Taming, Training and Tenderly Feeding the Beasts Within.

I found a new practice to work with those most stubborn habitual thoughts—the kind that don’t care how much therapy, journaling, or meditation you’ve already done. The ones that show up uninvited, plop down in your mental living room, and start bossing you around. Enter Feeding Your Demons, a Buddhist-based practice adapted by Lama Tsultrim Allione in her book of the same name. It’s one of those deceptively simple “you think you get it, but just wait” teachings—beautifully clear, accessible for beginners, and still packing a serious spiritual punch.

The premise is wild but wise: what you fight, you fuel. Instead of trying to evict your annoying repetitive, fearful, shameful, or anxious thoughts, you invite them for coffee. Once you find the "demon", you personify it—give it a name, a shape, a voice. (Yes, you may feel ridiculous at first. That’s how you know it’s working.) You listen to what it wants, what it needs, and—plot twist—you feed it. Compassion. Breath. Confidence. Maybe a metaphorical slice of chocolate cake. As they ingest this elixir, they shrink and fade, making space for the higher vibration of an ally. All of this unfolds in your vivid imagination as part of a guided meditation. The practice itself has five steps:

1. Find the Demon. Focus on what’s draining, spinning, or disturbing you. Where is it hiding in your body? What does it feel like? 
2. Personify the Demon and Ask What It Needs. What size, color, or shape is it? Does it have eyes, limbs, texture? How do you feel looking at it? Then pose the three key questions—without answering yet: What do you want from me? What do you need from me? How will you feel if you get what you need?
3. Become the Demon. Close your eyes, switch cushions, and vividly imagine you are the demon. See through its eyes. Then answer the three questions as the demon itself: What I want from you is… What I need from you is… When my need is met, I will feel…
4. Feed the Demon and Meet the Ally. Return to your own seat and imagine your body melting into nectar—whatever essence the demon said it would feel when satisfied. Feed that to it until it’s completely content. Then, from the open space that remains, allow an ally to appear. It might be an animal, a person, a mythical creature, a light form—whatever arises. Ask it: How will you help me? How will you protect me? What commitment do you make to me? How can I access you? Then switch seats again, embody the ally, answer, and finally integrate it.
5. Rest in Awareness. Once the demon is fed and the ally integrated, let both dissolve into spacious awareness. Rest there. Breathe. (Read the book!)

​I’ll admit it—I was both fascinated and a little freaked out by the idea of “feeding my demons.” Curiosity won, but intimidation was riding shotgun. I wandered through Lama Tsultrim’s website looking for a step-by-step, maybe a “Feeding Demons for Dummies” version. And then—bam!—serendipity strikes: a brilliant podcaster, Diana Hill, had interviewed Lama Tsultrim and uploaded the full guided meditation on Insight Timer. Easy peasy. Plug, play, feed your demons. I was in.

The first time I tried it, the “demon” that showed up wasn’t some manageable little gremlin. It was a massive rattlesnake, slithering angrily right out of my chest cavity like it owned the place (it did). Cold, green, and sneaky. Hissing, pissed, eyes huge and spinning like Kaa from The Jungle Book. I was mesmerized—and terrified. I remembered the instruction: go with whatever shows up, even if it’s big and scary. So I stayed. This thing had been living the life of Riley inside me, defending me for years—reacting, engaging, constantly coiled and ready to strike, protecting me with a vigilance so fierce it hurt. It hurt even more now that I could see it wasn’t working anymore.

When my "demon" rattler answered those three questions, it was crystal clear: it wanted control—of everything. It wanted to look good, to be right, to never be vulnerable. Underneath it all, it just wanted to feel confident, safe, and powerful. So that’s what I fed it. My body melted sweetly into a stream of confidence, power, and safety—the nectar golden and sticky-sweet, flowing without condition or end. The snake closed its eyes, gulped, sighed, and actually smiled (eventually).

And then the most unexpected part unfolded. The snake’s eyes opened—lazy and satiated—and my vision blurred. Its form shimmered, shifted, and in its place appeared a puma. My ally. Same hypnotic eyes, but steady now. Unblinking. Calm confidence made flesh—or fur. The puma wasn’t asking for anything. It didn’t hiss, posture, or warn. It simply was—pure presence, relaxed strength, the embodiment of confidence and safety.

I was so moved that I Googled images of puma eyes later, found a photo that captured that gaze, and set it as my phone wallpaper. Those eyes became my reminder of what confidence feels like: grounded, alert, unbothered. When I sense the faint rattle of defensiveness rising, or hear my voice take on a hissing quality, I don’t rush to silence it anymore. I recall those eyes. I pause. The cougar’s wisdom watches the snake with quiet compassion: We’re good, it seems to say. No need to bite.

So there you have it: there’s a zoo inside me. Holy shit. And apparently, someone forgot to feed the animals. Oh—me? My bad. I didn’t know they were starving. But I do now. So thank you, and happy feeding. Better to hand out snacks than wrestle with a pack of hangry inner beasts. Besides, it’s oddly comforting to realize all those snarling, snapping parts of me just needed a little intentional abundance, love, a little nectar, a little acknowledgment. I can work with that.

Ultimately, this practice gave me something I didn’t know I was missing—another powerful practice to undo the overthinking, unlearn the defending, and return to that sweet beginner’s mind that keeps me happy, curious, and gloriously free.
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Field Guide Rule #43: When the world feels loud, go quiet inside. That’s your cue to pause, listen, and feed what’s really hungry instead of wrestling it. Because the monsters under your bed—or in your chest cavity—usually just want a story, a snack, and your attention.

P.S. Happy Halloween! ’Tis the season for masks and monsters, and let’s be honest—the scariest ones usually live rent-free in your own head. But on Halloween, when the veil thins between worlds (and between me and my inner zoo), I like to invite them all out for snacks. Snakes, pumas, gremlins—everyone’s welcome. Costumes optional, compassion required.

OR How to Survive an Energy Pile-Up Without Losing Your Mind (or Your Manners)

I went to a lecture expecting a curated, objective knowledge exchange, not an adrenaline bomb. The Political Economy of U.S. Immigration Policy sounded respectable enough—the local college's 55+ Fall Lecture Series, a mid-morning crowd of polite retirees, plenty of silver heads with tweed and tote bags. My friend Sue came along for the intellectual adventure, notebooks in hand and curiosity matching mine. Yes,  notebooks, because I’m that kind of nerd: ready to learn, sip my water, and nod thoughtfully.

Instead, the speaker opened like a snarky late-night host. Before the slides even warmed up, he fired off passive-aggressive one-liners that drew whoops and applause from the crowd. When he smirked and said, “BUT, I won’t be talking about that,” the BOOOs started and the energy in the room hit DEFCON 2. My chest clenched, my gut twisted, and my inner alarm system—the Divine Magical Guidance System herself—started flashing red. It was the kind of shift you can almost taste—metallic, charged, like the air before lightning.

Fight-or-flight isn’t a metaphor when your body’s staging a full-scale evacuation drill. My hands were shaking. My pulse had its own drumline. I wasn’t angry; I was observing. Watching this human experiment in bias unfold while my nervous system screamed, GET OUT! It felt surreal—like standing outside myself, watching two parallel realities: the smug smile of the presenter and my body, quietly revolting.

Sue and I locked eyes. We’d both been scribbling notes, and when we glanced down, we’d written the same thing almost simultaneously: “I’m ready to walk.” “Let’s bail.” No dramatic sighs or eye rolls—just a shared, silent recognition that the space had tipped from intellectual exploration into witch-burning mob energy - righteous and ready to lay waste. We left quietly, grateful for our own dignity and each other’s company. As we walked back to the car, Sue named her feelings—angry and sad—while I tried to stay with the sensations roaring through me. My hands still trembled; my breath was shallow; my body was one big alarm bell. Even the sunshine felt distorted—too bright, too sharp—as if my senses were still vibrating at the frequency of that room. We talked it through on the walk, and every few minutes I could feel myself cycle through my OHR practice—Observe, Honor, Release offered momentary relief, then more waves. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The rest of the day became an emotional debrief in slow motion. Sue and I unpacked the experience over coffee—her heartbreak at how close minded and condescending people can be, my own fascination with how energetic and physical my own reaction was. It wasn’t about politics at all. It was about energy—how fast hostility can fill a room and how long it lingers in the body. It reminded me how contagious energy really is—one sarcastic remark can set off a chain reaction that hijacks an entire room of grown adults. Later, I called another close friend for feedback. “I’m tired of being so vulnerable, sensitive and porous,” I told her. “I can feel other people’s self-righteousness like static electricity.” And we both laughed, because naming it somehow disarms it. That’s when I realized the crowd bothered me more than the speaker—the mob vibe, the clapping and booing like a middle-school pep rally. 

I doubled down on my own emotional cleanup. I dialed another friend, specializing in freeing trapped emotions. She helped me trace the original trigger—no past-life bonfires required, though the “burned-at-the-stake” vibe was real. I don’t believe in energy armor or bubble-wrapped boundaries, but I do believe in letting emotion move. My goal isn’t to avoid energy but to metabolize it—to handle what flows through me without attaching and internalizing the poison. It’s a messy business, this emotional alchemy—equal parts science, surrender, and self-trust. Some days it feels like plumbing the depths with a teaspoon, but it works. This experience was a massive test, and honestly, I aced it.

The next day, the feedback survey landed in my inbox—oh boy. Here’s where the rubber meets the road, right? Time to turn all that emotional processing into actual words. I really put my practice into action—calm fingers on the keyboard, deep breaths between sentences, and a few well-timed eye rolls at my own rewrites. (How many drafts? Don’t ask.) It was the perfect test of being tactful, honest, and respectful all at once. In the end, my review simply said what needed saying: that the presentation felt dismissive toward differing perspectives, that the crowd’s cheers and boos deepened the divide, and that an objective, balanced conversation would have served everyone better. I closed by thanking the program and hoping my feedback would be taken in the spirit intended—as encouragement toward greater openness and inclusivity in future lectures.

No drama. No vitriol. Just truth on paper—a written act of OHR with a side of polish. The words became both mirror and medicine, reflecting the discomfort without feeding it. It wasn’t about being right; it was about being real. Writing it down turned a raw, reactive moment into something clear and useful—closure and contribution all at once. It felt strangely empowering to speak from the clean place beyond adrenaline, to honor the experience, and to trust that clarity—delivered calmly—can shift a current faster than anger ever will.

Here’s a few things I learned: careful what you wish for when you’re practicing healthy emotional processing—it’s not all lavender oil and enlightenment. Sometimes it’s a full-body roller coaster that demands every ounce of skill you swore you had. Powerful, visceral reactions are the pop quizzes of growth, and yesterday I got the midterm. Standing up and leaving isn’t weakness; it’s wisdom in motion. When the energy turns toxic, staying to prove I can “handle it” isn’t strength—it’s self-betrayal. My body knew first, and this time I listened. There’s no spiritual merit badge for sitting quietly in a room that makes your soul flinch. Talking about boundaries is one thing; walking out the door with your heartbeat in your ears, your dignity intact, and your intuition leading the way—that’s the real-world practicum.

By evening, gratitude had replaced the adrenaline. Gratitude for all of it—the presenter, the topic, the crowd’s reaction, for Sue, for our clean exit, for the ability to process instead of implode. Gratitude for the clarity that my sensitivity isn’t a flaw—it’s radar. Yesterday’s chaos became an invitation to trust my system, honor my body, and practice discernment in real time and on big, unapologetic waves of powerful shit (energy). And maybe, just maybe, that’s what all this inner work is really for—not to float above the mess, but to walk through it eyes open, heart pounding, with both flat feet on the bloody pavement if that’s what it takes.

Field Guide Rule #43: Bolt when you must. Walk when you can—awake, unarmored, compassionate and gloriously human.

Listening, Loss and the Art of Showing Up Softly

I’ve never been one to seek out pets—they’ve always found me. Growing up, we had the same German Shepherd, Smokey Bear, from my age ten through college. He was loyal, noble, and smelled faintly of wet leaves and cozy safety. After a few years in college, a friend convinced me that a kitten would “complete my life.” Spoiler: it didn’t. That situation unraveled faster than yarn at a cat café, but soon after I met a stray adult cat—simply named Kitty—who became my steady sidekick for years.

Decades later, when I took my cross-country RV adventure, I brought along another feline friend, Mew Mew. She had the patience of a saint and the judgmental stare of a TSA agent. When Chris and I met, he already had two kitties—Smookie and Poose Poose—distinguished elder states-cats who ruled the household with equal parts affection and disdain. They lived long, good lives, and when they passed, our home became a guinea-pig-only establishment. (Yes, really. And yes, they squeak for lettuce like it’s crack.)

I’ll admit, during my New York City era with Mew Mew, I leaned a little cat-lady-adjacent. Picture this: me strolling through Manhattan with one of those see-through bubble backpacks, feline face pressed against the dome like a tiny astronaut. I was that woman. And you know what? No regrets.

Fast-forward a few more years. Chris and I recently inherited a new cat, Zsa Zsa, after his mom, Aleda, passed on September 14, 2025. The grief was tender and deep—but out of that loss came this bright, living reminder of love in motion. Zsa Zsa has been the softest balm imaginable: affectionate, inquisitive, considerate, and playfully mischievous. She is, quite literally, the gift that purrs on arrival. I’m over the moon to give her a safe, loving home. (And yes, the guinea pigs are fine—everyone’s first question. Coexistence has been achieved. There’s mutual respect, if not actual friendship.)

What’s surprised me most are the lessons she brings. Every day, Zsa Zsa enters a room as if it’s her first time there. Even if she left an hour ago, she pauses at the threshold, tail flicking like a metronome. Her eyes sweep the perimeter. She takes in everything: new scents, moved objects, subtle shifts in light. It’s not fear—it’s attention. Reverence, even. When I open a cupboard or drawer for her inspection, she explores like a miniature archaeologist, grateful for the discovery.

Watching her has changed how I move through my own spaces. Instead of rushing into the next moment like it owes me something, I pause. I take stock. When we come down the stairs together each morning, she stops on the landing to assess the main floor—ears forward, whiskers alert. I do the same now. Her pause has become our shared ritual, a quiet check-in with reality. I don’t sense anxiety in her—just curiosity, patience, and presence. Three traits that, frankly, I could use more of.

Zsa Zsa’s stealth mode isn’t about hiding—it’s about respect & noticing. It’s the art of mindful reconnaissance. She embodies what every meditation app tries (and fails) to teach: awareness without commentary. She doesn’t name things good or bad; she just observes, absorbs, and occasionally bats at the unknown to see what happens.

The longer she’s been here, the more I realize she’s not just a pet—she’s a furry Zen master. She naps with total surrender. She stretches like she’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. She listens with her whole body. And she’s wildly generous with her affection—when she feels like it, of course. There’s a lesson in that too: offer love from fullness, not obligation.

As I continue my journey through this wild ride of chaos and calm, loss and laughter, I keep coming back to what she teaches simply by being herself: slow down. Breathe. Observe before you leap. Check the perimeter before you proclaim the sky is falling. And above all, listen. She’s always listening—ears swiveling like tiny satellite dishes, attuned to the slightest rustle or whisper. It’s not paranoia; it’s presence. She reminds me that listening isn’t just hearing sounds—it’s sensing the energy of a room, catching the unspoken, and responding from stillness instead of noise.

Naturally, I’ve given this wisdom an acronym (because of course I did). LFTG: Look For The Gift. In every moment, every emotion, every new “room” life drops you into—pause long enough to look for the gift. Then use curiosity, creativity and patience to actually find the gift and live it.
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Some gifts arrive wrapped in fur and grief. Some come disguised as detours, delays, or hairballs in your favorite sweater. But every single one invites us to slow down, to live with the kind of gentle curiosity that turns ordinary moments into sacred ones. Zsa Zsa reminds me daily: the world is full of wonder if you enter it softly, tail high, eyes open.

No Other Love
​All there is to do – is listen
to your own heart
Follow your own song
to the beat of the drum within.
Do not despair or grow impatient
Like the tides ebb and flow –
as the seasons go
So turn the circles of your time.
Within each breath be grateful
Talk to me – Listen – Breathe
Gracefully your life unfolds
in time’s time with wisdom and magic.
There is no other time but now.
There is no other love but ours.
Laurie McCauley, 01–2019