Grandpa and his Message

Grandpa and his Message

(Written last year, but on my mind once again)

Grandpa and Grandma Busch

“I beg you, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke


Rilke has been the subject of many of my writings and his words linger in my heart, a constant compass for a wandering soul. Questions will never cease, similar to the steady march of time. I have learned to swim in the depths of these questions without demanding clarity from above, enjoying living in a space with no defined boundaries. It is a freedom of sorts coupled with an understanding of an unspoken knowing.


Knowing my intention,  Dylan gifted a mediumship class as an early birthday present.  With some trepidation, I stepped into this experience trying to receive all with an open mind. I have never considered myself a medium but rather prefer dwelling in the realm of premonition, intuition and vision. The spirit world has at times challenged this self definition, but in general this is my way of connecting with this space.


During one of the class meditations, we were asked to have a phone conversation with a loved one who had passed. My immediate thought was of my grandmothers who have supported me spiritually on many occasions. As women, we have a strong bond and I naively assumed this to be the case once more.


Relaxing into guided meditation, I found myself in a 1900 era parlor. The cozy warmth embraced like a thick winter blanket and a crackling fire and nearby sofa welcomed me. Behind the sofa, rested bookshelves filled with mysterious titles. Somehow, I knew these were my books, the keepers of knowledge, the gateway to my curiosity. Next to the sofa rested an ornate end table where a candlestick phone sat. Instinctively picking up the earpiece, I heard a distant ringing drawing my attention. The voice heard on the other end of the line was very different from messengers of the past.


Recognizing this voice as my grandfather, his presence filled the room. Grandpa Busch was a constant source of strong and stubborn energy. He was a Popeye of sorts, gruff but lovable. His life was peppered with hardship and he carried that hardship with him, tucked away in the shadows of his soul. Grandpa was not the teddy bear type and I have very few memories of him being openly affectionate with me. Regardless, I knew he loved me.


Shocked by his reemergence into my world, I said a tentative hello. He immediately began to speak,  “You are soft Lavinia”. Somehow I understood this to be a reference to my manner, my gentleness and sensitivity. He continued with “Your father and I are hard, we had to be to survive”. This comparison might have been received as unwelcome, but somehow I understood what he was trying to say. He continued with, “We were hard so you can be soft. It is your strength and gift. You are whole just as you are.” 


Tears began to well up in my eyes and suddenly I found myself standing at the bottom of a grand staircase with grandpa next to me. He wrapped his arms around me and gave the warmest hug. It was as if he tethered his soul to mine for just this moment, erasing the incessant feeling of being unmoored. It was so deeply felt.


I asked him, “Why must I suffer, I just want to go home?” A question certainly in reference to the hardship, pain and sickness that has followed me with great determination during this life. He pointed to the stairway and said, ” Patience Lavinia. Just take one step at a time.” Even in this meditative state, I could feel the wetness of my cheeks and feel my heart trying to absorb all the love he was offering.


Looking up to what I knew to be “home” was a spectacular light emanating a soul-felt love of the unknown. Wanting nothing more than to be in this light, I tentatively took a step. Just as I did, a gate appeared out of nowhere blocking my way. I looked to my grandfather in horror, feeling the wall of my pain stopping me from reaching home. He smiled tenderly and said once again, “Just one step at a time Lavinia.” The gate faded away and to my great relief,  my journey up the stairs continued.


Upon reaching the top and feeling the closeness of the light, and the unconditional love therein, I took a moment and looked back down the stairs. Standing at the bottom was myself. I acknowledged this version of myself from another space and time. The me at the bottom had a look of resolve knowing the journey yet to come. In this moment, my longing heart understood the cyclical path of the soul.  We must return to the bottom again and again to learn, and live a flawed and wonderful life in all of its crazy mysteries.


In reflection, this moving experience is a perfect metaphor for the mystics path. It is only in walking the steps with a patient and loving heart in which we walk into the answers. We will often feel lost on the way, but when looking back over a lifetime, all will become clear. We must learn to be comfortable with this uncertain in-between, the proverbial unknown. No labels or assurances. Such is the path we are on.


It is not the end of the physical body that should worry us. Rather, our concern must be to live while we’re alive – to release our inner selves from the spiritual death that comes with living behind a facade designed to conform to external definitions of who and what we are.

Elisabeth Kubler-Ross


Fathers day arrived the next weekend and I called my father to share this vision with him. It was his father who had chosen to speak to me and It felt right to share.  After retelling the story, tears once again welled up in my eyes.  My father thanked me for this unique fathers day gift. He shared a few stories about his father, further supporting Grandpa’s need to be strong in his lifetime. Grandpa came from a large farming family in Minnesota, had very little education and was a truck driver by trade. Grandpa continued to drive during the teamsters’ strike to support his family and had many run-ins with the teamsters, some violent. He was tasked with carrying the dead off the battlefields during WWI and his first wife died during labor leaving him grieving with a newborn daughter. A number of years later, this daughter was taken by her maternal grandparents in what can only be viewed as a power play. A few years later, my father contracted polio and was paralyzed from the neck down for a year.


All these challenges affected my grandmother deeply and left her fragile in ways a youngster like myself could not clearly define. Later in life, when my grandmother was in the throes of Alzheimer’s, she reverted back to the time she had spent on the back of my grandfather’s truck as a young girl. As if she had scrubbed her memories of hardships to dwell in a place of peaceful love. No, their life was not an easy one, and many walls were erected simply to survive. 


I could hear in my fathers voice a slight quiver, understanding by his tone he was deeply touched. He too has held on to vestiges of this stiff upper lip mentality which had inadvertently trickled down to my feelings of differentness. Always sensing that somehow my sensitivity was a flaw, I too buried many of my feelings deep inside until life events forced a reckoning. These untended feelings came pouring out, like a faucet turned on after many years. It felt as if gallons of unacknowledged feelings were flooding my senses.


My father said to me, “Lavinia, you can only be who you are.” Somehow this cryptically echoed what his own father had said when he stated,  “You are whole.” My desire to live in the questions, taking a different path than others in my family, is who I am meant to be. Seeing the world differently is neither good or bad, it just is. No apologies are required when being truthful to one’s soul. 


“I know you’re tired but come, this is the way.”

― Jalalu’l-din Rumi 


Reading Rilke’s quote above, it is clear his work will forever touch the delicate nerves of my sensitivity, unbinding them from places in which they have been hiding. I don’t need to know all the answers anymore. My acceptance of things unknown is inherent to who I am and allows me to walk up the stairway of life unencumbered by walls of uncertainty. While this esoteric sensibility does not provide instructions for the day to day operations of living, it allows a comfortable understanding that “home” will be attainable in due time. Remaining patient during this process is my life lesson and one I have been asked to embrace fully.


Conversations with the Golden Hour

Conversations with the Golden Hour



Conversations with The Golden Hour


The moment before a page is turned

A pause before our story continues in earnest

We reach the point of convergence of breath 

As stillness reigns on a throne of observance


Time escapes into the unknown

On a heated path of yesterday, today and tomorrow

Leaving a footprint of truths not yet understood

Resting on rays of the most magical golden light




Sea of Souls

Sea of Souls


“Art work by Rassouli”


Sea of Souls

There is a stillness within

Forged in the heat of a thousand births 

Seeded in the cosmic dust of a sea of souls

Memories of the creation of everything


No matter how loud the storm of

Provoked chaos sounds at my door

This stillness remains

A mountain leaning into clouds of disruption


This is my home

Where a heartbeat 

Quietly keeps time

And the sound of silence reigns


Eye of the Storm

Eye of the Storm


Eye of the Storm

Sitting patiently within a tangible stillness

An unfamiliar calm infuses the surrounding wilderness

A lone feather skirts the edge of the storm

While oxygen is rationed and lungs do mourn


Holding the silence in the palm of my hand

A vibrant picture slips through fingers, like sand

Grains of the living, drowning in spiritual drought 

Flooded by cries of those falsely devout


Surrounded by this guarded house of mirrors

Nowhere to hide or to bury to my fears

Remaining in the symbolic eye of the storm

Clouds beckon the tribe to bow and conform


Feeling the chaos land precisely on my skin

My feet remain firm, as the rest of the world spins

This sacred stillness is an enduring home

And I have no desire to blindly roam


Den of Discontent

Den of Discontent


In this den of discontent

Where the echo of love sounds

The emptiness of dissolution

Seeps into a vacant battleground


As inches become miles

The sting of separation flares

Leaving lonely and anxious skin

Searching for oxygen in precious air


Holding what breath remains

One must cross this blockade

While memories guard the gates

All passage is betrayed


Who will move with mighty mercy

In lonely corridors of perdition

Slaying dragons of animosity

Capturing the reins of admission 


Who will speak the words

Tender, forgotten and true

Filling this hushed vacancy

Forever abandoning the coup



This past year has been incredibly trying yet transformative in the most interesting of ways. An age-old truth rings true. It often takes the darkest of nights to appreciate the return of the light.  This past year, in the depths of darkness, everything I saw as “me” had been slowly stripped away. Likewise, in returning to the light, everything that was and is truly important has been revealed. 


I have not written anything for quite some time. This is because this illness is attacking my brain as well as my body. In a cruel twist of fate, the part of my brain under attack is for semantic interpretation. It takes much effort to write these days and a great deal of review to be sure what is on the page makes sense. Humility has been a constant theme of late.


There is a reason I write rather than speak. Writing has afforded a safe space for my thoughts without the need for conversation. Writing has always been a solitary activity for me and I like to walk through the words on the page rather than run. This peaceful unfolding of thought is relaxing and a necessary release of emotions that course throughout my body.


These emotions reside in a deep well, filled with the turbulent waters of contemplation. My well has been artfully capped for a lifetime under the guise of “self-control”. I may sound thoughtful when I speak, but this is a self-imposed exercise to avoid the tsunami of emotions that would most certainly flow out at any given moment. 


In yet another test of patience and humility, the area of my brain that is damaged, uncaps the well and makes it more difficult to hold back emotions or assess social cues. All these years trying to hide a part of myself only to have it all come rushing back in full view. The divine works in strange ways. It has been a year I laughingly call the “trail of tears” as crying has become a leaky valve unable to be shut off.


Thankfully my support network has stepped up in the best of ways. It is often in the darkest of nights in which those with pure intentions remain and those with hardened hearts move away from the discomfort. My forever partner, Dylan, has been my absolute rock. He has wiped my tears, listened to my overthinking, and held me tight when no words could soothe my broken heart. He has given so much of himself to me this past year and I am forever grateful. My son Zack has also demonstrated his ability to show great compassion. He is a busy young man with a partner and a corporate level job to foster, yet he has always made time to call and check in. He does not only speak but listens, a key component of compassion and a sign of true emotional intelligence. I am blessed beyond words. They are both porch lights in the darkness, guiding me home time after time. 


I wrote the piece above, not about a specific relationship or hardship, but about the many things we must come to terms with in finding peace. It has become clear, a great deal of living and learning is letting go of prideful identifications. This peeling away of layers takes many years and leaves us completely naked and exposed at the end of our lives, just as we arrived.  


On reflection, hardship is a great teacher.  The past year has required me to dig deep, evaluate what is important and let go of the many calculated ways I present myself to the world. What remains is just me. The baby that arrived into this world, wide eyed, curious, innocent and accepting. The young girl that did not put harsh expectations and rules on herself. The adult who did not think of career, money, or success as a measure of a life well lived. This is a person I am glad to meet at long last.


The Armor We Wear

The Armor We Wear




That Which I Cannot Name

There you are, 

Behind the eternal veil

Waiting for an invitation 

To my dinner table


Patiently you wait

Watching the mistakes

We have made,

I have made


The winds of change

Dance with this fabric

Calling out to me

Asking for my attention


Distraction makes me blind

All the many obligations

Pulling me away

From the beauty of this veil


A faint softness is

Viewed from afar

Teasing my senses with,

What can be, what should be


I cannot name you

But do not need to

You are the eternal gateway

To the between, to everything


When I get lost in myself

Forget my direction, lose my way

You whisper in the wind

“I am with you”


The veil dances into my heart

Filling a longing for this softness

Lighting up the gateway

Into the next





Yesterday, heart brimming with a slurry of emotions from the collective grief of our times, I walked on the beach and attempted to calm my weary heart. In this moment we must all stop the rhetoric and admit we all know far less than we think we do. The answers we seek are not readily apparent and the need is great.


One image I received while walking was of layers of armor shedding as if a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. We all have armor whether we admit to it or not. These layers have been added to the suit of protection we wear, sewn over many years, hiding our vulnerabilities.


This armor is complex. Sewn into its coils are race, culture, appearance, orientation, religion, profession, wealth and many other labels. We walk around every day with a tribal mentality thinking it protects us from ourselves. Our wounds and insecurities are often the driving force behind these hardline opinions and core values.  


As a student of the human condition, it fascinates me how we cling to this armor, no matter the contradictions, in a colossal effort to avoid facing our wounds. We have talking points and biases that permeate everything we do and say. Over time, it becomes more difficult to hear the quiet voice of spirit over a chorus of societal expectations and unbridled tribalism. If one ventures too far from their base, a disapproving slap on the wrist is given rather than shared dialogue in respectful tones.


Yesterday while walking, I found myself completely rejecting this norm. No longer wishing to wear false armor, I rejected the notion we all need protection from our most sensitive self. I am no longer willing to hide behind the “group” whether it be family, community or nation. I am no longer willing to blindly accept the terms of this social contract.


Great courage is required when standing up against the group and saying “NO”.  Many of you may have already felt this same call and experienced difficult conversations with your tribe. Let me lend you strength in saying it is OKAY to choose a different way. By choosing to approach life outside of the group, you are not being rebellious. You are living on your own terms, without the constant need for validation from the whole.


Shedding false armor can be liberating, as if a heavy weight has been lifted from our shoulders, allowing us to soar as is meant to be. Failure is quite possible, never fear failure. Failure teaches us more about living than success. It is in the moments of despair, after falling short time and time again that resilience is forged. Like iron to the fire, we use the unrelenting heat of discomfort to forge beauty from a blank slate. It takes many years of practice to be skilled at reinvention of self. It also takes courage in facing the heat of the flames, burning our skin as we return once again to build something out of nothing.


On the eve of what is to be a powerful summer solstice, with a new moon solar eclipse occurring on the Global Axis point of the universe, commit to bravely facing this fire each day. This is an awakening and we are all feeling the call and need for change. The new is waiting, patiently. A new way of being, a new way of viewing the world. 


Reinvention does not have to be scary; it can be fun! Imagine a blank page in which you are free to write your story in your own words, not the words of others. Simply begin with the first sentence and the rest of your story will unfold as it should. The universe is demanding us all to begin. Pick up a pen and change your story. Write about a world that is more equitable, loving and compassionate. A world where we care for the least of us without worrying about the bottom line. A world in which poverty and discrimination do not exist. 


If you find yourself saying this sounds utopian and therefore impossible, sit in silence for a moment with this thought. Is this statement your armor speaking?  Your fear? Breathe in and out and allow the feeling of discomfort and heat to wash over you. Become friends with this feeling and welcome it into your life. The time is now. Let us all welcome our most sensitive self to the table, lovingly wrapping our arms around our agitation and uncertainty. Feeling our heartbeat along with every other living thing. Breathe in, breathe out. Smile.



Permission to Just Be

Permission to Just Be



Remain still and you will hear

The new. Rustling the curtains and

Throwing open the windows while shouting,

Now is the time!



As the winds of change rush forth

Into the wild, unafraid

Challenging all that you know

Teasing the mystery



Stand in the center of the storm

Fell the calming stillness

Truth being the quietest voice in this void

Always there, but calling little attention



You know this sound well

Unlock the chains and

Throw out the endless lists of excuses

Now is the time!



Follow this whisper

Walk through the window and


Let yourself be free




Living at a campground during a pandemic is an opportunity to watch the natural world up close and without distraction. While we have no campers due to the closure, we continue to see the resurgence of nature in all of its glory. In the past few months, we have been privy to the birth and death of a variety of animals and plant forms. This heightened connection to the sacredness of this ground has heated powerful emotions within.


It is difficult to put into words the beauty of this place. For many thousands of years, humans have walked this beach and for many thousands of years humans have neglected it in the very worst of ways. How easy it has become to ignore what is right in front of us, while distracted by the desire for money and things. All having little to do with this organic togetherness.


During my morning bike ride, I was struck by a connection to something beyond. Looking up at the mountain side, across from the beach, I was certain I felt the presence of an ancient woman. This vision of a native Chumash woman standing boldly on the edge of the cliff, looking at the very same landscape as myself, brought tears to my eyes. 


On this day, feeling a strong tether to the past, I wept for this ancient and wise woman and felt her own tears falling down the mountainside. She and I are the same. We are from different times with very different pressures, but the transformation of middle age is familiar ground. Her powerful energy was emanating so intently, I had to step off my bike and gaze at the mountain. Hair flowing, back straight, eyes casting out into the eternal distance. She is me and I am her. I felt her deeply and mourned the loss of an ancient feminine circle of faith, trust and love.


As women age, we have historically been marginalized. While it may be nice not to be seen entirely as a sexual being, it is a strange transformation to feel invisible from the rest of society. Women are the caretakers, nurturers, mothers, daughters and lovers. Right when we begin to step freely into our feminine power, trusting the wisdom of the ages, the rug is pulled from underneath. A strong woman becomes gruff, or “bitchy” while a strong man remains a leader. Why our society has chosen to abide by these perceived roles I will never understand. It is this pain that I shared with the ancient woman, an understanding of how difficult it is to redefine ourselves and find our place in this ever-changing landscape.


Couple this with my recent medical crisis, the societal walls of productivity began to close in, leaving me choking with expectation. If not a working professional, then what? I am so much more than what I do, this is true. My true love is writing and will always be, but with a job title, health insurance and retirement, I am tethered to the rest of society by these expectations. 


This morning, feeling the breath and tears of the wise woman, a certain permission was granted to just be. Be sick, be aging, let my hair turn gray, be wild, be free, be everything I have been conditioned not to be. She and I sing the same song from these hills. We sing to our destiny, our purpose and our fast approaching departure from this place. With a desperation not found in early life, middle age women feel the beat of this song resonating in every act of self-love, acceptance and grace. We sing to the power of the ocean taking some of its strength for ourselves. If the waves can persist billions of years under unfathomable stress, we too can step into our power, embracing this eternal energy with the wisdom only found by living a beautiful and flawed existence. 


This knowing peppers the landscape with the brightness of the universe, a simple yet breathtaking vow. Finishing my ride, I begin to feel my grandmothers and see their joyful smiles through the morning fog. They are here with me and gently reminding me all will be well. Their strength lifts my spirit and a calmness washed over me as if the tide against these shores. My truth is my own, yet I am never alone. Women from the ages walk with me, guide me and lend loving support. Now each morning, I look to the mountainside and feel her presence. She feels my heartbeat and for a few moments we sing together.

Feeling all the Feels

Feeling all the Feels


Emotion and I are dear friends, connecting during both the darkest and most joyous of times. We have walked this path together and are familiar with the rhythm of life while feeling all the feels. As an ultra sensitive child and an INFJ born in the sign of Cancer, it has taken a lifetime to rectify how I see the world and how I feel about it. For you astrology buffs, add in a Jupiter trine Neptune in my birth chart, you get a sense of the emotional tides flowing within. Labeled as “sensitive” as a child, I struggled to feel less in my early years. Stifling back tears and shutting down rather than speaking my truth by sharing the tides battering my shores of solitude.

I buried an ocean of emotion behind walls meant to hold back the strongest of storms. In doing so, I believed I was stronger and better equipped to navigate what can be a very harsh world. A world in which sensitivity is viewed as a weakness, something that needs to be analyzed and in some cases treated as anxiety or depression. My experience thus far has left me disappointed with the discomfort shown by others when expressing feelings.

As this is my voice, I can only speak of personal experience. Knowing other sensitive souls over the years, It is comforting to know I am not alone. How wonderful to meet others who feel as deeply as I do and who read the emotion and energy of any space they inhabit. By finding others like me, the inner perfectionist was able to let go of self criticism and see the beauty of these gifts rather than something that needs to be fixed.

Recently, a number of difficult life events have forced me to consciously lower my internal walls thereby not allowing fear and anxiety to silence me. The first being grief. Losing someone close or supporting a loved one in the process of grieving takes huge emotional wells and is not for the faint of heart. Some face their grief wholeheartedly experiencing all the good, bad and ugly. Others, let grief eat away at them, unaware it can not be silenced for long. Grief will rear its ugly head in the most explosive of ways. It may take days, weeks or years. Swallowing sadness is a bitter pill and a recipe for turmoil on the road of healing.

Secondly, a major health crisis had me visiting a plethora of doctors over the course of a few months. In most cases, as I sat in sterile offices trying to explain frustration with my body and uncertainty for the future, I cried. Having no problem showing authentic emotion after a lifetime of training, I let the tears flow while explaining my disbelief of finding myself in this place after years of healthful living. Surprisingly, most of my doctors immediately considered depression was at play. The only one who did not was the trained mental health counselor who clearly saw a women letting the feelings of the moment flow. It is no wonder to me that we have a country over medicated when the very professionals patients trust with chronic illness are ill equipped to witness authentic emotion and uncomfortable with the prospect.

Midlife has made me a bit more defiant in these instances. I no longer feel like I have to apologize for letting my voice be heard or emotions to show. In fact, it is in moments such as these when empathy for others is necessary. Vulnerability requires great humility and loads of grace. Luckily, my partner is comfortable with feelings. He sits quietly and gently wipes my eyes knowing it will pass. Often I am sobbing as I try to say something difficult, knowing it must be said but overcome by the weight of it all. I have come to far to silence myself in the interest of other peoples comfort.

All this being said, other peoples feelings matter to me greatly and my intentions is never to hurt another. It has taken much practice to say the things needing to be said in a gentle way. I fall short over and over again, but get right back up to try again. We are all imperfect. The beauty of another lies in these very imperfections. An outburst may not be about me at all, rather an unexpected release of emotion necessary for healing. Saying a small prayer, I let it go even when my brain attempts to over analyze the interaction and try to fix it. There is no “fixing it” for another. They must do the work themselves by lowering their walls when they are ready.

 I leave you with a quote by Maya Angelou.

She said, “I’ve learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision. I’ve learned that even when I have pains, I don’t have to be one. I’ve learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back. I’ve learned that I still have a lot to learn. I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Standing in the Doorway of Forever

Standing in the Doorway of Forever


Spirals go on for an infinity as

The rhythm of steps lull my heart

Into a long forgotten slumber of calm 

As my lungs fill with an air of peaceful solitude

-Lavinia Busch


Sitting on my couch and watching high tide rage against the shore, I am struck by the unease of my spirit given the past two weeks. After what was an unexpected ride on the proverbial bus out of town…way out of town, I find myself revisiting the calm found in the throes of a very close brush with death.


Having no fears about this transition, I am left with an insatiable curiosity for the spectacular aura of the next and continue to mull the events over and over in my mind. The single most important truth being the air of peace and remarkable stillness of this in between. I saw the concern on my loved ones faces, felt the hustle of the staff in and out of my room and heard the tone of the doctor trying to explain how dire the situation was. All caught as if screenshots forged into my memory.


Those hours felt like a few seconds and there is much I do not remember. Of what I do recall, two moments stand out. The first being the look on my fiancés face after being told of a medical need and how dangerously close my organs were to shutting down. A master of calmness in crisis, his face caught my attention even in the midst of my haze and will forever be etched in my mind.


The next being my ride down the hall to an imaging room. All the noise around me sounded like a muffled background and my heartbeat was the clearest sound I could discern. My eyes were closed, yet I saw what I suspect was the florescent lights in the hallway, creating a bright tunnel experience. The peace I felt in that moment was so comforting and I remember thinking this must be what people feel as they are about to slip away.


By the time I arrived in the ICU I was a bit more aware of my surroundings as my blood pressure had begun to stabilize. The room lights were a shock to my system and the loud noise of the staff on the floor felt like a worldly assault. After a few more days in the hospital and a better understanding of how close I had come to the brink, my emotions came pouring out as if a faucet turned back on.


Thinking back, I had two dreams a few weeks ago that startled me awake. One being of a disheveled man standing outside the RV. His stare permeated the walls of the RV and soaked into my skin leaving me chilled to the bone. At the time it felt as if he carried a dark message of some sort, but I shook off the feeling and let it go. The second dream felt the same but instead of a man, it was a shadow. Reflecting on this, it is clear my intuition was on high alert and these dreams where a harbinger of the next.


What a strange and wild ride this has been. This reminder of the fragility of human life is a welcome guest at my table as is a melancholy for the peacefulness of the between. Living this human experience is fraught with more feelings than one can imagine. As they cascade over me, it is the calm I return to time and time again as if a long-lost friend.


Maybe it is because I experience the world as a jarring reality filled with so many walking wounded. Always feeling joy but also the undercurrents of sadness within every soul I meet is overwhelming at times. In this in between, It was as if I was lying in my favorite meadow with the sun on my face and flowers by my side. Not a sign of unease or discomfort.


Now I am left with the necessary acclimation back into the hustle of life. My mind, body and spirit feel jostled to the point of confusion and the whole experience has become very disorientating. Recovered enough to walk in my beloved hills today, I tried to shake the cobwebs of my soul back into attention. Why this melancholy? Why this unsteadiness?


Focusing on the light that had saturated my eyes in the hospital and the feeling of unparalleled stillness, my heart expanded and filled with the healing elixir of love. No matter what happens on this plane of existence, we are all loved. Of this I am absolutely certain. None of us are sure when our time here will end making each challenge, heartbreak and joy a gift. It is the messiness of our experience in which we earn our wings and take flight.


So back I go, into the wild of the world, knowing the persistent melancholy will remain. This constant reminder of the terminal nature of life prompts us to be present, living fully and freely. My choices are mine alone and will be on display in this between for review. Will I cringe at my foolishness or smile in remembrance of a life well lived? I suspect a bit of both




Collective Sadness

Collective Sadness


“When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it–always.”
Mahatma Gandhi


The past week has been energetically erratic with currents of unrest rolling through my veins. Most due to current happenings in the world, leaving an aftertaste of helplessness over outcome. I would be remiss not to consider some of this uncomfortable energy may be due to the universal changes going on. If you are one that follows the stars, you are aware of how unique and critical the alignments are right now. Interesting times to be sure.


Utilizing all the many anxiety diffusing techniques I have acquired, the water in my veins still moves with tides of emotion, eroding away ever modicum of calm one can muster. When all remedies fail, I am left sitting with my anxiety, facing down one another like two jousters before a match. This proverbial stare down is never appetizing, and I remind myself a part of living this flawed human experience is facing shadows and coming to some sort of peaceful accord.


I appreciate my ability to sense energy. It has helped me navigate my professional world which can be a minefield of erratic energy at any given time. The problem becomes how to turn this off when people are walking in a state of arrested sadness, putting on a mask showing how OKAY they are. The truth being far less presentable. I see you!


“Tears are words that need to be written.”
Paulo Coelho


As in many times in the past, in order to allow my tired sensory system to rest, I find solace in other people’s words. Poetry is an escape for me, a window into someone else’s soul. Reading poetry allows space to let go of my story and embrace another. What better way to shake off the doldrums of current events then to be inspired by past spiritual leaders and mystics who in their own suffering left beautiful words as if clouds to take flight on.


My recommendation? Turn off the news, stop reading the endless politics on Facebook and dive into the calm waters of another. While floating in this deep blue, release all that lingers and is not meant for you. After spending some time floating, you will be able to breathe freely without the restraint of prickly emotional sensors. 


Finding this state of calm is often followed by a flood of tears. A collective sadness running down my cheeks and staining my pillow. I pay no mind to this flood, it is a welcome old friend. These tears of sadness cleanse my spirit. Do not be afraid of this discomfort. Instead, lean into the shadows and learn from what you see. Is there a better way to navigate the challenges in your life? If so, now is the time to jump.