How did I not see this sooner? Today’s message was a wake-up call, bold and unmistakable, one that cut through the noise of years of “trying.” I’ve been focused on my thoughts, behaviors, and now, I realize, even more critically, my motives—the hidden drivers behind each choice I make for my body.

If I choose to lose weight, that’s fine. But what I choose to do to accomplish that is only a small piece of the puzzle. The real question has been: why? Today, the answer hit me, both frightening and enlightening. My motive has been vanity, approval, fitting in, and avoiding judgment. Turns out, it’s not about health—it’s been about looking good or being right. Somewhere along the way, I became the world’s most intense undercover agent, camouflaging myself to avoid judgment.

I went on a cleanse once as a desperate solution to a severe health challenge. It was driven by fear that I’d never feel healthy again. The motive wasn’t wellness; it was pain relief. I quit drinking because I was tired of morning tremors and wanted my partner’s approval. I quit smoking because of my constant coughing. Each time, it was my body crying out, and I was scrambling to silence it—not heal it. Not one of these changes was rooted in loving care; each one came from a place of desperation or control.

I’ve been using vice grips—harsh rules, intense self-discipline, and relentless control tactics—to force this body into shape. But let’s face it: this job requires kid gloves and the kind of patience reserved for first-time gardeners and careful sculptors. Holy shit, Sherlock! That’s all my body has known of “me,” its so-called caretaker—a drill sergeant rather than a friend. It’s downright embarrassing, honestly.

In the images that came during meditation, the message was clear… a vice grip dripping blood and tears. And I saw the truth in it. My body has endured because it’s resilient, and it’s willing, eager even, for a new kind of care. I’m re-doubling my efforts to be the kind and sweet friend, the gentle caretaker this body has deserved all along. 

After seeing the vice grip for what it was—a relentless attempt to control my body rather than nurture it—I realize I need to continue what I'm currently doing AND be open to a new foundational practice. I’m grateful for the mantras I’ve adopted lately. Simple words, perhaps, but they feel like shelter and direction when I need them most: There is nothing to fear. There is nothing to prove. There is nothing to fix. There is nothing wrong, and there is nothing missing.

Each one brings me a different kind of sanity. “Nothing to fear” invites courage, a reminder that life is safe to explore and that fear is 90% delusional. “Nothing to prove” gently tells me to let go of perfectionism, to stop comparing and judging my worth based on others’ expectations I’ve unknowingly taken on. “Nothing to fix” is a potent reminder that, most likely, “it’s not my circus and not my monkeys.” The chances are extremely high that I am not responsible for fixing anything, because a slight shift in perspective reveals things as perfectly perfect as they are. And “nothing is missing” is my favorite of all—a deep reassurance that everything I need is already here within me.

Each phrase whispers a different invitation: release worry, drop expectations, step back from control, recognize completeness. These words are like a gentle hand on my shoulder, guiding me away from the need to do and toward the ability to simply be. With each reminder, I feel a bit closer to the friend I want to be to myself, one who offers gentleness instead of judgment, who listens rather than insists.
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Can I forgive myself and move on? Can I release all the anger, pain, and fear that I’ve stuffed down, the emotions I numbed for so long? Can I allow the LOVE I've resisted? The power I've shyed away from? The responsibility I've avoided? Releasing anger and pain isn’t an easy one-step fix, I’m learning. For now, I know there’s nothing to do… just to be present and be kind, from this moment forward. My intention is internal alignment, to birth a new way of being and thinking and behaving. My body’s resilient—it’s seen me through more than a few questionable choices and hasn’t given up yet. I’m counting on it to forgive me, as bodies often do, with grace and a quiet readiness to move forward. All is well, and I’m feeling strangely confident that, this time, I’ll actually be listening.

The next day, I found I had no words to share with you, no images that could capture what I felt. Perhaps this is a time for all parts of my being to process quietly, away from words. So I offer this piece of art instead—a reflection, a fragment, a take-away from the third day. It speaks where I cannot, and maybe, that’s enough.

that's me
the tiny bird
in the hole
in the dark
in the middle
of the mound
covered by thorns
protected
thick and strong
hidden
pretending
I am safe
hidden
pretending
hidden, 
I sense a radiance,
I shiver to touch it,
a brilliance like the sun
is that me too?

Next to me in this hole was a huge energy source. A power beyond limits. Right there on the ground beside me inside the mound piled high was authentic power, vibrant and pulsing with a frequency off the charts. Holy crap, it scares the hell out of me. All that power. What on earth would I ever do with that? I mean, am I supposed to just pick it up and go with it?
The energy source hummed like something alive, as if it held a language of its own, practically vibrating with potential I didn’t yet trust myself to touch. It was beautiful and terrifying—a force both nurturing and consuming. What would I even become if I reached for it? And what if it decided it didn’t want to stick around, leaving me with a one-way ticket to Imposter Syndrome Central?

During the BYOB OSHO meditation, they introduced the concept of a Guardian. It sounds kind of serious, but honestly, it’s like having a bouncer for my soul—someone to keep an eye on the physical habits and behaviors that either keep me grounded or send me spiraling. The meditation invites you to ask this Guardian to toss out old patterns and bring in fresh new ones, as if we’re in the life-habit equivalent of spring cleaning. But, of course, nothing’s ever that easy. The Guardian might not reveal any grand wisdom right away because, apparently, decades-old behaviors don’t just pack up and leave. Who knew, right?

As I sat in meditation, I could practically feel the Guardian giving me that look—the one that says, “You’re finally ready, huh? Well, this is going to take some practice and courage.” This figure, part gentle intermediary, partdrill sergeant, part overprotective parent, was maintaining all the patterns I’ve perfected over the years. Comparing, judging, dodging responsibilities and hard conversations, doing mental gymnastics and numbing behaviors to avoid acknowledging my feelings—you name it, I had it down. I asked the Guardian to help me drop these like outdated fashion choices and maybe pick up something that actually fits who I am today.

Then I got this vision of a mound, a little like the one in my art piece, where the Guardian had wrapped me in this protective bubble. And sure, I was managing, feeling safe, maybe a little too cozy. But after this meditation, I know I’m ready for more. Here’s the kicker, though: that insane power sitting next to me? I realized didn't even know that part of me existed. I sit in awe of the expansive freedom and joy available. The link between love, responsibility, and power is shown but not explained. I am still intent upon allowing Love to enter where there hasn't been any, possibly ever. I have no clue how this authentic power fits into the overall execution, practice, or picture I have for myself. I do get that consistency and stretch are required to continue the journey to expansion and serenity.
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Patience and practice—two mantras that seem to love showing up on this path. I’ve realized that if the bird is ever going to fly, it’s going to be one slow, cautious flap at a time. This power? I’m not here to bulldoze into it. I’ll work with it every day, get to know it. Maybe with enough patience, I’ll figure out what it’s trying to teach me. But for now, I’m okay taking it one clumsy step at a time, letting the Guardian roll its eyes and sigh while I do my best not to get in my own way.

The OSHO International course I joined on 10/23/2024, titled Reminding Yourself of the Forgotten Language of Talking to Your BodyMind, The complete description is in the link.... if the link still works. Curious that this November course includes optional facilitator training. I am always first thinking how to give away everything that I learn. I have come to notice these are frequently the first thoughts I observe when sitting... "how could I facilitate a course to give away this wonderful experience to others?" I get to let that go and consider how I may absorb the experience myself and not be so easily distracted! I digress... 

The course is structured, entirely online through Zoom, and involves minimal verbal interaction. There's a warm welcome and clear guidance, but unlike the more interactive No Mind class, this one encourages a quiet, inward focus. A "mild" trance state is recommended, with no need for conscious thought, analysis, or note-taking—just a connection with the inner realms. The feeling is mysteriously serene, urging stillness and a reawakening to this "forgotten language." My main takeaway from the first session was unmistakably clear: "LISTEN." When I later created art, I added the wry reminder, "JUST shut up and LISTEN."

What does it mean to truly listen? For me, it requires suspending distracting, often unhelpful thoughts—judgment, expectations, and especially the reflex to analyze or defend my perspective. True listening invites honesty, openness, and a willingness to stay present despite these distractions. It’s challenging, as both internal voices and physical, environmental aspects conspire to derail the focus. Still, each return to the subject of the listening deepens the practice, making this practice a transformative process.

The command to "listen" may seem simple but not easy. Yet it’s anything but simple. It encapsulates complex layers of spiritual, mental, and physical insight, shaping an intention that could serve as a core principle throughout life. Much like Love, Power, or Responsibility, it’s fundamental to balance of genuine compassion and self-expression. Do you hear the creative muse? The guiding parent? The subtle messages from your own body?

Our facilitator reads from a script during the 50-minute sessions, rich in language that prompts breakthrough perspectives. Each body part seems to have its own way of communicating—through images, feelings, memories, and even words. To interpret these subtle cues requires discernment and a gentle patience. I get the impression that the body is shy, like a meek animal hidden in the woods. You must sit in the clearing for hours just to catch a glimpse. I hope this is not the case. I have patience, but not that much patience. 
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As I settle into each session, I feel the boundaries of my awareness shifting, growing more sensitive to the body’s signals. It’s like tuning into a low-frequency radio station that becomes clearer as I let go of distractions. I am, for the first time, learning to “hear” my body speak in a language uniquely its own. What it offers in terms of insight is astounding and humbling.

Reflecting on the course so far, I feel this practice could go well beyond the meditation sessions. This understanding of deep listening could influence my life in subtle but powerful ways. I find myself more attuned to my body in daily moments, like a quiet undercurrent of awareness. This awareness touches my relationships, too, encouraging me to listen without immediately thinking of my response or opinion.

Already, I’m sensing shifts in how I approach daily interactions. By simply listening—without jumping to conclusions, judgments, or responses—I find a new ease in connecting with others. Conversations feel less pressured, more fluid, as I allow my own silence to create space for what truly needs to be expressed. This shift in focus is affecting how I handle challenges as well; by first tuning into the body’s response to a stressful moment or difficult news, I feel more grounded and centered, better equipped to respond rather than react.

I also sense this approach deepening my creativity. There’s a curious interplay between listening and creating: by silencing the mind, I’m better able to hear intuitive nudges and ideas that seem to emerge from within. Rather than “trying” to create, I feel as though I’m receiving insights from a quieter, more authentic place. This practice is beginning to feel like an essential ingredient in accessing a deeper layer of creativity, one that feels effortless and profoundly connected.

I’m eager to continue this journey, to discover the language of my own body, and perhaps even cultivate a new way of being—a kind of openness that transcends traditional listening. This is listening as an act of reverence, a way to honor my body, emotions, and inner self. The urge to “teach” or facilitate remains, but it now feels less like an obligation and more like an inevitable outcome of living this new awareness. I can’t yet say what the full impact of this practice will be, but I’m excited to find out.
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Stay tuned—I’m listening.

As the days fly by and the seasons shift from summer to winter, I find myself suspended in the beauty of autumn—wrapped in its light, colors, and warm, wispy breezes. Yesterday was a particularly perfect fall day. Autumn, with its fleeting nature, feels like a mirror to the shifts within me—vibrant and beautiful, yet temporary, a reminder that change is inevitable. The golden hues, the crisp morning air, and the falling leaves seem to whisper the importance of release, of letting go.

In this transition, I’m working to be graceful and patient with my own underlying transformation. Milestones approach and pass, and I observe them ahead, adjust and watch them gently pass into my rearview mirror. I am simply along for the ride. Lately, I’ve been in a holding pattern, implementing a major change in how I move through the world. During a recent meditation session, I received a clear, dispassionate message. Its simplicity and insight were unexpected, even miraculous. When the message arrived, it was as though a curtain had been pulled back. The audacity stunned me—I would never have thought of it it on my own in a million years, and yet it resonated in a way that felt undeniable. It’s strange how the simplest twists on perception or the awareness of a plucky  fearless objective has the power to upend everything you thought you knew. 

Communicating these changes to the people in my life has been a challenge—remaining mindful, honest, and present through it all. I'm learning to let go of my fears and expectations, navigating the delicate balance of sharing just enough with some, while pouring my heart out to others. By observing these conversations—my motives, feelings, and the eventual outcomes—I’ve grown a deeper appreciation for myself. My inner strength, my relationships, and, above all, my sense of love and responsibility toward myself and those closest to me have come into sharper focus. (When the coast is clear and all parties are informed with kindness and integrity I will share the details of this particular taboo evolution.)

Recently, the image of a lock and key surfaced during meditation, symbolizing my habits and aversions. I’ve avoided responsibility, and I’ve shied away from love, especially when it comes to myself. Responsibility and love—two concepts that I’ve long kept separate in my mind. I’ve treated responsibility like a burden, a task to be completed, while love was something elusive, often conditional. But now, I see how they intertwine. If love is the key to unlocking responsibility, then perhaps responsibility is the lock that safeguards true, deep self-love. One cannot exist without the other. There’s a profound, until now unexplored, relationship between them. These concepts are the opposites of my current habits—hatred and avoidance.

David Hawkins, in his book Letting Go, suggests that we open ourselves to the opposite of those lower frequency emotions. It’s a slow, steady process: noticing the fear, avoidance, or discomfort. Name it and it's opposite then allowing ourselves to release the resistance. There is no specific action—just letting go of the resistance to the OPPOSITE.  I feel hatred and avoidance, the opposite is love and responsibility. The intention is to release my resistance to love and responsibility! It’s so simple, so easy! It all lies in observing, in noticing, and detaching. Letting go is not a one-time decision, but an ongoing practice. At first, it felt odd and too easy.  But over time, I’m noticing that it is growing slowly, steadily like a good seed planted in ready soil. I just get to be patient and willing. No surprise there!

It’s incredible what the mind can stir up, isn’t it? Avoidance has shown up in subtle ways throughout my life—putting off important conversations, neglecting my own needs, pretending certain emotions don’t exist or numbing them completely. I’ve often convinced myself that by avoiding something, I was maintaining peace, but now I see how it only creates inner turmoil. Slowly, I’m learning to sit with discomfort instead of running from it. And then there's responsibility. Of course, I’ve avoided taking care of my physical body. It was never taught to me as a priority, something one must do. I imagine that other children were taught how to exercise and maintain that body-mind-spirit balance. Right? I missed out. Poor me! Too late now... right?
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No, it’s not too late. And no, not "poor me." I’ve learned so many valuable things that brought me to where I am now, and I’m grateful for every last bit. Now, I get the chance to hone in on areas of my behavior, thoughts, and judgments that might cause greater problems down the line. It’s never too late. The timing is, as always, precisely perfect. I have the time, the means, and the motivation, and I’ve realized it’s something I must do for myself. In the past, partners may have "inspired" me to exercise, but that was vanity or people-pleasing. The source of the behavior matters—the motivation and intention mean everything. Now, my motive is love, and my timeframe is open, flexible, in tune with the Universe.

Coincidentally (or not), I’m starting another OSHO course today, also for 7 days. Can you guess the topic of this one? This new OSHO course feels like the perfect next step in my journey. I’m approaching it with a sense of curiosity and openness, eager to see what new insights will emerge. The topic, though I haven’t fully revealed it yet, aligns perfectly with the questions I’ve been sitting with—themes of love, responsibility, and self-awareness. Stay tuned!

I recently completed a 7-day meditation course called OSHO No Mind. It involved one hour of Gibberish followed by one hour of sitting in silence each day. You can find more detailed explanations of these practices online, but after some initial resistance on the first day, I gradually settled into the process. By day three, I was having profound insights and uncovering deep, elemental forces within my consciousness.

The image I've created is my first attempt at expressing what I experienced during this journey. One day, just before the silent sitting, an OSHO quote was played. What I remember most was the comparison of thoughts to a river—specifically, a muddy river full of debris and churning currents. My only task, OSHO said, was to observe the river as it flowed. While there’s a temptation to "help" by settling the silt or pushing aside floating debris, OSHO’s laughter echoed in my mind: The more you try to fix it, the more you stir it up. Just watch! Meditation is just watching.

It was both lovely and unsettling. After all, what do you do when the river you're watching feels more like a lava flow—bubbling, angry, and hot? I began to imagine all of that ugliness flowing out from the depths of my subconscious, revealing something darker beneath the surface. The black, sticky source of it all? My judgement. There is no hatred without judgement.
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Am I hateful? I don’t see myself that way. Yet, as uncomfortable as it was to admit, I discovered I am both judgemental and harboring hidden hatred—far beyond the layers of delusion I had wrapped around myself. I rarely allow myself to even speak about hatred, let alone claim it. I frequently talk about expectations and judgements, but I had always aimed those critiques outward. Now, I realize the first place I direct them is inward.
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And yet, with all of this swirling within me, there is nothing to fix. My only job is to watch, observe, witness, and let go. I find gratitude in being where I am now, in this position of stillness and awareness, with the ability to let go of control. Many thanks to the disturbing, taboo, and clear insights that have emerged.

This art stems from a meditation I experienced yesterday. I had just written a long, heartfelt message, quoting Sarah Blondin, word for word. Sarah played an essential role in my early meditation practice, becoming a daily companion. As I revisited her "Release and Renew" meditation, I relived the depth of that experience, listening again, making notes, and typing out large sections of her words.

But then, the message vanished—gone in an instant when I went to make a copy. A computer glitch? Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll never really know. And that’s okay. This is one of the reasons I've learned to stop asking “why” quite so much.

So here we are. You’re invited to take from this moment what feels right. Draw your own inferences, insights, or conclusions, if you wish. I got an abrupt lesson in detachment!

I do know that I’m grateful. My consistency in this practice over the years has rewarded me, deepening and expanding my perspective in ways I never could have imagined. And for that, I am thankful.

Enjoy this reflection as it is.

"I love YOU!" What a lovely message to send to myself. Today, I started a new practice: Meditate, create a piece of artwork, then write about it.

This morning, I listened to a guided meditation called Accessing Your Intuition. During the 14-minute session, a lot of tough questions were suggested—ones I found uncomfortable to answer at that moment. "Notice how you feel, in this very moment." "How do you feel physically? Mentally? Emotionally?" I felt heavy, thick, pissy, and grumpy. Maybe it's hard to admit that I'm human and sometimes in a bad mood. Being such an eternally optimistic person, it sucks to acknowledge that I have off days. I've also realized I don’t enjoy being asked, "How do you feel...?" To be honest, it feels intrusive. Why do you even ask?

The meditation guide went on to describe different ways intuition might communicate—through feelings, visuals, sounds, words, or experiences. "Take a moment now to ask your intuition anything..." As usual for me, within a few short minutes, the thick pissiness lifted just enough for a visual message to come through: I heart U. It felt sincere and simple, no strings attached. At least someone, something, loves me enough to help me let go of the funkiness, moodiness, and self-pity.
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That’s what meditation does for me—it offers a little lift and a reality check.