Introduction - What It Was Like

It was mid-COVID lockdown. I was retired—twice. Once from my own business helping seniors downsize and move. And before that, from a 30-year corporate career that sent me to all 50 states helping women navigate the world of school nutrition programs. I'd lived in multiple states, partnered in multiple relationships, and completed every course in the School of Self-Improvement—but something was still missing. Let’s count the real starting point as May or June 2020.

At that time, I had six-plus years of sobriety and five-plus years free from smoking (what I call being “smober”). I’d worked the 12 Steps with multiple sponsors and was now attending a Zoom-based 12 Step Workshop that began with Steps 10 through 12. That felt new. Different. I liked it. My new sponsor lived in Australia and was no-nonsense in the best way. She insisted I meditate. Daily. I wasn’t totally new to meditation—I’d done it before, sometimes for long stretches—but my motivation had always been spotty. This time, I decided to follow through. Two minutes a day, she said. Thirty days. Be accountable - and something shifted.
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JoAnne, my Australian sponsor, was laser-focused on Step 11: “Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.” I wasn’t totally sold. God—capital G or not—was still a big question mark for me. Improving conscious contact or deciphering divine will wasn’t exactly at the top of my to-do list. But peace of mind? Joy? Freedom? Game on, I hadn’t given up on that. I’d never given up on transformation. Over the years, I’d searched high and low, through and beyond the edges of both mainstream and woo-woo: Religion, Native American shamans, Tony Robbins' Personal Power, past-life regressions, fasting, wheatgrass shots, LSD, Landmark Education (EST), tarot spreads, therapy of every flavor, brainwave retraining, Reiki, the Tao, and every diet and cleanse imaginable.

But wait, there's more! Crystals (carried, cleansed, and charged under the full moon). Sweat lodges. Singing bowls and chanting monks. Acupuncture. Acupressure. Astrologers who charged by the star chart. Chiropractors who claimed to realign my soul. Chinese herbs applied to the soles of my feet or brewed into bitter teas. Drumming circles. Dancing Wiccans. From leg warming aerobics through jazzercise and Beach Body to Zumba. Guided visualizations. Actualizations. Affirmations stuck to every mirror. Pillow punching. Vision Quests. Optimum Health Institute (including multiple colonics for a fee). Gratitude lists. Feng Shui cures involving mirrors, fountains, and red string. Emotional Freedom Technique (tapping until I cried or laughed or both). Chakra balancing. Yoga in Sedona on the vortex. Walking on hot coals (thanks again, Tony). Vision boards so packed with magazine clippings they could wallpaper a bathroom. Wonder drugs. Palm reading. Et cetera, ad nauseam. 

What kept me moving forward all this time was journaling, fearless open-mindedness, perseverance—and perhaps what some might call delusional trust in, not God, but something inside guiding me: intuition, for lack of a better word. It could be my Grandmother or a Guardian angel. Through all the crystals and cleanses, the teachers and techniques, journaling was the one thing that stayed. It saved me. It held me steady when nothing else did, and over time, those pages became the first place I noticed a quiet voice I hadn’t known I was listening for.

On the outside, my life looked good. On the inside, I was FINE (Frustrated, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional). I was also curious, smart, organized, introverted, financially sound, and romantically set. I felt mostly okay. Balanced-ish. But not quite there. Apathy had started to creep in—disillusionment with institutions, politics, religion and especially people in groups. I was allergic to victim mentalities and excuse-making. (Oof. You spot it, you got it.)

That same sponsor from Australia helped snap me out of my illusion of controlling anyone or anything. That was another huge shift. And so, I started meditating again. And again. And again. Eventually, I signed up to become a meditation teacher—not necessarily to teach, but to learn more deeply, from someone I respected, in a Zoom room. Thank you, COVID.

I was searching for something to sink my teeth into—something real, trustworthy, and transformative. I didn’t want fluff. I wanted substance. A compass. A north star. After years of meditation, my teacher davidji finally got through to me: the point isn’t to stop thinking—it’s to stop spinning long enough to notice there’s something else. Something deeper. Something within.

​What surprised me most was how open and inclusive the teachings were. davidji didn’t offer dogma or rules—he offered possibility. The Meditation Teacher Training wasn’t just “how to meditate” or “how to teach.” It was a firehose of wisdom from across the ages and traditions—Vedic, Buddhist, Taoist, Christian mysticism, neuroscience, quantum physics, poetry, breath, mantra, intention, silence. Everything was on the table. I didn’t have to believe any of it. I didn’t have to pick a side or check a box. I just had to listen, try it out, and see what resonated in my body, in my breath, in my being. That kind of permission? It was a huge exhale. For the first time, I could trust myself to explore what worked—without guilt, without second-guessing, and without anyone else’s rules ringing in my ears. It wasn’t about mastering someone else’s method. It was about discovering my own way in.

I kept journaling, kept meditating, kept listening. And little by slowly, I began to recognize that the quiet voice on the page—and in the silence—wasn't random. It had rhythm. It had clarity. It didn’t shout or demand. It whispered, nudged, winked. It offered insight I hadn’t thought of, options I hadn’t considered. It wasn’t always comfortable, but it was always honest. It wasn't always easy but if I followed along, it always seemed to work out in a grand fashion. And somewhere along the way, I realized: this wasn’t just my imagination or wishful thinking. It was something real, something within and beyond me—a guidance system I could actually trust.

I didn’t have a name for it at first. It wasn’t God in the traditional sense, and it certainly wasn’t anything I’d been taught in church or school. It felt more like an inner knowing, a wise best friend who’d been quietly riding shotgun my whole life, waiting for me to notice. Eventually, I started calling it my DMGS—my Divine Magical Guidance System. Built-in. Always available.

The more I paused and tuned in, the more I realized it had been there all along, buried under layers of noise, doubt, fear, expectation, and distraction. Not something I needed to find “out there.” Not something to earn or perfect. Just something I had to look inward to remember.

You can call it whatever you like: God, Spirit, the Universe, Higher Power, Inner Knowing. I don’t care. What matters is that you connect with it. Trust it. Learn how to listen. What really matters is that I stopped searching OUTSIDE myself—for someone, something, some idea or pill or guru to fix things for good. The game changed the moment I turned my gaze inward. That’s where the journey begins. That’s where the truth lives.

That’s what this book is about: the journey of tuning in. Of learning to listen. Of letting go of compulsive fixing, proving, and seeking. It's not a how-to. It’s not linear. It’s a field guide, a companion, a collection of stories and poems, insights and invitations. What worked, what didn’t. Where I started, what happened, and what it’s like now.

And maybe—if you’re willing to pause, soften, and listen too—it’ll help you tune into your own DMGS and discover what’s been there all along, just waiting for your attention.

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