When the Light Feels Too Bright

The brightness was blinding. Standing on the podium with lights flashing and applause ringing, I felt my ambitions become real. Success, once a distant dream, now loomed brilliant and large. People often assume fear only comes from the unknown, but experience teaches us otherwise. Even with a bright future, our resolve can falter. Sometimes we veer off course, not because the path is dark, but because light ahead feels overwhelming. We may see success gathering, but we cannot know fully how it will stretch or reshape us. Growth requires leaving the familiar behind. Even the prospect of our long-dreamed-of life can unsettle us.

If the brightness feels too intense, pause. Try a simple grounding exercise to regain your center: inhale deeply, hold for a count of four, then exhale slowly. As you breathe, picture yourself rooted to the ground—stable and strong. Repeat this until calmness returns. Such practice steadies you, helping you embrace your path with clarity and courage.

Our fear of the future often mingles with the dread that stepping into our potential will change us. Success can feel like sudden pressure, a sense of responsibility, or an expectation to meet. But perhaps we can see fear differently. If success feels heavy, what strength in you is ready to carry it? Recall a moment when you embraced change and list the specific qualities that guided you, such as persistence or adaptability. Life brings even big changes gradually, integrating them step by step. 

When anchored in the present, we better notice the steps as they appear. The Now opens our senses and sharpens our perception. Breathing in crisp morning air or feeling the gentle sun, we see small signs that are easy to miss when uncertainty clouds our minds. When fear focuses us on an imagined future, it distracts us from reality. Presence widens our vision. It lets us see subtle signs that we are moving in the right direction. We notice chance encounters, sudden clarity, or a steadying feeling. These are the quiet ways life speaks, but we hear them only when truly here.

Storytellers know this. In Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, when Alice is overwhelmed by strange paths, the Cheshire Cat reminds her that direction comes from attention to what’s in front of us. In The Secret Garden, Mary Lennox’s daily care of a small patch brings slow transformation in the garden and in her. In The Lord of the Rings, Gandalf offers grounding: “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” These stories show: presence brings clarity.

When imagining the future, we fixate on results, not the patient steps that get us there. We forget growth is progressive and rooted in the present. Early in my career, I received a project that seemed beyond me. I felt overwhelmed and questioned my readiness. Breaking the project into manageable tasks and focusing step by step, I gained confidence and competence. This taught me that our souls reach toward purpose and the agreements made in a timeless place before arrival. Because of this, neither we nor the universe puts anything in our way that we are unprepared to face, even if it does not feel that way.

Think of learning to ride a bicycle. At first, the coordination and balance seem daunting. Each tumble and wobble feels like a setback. With time and regular practice, you start pedaling without fear. This gradual progress mirrors life. Mastery, after all, is a collection of small successes—not a single grand achievement.

Fear can make us freeze in place and worry about possible failures or future disappointments. Becoming aware of these fears helps weaken their hold. For example, if you think, 'achieving this might leave me dissatisfied,' realize that no goal marks the end of your journey. If you fear being recognized or doubt your ability, remind yourself that you deserve praise just as you are. To handle fear in the moment, try writing your fears in a journal to better understand them, or practice noticing your thoughts, for example, by quietly saying, 'This is my fear of not being good enough.' This helps you see the thought clearly and reduces its power.

When fear rises, especially during times of rapid change, focus on what you can see, hear, or touch now. For example, notice the feeling of your feet on the ground or the sound of your breathing. Challenge any beliefs that create fear, such as the idea that one mistake means failure. Quiet the inner critical voice by reminding yourself of your real accomplishments, such as meeting deadlines, learning new skills, or helping a teammate. Your success comes from your consistent effort, your creativity, and your sound decisions. Remind yourself of these facts when doubt appears.

Each time you meet the future with steadiness, you weaken fear’s foundation. Over time, the divide grows, and you see what lies ahead with clearer optimism. Remember, setbacks are part of growth. When you face obstacles, acknowledge them compassionately. They contribute to your development and resilience. To see your transformation, reflect on a recent time you met the future with courage. Consider a day you handled challenges with grace or took a step forward despite uncertainty. Celebrating these micro-victories reinforces your growth. Trust you are destined to thrive.

A Living Book on Michigan Avenue

November 21, 2025

What can one say about a museum experience that doesn't merely present history but invites you into it, one that engages the visitor through creative, physical interaction; that ignites every sense; that carries the imagination forward long after the moment; that gives texture and dimension to the lives of writers past and present; and that profoundly reminds us that we ourselves are story?

The American Writers Museum, behind the rotating door on the second floor of The Art Deco Building on Chicago's Michigan Avenue, serves as a threshold to a larger vision. In this participatory museum, literature becomes tactile. Imagine adjusting a display, selecting a scent that evokes a story, or even choosing a color that represents a theme. The lineage of American writing unfolds through color, sound, scent, movement, and memory, inviting you to contribute to its narrative. Within this space, they present a remarkable temporary exhibit: American Prophets: Writing, Religion & Culture.

I had the honor of representing Rachel Pollack and her award-winning, genre-spanning work. Beside her artifacts — her Persephone statue,the candlesticks where each Friday she would ignite Shabbat prayers, handwritten fragments, and photographs — I felt the resonance of her devotion to myth, magic, and story. Her fierce spiritual imagination shaped everything she touched.

At the exhibit's opening soiree, the gentle clink of glasses and occasional clack and tap from a vintage typewriter underscored the buzz of lively conversation. I overheard a snippet from a nearby group discussing the fabric of storytelling. Someone exclaimed, 'There is no life without story.' It was a delight meeting the other honored authors and representatives. Kudos to the excellent AWM team for creating a space where even reclusive, introverted writers could comfortably mingle with the museum's founders, board members, trustees, supporters, and each other.

Where else would you find, gathered around Jack Kevorkian's typewriter, a biographer from the Pacific Northwest, Black cultural playwrights, a Pixar animator, a promising young videographer, a music legend, a Cherokee language steward and author, and a passionate bookseller with over thirty years dedicated to the trade?

Only two places come to mind: a museum dedicated to the written word...and, of course, a book.

Sit down at your keyboard. Pick up your pen. Add your voice to the lineage.    

Make magic.

Inkvolution

 

Inkvolution

The first inks were born of fire and earth. Long before bottled pigment and sleek cartridges, people made do with what they had. They mixed soot, charcoal, ash, minerals, plants, and even the residue of flame itself. The earliest carbon pigment ink is distinguished by its deep black color and faint sheen. The ancient Egyptians and Chinese were already producing it by 2500 BCE, blending fine soot, or lampblack, with a water-soluble binder such as animal glue or gum arabic from the acacia tree. The result was a rich black that clung to papyrus and silk. It was a voice made visible.

Later came iron gall ink, the long-reigning monarch of European writing from the Middle Ages through the nineteenth century. This formula relied on quiet chemistry: tannic acid from oak galls mixed with ferrous sulfate. When the two met, they produced a deep blue-black that gradually turned into a warm, rusty brown. Gum arabic again served as the binder, keeping the pigment in suspension and helping it stick to the page. The ink was durable and nearly indelible. This durability is why so many of our oldest manuscripts still survive.

Across the world, other cultures turned to the resources of their own landscapes. Sepia ink from cephalopods provided early writers with a dark, blue-black hue and a subtle shimmer. Celtic and Pict warriors crushed woad leaves to create a vivid blue pigment for body paint. American colonists simmered black walnuts with vinegar and gum arabic to produce a deep, earthy ink. The Maya mixed indigo with a special clay to create Maya Blue, a color so stable it still resists fading after centuries. Mineral pigments, such as red ochre and malachite, produced vibrant reds and greens. This proves that creativity has always been bound to the land itself.

Recently, I decided to make my own batch of oak gall ink by following the same steps ancient scribes practiced. Crushing the galls, steeping them, and watching the liquid grow dark felt like more than a craft project. It was like an ancient memory returning through my hands. As I stirred, a recognition rose within me. I became aware that something deep and old was awakening, as if generations of makers stood beside me, guiding the process.

In Tarot, Wands are the suit of fire. They symbolize creation, inspiration, and the first spark of an idea. Pentacles, by contrast, belong to the element of earth and represent craft, labor, and the tangible work of bringing a vision into form. The first inks, born of flame and soil, exist in that intersection. Fire transforms wood into charcoal and soot. Earth provides minerals, resins, galls, and clay that make the substance whole. Together, they show the eternal dialogue between inspiration and manifestation.

Each time I work with ink, I feel that meeting of forces. The stroke of a pen becomes a meditation on balance. It is a moment between the invisible spark of imagination and the physical mark it leaves behind. To write, to draw, to create something lasting—these acts honor both the flame and the ground that sustains it.

It is humbling to realize that these same ingredients—drawn from tree, mineral, and fire—have carried human thought across millennia. Each time I dip a pen into that dark, living ink, I sense a thread extending through time. It connects me to everyone who has ever tried to keep an idea from vanishing into the air.

Creativity & Gratitude

 

My creative world has been full lately, in the best possible way. I’ve returned to exchanging pen pal letters, finding something deeply grounding in the slower rhythm of handwriting and the quiet joy of connection through paper and ink. Between letters, I sketch, often sparked by biopics that linger with me long after the credits roll—each activity feeding into the next.

Research and writing shape my days as I juggle several projects. These efforts have connected me with remarkable artists and authors in many genres. Our conversations reveal how vibrant and generous the creative community is. Soon, I'll travel to Chicago to meet some of these people in person and finally share some real, unhurried time together—an experience I eagerly anticipate.

Away from the page, life keeps its own steady rhythm. Piper’s walks and playdates bring bursts of joy, while Lulu’s long cuddle sessions remind me how much comfort there is in stillness. Both rescues continue to blossom in their own ways; witnessing their growing trust and confidence gently balances the energy of my creative pursuits.

All these moments create a season defined by gratitude, expressed through creativity and connection for what is and what will be. 

Audible Haunting

Instruments of the Macabre

Certain instruments seem to stand at music's boundary: the cello, oboe, bassoon, and pipe organ are examples. Their voices create a feeling linking the physical act of playing to emotional intensity. Even when playing happy-sounding music, they produce an uneasy effect. This is not only because of their association with mourning or horror, but also because of how our bodies react. The body receives tense sounds as sensory information and turns them into physical emotions through the nervous system.

Sound is pressure moving through matter. Each tone vibrates through the air, skin, and the inner ear before reaching the brain. Low sounds can excite the vagus nerve and cause a deep body response. High-pitched dissonance can trigger warnings in the brain and stress hormones. When the oboe plays slightly sharp against the strings, the body senses imbalance before the mind understands. The idea of the "macabre" is not only aesthetic. It is also biological: our cells listen as deeply as our minds.

Yet within this unease, there is a strange attraction. Instruments that disturb our balance remind us that we respond to vibrations. The cello’s somber sound echoes the shape of the human chest, while the oboe’s reed resembles the texture of breath. In their discord, we sense our own nature, with its mix of harmony and tension within the body.

What we call the macabre may be the body remembering its thresholds—where sound becomes sensation, where harmony and horror share a frequency.

Living Ancestors: Walking with Wisdom

Honoring the Guides Who Shape Our Paths

When we think of “ancestors,” it’s easy to imagine only those who have passed on. We picture family lines stretching back through time, or cultural figures whose stories helped shape the world we now live in. Yet there’s another layer to ancestry that is often overlooked: our Living Ancestors.

Living Ancestors may be people of blood, such as elders in our families whose wisdom has been gathered through decades of lived experience. They may also be teachers, mentors, artists, activists, or community members whose influence has guided our choices, shaped our values, and inspired our steps along the path. Some we know personally. Others we’ve never met, but their words, their creations, and their lives have left an imprint on ours.

For a long time, I assumed that “ancestor” meant older. The word itself carries the weight of lineage, time, and the long arc of life. But then I realized something that shifted my understanding: Living Ancestors can also be younger than we are. A child who sees the world with fresh eyes, a student who asks the unanswerable question, or a younger colleague whose bravery sparks change—all can embody the ancestral role of showing us new ways forward. Ancestry is not just about age; it is about impact. Sometimes those who come after us illuminate truths we were not yet able to see.

Acknowledging our Living Ancestors, whether older or younger, is an act of both gratitude and awareness. It grounds us in the truth that we are not moving through life alone. Nor are we creating in a vacuum. Every path we walk has been opened, cleared, or expanded by someone before us or beside us. They may not have walked the exact same road, but their courage, curiosity, or resilience made space for ours.

This recognition changes how we navigate our present. It can remind us to walk with humility, knowing we inherit strengths and struggles alike. It can also help us cultivate discernment, learning from what worked, what failed, and what still needs tending. By honoring our Living Ancestors, we acknowledge that our growth is relational. We become part of a lineage of story, creativity, and transformation that continues to unfold. 

Practical ways to begin:

• Name them. Speak or write the names of those who have influenced your journey, whether they share your DNA or not.

• Notice across generations. Look for the wisdom and influence not only in your elders, but also in those younger who may be carrying new light.

• Share their stories. Tell others how their work or example has shaped you. This keeps their contributions alive and relevant.

• Practice gratitude. A simple ritual of thanks—silent or spoken—honors the connections that sustain you.

• Engage with their presence. Let their guidance, challenges, and inspiration actively inform the way you live today.

Recognizing our Living Ancestors is not simply about honoring the past or shaping the future. It is about acknowledging the ongoing influence, guidance, and conversation that surrounds us in every moment. Their presence is woven into the paths we walk, the choices we make, and the ways we relate to the world. In this way, our lives become a shared story, continuously written with those who have walked beside us, those who walk with us now, and those who inspire us from unexpected places.

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Dill is a Vibe

Dill Is a Vibe

Who knew dill could be a full-on mood, setting the tone for silliness and surprise? Not just the herb, but the entire dill universe captures a tangy, quirky energy that transforms ordinary moments. My friend and I recently tumbled down a delightfully ridiculous rabbit hole of all things dill, and let me tell you, that unique vibe shaped the whole adventure.

It began with the Mystical Pickle divination toy—because why not let a plastic gherkin decide fate? Then roasted vegetables, drizzled with cool yogurt dill sauce—creamy, herb-bright, almost clarifying, as if dill itself whispered: see clearly, laugh more, and fortune will follow.

Next came dill sea salt from a tiny Pacific Northwest island—it turned a tomato slice into alchemy. Amazing dill pickle–flavored potato chips? Yes! Discovered thanks to a grizzled sailor at the marina, squinting at the tide, who divulged which brand was worth my salt. He was right.

As if the universe wanted to join in, I overheard a Norwegian visitor describe a UAP as "a fat dill pickle hovering in the sky." Dill becomes a metaphor for the unfamiliar, sneaking into stories, snacks, and figures of speech for the unexplainable.

But here’s the real magic: it wasn’t just about dill. It was about laughter, serendipity, and saying yes to the absurd. About leaning into childlike wonder, following the tangy trail wherever it led, and savoring how delight can appear when you least expect it.

So here’s your invitation: find your dill—whether it’s actually dill or your own version of unexpected joy. Let it serve as a metaphor for playfulness and curiosity. Season your days with clarity and good fortune, and remember, wonder waits for anyone willing to taste it.

Visiting American Prophets

 

Visiting American Prophets: Anticipation

Later this autumn, I will travel to Chicago to visit the American Writers Museum. Their upcoming exhibit, American Prophets: Writers, Religion, and Culture, gathers those whose work has traced the numinous in American life. These are writers who reach beyond doctrine to reveal the divine in story and the extraordinary in the ordinary. They also search out the questions that live beneath belief. Among them is Rachel Pollack.

To see her name among such voices stirs awe. Rachel’s presence feels both inevitable and astonishing. She translated mysteries through Tarot, myth, and human transformation, making the invisible tangible. Her fiction and essays combined scholarly precision with imaginative daring, expanding literature’s scope. She insisted that curiosity and wonder belong in serious discourse and believed the spiritual resides within each of us. For her, the strange was often our truest mirror.

When I think of her as an American Prophet, I see her work in dialogue with other seekers. Baldwin’s moral clarity and his Christian language exploring queer spirituality come to mind. I recall the mythic worlds of Ursula K. Le Guin and N. K. Jemisin, and the visionary tension of Flannery O’Connor. I’m also reminded of Matthew Kirby’s luminous search, his atmospheric stories exploring truth and identity in mystery and history. Still, Rachel’s voice is distinct. Her spiritual imagination was not nostalgic or ornamental; it was revelatory. She spoke to the lived experience of belief, showing its ecstasies and wounds, and revealing its power to rebuild identity from within.

Her inclusion feels personal. I knew Rachel as a mentor and friend, her curiosity inseparable from her kindness. Her work reminds me that story is a living practice and that the sacred is not elsewhere but near, waiting to be seen. 

It humbles me to know that a small piece of my writing about Rachel will live within that space. I can almost hear her laugh at the symmetry of it all. That bright, knowing laugh dissolved any sense of hierarchy, placing us on the same field of discovery. If she were here, she would tell me to take it in fully and urge me to let the amazement be real.

Standing there, I imagine I will feel the familiar tug between awe and disbelief. That is the same tension she taught me to hold with grace. In that moment, surrounded by the words of so many who have sought meaning through story, I will think of her voice rising among them. It will be sure and clear, reminding me that revelation is rarely grand. It happens quietly, in the rooms where we finally recognize we belong.

Learn more about the American Writers Museum: https://americanwritersmuseum.org/

Archaeology of the Soul

The sun beat down at Taposiris Magna. Dr. Kathleen Martínez brushed away the final soil. Alabaster emerged beneath her fingers and glowed in the heat. It is Cleopatra. Only eight representations are known. Here, centuries later, she looked out from the earth with the same dignity and presence that commanded empires. Even in fragments, she reshapes how we imagine the past and what endures.

Watching an archaeologist work is to witness patience with time. For decades, Dr. Martínez has sifted through earth, architecture, and speculation. She remains focused on one question: what stays and where. These field moments show that meaning is rarely on the surface. Each brushstroke, note, and pause has value.

This pursuit mirrors an excavation within ourselves. Just as the archaeologist peels back earth layer by layer, we examine the inner strata of memory, silence, ritual, and loss. Using harsh judgment is like striking with a pick—damaging rather than revealing. Instead, gentleness and patience shed light on hidden truths, allowing us to trace subtle impressions that may connect, or not. As in archaeology, what is overlooked at first may prove valuable, and our imperfections often hold deep meaning.

The methods differ, but the mindset aligns. Tarot spreads become maps of emotional inquiry, journals function as logs of discoveries, and dreams serve as chambers hiding personal truths. Each yields fragments that, when assembled, form a detailed landscape of the inner world.

What we uncover is rarely pristine. Some layers hold light, moments that shine. Others yield rubble: grief, broken promises, survival’s compromises. Yet every fragment matters. The soul is not a smooth surface. It is a living site where ruins and relics coexist. Every shadow and shard shows endurance.

We may never understand our own depths. Cleopatra’s burial may never be found. Yet the search changes us. Beneath the sunbaked earth, beneath memory and silence, something endures. It waits for a careful hand and an attentive eye. We must be willing to keep excavating. Each small discovery shows what can persist.

Hear Ye, Hear Ye!

Big news, friends! I’m stepping into not one but two new podcast adventures, and I can’t wait to share them with you.

First up is The Jamber’ee, a twice-monthly gathering on YouTube that I’m co-hosting with my brilliant friend Jaymi Elford. Picture it as our cozy corner for divination, books, fountain pens, magick, and the occasional dive into high strangeness. It is curious, playful, and very much the kind of conversations Jaymi and I have been having for years.

And that is just the beginning. Starting October 30th, I’ll be joining Rose Red on her long-running show, Tarot Visions. For more than twenty years, Rose has hosted conversations that connect Tarot with creativity and community, and I’m excited to be part of that ongoing exploration. Each month we will dive into topics that matter to us and invite listeners to join in the conversation.

Both shows promise curiosity, conversation, and a little magick along the way. I look forward to seeing you there.

Follow both shows:

The Jamber'ee

Tarot Visions

Pulling Inspiration

Tarot as a Writing and Reading Companion

I keep a deck close when I write because it helps me see what I might be missing. Pulling a card doesn’t tell me what to say. It nudges me towards questions I wouldn’t have asked on my own. Sometimes it points out an idea I hadn’t noticed, and sometimes it reminds me to pay attention to details I might have overlooked. The Fox from a Lenormand deck sometimes shows up and keeps me sharp, reminding me to be clever, careful, and aware of the choices I make as a writer. 

Cartomancy also changes how I read and think about stories. A book becomes something to examine, not just follow. A card can highlight a theme, make a character’s motivation clearer, or reveal patterns that I wouldn’t have caught otherwise. The Eight of Pentacles is always there as a quiet reminder to keep showing up, to commit to steady work even when inspiration feels slow. The Seven of Cups opens my mind to the endless possibilities that spring from a single idea. Reading and writing blend together, guided by the cards, my curiosity, and the willingness to pay attention.

Keeping Tarot close has become part of how I approach everything I write. It helps me focus, reflect, and engage with ideas more deeply. Every draw and every moment of reflection reminds me why showing up matters, why curiosity matters, and why careful attention makes all the difference. Tarot is not just guidance. It is a companion, a partner, and a steady presence in the work I do.

The Energy of Beginning

Eager Days

Even without children in the house, the shift is unmistakable. In the last days of August, the world begins to lean toward September. On a recent morning at a local coffee shop, the rhythm of life seemed to sharpen. College freshmen gathered with their bright new backpacks, laughter spilling as they recounted summer adventures. Nearby, a young child grinned at her mother, telling her for the hundredth time how wonderful first grade was going to be. The air itself vibrated with anticipation.

After the long sprawl of summer, life gathers itself differently in these days. Where July invited lingering and leisure, now the season calls for attention, for readiness. Even small moments, like overhearing excited chatter or seeing the shuffle of feet and pages, feel like invitations to step into something new.

This energy is not limited to classrooms. Writers may find themselves drawn to fresh pages, gardeners toward autumn planting, and artists toward renewed focus. Small gestures—rearranging a corner of the home, beginning a daily walk, or opening a book that has waited patiently on a shelf—can ride this current. As a student, I remember the scent of new books, the crisp paper, freshly sharpened pencils and inks. Those smells brought smiles to my face and charged my heart with anticipation for what the year might bring.

On mornings when I tend the garden, fill the bird feeders, or watch Piper splash in her pool, that same vibrant pulse is present. The season’s energy announces itself insistently, ready to be taken up. There is no roll call, no schedule required—only the invitation to notice it, to step fully into the momentum, and to let it guide the work, the play, and the small, deliberate beginnings of each day.

No Rules, Except Discovery

Rachel Pollack, in her Arthur C. Clarke Award–winning novel Unquenchable Fire, offers a declaration that feels at once daring and deeply reassuring:

“There are no rules, except discovery. There is no tradition, except invention.”

These words invite us to step beyond the familiar boundaries we often place around creativity, learning, and spiritual practice. They suggest that the most meaningful work of our lives arises when we relinquish the comfort of rigid prescriptions and allow ourselves to enter into a genuine dialogue with the unknown. Discovery is not a matter of passively waiting for inspiration to arrive; it is the active pursuit of new insights, the willingness to ask questions that may have no immediate answers, and the capacity to notice the unexpected along the way. 

Invention, as Rachel frames it, transforms the idea of tradition. The past becomes neither a relic to be preserved unchanged nor an obstacle to be discarded entirely. Instead, it becomes a foundation from which we create anew. We take what has been given to us—stories, rituals, ideas—and reshape them in ways that reflect the realities of our own time, our personal experiences, and the visions we hold for the future. Tradition, in this sense, becomes a living organism, evolving through each contribution we make.

Rachel’s words resonate because they illuminate the courage required to live and work in this manner. Discovery calls us to risk uncertainty for the sake of authenticity, to take steps that may feel awkward or untested in the hope of uncovering something genuine. Invention asks us to weave our own thread into the greater tapestry, knowing that what we create today may guide, inspire, or challenge those who come after us.

When we embrace this philosophy, we grant ourselves the freedom to shape our own path while also becoming mapmakers for others. We honor the spirit of discovery by venturing forward without a predetermined route, and we uphold the vitality of tradition by daring to invent within it.

Re-entry

 A Month Went Quiet

I didn’t post last month. That’s not a confession—it’s just what happened.

Other work needed my focus, and I gave it. Amid an unusual month, I spent time tending the part of me that needs stillness to write with honesty. I protected it, reassured it that the physical act of putting thoughts to paper would reignite, and it has.

I’m grateful for the flow. I’ve missed it more than I admitted out loud.

Momentum and attention are again realigned. In my office, Lulu is purring and bounding in and out of her window box, my pens are filled with fresh ink, and a cup of Paris tea is steaming alongside me.

The Architecture of Resilience

Living the Sacred Balance in a Shifting World

There is a force running through our world with undeniable urgency. It is no longer hidden. It asserts itself, it interrupts, and it challenges what we once believed was unshakable. Anyone living with even a thread of awareness is being called to attention. This is a time to stay alert, to choose engagement over complacency. Whether the shift enters through collective upheaval, personal unraveling, or a sudden and unshakable knowing, it demands that we bring spiritual ideals into daily, visible practice.

The balance between the sacred feminine and sacred masculine is emerging as an essential part of that work. These energies are not symbols to be admired from a distance. They are living forces that call for embodiment. The feminine offers intuitive wisdom, receptivity, and restoration. The masculine brings clarity, structure, and direction. Together, they create a dynamic field of integrity. Without integration, one becomes exaggerated. The feminine without anchoring risks dissociation. The masculine without soul becomes control.

This spiritual tension is not meant to be solved. It is intended to be lived. That living happens through honest action, through presence in relationships, through choices that honor both care and accountability. Too often, the divine feminine has been confined to abstraction while the divine masculine has been distorted into dominance. What is needed now is a return to wholeness through practice. Wholeness through effort. Wholeness through attention to the small, deliberate acts that bring Spirit into form.

The daily world still runs on outdated rhythms. The machinery of 3D existence—acceleration, competition, disconnection—presses against the deeper rhythm that is rising. Those who are aligning with 5D awareness can feel the difference. It is quieter, but it is more demanding. It does not tolerate false agreements or borrowed beliefs. It insists that we clear out what cannot hold the frequency of truth.

The current cosmic shifts are not background phenomena. They shape bodies, choices, dreams, and emotions. They act as filters. They expose distortion. They stir unresolved grief, lingering attachments, and ancient fears. Some of what surfaces belongs to us. Much of it does not. Part of resilience now is the discernment to tell the difference. 

When emotional debris appears, we are being invited to recognize it without clinging to it. The flotsam and jetsam of the past—outgrown identities, broken systems, inherited burdens—are surfacing so we can leave them behind with awareness rather than denial. These remnants are loud for a reason. They are asking to be witnessed before they go. 

Resilience in this moment is not measured by how much we can carry. It is measured by our capacity to stay aligned while the landscape shifts. The sacred balance must be lived in the kitchen, in the workplace, in moments of disagreement, in choices around time and rest. It is present when we listen fully. It is present when we speak without harm. It is present when we allow silence to hold what words cannot yet express.

Those who embody this balance move differently. They do not seek approval, nor do they respond out of fear. Their steadiness is built from choices made in solitude and tested in community. Their clarity does not come from superiority, but from alignment with something real. They have allowed both tenderness and strength to teach them.

To live this way requires intention. It requires leaving behind roles that once brought safety. It requires a daily return to presence. There is no final mastery. There is only the next breath, the next choice, the next conversation shaped by wholeness rather than reaction.

May we choose to walk from that place, deliberate, rooted, and awake.

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Quiet Agreements

Quiet Agreements 

June 19th marks two years since Lulu joined our family.

At the time, I didn’t think I was ready. Two weeks after our beloved border-aussie died, our heart-cat passed too. The loss felt total. I was gutted, moving through a world that had gone quiet in every sense. Where I once could hear the trees whisper, sense deer before they appeared, see the land spirits around our home, now there was nothing. No shimmer at the edge of the woods, no knowing before a moment happened. It was as if my psychic senses had suddenly gone offline. I understood this to be a part of grief, but knowing that didn’t make the silence easier to bear.

What unsettled me most wasn’t just the quiet, but how absolute it was. I didn’t know how to navigate that kind of stillness. I trusted my senses would return in time, but I couldn’t see the path forward. I felt alone in a way I hadn’t before. And then Lulu arrived.

It was Callie who first felt the opening. Our neighbor had reached out to her, asking if we knew anyone looking to adopt a cat, and sent a photo of a blue-eyed, mackerel-striped tabby from a home where, being afraid of the young children, she hadn’t fit. At that time, her name was Luna. We walked over to meet her, and that was when we learned the neighbor would be away for four weeks, with no one lined up to visit regularly. We said we’d gladly care for her while she was gone. Callie gently suggested, “Well, how about a trial adoption?” I hesitated. I couldn’t feel the cat the way I once would have. I didn’t have the usual intuitive knowing to guide me. I couldn’t sense Luna at all in the way I was used to. So I leaned into Callie’s clarity. She recognized a possibility I couldn’t yet see, and I trusted her enough to move toward it. That was how Lulu came into our home. And because I always enjoy giving my pets fun, full names, she became Lucy Lu Augusta Moon.

Four months later, a former client sent a text. She had recently rescued a two-and-a-half-year-old golden retriever but said the dog wasn’t happy with them and seemed afraid of their granddaughter. She wondered if we might consider giving her a home. I had met the dog once, six months earlier. Again, I paused. The ache was still so present, and I wasn’t sure I had room to welcome another being into that space. My senses were still quiet in the way I had once relied on them. I was slowly learning, or relearning, how to engage with an animal and the world around me in a different way. I was beginning to re-open to the language of physical cues, body signals, and the quiet observations that reveal how to meet a creature’s needs and enrich their life. Then Callie looked at me and said, “How about us?” Not just a yes to the dog, but a yes to whatever it might mean for all of us to try again.

That’s how Piper joined us. Like Lulu, she had come from a place where she hadn’t fully been seen. And like Lulu, she arrived quietly, without fanfare, but carrying something unmistakable. Her full name, as it quickly became, is Golden Song of Magick.

I still couldn’t connect with them the way I was used to connecting—with that inner pulse, that quiet communion I had always trusted. So I relied on Callie’s interpretations. Of them. Of me. Of the needs of the three of us. She was the one who translated the space between us, the one who felt into their rhythms when I couldn’t. I watched her tenderness, her attunement, and let that become my orientation point.

In the absence of my psychic senses, I made a choice. I returned to grounded basics, to the tangible world I could still touch and study. I reacquainted myself with the subtle body language of animals. I watched plants and trees to anticipate shifts in weather. I observed wild birds and animals, tracking their cues for gathering, foraging, and storing. These steady disciplines gave me rhythm and presence. They were real, alive, and accessible even in silence.

Over time, the quiet began to shift. Some of my gifts returned slowly, others with a sudden flash. As I regained my ability to walk in both the seen and unseen, I recognized that those basic, natural practices had shaped me in essential ways. They gave me a clearer path between the worlds I inhabit. They deepened my attention and reminded me how to belong.

Lulu’s gaze started to feel familiar. Piper’s body settled more easily beside mine. The land began to soften around the edges again. I can’t say exactly when it happened, only that something began returning.

We make gentle soul agreements with the animals who enter our lives. Not in theory, but in practice. In the shared rhythms of daily life, in showing up, in choosing to stay curious. Lulu and Piper didn’t arrive to fix me. They came to live beside me. To stay present in a world that had fractured, but not ended.

Callie and I didn’t come to save them. We’re healing and growing together. We allow space for each of us to grow into who we are. No one is leading or following. We are learning how to live in the in-between. We are learning how to say yes, even if we are unsure.

No Throne, No Crown

No Kings Day – Holding Down the Fort

Today is No Kings Day. A declaration. A refusal. A collective cry against authoritarianism in all its guises. While many are gathering in the streets, marching, chanting, standing shoulder to shoulder in fierce solidarity, I am here at home. I am not absent. I am not idle. I am present in a different way.

My phone is charged and in hand. I am the emergency contact, the lifeline, the one who stays out of custody so I can be the first call from it. My house is the safe place. I know this role is vital. I know it saves lives and soothes fear. But still, my activist heart twists at not being beside them in body. I long to raise my voice in the crowd, to feel the pavement under boots worn from protest. It’s not guilt I feel—it’s ache.

I wear black: hoodie, pants, Poe’s “Nevermore” on my chest. The flags out front fly with layered defiance: Pride in every color, the American flag inverted. My home is marked. My stance is visible. My voice, though not echoed in chants, is whispered in the readiness of this space and the strength of my watchfulness. I am here. I am holding down the fort. I am alert, awake, and absolutely in this fight.

To all of us, marchers, supporters, watchers in the shadows, we form the net that catches each other. We are the movement, together.

Chant for No Kings Day:

No throne, no crown, no gilded lie
We rise, we fight, we do not die
No kings, no lords, no stolen seat
The people’s will will not retreat

Stay safe. Stay loud. Stay ready.

The Holiness of Writing

Writing has an unmistakable sanctity that does not depend on genre, audience, or outcome. It resides in the act, the deliberate choice of words, and the vulnerable reaching towards meaning. Writing may be solitary, but it is never isolated. Each time we begin, we step into a lineage of those who have attempted to render the invisible visible, to make internal landscapes intelligible. This impulse is neither trivial nor merely expressive. It is devotional. In setting pen to paper or fingers to keys, we do more than create; we consecrate. 

The page is not an altar, yet it receives what we place upon it with the same stillness. It accepts our disordered thoughts, fragmentary insights, half-formed griefs, and tentative joys. To write it to meet oneself without evasion. It is to encounter thought in transit, to give shape to feeling before it hardens into a cliche or vanishes altogether. In this way, writing becomes a ceremony, a repeated gesture towards coherence. It does not require belief, only participation. There is a quiet holiness in the writer's return, draft after draft, day after day, regardless of inspiration. The discipline of presence, the willingness to labor in language without assurance of outcome, is its own form of faith.

At its best, writing opens a channel between author and reader and between the conscious mind and the deeper, stranger voices that murmur beneath the surface. Sometimes it feels like something wishes to be spoken through us, and our task is not to invent but to attune. The sentence that arrives unbidden, the paragraph that seems to assemble itself, these moments are not accidents. They are revelations earned through attentiveness. Writing becomes an instrument of listening. It requires humility and a readiness to follow the current of thought rather than force it towards predetermined ends. This is not passive work. It is rigorous and exacting, yet porous enough to permit the unexpected.

There is a form of sacred reciprocity in writing that connects with another human being. When a reader encounters your words and finds a glimmer of recognition or solace, a deepened question or a softened certainty, something quietly extraordinary occurs. You have bridged distance, not just spatial or temporal, but existential. You have extended a hand through language, and it has been met. This exchange may never be named or acknowledged aloud, but it leaves its trace. Writing enables communion in a world that so often insists on separation. This practice evolves into a form of self-expression and a demonstration of radical generosity.

And yet, not every piece must be shared. Some writing exists solely to clarify, mourn, celebrate, or survive. Private writing holds its sacredness. It marks the moment a thought found form, that instant a feeling was recognized and honored in language. To keep a journal, write a letter never sent, and name one's truth in solitude are acts of reverence. They testify to the dignity of the inner life. They affirm that articulation is not always a performance but sometimes a form of prayer.

To call writing holy is not to romanticize its difficulty. The process can be halting, tedious, even maddening. The right word may evade capture for hours. Sentences collapse under their own weight. Whole pages may require abandonment. But even these frustrations are part of the offering. Holiness is not measured by ease. It is measured by presence, by the constancy with which we return to the page and risk saying what we mean. 

Writing asks for slowness and more intimacy in a world that often privileges speed and spectacle. It invites us to dwell, reflect, and witness. It reminds us that language, at its most potent, does more than inform; it transforms. Through writing, we record our experiences, refine our perception, cultivate empathy, and shape how we understand ourselves and others.

Whether your words are destined for print, whispered into a private notebook, or hovering somewhere in the mind awaiting their moment, know that the act itself is enough. To write is to honor the impulse to make meaning. To write is to participate in a lineage of sacred attention. And in doing so, you are not simply creating. You are consecrating the space between silence and speech, between the self and the world.

Beyond the Leash

 

Why Dog Friends are Essential for Your Pup's Well-being 

We all cherish the bond we share with our dogs. They're our furry best friends, confidantes, and the unwavering sources of unconditional love. But as much as we adore them, and as much as they adore us, our companionship alone isn't always enough to fulfill all their needs. Like us, dogs thrive on social interaction, and having dog friends plays a vital role in their psychological and physiological health, particularly when those friendships blossom in enriching environments.

Think about it from your dog's perspective. While we speak their language of love through cuddles, treats, and walks, there's a whole other level of communication and understanding that happens between two dogs. They communicate through body language, play styles, and even scent, in ways we can only observe and try to interpret. This unique interaction is crucial for their development and ongoing well-being.

The Psychological Perks of Puppy Pals:

• Reduced Boredom and Anxiety: A dog with a buddy (or several!) has built-in entertainment. Playdates provide mental stimulation, burning off excess energy and reducing the likelihood of boredom-induced behaviors like chewing or excessive barking. Regular interaction can also alleviate separation anxiety, as they learn that positive social experiences exist even when their humans aren't around.
• Improved Social Skills: Just like children learn social cues through play, dogs hone their communication skills by interacting with other dogs. They learn appropriate play behavior, how to read signals, and how to navigate social situations. This can lead to a more well-adjusted and confident dog in various environments.
• Increased Confidence: Positive interactions with other dogs can boost a dog's confidence. Overcoming shyness or learning to assert themselves appropriately during play builds resilience and self-assurance.
• Emotional Well-being: Let's face it, sometimes a good romp with a fellow canine in a
  
  stimulating environment is the best kind of therapy! Playing with other dogs releases endorphins, those feel-good hormones that contribute to overall happiness and reduce stress.

The Physiological Advantages of Furry Friendships:

• Increased Physical Activity: While walks are essential, the kind of uninhibited running, chasing, and wrestling that happens between dog friends provides a different level of cardiovascular exercise. Especially when that play involves splashing and swimming in a lake! The varied movements and engagement of different muscle groups contribute to overall physical fitness.
• Better Sleep: A dog who has had a good play session with a friend, especially one involving physical exertion like swimming, is often a dog who sleeps soundly. The physical and mental exertion leads to more restful nights, which is crucial for their overall health and well-being.
• Stronger Immune System (Indirectly): While direct interaction doesn't magically boost immunity, a dog who is less stressed, happier, and gets regular exercise is generally going to have a stronger immune system.

On a personal note, my heart is practically bursting today! My golden retriever, Piper, had the most wonderful time making a new friend – a one-year-old golden doodle with an equal obsession for water. And the setting for this budding friendship was just perfect: the wooded lake right here on the property. Watching them chase each other along the shore, joyfully plunge into the water, and engage in what seemed like endless games of chase and rolling in the grass was pure delight. Piper, who absolutely lives for a good splash and a good run, was in her element. Seeing her tail wag so furiously and witnessing their playful interactions reminded me firsthand just how important these connections are for her happiness and well-being, especially when they can enjoy their shared passions in such a natural and stimulating environment.

When considering opportunities for your dog to socialize, it's important to prioritize their safety and health. Dog parks can be a great option for some dogs, but it's crucial to ensure your dog is fully vaccinated. Additionally, always check with your veterinarian to ensure there are no harmful viruses currently circulating in your area that could put your pup at risk. Private playdates or interactions in controlled, safe environments like a personal property can also be wonderful ways for dogs to build friendships.

Providing our dogs with opportunities to socialize with their own kind in safe and enriching environments is an investment in their overall well-being. Whether it's romping in a park (with proper precautions!) or joyfully splashing in a lake with a new buddy, these interactions enrich their lives in ways we, as humans, simply can't replicate. Let's all strive to help our beloved companions build those crucial canine connections and watch them thrive!

Notes From the Attic

Silent Simplicity

I was eleven. A young girl in a small attic room, hidden behind a bookcase. My uncle built the secret door. Push the third shelf, press the upper left corner, and the wall clicked open to a triangle of space beneath the rafters. No one else went in there. It was mine.

I read Walden there for the first time.

I didn’t fully understand it. I didn’t need to. The words moved like water over stone. I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately… That line landed like a spell. I underlined it in soft pencil and copied it into my poetry notebook, which Mom gave me, with its bent corners and a pressed maple leaf between the pages.

Walden. It’s still inside me.

Thoreau offered a return, not an escape. He presented a way to embrace the pulse beneath the noise, to the dignity of enough, to the kind of silence that listens back.

The attic became my covey. I’d write short stories and poems about rain, and horses, and girls who didn’t speak unless they had something worth saying. I never told my friends. Some sacred things don’t survive explanation. 

We live in a world swollen with more. More visibility. More productivity. More metrics. But the soul doesn’t keep score. It keeps presence. It notices how morning light hits chipped paint. How tea cools in a ceramic mug. How silence has texture if you sit with it long enough.

A life simply lived is not a lesser life. It’s a refusal. A resistance. A fierce act of choosing.

Anyone can chase applause. It takes devotion to sit in stillness and feel full.

I’ve lived years that looked impressive and felt hollow. I’ve also spent entire afternoons doing nothing but pulling weeds from a cracked garden bed, humming. I know which ones healed me.

There’s no trophy for sitting in a hidden room reading transcendental philosophy before puberty. But I think she, the girl with ink on her hands and pine needles in her socks, knew something I forget sometimes.

Not everything meaningful makes a sound. Some things just echo.

And that echo is still here.