Yesterday, I went to the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center concert at Spa Theater in Saratoga Spa Park—Beethoven’s Quintet for Piano and Winds. Once upon a time, I couldn’t sit through a classical concert without fidgeting, clock-watching, or plotting my escape. Meditation practice has changed that. These days, I can enjoy 90 to 120 minutes of stillness, grace, and music, surrounded by a sea of white-haired regulars. Chris and I used to go together, but now it’s just me—with a rotating cast of friends, or sometimes solo, which I secretly love. Quiet Sunday, easy parking, music, maybe dinner after. A treat.
​
This time, the friend I brought along for a show and dinner considers herself a Yelper extraordinaire—official restaurant critic. Who it was doesn’t matter—it’s the archetype that matters. Picture someone with a critic on full alert: never, ever put down the entrée plate before the appetizer plate is cleared; God help the server who dares to up-charge for a “simple” sauce swap! I noticed, about halfway through the evening, that her critiques were hijacking my joy—not because she was doing anything to me, but because I was handing over my peace on a silver platter. DMGS check-in: “Sweetheart, whose mood are you in charge of again?”

Here’s the truth: I used to stew and steam and fume and fester. Judge, rant, seethe about how such negative people suck, how they should act, what they should say. I’d vent, rehash the misery, and spin in mental loops for days. Now? I notice. I pause. I get curious: What might I do differently next time? I’m in limbo between old habits and new practices, but the shift is happening. Less victim, more witness and scientist-in-training.

I think it’s time for a Field Guide-worthy name for this old pattern. How about the JWO—the Judgment Warrant Officer? Or BNC-P—Bitter Negative Closeminded Protection Police? Maybe even Cassidy from the “Shut Down and Bitch Along Posse.” (I’m open to your votes.) Naming the inner cast adds levity and helps me remember: these characters aren’t villains. They’re just parts of me, running outdated scripts, trying to protect me from disappointment.

Journaling this morning, I wrote down the big questions: What’s my intention? What’s my commitment to that intention? What tools can I use to express it? What am I willing to do about it NO MATTER WHAT the scenario. My intention, I realized, is positive—not negative. I’m not here to shut people out or fix them. I’m here to stay present, to be curious, and to explore creative ways to shift my experience. I’m willing to pause. I’m willing to play. I’m willing to get it hilariously wrong and keep trying.

So, what works? Definitely not wisecracks or “what’s your solution” retorts—those only work if you’re the boss, and they’re paid to listen. Here’s what I’m experimenting with instead:

• Consider the source. Is this person even capable of what I’m expecting? What script are they running? What story are they stuck in? How's that mirror looking, missy?
• Practice micro-pauses. Breathe. Look around. Feel the chair under me. Notice the energy, where is it in my nose or toes or tummy? Is the flow upbeat or downtrodden?
• Shift position, not people. Literally. Sit differently, change the view, excuse myself to the restroom, or refocus my attention. Create physical space then focus on possible different doors of opportunity for conversation or intimacy.
• Silently play: “What’s hilarious about this?” Bonus points if I can collect absurd details like a field reporter gathering material. I can play with those later... write them down in my handy wee field guide notebook.

​Because here’s the upside: I get to use every one of these moments as practice. These people? They’re my training partners. Instead of dodging them, I get to practice my DMGS moves—curiosity, non-reactivity, and maybe even compassion (on a good day). When I remember that, I become what I call a free operator. Not because I control them, but because I refuse to hand them my remote control.

Which brings me to Field Guide Rule #41: Fodder, Not Frustration. Translation? Use everything for practice. The concert, the meal, the Yelp recitations, the snippy mood—fodder. Not frustration. That’s how I keep my seat at the table and inside my own skin.

So here’s where I land today: I’m not here to avoid tricky people or curate my companions like a social media feed. I’m here to practice living free—right in the middle of Beethoven’s woodwind swells, the clatter of appetizer plates, and yes, even the rants about the sauce. And if I play this right, maybe I leave the evening with more than just a lovely meal—I leave with another round of freedom under my belt. And that, my friends, gets my five-star review.

The idea landed like magic—one of a million possible perspectives, only this one slapped me upside the head in a way that was such a relief, it’s gonna take me a minute (or a lifetime) to get used to it.

It showed up this morning as I was chatting with my friend Patti, recounting the story of my very first-ever solo meditation session. Picture it: 2002, midtown Manhattan, tiny corporate one-bedroom, dark but chic. I had a worm composting bin crammed into the galley kitchen, wheatgrass shots delivered from the local juice place, and an aura of “overachieving wellness” thick enough to choke a crystal.

Fresh off a “vacation” (ha!) to the Optimum Health Institute in San Diego—a detox mecca of raw foods, wheatgrass, colon cleansing, and mind-body-spirit lectures—I was ready to take my stressed-out, pilot-program-running self next-level enlightened. So, I bought a Louise Hay cassette at Barnes & Noble (yes, cassette), popped it in my little tape player, and tried to meditate. What stuck? Not the precise words, but the vibe: All that scary stuff swirling in your head? Just thoughts. Just thoughts. Now let it go. Be grateful for your pillow, your toaster, your ears… You get the idea.

Fast-forward 20+ years and here’s the punchline: They’re just thoughts. They can’t hurt you. They may or may not be true. Half the time, they’re not even interesting. Lately, I’ve been spinning again—intentions, responsibilities, commitments (oh my!). And I’m back in one of my infamous Groundhog Day loops around food. Morning me makes all kinds of inspiring plans. Afternoon me? Not so much. Evening me? Girl, please.

But today, mid-meditation, it clicked: “Ohhh. The promises, the plans, the disappointment, the flogging? Just thoughts.” That’s a very interesting angle. What if the goal isn’t to obsess, resist, control, or fix? What if I just set an intention (say, seeing the scale at 155 over my pink-painted toes) and then—not plot, scheme, or browbeat—just let it be? Because here’s the deal: the strategy, the delusional internal playlist about what to eat or not eat, the running commentary of “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts”—it’s all just static. Just little electrical blips firing across my synapses. And here I am, acting like every single thought is a blood-oath handshake or one of those cowboy spit-palm deals—solemn, binding, and about as useful as a soggy trail map in a downpour.

Spoiler: not so much.

And this isn’t my first rodeo. Same thing with alcohol. Same with cigarettes. A million promises, broken daily. And yet, when the real change came? It took just one decision—with energy behind it—that somehow stuck. Where did that energy come from? Hell if I know. But I can tell you where it didn’t come from: half-assed, over-engineered, morning-after planning sessions.

So here I am, thanks to Louise Hay and the magic of revisiting an old idea with new eyes. I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do with it, but I know this: I’m done believing every random plan that pops into my head. I’m watching the intention itself work its quiet magic. So far? Not bad—35 pounds down, 15-ish to go, and zero need to reroute the hike or consult the emergency flare.

Here’s the kicker: I also realized that most of what I say out loud? Pure static. Just me, thinking out loud—no real intention, no deep motive, and very little awareness of whether what flies out of my mouth is madness or meaningful, nasty, nice, or just Captain Obvious reporting live from the trail. Poor Chris. He’s gotten pretty good at ignoring me. Frankly, he’s a seasoned field guide at this point—knows when to tune in, when to nod politely, and when to let me wander off talking to myself.

Maybe silence is the golden rule for me right now. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to remember:

✨ Field Guide Rule #54: Not every thought deserves a mic—or to be laminated and tucked into your backpack for safekeeping. ✨

​No promises! But here’s the fun part: maybe that’s the whole practice—learning when to lean in, when to let go, and when to just sit back, smile, and watch the cowboy spit dry.

Subtitle: Drafted at Birth Babe. Now Live Like You Mean It.

I am in the process of—perhaps for the first time (scary, I know; I’m old, for god’s sake)—actually, authentically, with integrity and all that shit, cobbling together some serious, life-altering intentions. And yeah, I guess it’s natural that the GO TO belief systems, the ones I know best—Capitalism, Catholicism, and AA—show up to the party, holding court like old friends who don’t know when to leave. And like clockwork, here comes the chatter: What about service? What about selflessness? What about being a good girl, a good human, a good whatever? Oh boy.

It’s like my overthinking, people-pleasing, recovering-codependent brain just can’t help itself: How can I be of service? How can I help? What should I be doing for others? Oops. Did I say recovering codependent? Cute.

Today, in meditation, something snuck in. A little what if. What if… you’re already in service? Now, when these downloads come in, they usually don’t arrive as tidy sentences. They show up bundled—words, concepts, sometimes an entire worldview plopped onto the coffee table of my brain. And this one was a doozy.

Let me try to explain the brilliance of this particular observation. What if I chose—willingly, joyfully, maybe even a little mischievously—to leave heaven and come here? To volunteer myself, my soul, my innocent heart to the missiles and miracles, the beauty and the beasts of Planet Earth? To get dropped smack-dab in the middle of the mayhem and just be here as part of the universal experience?

What if just showing up here—getting born into this messy, magnificent experiment—counts as service? Cosmic service. Universal service. We’re talking heaven’s own draft pick, baby! One optional explanation, according to Michael Singer (and a few other theologians and mystics, etc.), the universe is experiencing itself through me. Through you. Through the cranky guy at Trader Joe’s blocking the frozen food aisle. We’re all the holes in the flute, remember? The instrument through which life sings.

So, if I’ve already enlisted (or been drafted) and reported for duty just by arriving here, what does that mean for my intentions? What would my intentions look like if “service” is already a done deal? If “selflessness” is baked into the cake, marked complete on the divine to-do list, and no longer mine to agonize over? What if I’m not here to earn my way, but to experience it? To soak up the full mystery of being a soul in sneakers, dodging pain where I can, and savoring the rest?

This flips everything. If service is handled, then what? What’s left for me to want, create, imagine, or intend—not out of duty, but out of joy? Not because it checks a box, but because it lights me up? It’s just a thought. A little rebellious, a little delicious. It gives me a new lens, a wilder, freer, more playful angle to approach this intentional journey. Instead of “what should I be doing to prove myself?” it’s “what am I drawn to explore, create, enjoy, or discover just because I can?”

And honestly? That’s it. Nothing heavy or overwrought today (wink wink). Just a cosmic nudge, a little “what if” to slip into your pocket for when the self-improvement gremlins start gnawing. And here’s the kicker, the mic drop ego trapdoor: maybe this whole realization is my ego getting me off the biggest hook ever. Maybe it’s the ultimate hack, the cosmic loophole, the spiritual cheat code to skip the guilt and waltz straight to the heavenly map room, where X marks already here. 

Either way, it’s delicious. It’s liberating. It’s just a whole new, out-of-this-world perspective shift, and baby, I am RUNNING WITH IT — compass swinging on my hip, map flapping in the breeze, laughing my way down the trail, singing “recalculating!” at every wrong turn and loving the view anyway.

Possible... Field Guide Rule #81: You’re already in service — drafted at birth, babe. Now quit over-pleasing and go live like you mean it.

​Inner Voices, Glitter Bombs and Baby Steps Toward Wholeness

After writing “Fork in the Road, Anyone?” I was all set for a sitting meditation, but the opportunity evaporated into laundry, dishes, watering plants, and making dinner. Proof that my inside voice doesn’t actually need a meditation cushion to bust through with its commentary!

As the evening news blathered in the background, I re-remembered something big: I have never had a proper plan or vision for my life. I have, for the love of it, always gone with the flow. My almost-bachelor’s degree in marketing? The cost forced me to get a “real job” before finishing school. I ended up as a business rep at a local Radio Shack Computer Center — that’s right, kids, there was a time before Apple, HP, Dell, and Best Buy. A time I remember well, before cell phones. (Blasphemy, I know.) Anyway, I accidentally landed a career, a husband, and a ticket to suburbia before I even had a diploma. No plan, no problem. I’ve enjoyed my life so far, no complaints! My early motto? No expectations, no disappointments. Everything in its season.

And now? The season is: let’s get fucking intentional. Like, what do you want, Laurie? Or like? Or wish for? Like, really? And the truth? I have no fucking clue. Like really-for-sure NO clue. Geeze…

So anyway, the message has been circling for a while — Ev (short for Evollla, my pet name for my inner truth voice — “All Love” spelled backwards) has been whispering it on repeat. I’ve been pulling the card Imagine for months now. It showed up again in the Buck Moon spread, reversed: “Illusions and wishful thinking rooted in a sense of lack have entered your life. Now may be the time to see things as they truly are, not as you hoped or imagined. Release any fear. Then envision anew.” Ya think?! I was cruisin’ for a bruisin’, so to speak. I was due.

As I buzzed around folding laundry and scrubbing dishes, the following thoughts broke through loud and clear…

All the wonderful things about Chris that I love and treasure: his loyalty, his honesty, his thoughtful and caring attention to details (and piggy matters!). The freedom he gives me around how I spend my time, attention, and money — no questions asked, no judgment, only support and mild curiosity. Freedom to do as I like: friends, travel, meetings, writing, woo-woo stuff. And oh, what a refreshing mental hamster wheel for once — all positive and grateful.

The next message landed softly but firmly: “NO RUSH.” The cards said yes, intentions need to be set, visions clarified, decisions made — but not this minute or else. Nice! Ev kindly pointed out that right now, I’m in baby steps mode, just getting to know the real me, not the me-I-thought-people-wanted. Case in point? I just realized I’m IN-DOORsey — not outdoorsy. Hello?! That’s massive! I can finally stop pretending I need to hike, camp, or trailblaze through bug-infested nature. My nature, my woods, my timing — thank you very much. (Maybe when mosquitoes, deer flies, and ticks go out of fashion. I know ticks aren’t insects — get over it.)

And here’s the real kicker… I noticed that my thoughts — my brain, once annoyed and annoying, once spinning and spiraling — are now actually fun. I can hand over this whole topic of decisions and intentions to my brain and let it gnaw on it like the world’s best rawhide chew toy! OMG. Isn’t this what I’ve been craving? Something fabulous and fun and curious and productive, creative, inspiring — to fill the mind-space where fear and insecurity used to camp out. The whack from the cards, the nudge from Ev, the glitter from my mischievous fairy godmother… and here we are. This is how it works. I started with an idea, a question, and the answer I got was so different from what I expected — and so much more perfect. Non-linear, surprising, and suddenly, a completely new vista opens up, with more freedom and love than I thought possible. This is the process: notice, write, shut up, and listen. And then? Follow through. Which, let’s be honest, is just grand — practice is my middle name. I get to create my future with whimsy and light, not by bitching about humans, bugs, or whatever else.

Intentions, Decisions, Adulting and the Art of Not Bolting!
​
The scary truth is the cards called me out today. Hard. I am circling more than one life-altering decision — the kind I’ve been dodging like a teenager dodges doing dishes — until today.

It’s the Full Buck Moon, July 2025, and as usual, I pulled seven oracle cards, like I do every full and new moon. Seven’s a nice number — Past, Present, Hidden, Obstacle, Helper, Action, Outcome — simple, not too woo-woo, just enough mystery to keep me entertained. Today? The deck wasn’t playing.

Three of the seven were cards I’d never drawn before, and they came in swinging. Orphaned — oh, cool, thanks, Universe, let’s talk abandonment! How I’ve felt about family lately, not all, but enough to make me consider moving to a yurt. Cue the soundtrack to the Fantasy Family Funeral Tour, rolling into town again Monday with another “celebration of life” social event to smile through.  Then came Chaos and Conflict — my two least favorite hobbies, thank you very much. And the cherry on top? Fork in the Road — basically a giant cosmic finger pointing at me going, “Decide, missy. We’re not doing this maybe/maybe-not dance forever.” And here’s the kicker: no wrong decision. Just make one.

Later, reading The Seat of the Soul with Maia, the chapter on intention smacked me right in the third eye. Gary Zukav writes: “Every experience, and every change in your experience, reflects an intention. An intention is not only a desire. It is the use of your will. If you do not like the relationship you have with your husband or with your wife, for example, and you would like it to be different, that desire alone will not change your relationship. If you truly desire to change your relationship, that change begins with the intention to change it. How it will change depends upon the intention that you set. If you intend that your relationship become harmonious and loving, that intention will open you to new perceptions. It will reorient you toward harmony and love so that you can see clearly from that perspective what is necessary to change your relationship, and if that is achievable. If you intend to end your relationship, that ending begins with the intention to end it. If you have conflicting intentions, you will be torn, because both dynamics will be set in motion and oppose each other.”

Insanity. Chaos. Conflict. Crossed intentions. Sound familiar?

So here I am, 18 years, 6 months, 10 days, 15 hours, 54 minutes, and 25 seconds — roughly — into a relationship that’s a record for both of us. We agreed early on that marriage wasn’t necessary or desirable. Then, in September 2022, I proposed. He said yes. We announced it. No date, no plans, no ceremony. I thought maybe January 1, 2027, for our 20th anniversary, but let’s be honest: the enthusiasm has dwindled to almost nothing.

We’re both introverts. Okay, fine — anti-social weirdos. The idea of planning a wedding makes us both want to fake our own deaths. His dad, who I wanted to marry us, is gone. His mom, who would have thrown herself into the party planning, is now deep in Alzheimer’s. And me? I’m here, holding a proposal with no plan, and a heart full of huh? Meanwhile, his nephew just got engaged, which shoves my stalled-out situation back into the spotlight like an unwanted karaoke solo. The cards weren’t wrong: it’s time to get clear.

Here’s the part that makes me squirm: there’s a tiny (but loud and independent) voice in me — always an itch for a Plan B. The Peace Corps, a mountain retreat, or a lifelong subscription to wild places and spiritual breakthroughs — preferably without a single grumpy human in sight. Ha! Good luck with that. Live with him, or live without him? Go all in, or slip out the side door to a life of my own? I feel the pull of both. No picket fences, no babies. Just the rest of my life, every day, starting now.

As I write this, I realize the cards didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. They just put it in black and white, in tiny illustrated rectangles, laid out across my table. They called out my lack of commitment — not just to my relationship, but to my writing, my self-care, my own mental and physical well-being. And here’s the truth: I have the tools. I have the meditation practice. I have the damn Ben Franklin list (yes, listed in Section 8 of the Field Guide, in case I need to reread my own book). I have the ability to pause, reflect, get curious, and — shocker — make a decision.

I don’t have the answer tonight. But I know this: I want to choose love — not just as a default, but as an intention. I want to choose life — not as a duty, but as a blessing. And I want to choose myself, first, always, so I have something whole to bring to the table. So, yeah — I’ll meditate. I’ll make my lists. I’ll write it out, even when it’s messy. And then I’ll choose some clear, perfectly imperfect intentions. Maybe not once and for all, but at least for this month. Stay tuned. 

An image of the actual Full Buck Moon. Thanks Chris!