The Souls Beside Us

 

Animals, Presence, and Connection

As a lifelong animal lover, the connection I have with them, whether they are those directly under my guardianship or those I encounter only tangentially, is a fundamental part of my soul's makeup. This bond is built on a subtle, vibrating presence that far exceeds the clinical explanations of biological instinct. While it is easy (for some) to view these creatures through the lens of utility or simple companionship, a closer look reveals a shared, unseen architecture of the heart. This connection isn't just a byproduct of living together; it is a profound resonance where two entirely different ways of being find a common language. When you sit in the sun with a dog, watch a bird track the invisible shifts in the air, or notice a horse rotating its ears forward and back as it forages through a grassy field, you aren't simply observing an animal; you are participating in a mutual recognition that exists long before words ever enter the picture. 

There is a beautiful, tangible foundation for this feeling in the way our bodies react to one another. Science has begun to map this through the study of heart-rate variability alignment, showing that when we share a moment of genuine trust with an animal--whether it is the trusting lean of a horse or the rhythmic purr of a cat--our cardiac rhythms actually begin to sync up. Our bodies act as resonators, catching the other's emotional frequency. It is a metabolic conversation, a deep-tissue warmth that proves we are designed to connect with the "other" in ways that the intellect alone cannot grasp.

By inviting an animal into our inner circle, we often begin an archeology of our own souls, unearthing parts of ourselves that have been tucked away under the pressures of the modern world. Because animals do not care about titles or resumes, they act as a mirror for our most honest, primal states. A bond with an animal asks us to drop the performance and simply be. This is what philosophers call the "I-Thou" relationship. It is a reciprocal, heart-centered meeting based on presence that transitions us from seeing an animal as something we own or as a commodity to seeing it as a soul we are fortunate enough to encounter.

Ultimately, the metaphysics of this connection is about a return to wholeness. In a world that often feels fractured and digital, the animal is a grounding force that pulls us back to the unseen architecture of the living world. They are the keepers of a silent, steady wisdom, reminding us that the deepest intimacy doesn't require a single spoken word. This quiet dialogue is the true heart of the bond, a gentle reminder that we are all woven into the same breathing tapestry, leaning on one another for warmth and understanding.

In Your Hands

 A Kid's Guide to Palmistry

A masterful blend of charm and accessibility, P.V. Dai’s In Your Hands is far more than a children’s book. It is a masterclass in inclusive design. Published by Moon Dust Press (Red Wheel/Weiser), this guide breathes fresh life into an ancient, revelatory divination art. 

While the "kid-friendly" tag is accurate, the book’s true magic lies in its thoughtful production. The generous white space, intentional kerning, and clear typography—paired with Elissa Marie’s playful, vibrant illustrations—create a welcoming experience for those with reading impediments and adults seeking a stress-free introduction to palmistry.

Whether you are a curious beginner or a seasoned practitioner, this is a delightful, high-utility reference that earns a permanent spot on any metaphysical bookshelf. A joyful, tactile treasure!

Emerging Patterns

Tarot Tableau Revolution: A Breakthrough System to See the Whole Story in Your Readings

Maria Alviz Hernando (Weiser Books, 2025)

There is a moment in Tarot Tableau when the cards shed stillness and become agents in a field of meaning. Maria Alvin Hernando presents several approaches to large spreads, each with its own logic. The “Knighting” technique, common with the Grand Tableau in Lenormand, introduces deliberate motion into the reading.

The name comes from the knight’s move in chess—a unique L-shaped step. It breaks linear patterns. With a 3x3 (9-card) tableau or larger grid, the reader traces angular paths among the cards. The pattern determines sequence and connections. What emerges is patterned movement: structured yet open. It is a choreography of attention that uncovers hidden links.

I shared this method at a Tarot gathering, expecting a reserved response. Instead, it sparked instant engagement. The group leaned in; voices overlapped, hands hovered over the cards, and fingers traced patterns. As interpretations multiplied, connections emerged. Participants explored variations, shifting the point of origin and observing how each traversal shaped the narrative. What seemed a fixed arrangement of symbols became a dynamic network; the diagram shifted from static spread to living system.

Building on this, in Hernando’s work, “Knighting” reframes the spread as a network rather than just a layout. Cards communicate across distance. Meanings are built through movement. The reader navigates a system of relations unfolding over time rather than extracting information from isolated positions.

A similar feeling echoes in Rachel Pollack’s approach to Tarot. She wrote, “That’s the thing. You never get to the end of it.” The statement is humble and inviting. Each shuffle reshapes the field. Each method gives a new entry, with no single path exhausting the deck.

Within this context, “Knighting” is one powerful approach among many. It doesn’t define a tableau’s meaning, but creates conditions for meaning to develop. The reader observes, follows, and participates in that process.

What struck me most was the group’s transformation with the cards. Curiosity replaced certainty; play supplanted hesitation. The seventy-eight cards became terrain they were eager to explore.

Tarot Tableau offers a range of entry points. The “Knighting” technique is thoughtfully applied and is insightfully generative. It restores movement to the act of reading. It reminds the reader that card interpretations expand beyond the lines in a “little white book.”

Currents Beneath the Text

 

The Alchemy of the Blurb

There is a particular kind of reading that demands more than attention; it requires a deep presence, because it seeks to recognize and illuminate the soul of a book. By 'deep presence,' I mean reading with a quiet mind and a heightened receptivity, where you are attentive not only to the words but also to the subtle energy and intention behind them. For those new to this approach, a simple way to cultivate deep presence is to begin each reading session with a pause: take a few slow breaths before opening the book, letting distractions fall away. This small ritual helps you enter a state where you can truly meet the work as it is.

Recently, I have become involved in writing endorsements for esoteric and metaphysical books. These works come from authors at different stages: some veterans, others sharing their first, uncertain offering, each carrying a voice waiting to be heard.

What surprises me most is not the reading itself, though that is often rich and transporting. Instead, it is the act of distillation that follows that draws my attention. This means identifying the qualities that give the work its unique life and finding a way to convey that to future readers. Distillation is less about capturing every detail and more about noticing what most wants to be seen, then offering it clearly and simply.

An endorsement is a small space. A few sentences, perhaps a paragraph. It cannot contain the whole of a book, nor should it try. Instead, it asks a quieter question: where does this work come alive? Where does it open?

For example, an endorsement might read: "This book is a lantern for those journeying inward, offering gentle wisdom and unexpected clarity at every turn. The author's voice is both attentive and courageous, inviting the reader to discover new depths within themselves."

To answer that, I listen differently. I am reading for the current beneath the text, the intention shaping it, the moment the author’s voice settles into authority. Sometimes this is immediate; sometimes it unfolds slowly, deeper in the work.

There is a kind of trust involved. The author trusts me to see them clearly. I trust the work to reveal its center.

A good endorsement does not decorate a book. It recognizes that the reader is not yet inside these pages, saying with conviction, "There is life here." You may be changed by it.

With first-time authors, the responsibility takes on a different tone. Their work often holds a rawness, an unguarded clarity. There is less shaping toward expectation, more willingness to speak from the interior. The task then becomes one of honoring that clarity without softening it, without translating it into safer language. One useful strategy is to echo some of the author's distinctive phrasing or imagery in your endorsement, letting their original voice come through. For example, if the manuscript contains a particularly striking metaphor or turn of phrase, consider weaving a reference to it into your message. This approach reassures the author that their unique expression matters and invites future readers to experience the book's authentic spirit. It deserves to stand as it is.

When working with seasoned authors, however, the challenge shifts. Their voices are often more layered, more deliberate. The question becomes how to articulate what distinguishes this work from all that has come before it, how to recognize the evolution without reducing it to a summary of past accomplishments. One useful technique is to identify a new motif, perspective, or stylistic departure that signals growth or change in the author's voice. I look for moments in the text where the author takes a risk, explores a new theme, or approaches a familiar subject from a fresh angle. By highlighting these shifts, an endorsement can point future readers to the specific qualities that set this work apart, while still honoring the depth and continuity of the author’s journey.

In both cases, I return to the same practice: first, I read until I feel the spark; then, I write from that place.

There is a simple joy: sitting with a manuscript before it enters the world, witnessing its moment before meeting readers, and offering words to help guide it toward those meant to find it.

It feels, in its own way, like tending a series of small flames.

Each book arrives with its own light. My role is to reveal and steady that light so others can see it clearly.

In a world that moves quickly past what it does not immediately understand, this feels like a necessary act. A quiet one. A deliberate one.

And, for me, a deeply satisfying way to give my time.

Echoes Beneath My Feet

The night before a trip crackles with anticipation. The suitcase gapes open on the bed. The cat narrows its eyes as my mind speeds ahead down shadowed highways. Maps surface everywhere: in my notes app, checklists, daydreams.

Tomorrow I leave the West Coast for the East. A passion project calls, but my ancestors’ spirits are the true draw.

Officially, this is a research trip: meetings, libraries, notes, and places to explore. I’ll move slowly through archives and streets, noticing details others might miss. But the professional side is just part of the story.

Beyond practical reasons, something personal pulls me. As a child, my grandmother showed me an old photo of our family home back east, tracing the porch where relatives gathered. Her voice softened when she spoke of the lilacs that bloomed every spring. That memory lingers. Now, I follow it back, searching for stories that began there.

The East Coast is where my ancestors lived, worked, prayed, raised families, and buried loved ones. They planted gardens that may still hold memories. My great-grandfather Frantisek kept bees behind a small red house, gathering honey under apple trees. Before I traveled far, he and others walked those roads.

And now, picking up where their journeys left off, I’m heading back across the country to walk those roads again.

I grew up believing places are more than locations. Land preserves memories. Houses hold voices. Even towns that have changed over decades reveal traces of former lives.

That’s why research trips feel singular. The day begins with notebooks, archives, and meetings. Somewhere between scaling library stairs and sitting by café windows, something shifts—a familiar name in a ledger, a street identified from an old photo. Suddenly, the past feels closer.

For me, this trip feels like a mix of planning and pilgrimage, guided as much by lists as by memory. The line blurs between what is scheduled and what is felt.

There will be schedules: places to visit, notes to keep me on track. But I look forward to wandering neighborhoods at dusk, catching the local accent, noticing how East Coast light differs from the Pacific’s.

It’s a contrast I keep returning to: the West Coast teaches about horizons. The East Coast teaches about layers.

Here, the land stretches wide and open, stories still unfolding. In contrast, back east, everything is layered, with centuries pressed into a few miles. You sense it in granite buildings, old oaks, and streets that spiral around history.

Somewhere in those layers, I imagine, are the people whose choices led to me sitting here tonight, choosing which notebook to pack.

I often wonder what my ancestors would think. Airplanes, digital maps, crossing the country in a day: inconceivable. Most never left home, so their astonishment is easy to imagine. Traversing distances that once felt insurmountable—leaving so much behind so swiftly—must have been extraordinary. Some might feel pride or curiosity, knowing that someone generations later will seek the stories they cherished, while others might feel gentle sorrow for all that’s vanished. Still, I hope they’d understand: the longing that draws us back endures, even as all changes.

This trip continues what they started. Families move and spread, but sometimes, like now, someone follows the thread back, reconnecting the past with the present.

Tomorrow I’ll cross the country with a backpack of notebooks and questions. There will be archives to explore, planning sessions, and long walks through new streets. Along the way, I may realize I’m standing where an ancestor once stood, though I may never know the exact spot.

But, regardless of precision, the land will know.

If I pay close attention, maybe I’ll sense the echo of their treads beneath mine. 

T-minus 14

Fourteen Days to Departure

There is a constant tug between the pressure to do more and the longing to simply be present, and on days like this, that tension sits with me from the moment I wake.

The air feels different as a departure draws near. Morning light carries a quiet awareness, and familiar routines take on a new clarity. In just a few weeks, I will step onto a plane for in-person research, long-awaited reunions, and the kind of conversations that are most meaningful face-to-face. The work that has lived on my desk for so long is about to become lived experience again.

I can feel the shift already. Piper watches me more closely as I move through the house, and Lulu insists on curling into my arms during late evenings of writing. The animals seem to recognize change before I fully name it. Each walk, each slow morning, feels heightened by the knowledge that one season is closing while another opens wide ahead of me.

These days have become an intentional practice in presence. Callie and I linger over morning coffee, sunlight stretching across the kitchen floor while the world waits outside. We are less concerned with plans and more aware of simply sharing time. I am learning that departures are prepared quietly, through attention and care woven into ordinary moments.

Getting ready to leave has settled into its own gentle rhythm. Stocking favorite foods, setting small comforts in place, tending to the details that allow the home to remain steady while I am away. These gestures ground me. Movement forward feels stronger when it remains connected to what sustains us.

Alongside the tenderness of preparation, excitement continues to build. I will reunite with friends who have walked beside this work for years. I will return to archives, shared memories, and living conversations that deepen my work in ways solitude never can. Research will breathe again through voices, laughter, and rediscovery.

My writing life feels as though it is turning toward a new trajectory, one that is more embodied and alive. The story I am telling is expanding, and I am stepping into it with curiosity, gratitude, and a renewed sense of purpose.

Soon, I will close the door behind me and carry the hush of home into a new chapter. For now, I am savoring these remaining mornings, aware that the journey has already begun.

The Gravity of the Heart

Finding Agape in the Wild

We often grasp at love's simplest expressions: the fiery eros that keeps us up at night, or the steadfast philia shared with our closest companions. And then, there is Agape.

Strip away the dogma and Sunday school lessons, and agape isn't a pious, unreachable ideal. It is radical, unconditional, and deliberate goodwill. Although not always comfortable, agape is the decision to love the world because your internal compass refuses to point any other way. It is love as a verb. I remember a time when I stood at a crossroads, struggling with resentment toward a colleague who had wronged me. Instead of letting bitterness take hold, I consciously chose to show them kindness, even offering help with a project they struggled with. That messy moment, filled with inner conflict and ultimately marked by resolution, grounded my understanding of agape as an active choice. Similarly, imagine a moment in daily life: you're in line at a bustling grocery store, and the cashier is overwhelmed, multitasking with long queues and impatient customers. Choosing patience and offering a reassuring smile or a few kind words can transform their challenging day. It's in these ordinary exchanges that the profound nature of agape comes to life.

Examples of 'selfless-love-as-a-superpower' can be found in pop culture characters who prioritize the greater good over their own narratives. Pop culture matters because it reflects and shapes our collective consciousness, offering narratives that resonate deeply with personal growth and value formation. By drawing inspiration from these stories, we can better understand how to incorporate ideals like agape into our own lives.

• The Iron Giant: When the Giant says, "Superman," and flies toward the missile, he isn't just performing a nice gesture. He is actively overwriting his core programming. Created as a weapon of destruction, the Giant’s transformation into a protector is a powerful narrative about repurposing technology for care. This ideological shift from a tool of violence to an icon of peace and love sharpens the socio-political stakes of love. Agape, in this sense, is the ultimate act of free will.
• Samwise Gamgee: While The Lord of the Rings is full of epic battles, Sam’s devotion to Frodo—and to the memory of a world that is "good and worth fighting for"—is the ultimate secular Agape. He carries the weight because the weight needs carrying.
• Everything Everywhere All At Once: Waymond Wang’s plea—"Please, be kind. Especially when we don't know what's going on"—is the modern mantra for Agape. Before you read further, take a moment to pause and breathe, recalling a recent moment of confusion in your life. This will help you resonate with Waymond's message on a deeper level. It’s choosing empathy as a tactical necessity in a chaotic, uncaring multiverse.
• Ted Lasso: The "Lasso Way" is essentially a study in Agape. It’s the practice of offering someone the best version of yourself, even when they are actively offering you their worst.

The Mechanics of the Soul

Agape doesn't require a temple; it requires a threshold. It's the moment you stop asking, 'What does this person/place/thing do for me?' and start asking, 'How can I honor the life inherent in this?' In many ways, this echoes the principle of ahimsa in Hinduism, which emphasizes non-violence and respect for all living beings. Similarly, Buddhist metta encourages boundless loving-kindness. By drawing from these traditions, we see that the essence of love transcends any single religious or cultural boundary.

"Love is not a feeling. It's an ability." — Mitch, Dan in Real Life.

In that sense, it resembles a sort of spiritual physics. To practice agape is to exert a steady force (F) of kindness strong enough to meet the dense mass (m) of cynicism that often takes shape as relentless news doom-scroll or workplace sarcasm, and the velocity, or acceleration (a), of the chaos around us (F=ma). Consider a specific day at the office when tensions are high, and negativity feels palpable. Perhaps a teammate is struggling with a project, and the atmosphere is laced with anxiety. Here, applying a steady force of kindness—such as offering thoughtful feedback or acknowledging effort despite setbacks—can neutralize the negative mass and shift the day's trajectory, making the workplace atmosphere more positive and collaborative. By identifying these tangible forms of negativity, the metaphor becomes an invitation to counteract these forces with deliberate love.

Since we’ve established that agape is more about ability and identity than simply a fuzzy feeling, these prompts are designed to get you thinking about where you've flexed that 'moral muscle' in your life. Here are a few ways you might consider engaging with them:

- Journal: Take some quiet time to write down your thoughts and reflections on each prompt. This will help you explore your internal landscape and track your growth over time.

- Discuss: Use these prompts as starting points for meaningful conversations with friends or loved ones, deepening your understanding through shared insights.

- Meditate: Reflect on a prompt during meditation to internalize its message and find peace and clarity.

Over to You: The Agape Audit

If you’re feeling the "Lasso Way" today, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments:

• 1. Defining the Ability: If love is an ability and not just a feeling, what’s one way you’re "training" that muscle this week? Perhaps share an intended "program overwrite" for the coming days to further turn reflection into a communal commitment. By making public micro-pledges, we often sustain the heroic arc celebrated here.
• 2. The Unseen Weight: Samwise carried Frodo when the ring became too heavy. Who is someone in your life you support simply because "the weight needs carrying," even if there’s no "thank you" at the end of the road?
• 3. The Tactical Empathy: In the spirit of Waymond Wang, when has being "silly" or "kind" actually been your strongest weapon in a tough situation?
• 4. The "Superman" Moment: Is there a time you had to "overwrite your programming" (anger, cynicism, or even just laziness) to choose kindness instead? What was the catalyst?

Note: "The Lasso Way" is a philosophy of life popularized by the t.v. character Ted Lasso, focusing on kindness, empathy, and personal growth over winning. It promotes unconditional positive regard, fostering a supportive culture where people feel valued, respected, and empowered.