The Fly, the Chair & the Cherry Red Beamer

This morning, I was cruising down the meditation highway—top down, wind in my hair, metaphorical of course—when Lucy Love dropped a 20-minute guided track called Love Wash. Within seconds, I was swept into that space where love lives. The kind that glows and buzzes and vibrates around you like a force field. My brain tried to label it—unconditional, palpable, effervescent—but honestly, it felt more like easing back into a cosmic rocking chair. One that reclines not just into comfort, but into space.

Not just outer space. Inner space. That expansive detachment I’ve tasted before. It reminded me of the kind of space I notice when I drop into the rhythm of this: I set aside everything I think I know. Everything I believe to be true. All my expectations and judgments. I set aside proving, defending, looking good, and being right. All this in exchange for an open mind and a new experience of life. That morning, I didn’t say the prayer, but the feeling matched. I was off the launchpad. No gravity. That rocking chair wasn’t just comfortable—it was a cosmic recliner, easing me into orbit. Spacious, weightless, no agenda. Just curiosity and the hush of something holy.

So I’m gathering visual cues to get me there on demand. The flick of a light switch—click, glow. The feeling of rose-colored glasses settling on my nose—weightless but definite—and realizing how the same scene softens through the tint of rose detachment. It’s not denial. It’s grace. Then there’s the hidden room behind the wall of my everyday life. I stumble backward—accidentally, naturally—and land in a quiet hallway that feels like it’s always been waiting. At the end? A two-way mirror. Or is it one-way? Either way, it lets me watch the whole scene unfold without having to leap into the fray. Just me, the moment, and the miracle of not reacting.

Michael Singer likes to remind us we’re specks on a spinning planet, careening through space. Which, yes, is helpful when you're stuck in a traffic jam or fighting with a microwave. But I wanted something more immediate. Something I could feel, not just know. A mental zoom-out is nice, but sometimes you need a full-body portal. Like, “Beam me up outta this reaction before I do something dumb.” That’s where the fly came in.

How about being a fly on the ceiling? Or sitting next to one? That’s a fun visual. Because while my body is on the floor—flinching, vibrating, overpacked with emotion—my spirit floats up and joins that fly. And from there, I can breathe. From there, I see my life from the edge instead of the center. Not to escape, but to observe. That fly’s-eye view? Weirdly freeing. It's the same detachment Singer points to, just closer. Smaller. With wings.

That perspective would have been helpful recently when I had a full-body freakout over a car insurance email. (Spoiler alert: it was not about love, peace, or higher vibrations.) See, I recently fulfilled a bucket list dream and bought myself a cherry red BMW convertible. Midlife fantasy, meet your match. I ordered it online, configured every detail like I was building a spaceship, and when it arrived—oh honey, it PURRED. It hugs the curves, it grumbles at stoplights, it turns heads like a damn runway model.

But apparently, if you buy a brand new 2026 vehicle, insurance companies lose their minds. Rates shot through the roof. I called my agent, Robert, and asked him to shop it around. He found me a better rate with Hartford, scheduled the switch, and I figured—done. Handled. Enter peace. Except… the next morning I get an email from my old insurer demanding $700+. Cue the claws. In that moment, I lost it. Snapped a pic of the email. Sent an all-caps text to Robert. Then opened a new tab to write a carefully crafted email to his boss, complete with customer service training recommendations and a few polite-but-pointed zingers.

That’s when the inside voice—the intuitive warning, that hint of “you’re about to make a fool of yourself”—whispered: Wait. So I did. Barely. I sat on my email, still fully convinced I was right, helpful, and maybe even noble in my outrage. Then Robert called. Calm as ever. Turns out the invoice had gone out before he canceled the policy, and I’d actually be getting a refund. The drama? All mine.

What saved me wasn’t logic or virtue—it was the pause. It was that tiny gap where I remembered to listen instead of launch. Had I floated up to sit with the fly or ducked behind that mirror, I would’ve seen the story I was writing—and realized I had the pen. The power’s not just in the pause. It’s in the space I create when I stop trying to be right and remember to be free.
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So I’m collecting imagery now. A rocking chair that leans into the cosmos—equal parts therapy and space travel. A spirit-fly with front-row seats to my unraveling. A switch that flips the scene from chaos to clarity. Rose-tinted glasses that turn judgments into curiosities. A secret passageway, tucked just behind the drywall of my daily panic. A mirror that says, “You don’t have to fix this—you can just see it.” And a convertible that reminds me: joy is not something to earn—it’s something to choose. Preferably with the top down and the volume up. Whatever visual helps me wake up and shift, I’ll take it. Because this life is for freedom. And freedom starts in the space I remember to create.

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