Void of Digital Writing

For months, I lived in the tactile world of pen and paper, sketching out my thoughts longhand. Something was grounding about the process—the pen's weight, the paper's texture, the rhythmic flow of ink. It was slower, yes, but deliberate, and it gave me time to sit with my thoughts. Today, though, I returned to my computer, ready to draft again on the keyboard. And it was strange.—unsettling even.

As I sat down and opened a blank document, the screen felt glaring and intrusive, as though it was imposing itself on my thoughts rather than inviting them. The endless potential of the blinking cursor didn’t inspire me; it paralyzed me. I’d grown accustomed to seeing my words form in my own handwriting, immediate and intimate. Now, those same words were caught in the back-and-forth of my mind, hesitant to leap back into pixels.

For a while, I stared at the screen. The blankness mirrored my uncertainty. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, stiff and uncertain, as if they’d forgotten the choreography they once knew so well. Typing felt foreign—a mechanical task I couldn’t fully connect to.

But then something shifted. Maybe it was muscle memory; maybe it was patience. Slowly, I started to type. At first, the words were awkward, and disjointed, like pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit. But with each sentence, the rhythm returned. My fingers moved faster, more sure of themselves. The hesitance gave way to momentum. Before I realized it, I was drafting fluidly, the hesitation dissolving with each keystroke.

I hadn’t anticipated how visceral this adjustment would feel. Writing, in any form, is intimate. Whether it’s ink on paper or text on a screen, it’s about translating thought into form. The medium shapes the experience. Longhand, I’d felt connected to the physical act of writing—the slowness that allowed for reflection, the deliberate commitment of pen to paper. At the keyboard, though, the pace was faster, the connection less tangible but no less real. The words came quicker, sometimes tumbling out too fast for me to consider them fully, but they came nonetheless.

Recently, I’ve returned to my fountain pens and notebooks, rediscovering the joy of their familiar feel. There’s a quiet magic in the scratch of the nib against the page, in watching ink dry into permanence. Yet, I’ve also committed to working in both formats, recognizing the value each brings to exercising my mind and creativity. The duality keeps me engaged, challenging me to adapt and remain flexible in how I approach my work.

As I finished my first session back at the computer, I felt a quiet sense of accomplishment. There’s something valuable in adapting, in rediscovering a skill you thought you might have lost. Returning to this way of writing wasn’t easy, but it reminded me that process matters less than the work itself. What matters is showing up, whether with a pen in hand or fingers poised over a keyboard, ready to transform thoughts into something more.

Landmark Eras

 

As we approach the cusp of a new year, it’s natural to consider the ways in which the events of 2024—both the milestones and the obstacles—have shaped us. Landmark eras, whether personal or collective, have a way of distilling lessons that are sharper in hindsight than they felt in the moment. They press us to examine what we value, what we resist, and what we’re capable of enduring or creating.

2024 may have asked us questions we didn’t feel ready to answer: What do we stand for when our foundations are shaken? How do we move forward when the path is unclear? Yet alongside these challenges, the year likely revealed reservoirs of strength or clarity that might have gone unnoticed otherwise. The quiet tenacity to keep going. The willingness to redefine success. The grace to forgive—ourselves and others.

So, what do we carry forward into 2025? What experiences or insights deserve a place at the table as we chart the year ahead? Maybe it’s a deeper understanding of who we are under pressure. Maybe it’s a renewed appreciation for moments of connection or stillness. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that the difficult times, though not something we would choose, often teach us the most about who we want to become.

The transition between years isn’t a magic reset, but it is a moment to reflect. What within you proved vital this past year? What did 2024 present that you might not have sought out but are better for having faced? And, just as importantly, what are you ready to let go of as you make room for the next chapter? These are questions worth sitting with, because what we carry with us defines how we thrive in the year ahead.

Panthers in the Temple

 

Guardians of the Sacred, Symbols of Transformation

Panthers crouch in the shadowed recesses of the Temple of Artemis in Corfu, their stone forms etched into the pediment, poised as if ready to spring. Flanking the central figure of Medusa, they exude a quiet ferocity, a power that is neither ornamental nor passive. Their presence, often overlooked, is anything but decorative. These panthers are guardians of the threshold, stationed at the edge of the sacred and the unknown, standing between the mundane world and the mysteries within.

Far from Greece, similar figures emerge in the Shaunglin Temple of China, their feline grace and vigilance imbued with spiritual significance. Here, too, the panther appears not as a symbol of mere beauty but as a protector of the sacred—a creature that holds the line between the profane and the transcendent.

These panthers are more than sentinels of temples built by human hands. They are archetypes, embodiments of forces we must reckon with in our own lives. To become a panther of one’s own temple is to assume the role of guardian for the most sacred spaces within oneself—the chambers of our deepest truths, desires, and aspirations. The work of the panther is not simple, nor is it soft. It demands vigilance, courage, and a willingness to engage with the untamed edges of existence.

The panther teaches us, first, to dwell in the shadows without fear. These creatures are beings of the night, moving with an assured grace through spaces where most hesitate to tread. This means confronting the darkness within us—not to be consumed by it, but to understand it. The doubts, the fears, the hidden longings we often push away are not enemies. They are unexamined aspects of our being. To guard our inner sanctum, we must first know its shape and its shadows.

In standing watch over the threshold, the panther reminds us of the importance of discernment. The sacred can only thrive if it is supported. Like the temples adorned with these vigilant creatures, our own inner sanctuaries require protection—not through rigid walls but through careful attention to what we allow inside. Not everything deserves entry. Not every thought, influence, or connection aligns with the essence of who we are or who we wish to become.

Yet the panther’s work is not about defense alone. It is about the power of transformation. At the heart of every sacred space, whether physical or spiritual, lies a dynamic force—a vitality that seeks growth and evolution. The panther does not guard the temple to keep it unchanged but to ensure that its purpose remains true, even as it shifts and adapts to the rhythms of time. In our own lives, this means embracing change not as a disruption but as a necessary force, allowing old patterns to dissolve and new forms to emerge.

The panther, poised at the edge of the temple, reminds us that the sacred is not fragile. It is resilient, but it is also alive, requiring our attention and care. To become the panther of our own temple is to embody this understanding. It is to stand with strength and grace at the threshold of our inner lives, aware of the vastness within and the delicate balance that sustains it.

The panthers of Artemis’ temple and the Shaunglin guardians whisper to us across time and space. They challenge us to remain vigilant, to see the sacred as something that requires both strength and surrender, both boundary and openness. In stepping into their role, we discover the power to protect the sacred and the wisdom to transform with it. The temple we guard is our own, and its sanctity is worth every moment of watchfulness, every act of courage, every choice to evolve.

 

 

The Quiet Power of Resistance

Living Authentically in a Turbulent World

Resistance doesn’t always come with banners and loud declarations. Sometimes, it exists in the small, deliberate acts of choosing health, authenticity, mindfulness, and creativity. Quiet resistance can look like living with intention, refusing to engage in negativity, and embracing joy as a form of defiance against a culture of burnout and disconnection.

In a world that often glorifies spectacle, quiet resistance is an act of radical self-possession. Here’s how four inspiring individuals, two women and two men, exemplify the power of living authentically, supporting one another, and appreciating life’s simple joys.

1. Zora Neale Hurston

Author, anthropologist, and folklorist Zora Neale Hurston resisted the societal expectations of her era by living unapologetically as herself. While the Harlem Renaissance celebrated the brilliance of Black artistry, Hurston often stood apart from her peers by writing stories that centered rural Southern Black life with joy and complexity, rather than despair. Her masterpiece, Their Eyes Were Watching God, celebrates individuality and self-discovery. Hurston's quiet resistance lay in her refusal to conform to literary or societal norms, trusting her inner knowing to create work that would later be heralded as revolutionary.

2. Ruth Bader Ginsburg

The late Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg exemplified quiet resistance throughout her legal career. Ginsburg’s strength lay in her meticulous, calculated approach to dismantling gender discrimination. She chose her cases carefully, crafting arguments that built a solid foundation for change over time. Outside the courtroom, Ginsburg embraced joy, from her love of opera to her steadfast friendships, including one with fellow Justice Antonin Scalia, despite their ideological differences. Her life reminds us that persistence, thoughtfulness, and finding joy in unexpected places are forms of resistance that change the world.

3. Fred Rogers

Fred Rogers, the beloved host of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, showed the strength of quiet resistance through his unwavering commitment to kindness and emotional intelligence. In an era of increasingly fast-paced, sensationalist children’s programming, Rogers trusted his instincts, slowing things down to talk about feelings, challenges, and self-worth. His simple, thoughtful messages helped generations of children feel valued and safe. Rogers’ quiet resistance lay in his belief that nurturing connection and understanding could transform lives—an idea that remains powerful today.

4. Viktor Frankl

Psychiatrist, Holocaust survivor, and author of Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl demonstrated quiet resistance by embracing the power of inner strength and perspective. In the most harrowing conditions of a concentration camp, Frankl discovered that his ability to choose his response to suffering was a form of freedom that no one could take from him. His emphasis on finding meaning in life’s smallest moments—whether through a memory, a kind gesture, or a glimpse of beauty—offers a profound lesson in the enduring strength of the human spirit.

What Quiet Resistance Can Look Like for You

In a world that often encourages overextension and conformity, quiet resistance invites us to embrace an authentic, mindful way of living:

• Cultivate health: Choose habits that nourish your body and mind.
• Create and play: Whether you paint, write, bake, or garden, creative expression is an act of resistance.
• Support and connect: Build community and lift one another.
• Trust your intuition: Believe in your inner knowing.
• Refuse to engage with negativity: Let provocations fall away, untouched.
• Celebrate joy: Appreciate small wonders—sunlight on water, laughter with friends, the feeling of a favorite pen on paper.

Like Zora Neale Hurston, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Fred Rogers, and Viktor Frankl, we have the power to resist through intentional living, making our everyday actions a quiet revolution. These choices may seem small, but they ripple outward, creating a world that values authenticity, compassion, and meaning.

How will you embrace the power of quiet resistance today?

Dancing With The Storm

Harnessing the PNW Bomb Cyclone for Creativity and Ritual

There’s nothing quite like the wild, untamed power of a Pacific Northwest bomb cyclone. The tempestuous winds howl their song, trees sway like dancers in ecstatic trance, and the very air seems to pulse with an energy that’s both chaotic and exhilarating. For me, this storm has been more than a weather phenomenon—it’s been a creative and spiritual catalyst, unlocking fresh inspiration and transforming my ritual practices into a thunderous symphony of divine connection.

Calling the Storm into Ritual

As the storm rolled in, I felt an undeniable call to weave its energy into my work. With the wind tearing through the trees outside my window and my blue-eyed cat, Lulu, curled up on my lap for comfort (or perhaps moral support), I began my ritual preparations. My deities—Isis, Oya, and Artemis—each embodying fierce power, wisdom, and transformative energy, seemed to whisper their presence in the tempest.

• Isis, Mistress of Magic: Her connection to the winds and the power of voice felt palpable in the swirling gusts. I invoked her with a chant, offering words carried by the storm to reach her ears.

• Oya, Goddess of Winds and Change: The cyclone seemed to embody Oya herself, bringing transformation and clearing away stagnancy. I stood by my altar, arms raised, inviting her winds to sweep through my life, leaving only fertile ground for growth.

• Artemis, Huntress of the Wild: As the storm danced through the forested hills around my home, I called to Artemis. The cyclone felt like her hunt, fierce and purposeful, and I asked her to lend her precision and focus to my creative pursuits.

Creating with Cyclonic Energy

After the ritual, I turned to my creative work, pen in hand and journal open on my writing desk. The cyclone's energy coursed through me, and words spilled onto the page with a force I hadn’t felt in months. The wind outside felt like a co-conspirator, urging me to go deeper, to write boldly and unapologetically.

The characters in my current project sprang to life with renewed vigor, their voices sharp and their actions driven. Even my research for a legacy project seemed to take on new dimensions as if the storm had cleared a path for insights and connections I hadn’t noticed before.

Wind as Ally

In magical practice, the wind is often a messenger, a carrier of intentions, and a herald of transformation. This bomb cyclone was no different—it felt like a powerful ally, its energy amplifying every prayer, every word, every thought. As I moved through the day, I made small offerings to honor this ally: a handful of herbs scattered into the gale, a whispered thank-you carried on the breeze, and a moment of stillness to simply listen to the storm’s song.

Lessons from the Cyclone

The bomb cyclone reminded me of a simple but profound truth: sometimes, we need chaos to create clarity. It’s easy to resist the winds of change, to seek shelter and wait for the storm to pass. But when we open ourselves to the storm’s power, we find not destruction but renewal, not chaos but possibility.

As the storm winds begin to calm, I feel a deep gratitude—for the energy it brought, for the inspiration it unlocked, and for the reminder that creativity, like ritual, thrives when we embrace the wild forces surrounding us.

So, next time the winds howl and the trees sway, don’t just hunker down—step into the storm and see where its energy can take you. You might just find yourself swept into something magical. 

Tarot On The Wind

Shuffling whispers, a breath of air,

Cards aloft, with secrets to share.

The wind it stirs, the veil it thins,

A reading carried on restless winds.

Swords slice sharp through skies untamed,

Wands ignite where storms are framed.

Cups spill dreams in rain’s embrace,

Pentacles root in earth’s sweet grace.

The breeze, a guide, both fierce and kind,

Clears the stagnant, frees the mind.

Tarot on the wind takes flight,

A dance of symbols, pure and bright.

Awakening in the Catskills

The Power of Place

There are moments in life when we stumble upon threads of our history so powerful they seem to reach across time, knitting us into the fabric of those who came before us. My recent journey through the Catskills was just such a moment—a DNA awakening in the truest sense.

The call of these mountains has always been close to my heart, but this time, as I walked the woods near old family farms, it was as if I were moving through layers of memory. With each step, I felt my feet touching the soil and the echo of my ancestors' steps, overlapping with my own. The air, crisp and quiet, whispered stories long-forgotten but still alive in the veins of those who listen closely enough. These were my family’s woods—the places they once labored, laughed, and lived—and I was here, decades and generations later, breathing in the same air.

One of the most powerful stops was at an ancient wooden church, weathered but dignified, standing tall as it must have for centuries. It was easy to imagine distant relatives gathering here, offering prayers, seeking strength and community, possibly even holding their children up for blessings as I felt their essence brushing by me. In that quiet sanctuary, I sensed their spirits, a soft murmur in the walls and a resonance that held me in profound stillness. This was sacred ground—not only for the faithful but for me, as it awakened some deep-rooted understanding that defies words.

As I stood by the Hudson River, my hand dipping into its cold, steady waters, the experience felt almost mythic. The sight of its sweeping flow shook something inside me; it was a homecoming. The water, rushing around my fingers, was both familiar and astonishing, as if it had been waiting for me all along. In that moment, there was a recognition—a knowing so deep it brought tears to my eyes. This river, this powerful force carving its way through New York's landscape, had also shaped my family’s story. They too must have felt its power, let it anchor them, and maybe even trusted it to carry their dreams along its current.

The Catskills are no longer just a beloved place of beauty for me; they are something richer, deeper, alive with the rhythms of my past. I returned feeling altered, with a sense of grounding that has rewired my very DNA. There is a quiet, yet indelible, knowing now—a connection that I will carry forward with reverence, gratitude, and a deeper understanding of the land, family, and stories that live within me.

Little Joys

 This morning, as I sat in my home office, deep in thought, Lulu made her entrance with the quiet majesty only she could muster. Her bright blue eyes gleamed with purpose, and in her mouth was a delicate red dragonfly, its wings still fluttering. She chirped proudly, her soft purr rising in the still air as she presented her living gift. I paused, admiring her offering, knowing she awaited my full appreciation.

Kneeling beside her, I murmured my thanks. Lulu's purring grew even louder, a soft hum of satisfaction. Her eyes flicked between me and the dragonfly as if to say, “See what I’ve brought you? Aren't I clever?” After a few moments of shared admiration, she gave a tiny nod and a slow blink, clearly pleased with my gratitude. With that, she padded over to a sunbeam streaming through the window, curling up into a contented ball, her task complete.

I cradled the dragonfly gently in my hands, feeling the delicate hum of its wings. Standing by the open window, I watched it catch the breeze as I released it, its crimson form darting into the world beyond. 

Lulu, now basking in the sunlight, was already dreaming while the dragonfly danced away into the day. Our quiet exchange was complete in the soft rhythm of home and nature—a perfect example of the beauty in simple moments.