Hello, It's Working!

Some days just basically suck. The weather is gloomy, the schedule is full—and not with fun or interesting things, just humdrum appointments and grocery shopping (although I do love a good prowl around any shop at all). Maybe there’s a party you dread or a dentist appointment lurking. You get the vibe. It’s a power-through kind of day, full of obligations or shit that simply has to get done, with the vague hope that something later will redeem the day.

I’ve had a few of those days lately. Being an introvert on steroids doesn’t help, especially around the holidays. As part of an odd family-gathering shake-up, I was genuinely thrilled to welcome close family into my home for a wee gnosh and a gift exchange. And yet—for no apparent reason—I was grumpier than hell all morning.

I hovered on the cusp of doing absolutely nothing, just to see what might happen. Still unwilling to entertain the idea of being the hostess with the mostest—whatever that even means. I’m sure there was some serious processing happening in the low-rent emotional warehouse of expectations, comparisons, obligations, and of course fixing and proving something for no good reason. Just stuck in a nasty little loop. Lost in the woods, walking in circles, despite my best efforts to pop up and be jolly. Progress report: at least I’m no longer sucking it all in and numbing out. That’s something. But even with that awareness, I couldn’t quite get enough clarity to clear the muck.

Enter my knight in shining armour. The angel on my shoulder. My faithful, never-absent companion: my DMGS (Divine Magical Guidance System). With the smallest of whispers it offered one word—"Welcome." You can at least authentically welcome family into your home. Focus on being welcoming. Not fixing the mood. Not forcing cheer. Not rearranging myself into something more palatable. Just welcome. Which, in that moment, felt doable. Grounded. Real. It quickly turned into a mantra a chant quietly under my breath, "Welcome, Welcoming. What feels welcoming?" All this to rescue myself from the odd and frequent returns to grumpy-ville.

Welcome is a loaded word for me after a few seasons of Courage and Renewal retreats in Vermont. Those retreats were held in Burlington, right on Lake Champlain, at a retreat center tucked against the water with woods and trails wrapping all the way around it. Nothing flashy. Nothing performative. The kind of environment that doesn’t ask you to be better, just to be real. Gentle and powerful at the same time. Nourishing and accountable. The people matched the place. Real. Grounded. Willing. No spiritual posturing. Just humans practicing how to show up with a little more courage and connect with something deeper inside. The idea that there are ways of being—simple, sturdy, repeatable—that help us navigate inner and outer terrain without turning ourselves into projects or problems to solve.

Those retreats offered a set of gathering guidelines—touchstones—that I still use today for book clubs, meetings, and trainings. Basically anytime adult humans are asked to behave like adults. It’s always shocking how surprising some people find these ideas—listening, respect, curiosity—as if they’re novel concepts instead of basic human social skills. The document itself is freely available online, but on the day of that family gathering, I didn’t consciously recall the list. I only heard the word welcome, over and over.

Had I taken another breath and stood still, I might have sought the rest of them out to refine my motives and clarify my intentions. (Look Mom! Still trying to enhance the past already perfect experience! No Hands!) Apparently, after enough retreats and years of practice, they had sunk in. Glory. Hallelujah. Something from a retreat actually popped up years later as genuinely useful.

Reviewing the touchstones now, I’m struck by how deeply I’ve internalised many of them— along with all the other stuff in my internal garden there. Not all of it helpful. Plenty of "shoulds" and "shouldn’ts" that aren’t mine. Old ideas about not being good enough, about needing to behave a certain way to earn approval, appreciation, or respect. Lies, really. Unhealthy. Unhelpful. Rooted in vanity and pride rather than wisdom. Those seeds are in me too, and they still sprout from time to time.

And honestly, I may never be fully done rooting them out. But here’s the thing that matters: the good seeds were planted too. The useful ones. The kind, steady, life-giving ones. And they’re sprouting right alongside the junk—often exactly when I need them most. Which brings me to the last touchstone, the one I didn’t fully appreciate until now.

"Know that it’s possible to leave the circle with whatever you needed when you arrived, and that the seeds planted there can keep growing in the days—and years—ahead."

This whole moment—the whisper, the remembering, the shift in my nervous system on an irritable, restless and discontent holiday morning—is proof of that. Proof that something real took root. Proof that my efforts weren’t wasted. Proof that my trust has been well placed. Hello! (Hey, Mom, it’s working!)

That single word from my DMGS--WELCOME—shifted my day from anxious, defensive, and braced for impact into a genuinely warm and memorable family experience. And writing this has re-minded me of something even bigger: the quiet confidence that the most loving, useful seeds I’ve gathered along the way are alive and well, doing exactly what they’re meant to do.