Last week, I left the house a little earlier than usual.
Not because the day ahead was spacious. Quite the opposite. It was full. Appointments, responsibilities, errands to run, bags still to pack for my upcoming conference. One of those days where the hours already seem spoken for before they even begin.
And yet, before leaving, I found myself lingering in the garden.
The overgrown bushes had finally been removed, opening up an entire section of the bed I hadn’t really seen clearly in years. New flowers and shrubs had recently been planted, and I stood there for a few moments appreciating the fresh openness of it all. The morning light and the possibility of adding a few colorful blossoms. The beauty of something being tended and made new.
Then I glanced at the clock. My appointment was in fifteen minutes, and I had fourteen minutes to get there. So I got moving.
As I rounded the final curve on my street, I suddenly noticed a small mallard duck standing directly in the middle of the road.
Not hurrying. Not startled. Just standing there as though the morning belonged entirely to him.
I pulled alongside him and lowered the window. “Buddy,” I said aloud, “this is probably not the safest place to be.”
His green head shimmered in the sunlight, absolutely beautiful. He looked directly at me and quacked back as though we were genuinely having a conversation. Then, instead of moving away, he took a few small steps closer to the car and lifted his head.
No urgency. No concern.
No indication whatsoever that he intended to leave his chosen spot in the curve.
So after a short, delightful conversation about the nature of life, I slowly drove on with a quiet little prayer that he would stay safe and that the drivers behind me would be paying attention in the early morning light.
Then, just as I checked my rearview mirror, I saw another duck fly low across the street behind me.
And there he went. He lifted gracefully into the air and followed her. He wasn’t stranded in the road at all. He was simply waiting for his gal.
By the time I reached the main road, something inside me had softened.
The fountains in the pond shimmered beside the street. The sky was a brilliant blue. The morning felt unexpectedly alive and intimate somehow, as though Life had quietly reached out and tapped me on the shoulder before the fullness of the day began.
Nothing dramatic happened.
Just a few moments of direct contact with a living world that is constantly speaking, responding, moving, relating. And somehow, it was exactly what I needed.
A reminder that life is not only schedules and tasks and moving efficiently from one obligation to the next.
It is also beauty. Pausing in stillness and appreciation. Being in relationship. Enjoying small unexpected encounters. Belonging.
It is the recognition that the world cares well for itself without my intervention.
And the beneficial pleasure of realizing this when I am willing to slow down enough to notice.
Just a note …. no mallard ducks were harmed in the encounter nor in the use of AI who conveniently recreated the scene for your imaginal pleasure.
Peace be with you and with all. No exceptions.
Studies show that even brief encounters with nature can reduce stress, support emotional wellbeing, improve attention, and promote feelings of connection. A slower pace allows the body to settle, the mind to clear, and life’s simple beauty to nourish you. Why not add a 5 minutes in the natural world without your phone or any conversation. Take a slow stroll, sit and gaze around you, and open your senses. Breathe and discover what arises without any goal. Your whole being will thank you.
Learn the one essential skill that allows you to face any challenge with confidence, sturdiness, and inner calm.
More than a technique. It’s a game changer.
There are conversations you may instinctively avoid. Death. Dying. The journey beyond are among them. The final exhale. The closing of the body. The long walk home. The next place of being. In many ancient traditions, this is not an ending, but a sacred passage—a birth into new realms of being. Yet here, in this fast-moving world, death often remains veiled in silence, wrapped in fear, and avoided in conversation.
There are conversations you may instinctively avoid. Death. Dying. The journey beyond are among them. The final exhale. The closing of the body. The long walk home. The next place of being. In many ancient traditions, this is not an ending, but a sacred passage—a birth into new realms of being. Yet here, in this fast-moving world, death often remains veiled in silence, wrapped in fear, and avoided in conversation.
I was playing the game “Headbands” with my dog the other day. Playing board games and interactive games like charades are good fun. Given my kid has flown the coop, we hoodwinked our dog to play a rousing game of Headbands with us. We even let Milo choose the first card, but he seemed to have a hard time guessing what his card said.
As you celebrated the Summer Solstice and the New Moon this past week, our beloved shamans who are South of the Equator were celebrating the Winter Solstice in Cusco, Peru. Inti Raymi, the Festival of the Sun, takes place on June 24th to commemorate the beginning of the Inca New Year and the Winter Solstice. Originating in the 15th century by Emperor Pachakuti, Inti Raymi was created as major Inca festival to honor the sun god Inti.
These past months have been filled with confusion, anger, and fear for many in this country. Witnessing deportations without due process, assaults on the courts and universities, flip flopping tariffs, and military action have shaken the foundational sense of safety and justice for many Americans. I’ve been listening to you and engaging in many conversations about how to live in balance during these times.
In September, I’m returning to the Temples of Humankind in Damanhur, Italy. It feels like an understatement to claim that this is a place of power, mystery, and majesty. Yet, I’ve found this to be true for myself and those I’ve met who’ve traveled within the extraordinary to the Temples and the community of Damanhur.
