited their legacy and took it further. She doesn’t just set high standards—she weaponizes them. She whispers that rest is failure, fun is foolish, and that every gold star must be earned with blood, sweat, and overthinking. She is the no-nonsense taskmaster who insists she’s just trying to help, all while suffocating my spirit one “should” at a time.

Enter the Rebel. The Skeptic. The hell-no voice. She doesn’t carry a clipboard—she carries a megaphone and a lighter. If the Chaperone says, “You should,” the Rebel retorts, “You can’t make me.” A therapist once told me that many people are stuck in their terrible twos—the emotional version—forever. Living life in a full-body tantrum of “I don’t want to and you can’t make me!” with angry tears and pouty lips for dramatic flair. That pretty much nails the Rebel’s vibe. Big feelings, big drama. But Margaret (same wise therapist) also gave me a lifeline when she said, “There is no black and white. There are always at least five options.” That one line cracked open my rigid thinking. And although the Rebel doesn’t always know what those five options are, she sure as hell knows she won’t be choosing Option A: Obey without question.

The magic happened the moment I realized that I am neither one. I am not the voice of the Chaperone, listing demands in the name of safety. I am not the Rebel either, hellbent on autonomy at any cost. I am the space between them. The awareness that watches them both. The still point in the storm. That sliver of silence between “I should” and “You can’t make me” is not just a pause—it’s presence. It’s where freedom lives. When I identify with one voice or the other, I’m locked into their tug-of-war. But when I sit in the middle, unattached, I start to breathe. I start to see clearly.

I used to hate the Judge because I thought she was trying to ruin me—force me into a tight little box labeled Acceptable Human. She was trying to make me conform, crush my creativity, completely fuck up my fun. NO FUN HERE! she’d shout, stomping out joy like it was a fire hazard. WTF are you thinking? Harsh, to say the least. She was the inner critic incarnate, the original architect of my internal surveillance system—so old, so embedded, it became practically invisible. Always on, always scanning, always reporting. She didn’t just whisper shame; she manufactured urgency. The breathless pace, the “go faster, do more, never stop moving” soundtrack? That’s her too. Reinforced by the outside world every second of every day. The speed of it all makes it nearly impossible to notice anything subtler—especially the quiet, sacred in-between space.

And the Rebel? Oh, please. Mostly imaginary. A Thelma-and-Louise wannabe in my head, not real life. Loud mouth, big talk, no follow-through. She’d yell, I don’t care what people think! before stomping off—exit stage left. The truth? I cared deeply. I cared so much about what people thought that the Rebel had to exist just to give me the illusion of independence. She was the inner escape hatch. A fantasy freedom fighter, shouting from the fire escape of my subconscious, while I stayed safely seated in my perfectly acceptable cubicle. But still—she had a role. She reminded me that there was an escape. That maybe, just maybe, there was a way to live without being constantly policed by my inner nun with a ruler.

And here’s where it gets even more interesting. In my brief-but-beautiful brush with Native American teachings, I learned something from Sun Bear that flipped my understanding of consciousness. He described the mind not as a single narrator, but as a council—a circle of voices, each with its own viewpoint. Picture a long table in a dimly lit boardroom, chairs filled with curious characters: the Chaperone in her pressed suit, the Rebel with her combat boots on the table, and a few others I haven’t fully identified yet (the Strategist? the Dreamer? the Skeptic in round glasses?). They all get to speak, but none of them are me. I am the one at the head of the table—the one listening. That image changed everything. I stopped trying to shut anyone up. I just pulled up a chair and said, “Thanks for sharing. I’ll take it from here.”

So what happens when I stop identifying with either of them? I begin to breathe. I notice the quiet underneath the commotion—the soft hum of something wiser. The field between their ropes becomes a sanctuary, not a battleground. And in that space, I find something else entirely. A deeper voice. A truer self. Not the one who reacts, defends, performs, or rebels—but the one who simply knows. She doesn’t carry a clipboard or a lighter. She doesn’t even talk loud. She just shows up. She watches. She listens. She waits. And when she speaks, the whole damn room goes quiet—not because she demands it, but because her presence alone is enough to shift the air.

The space between isn’t empty—it’s sacred. It’s the breath before the story, the beat before the choice. It’s where clarity gathers and wisdom seeps in. And no, the voices haven’t gone anywhere. The Chaperone still shows up with her rules. The Rebel still wants to light things on fire. But now, I greet them like old coworkers in a shared breakroom. I nod. I listen. I take what’s useful. But I don’t hand them the keys. I’m the one at the head of the council table now—centered, curious, and completely uninterested in running on autopilot.

​So here’s the deal: I am not my rules, and I am not my rebellion. I am the one who gets to decide. And that space--where freedom lives—isn’t a timeout or a loophole. It’s the whole damn point. It’s where life actually happens. It’s where I reclaim my voice, not as a reaction, but as an original. So next time one of those voices tries to hijack the show, I’ll do what any good field guide traveler would: step back, breathe, and remember I’ve got options. At least five. Maybe more.