Tag: Nature

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Don’t Help Me. Please.

I was driving home with my daughter when we noticed a large snapping turtle crossing the roadway. 

It was a tiny back street lined with a small pond on one side and the forest on the other.  As we drove by, he settled down just a foot into the road. Hanging out there as if it were a rest stop.  Right in the path of the cars cutting through our neighborhood at rush hour – blowing through the stop sign in order to cut a moment from their commute.

“Not happening!” I said as I pulled the car over.  

“We are moving that turtle before he gets crushed,” I declared.  I bounded from the car as my daughter muttered “Oh, here we go.”  I carried my umbrella as a prodding agent which was totally unhelpful as it popped open immediately, rendering it useless.  (More eye rolls from you know who. I might have even added a few myself as I looked quite ridiculous).  

I found another totally inadequate stick which left us just staring at a magnificent, prehistoric looking turtle wondering what to do next.  

We knew enough not to go near the front of him.  They call them snapping turtles for a reason.  While my daughter longed to pick him up and carry him, I had visions of her dropping him in the moment of a freakout.  Nope.  Meanwhile, he was resting as if he had all the time in the world and wasn’t facing imminent death (okay … I exaggerate). 

A car pulled up and an older man asked if we were okay. 

Explaining our predicament, he enthusiastically jumped out of his SUV with a golf umbrella as if he were going to single handedly rescue all of us.  We were in business. He tapped him gently and the giant turtle stirred and tipped to one side. I knew if we could gently tap his other side, he would start to rise up and walk.  Which he did.

Wish I kept my mouth shut.

 

Our rescuer got so excited he went around to take a photo for his grandkids.

And down went the turtle. 

Dropping down at the sight of a looming threat …. a 6 foot gentle giant with a camera. Things worsened quickly when the giant decided to tap the turtle more strongly on the back of his shell with his foot.  My kid and I exchanged a look. 

Now we were party to traumatizing this magnificent creature instead of saving him. 

With that final insult, “Snappy” promptly lumbered up onto the grass in the direction of the pond and hunkered down.  He looked our way as if daring us to come near him.  Fearing that our foot tapping savior could not curb his enthusiasm, we declared our effort a success.  I mentioned I had to run out to the store in a bit and would check to make sure he hadn’t ventured back into harm’s way again. This gave us all permission to end our rescue mission.

Mind you, not one car had careened around that corner during our dramatic interlude. 

“Well that went well.” stated you know who.  A bit later I headed out to the store and was alert as I fully stopped at the corner stop sign.  Scanning the grass to the right, I noticed the area was totally free of that huge turtle.  The reason?

He was lumbering across the street toward the woods. 

As turned the corner, I watched as he settled down into his protective position – shell to the ground – right in the middle of oncoming traffic in the other direction.  Wiser now, I slowly rolled past him as if he wasn’t there.  Hoping I wouldn’t see him crushed on my return trip, I had a revelation.

It occurred to me that he had probably crossed that road many times before I ever met him. This certainly wasn’t his first adventure.

After all he was a mature turtle, not some tiny little thing out on his first independent stroll.  He had to have some skill to have made it this far in a residential neighborhood.  Perhaps I had confused my concern with his need for rescue.  Now who was rolling her eyes? 

I got to wondering about all the times my intent to be helpful may have actually diverted someone from their intended path.

How I made the assumption that someone needed rescuing when Life was offering them what they required in that moment.

It isn’t the first time I’ve stopped my car to turn around a turtle.  Let’s just say I have a history of such behavior. Now, before I move in to help, I pause. I become curious. I wonder what Life might already be doing before I assume my role within the story.

I didn’t see Snappy on the way home, but that didn’t surprise me. 

He had already taught me what I needed to know. I was grateful and wiser as a result of our encounter. I figured he had lumbered off to teach some other well meaning, silly human. 

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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The Horse who Joined the Conversation

Three months ago, I unexpectedly entered into a relationship with a horse.

I met Zor during a visit to Liberty Stables in Florida, where I had gone to spend time with a friend’s horses. I had no particular expectations. I have no background with horses, no training, and no experience in equine-assisted therapy. I simply met this magnificent Friesian, and something quietly familiar unfolded between us.

I fell in love.

Not in the dramatic way we sometimes use that phrase, but in the quiet recognition of feeling unexpectedly at home in the presence of another living being.

When I returned a few months later, I wondered whether he would remember me.
He did.

I have found a deep contentment in being with Zor. Grooming him in his stall. Massaging his neck and shoulders. Singing softly while he lowered his great head to graze. Standing beside him without needing anything from him. I have never asked Zor to attend to me, carry me, or teach me. His quiet companionship has awakened something joyful in me. That has been enough for me.

One afternoon, I carried my chair into the pasture and placed it beneath the shade of a tree.

It was one of those Florida afternoons where the heat seems to shimmer above the grass. The horses grazed quietly under an endless blue sky. I settled into my chair, content to watch the horses, listen to the birds, and perhaps take a nap. As I entered the pasture, Zor lifted his head and followed me with his eyes. Once I was seated beneath the tree, he returned to grazing.

For a long while I simply sat. My body softened. My mind became quiet. My eyes sometimes closed as I listened to the song of nature. 

After a while I noticed that Zor had slowly changed position. He moved in a gentle arc that gradually brought him closer.

Having heard stories about the way he sometimes greeted people, I stood and stepped in front of him to say hello. I preferred not to discover what happens when a two-thousand-pound horse decides to make his presence known by tipping over my chair.

Once met, he returned to grazing.

I remained beneath the tree to have my scheduled phone session with a client. It had been a rough week. Testing revealed that the tumors in her body had grown.

As painful as the diagnosis itself was the experience of trying to receive care. Tests were delayed. Decisions postponed. Phone calls unanswered. She wasn’t simply carrying cancer. She was carrying the exhaustion of trying to find her way through a medical system that seemed unable to meet her with clarity or care.

“I'd like to place my hand on this beautiful horse's heart while we talk,” I said.

 

The phone in my back pocket, an AirPod in one ear, one hand rested on my heart, and the other rested on his.

Quietly, in my own awareness, I introduced them and returned to listening. Zor continued grazing as we moved together across the pasture.

Eventually he wandered beneath a small tree, stopped grazing, and looked directly at me.

For the remainder of our conversation, I stroked his face while listening to this lovely woman navigate this challenging season of her life.

In time, something softened. Her voice became lighter as we moved from frustration toward the next small steps before her. Zor remained completely still beneath my hand. No one hurried the conversation.

This exchange included two humans, a horse, birdsong, the warm sun, and a gentle breeze. Everything belonged.

Toward the end of our conversation, Zor lifted his head, gave a great snort, and calmly returned to grazing. My client heard it through the phone. She laughed, as did I. “I think we’re complete,” she said. Reminding me how her dog always knew our conversation was ending a few minutes before we said goodbye.

“Please thank that horse for me.”

I returned to my chair beneath the tree and closed my eyes. For a long moment I simply rested in that experience.

There is no miraculous ending to this story.

I don’t know whether that afternoon changed her treatment, her health, or even her day. I don’t need to know. I only know that I was part of something beautiful.

A woman seeking healing.
A horse quietly grazing.
One hand resting on my own heart.
The other resting on his.

Three hearts participating in the same quiet field of presence.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Returning to Yourself

The women who arrive in my classes, retreats, and therapy sessions are sincerely looking for healing, expansion, clarity, or sometimes just a little room to breathe.

They are thoughtful women, deeply engaged with the people and work they love. Rarely do they arrive because they want another spiritual philosophy. Most are carrying something much more ordinary.

A life that has become full. Beautiful in many ways, but crowded.

Crowded with responsibilities, information, expectations, decisions, and the steady rhythm of accomplishing what needs to be done. Yet many quietly sense there may be another way to move through life. One that feels more spacious, more relational, and more deeply their own.

We often assume what we need is another answer. Another practice. Another book. Another workshop. Yet what I’ve witnessed over the years is something much simpler.

Most women don’t need more information. They need a different relationship with the life they are already living.

That’s where Via Sophia begins.

Not as a philosophy to adopt or a spiritual identity to become. Via Sophia is simply the Way of Living Wisdom. A way of meeting yourself, other people, nature, beauty, challenge, joy, and the ordinary moments of everyday life with greater presence, intimacy, and participation.

This is why I’m gathering women in the lush jungle of Costa Rica. Not because wisdom only exists in beautiful places. It doesn’t.

But because becoming spacious within beauty creates clarity.

When life slows enough, something remarkable begins to happen. Your body softens. The constant internal conversation quiets. Your attention widens.

You begin hearing yourself again.

Not the version shaped by urgency or expectation, but the quieter wisdom that has been patiently waiting beneath the noise.

Your voice. Unwoven from the cacophony of societal noise.

Your rhythm. Loosened from the momentum of a cluttered schedule.

There is value of retreating within your own being. More easily done when you are temporarily away from habitual living. Embraced and nourished within the natural world, you relax and reorganize.

So you may return to the relationship with yourself. So you may inhabit the life you are living.

Via Sophia is not something you learn and then apply later. It is a way of becoming more intimate with the life you are already living.

Over time, you begin recognizing wisdom as it appears in ordinary moments. How compassion naturally softens a difficult conversation. Where discernment brings clarity to a decision. When beauty becomes nourishment rather than decoration. How courage quietly asks you to take one honest step forward.

Within Via Sophia, you are invited into relationship with thirteen Mystical Mothers.

Each offering companionships as they model qualities and ways of being that help you recognize what is already living within you. Whether used as nourishing resources, teachers, or mirrors, the intelligence of each Mystical Mother invites recognition of your participation in life. And how you may more consciously engage in the living conversation that is alive in every moment.

Within Via Sophia, every phase of life is welcomed.

Joy and sorrow. Clarity and confusion. Rest and emergence. Belonging and solitude. Loving and letting go. Nothing is excluded. Nothing needs to be hidden. Everything becomes part of the conversation because Life itself holds everything.

Everything is welcome in this natural way of being. Because Life holds everything.

In Costa Rica, this way of living becomes easier to notice.

The rainforest teaches alongside us. The ocean soothes you. Meals offer slow, meaningful conversations. Silence becomes nourishing. Laughter becomes part of the practice. Before long, you begin to notice that every moment is part of the living conversation.

You don’t come to Costa Rica to escape your life. You come to remember how you want to live it.

Sometimes the path isn’t asking you to find yet another way of being. Sometimes it is asking you to inhabit the one that is already quietly unfolding beneath your feet.

This October I’ll be welcoming a small circle of women to Selva Armonia in Costa Rica. 

Together we’ll spend a week exploring Via Sophia – the Way of Living Wisdom – not as something to master, but as a way of inhabiting our lives more fully. If something within you longs for beauty, spaciousness, meaningful conversation, and a more intimate relationship with Life, perhaps this is your invitation.

If you feel called to immerse in beauty with me, I’d love to see what we discover together. Let’s have a conversation.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Walking with Wisdom

During the Seeding the Light Gathering, I had the privilege of hosting Pascual and Jose Tomas in our home.

They feel like family as this was their second visit to New Jersey. We’ve also spent a week together in Damanhur and the Temples of Humankind in Italy. I’ve sat in many ceremonies with Pascual in Peru’s Sacred Valley. His flute playing often carried me up mountain trails in the thin air and hot sun.

People often ask me what it is like to spend time with a Q’ero medicine man. The truth is, it is probably not what most people imagine.

Yes, there are powerful ceremonies. Beautiful prayers laid in despacho offerings with sincerity and devotion. Singing to the fire while burdens are released and energy centers are revitalized. There is the witnessing of power flowing through healings, blessing and rearranging lives at a foundational level. And a weaving of wisdom that is difficult to put into words but is felt rippling through every gathering.

And yet what strikes me most has nothing to do with ceremony. It is how Pascual engages ordinary life.

After a long day of healing sessions and ceremony, he hustled over for a group picture, smiling broadly, happy to be surrounded by people. Later that evening, Pascual stretched out on the couch to watch the World Cup as lively conversation bounced between English, Spanish, Quechua, and the universal language of cheers and groans.

Whenever we drove from one event to another, Pascual was interested in everything he saw. Buildings. Trees. People. Stores. Animals. His curiosity about life never appeared to diminish, and he welcomed our questions about life in Peru and his work as a medicine man.

Pascual approached every new experience with the same openness.

He enjoyed traditional Mexican and Italian dinners, American donuts at Dunkin’, ordering pizza, grilling burgers and corn on the cob, and sampling whatever was placed before him. We wandered the Grounds for Sculpture enjoying the art embedded within nature, snapping photos, and quietly witnessing a marriage proposal. We stopped at DSW for sneakers and enjoyed our Walmart adventure, where I insisted Pascual try on pants before buying them. We gathered thoughtful gifts to bring home to his family.

One afternoon someone arrived with a beautiful handwoven band for her hat. It didn’t quite fit.

Pascual examined it carefully. He decided it needed a few stitches. He asked me for a needle and thread and sat down to fix it himself.

 

No ceremony. No spiritual teaching. Just a man sewing a hat and quietly handing it back.

And somehow that, too, felt like a teaching.

Our gathering occurred during a heat wave. The chapel lost its air conditioning. Outdoors, it was 95 degrees in the shade. We were hot, yet no one seemed to notice. Everyone was so fully participating in the moment.

During a wisdom sharing, Pascual handed the microphone to Jose Tomas for translation. I was listening closely when Pascual poked me in my side. He whispered “Meditation,” pointing to my friend listening with his eyes closed and to a woman who was falling asleep in the heat. We dissolved into laughter. Pascual often drops into meditation (or perhaps takes a quick nap). We tease him about this often and he delighted in seeing others doing the same.

Bursting into laughter, making jokes, or just smiling for the joy of it all occurs in every circumstance. Ceremonies which exude power, genuine devotion, and pure prayers also contain bursts of laughter, hugs, and broad smiles.

He welcomed every gift with genuine gratitude. And often offers gifts in reciprocity for the care he is receiving. There is nothing forced in these exchanges. Just a natural way of being in reciprocity.

What touched me just as much was watching the participants naturally begin to do the same. Throughout the week they offered thoughtful gifts, expressions of gratitude, and small acts of kindness to Pascual and Jose Tomas. At the end of our time together they shared how deeply moved they were. Rather than feeling they had come to New Jersey simply to work, they felt they had gathered in ceremony with family.

Jose Tomas told us stories about how well known Pascual is. Not because he seeks attention. Quite the opposite. He has never seemed interested in being important. He is interested in people.

Whether speaking with airport workers in Cusco, blessing a soccer field in Curaçao, offering a despacho in the high Andes, or staying in touch with monthly phone calls, people seem naturally drawn to him.

Given these stories, we started calling him “Hollywood.” Pascual laughs every time he hears it.

Many people inhabit a role.
Shaman. 
Teacher.
Healer.
Pascual inhabits his life.

His reverence for the sacred is inseparable from his reverence for everyday living.

Language and cultural differences don’t seem to matter much. To every experience, Pascual arrived with openness, curiosity, humor, and respect. People felt it and they responded with love, laughter, tears, joy, and respect.

For all the power people experienced in ceremony, I suspect this may be one of Pascual’s greatest teachings. He is fully present to what is arising in each moment.

Many people travel great distances seeking wisdom about how to live well.

Sometimes wisdom arrives in your home town carrying a market of handcrafts to support the Q’ero community. Relaxing during a soccer match. Purchasing gifts for family. Asking for a needle and thread. Working tirelessly through a heat wave. Enjoying a Pepsi. Offering powerful prayers one moment and delighting in an ordinary joke the next.

For me, the greatest gift was watching someone demonstrate how joy, love, wisdom, and power are a natural part of ordinary life.

It reminded me that being a person of wisdom isn’t defined by ceremony or role. It is revealed in the way we greet each person, receive each gift, meet each challenge, and participate fully in the ordinary moments of our lives.

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Life Beneath the Schedule

I planned to work a bit, complete some projects, and enjoy slow days with plenty of relaxation.

All of that certainly occurred, but beneath it all, something else began quietly inviting my attention.

I still worked, had sessions, responded to emails, taught my Via Sophia class, held conversations, and shared many a meal.

Spaciousness gave me room to notice the quiet invitations that are always there.

One morning I wandered down to the river, watching dolphins surface and disappear again. I sat in the shade with horses, praying for the world and what was possible. I cheered for the US in the World Cup game while the sunset painted the sky over the mangroves behind me.

A tiny resident lizard became part of my daily rhythm.

I read two novels until the Florida sun soothed me into a nap. Waking up flushed and uncomfortable led me to a cooling float in the pool. Eyes open, I glimpsed a manatee. Eyes closed, I listened to the song created by the breeze in the trees, birds holding melodic conversations, boat engines, and murmuring human voices.

None of it was extraordinary. And yet it felt deeply alive.

As the days unfolded, I began wondering how often I move through my own life waiting for some future arrangement before fully inhabiting the one already here.

I often hear women say they’ll relax when the project is finished, the children are grown, vacation finally arrives, retirement begins, or life settles down.

You know this dance. As though living can begin once everything else is complete.

But what if nothing has been waiting? What if life has simply been unfolding beside you all along, quietly offering itself in hundreds of ordinary ways.

A breeze across your face. Morning coffee. Birds outside the window. The sleepy dog hoping you’ll stop long enough for a gentle scratch. The conversation you almost rushed through. The tree you’ve driven past a hundred times, dancing in the wind whether anyone notices or not.

This is one of the quiet discoveries emerging in our Via Sophia circles.

Not another practice to master or another way to improve yourself. It is the simple remembering that life is already in relationship with you. How beauty is already arriving. Your body is already speaking.

The natural world is always in conversation.

You realize that you don’t have to manufacture a sacred life.
You learn to participate in the one already unfolding. Where wonder is already present.

This doesn’t require a vacation, a retreat, or the completion of every task on your life. While time away may certainly help create spaciousness, you might begin with something much smaller.

What if you gave yourself three hours?

What if your phone stayed inside?

What if there were nowhere you needed to be?


What if you wandered without deciding where you were going?

What if you let the day reveal itself instead of deciding in advance what it should become?

For some people, those questions sound heavenly. For others, they set off alarm bells.

If that’s you, begin even smaller. Perhaps only twenty minutes, a slow walk, or a cup of tea on the deck without your phone. Engage the natural beauty of a garden or sunset without photographing it.

Life rarely shouts. It usually whispers.

Maybe what you’re longing for isn’t somewhere else. Maybe it’s here. Hidden beneath the schedule, beneath the striving, beneath the endless doing.

Available and quietly inviting you into conversation.

If you decide to wander sometime this summer, I’d love to hear what you discover. Send me a note and tell me where the day led you. I’m curious what found you when you finally had room to notice. I’ll be sure to read it and respond after I savor one more slice of life newly discovered through different eyes than my own.

Ladies, perhaps spaciousness isn’t something you find someday. Perhaps it’s something you remember.

This October, a small circle of women will gather in Costa Rica to explore exactly that.

Together we’ll slow enough to hear life again, restore our relationship with ourselves and the natural world, and discover what begins to emerge when we stop managing life and start participating in it.

If that calls to you, I’d love to have you with us. Explore the Via Sophia Costa Rica Immersion here. 

If you’re ready to live sacred – naturally and with ease – let’s have a conversation. 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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I Met A Duck in the Street

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.

I remember laughing softly to myself as I realized I was not, in fact, in charge of this duck’s life.

 

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. 

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An Accidental Meeting, A Hand Held

A few months ago, when the world was cold and the snow came often, I left for work a little earlier than usual.

The roads had already been plowed, but I knew better than to assume they were clear. That kind of winter morning holds a particular deception. The pavement looks clean, almost dry, while a thin layer of ice waits invisibly beneath.

I was mostly alone on the road.

The sun was out, bright and generous, reflecting across the white snow under a clear blue sky. Everything looked fresh. New. There was a crispness in the air that matched the sharp cold of the morning, and I found myself enjoying the quiet beauty of it all.

As I approached a slight curve leading to a stop sign, I heard something simple and unmistakable inside me.

Stop here.

I was still more than a car length away from the intersection. There was no one behind me. No reason, really, to pause that early. But I did. I brought the car to a stop and sat there, curious, waiting without knowing why.

A moment later, I saw a car coming from the left.

It appeared around the curve moving a little too fast for the conditions. That caught my attention. I watched.

What followed unfolded as if time slowed down.

The car began to slide. Back and forth, a loss of traction that the driver could not quite correct. It went up onto the curb, dropped back down, and came to a sudden stop directly in front of me.

Had I been at the stop sign, it would have been a very different moment. But I was not.

There was no car behind me. No pressure. Just a calm body and space to witness what had happened.

Two young men sat in an older car. I could see the driver’s body tense, his breath caught somewhere between fear and disbelief. They spoke quickly to one another. Then he jumped out of the car, ran to the front, checking for damage. He circled to the back, then looked toward me.

His whole body spoke before his words did.
He was shaken.

He raised his hands, his face tight with worry, and mouthed, I am so sorry. Then he turned, looking again at the curb he had hit, back at his car, and back at me. The distress was real, immediate.

I rolled down my window and motioned him over.

He came quickly, apologizing again, his voice unsteady. He was close to crying. His friend had gotten out as well, moving toward the front of the car, checking the wheels.

“Give me your hand,” I said. 
He did. He held on tightly.

“I lost control of the car,” he said. “I was so scared. Oh my God… what if I had hit you?”

I smiled, not to dismiss him, but to meet him where he was. “Take a breath,” I said. “You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re both okay.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, still holding my hand, the cold air moving through the open window. I began to breathe with him, quietly, without instruction beyond presence.

I could feel his body begin to settle.

Then his eyes opened wide again. “I didn’t realize I was going that fast. I hit ice.” “Yes,” I said gently. “That happens. These roads can be tricky. They look clear, and they’re not.”

There was no need to make him wrong. The moment had already taught him everything it needed to.


“This is something you learn from experience,” I continued. “I learned it myself the same way you did. And now you’ve learned it.”

He took a deeper breath.

“It’s okay not to know,” I said. “And then to learn something new. You’re okay.” Something in him softened. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here.”

“You would have figured it out,” I told him. “But here’s what you can do now.”

I pointed just beyond the intersection. “Pull into that first driveway. Park. Get out with your friend and take a good look at the car. Maybe drive it slowly in the parking lot, see how it feels. And sit there for a few minutes. Don’t leave until you feel calm again. Then you can continue, carefully, now that you know.”

He nodded. “Okay. I will.”
Again, “I’m so sorry.”

“We’re okay,” I said.

He let go of my hand, returned to his car, spoke to his friend, and slowly turned into the driveway on the right. I continued on my way to work.

At the next red light, I found myself sitting in the same sunlight, watching it reflect off the snow, feeling something quiet and steady inside.

Gratitude.

Not for avoiding an accident, though that was certainly there. But for the exchange itself.

He had come toward me, even in his fear, to make sure I was alright. I had reached toward him, meeting his distress without judgment. There was a simple, mutual care in that moment. Nothing elevated. Nothing complicated.

Just two humans, pausing long enough to recognize one another.

What steadied him was not only the breath, or the calming of his body. It was the absence of blame. The normalization that this happens. That we learn. That we adjust.

There was nothing to defend against, nothing to hide from. And in that, something repaired itself almost immediately.

We met, briefly, in a place where no one was wrong.

There are countless moments like this in a day, though most are far less dramatic. Small openings where we might pause. Where we might soften. Where we might reach out a hand, or receive one.

Instead, we often move past one another, quickly, efficiently, as if nothing meaningful lives in those in-between spaces.

But it does.

Those small exchanges carry weight. They linger. They shape how we meet the next moment, and the next person.

Even now, when I come to that same stop sign, I sometimes think of him. I imagine him driving more carefully, yes. But more than that, I imagine him moving through his life with the same instinct he showed that morning. To turn toward, rather than away. To care, even when shaken. To hold a hand and breathe together.

Not that he must pay it forward.

Simply because, for a brief moment on a cold winter morning, those actions revealed his nature. And it was lovely.

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Reflections In A Venetian Window

You arrive in Venice the way you always arrive in places that have lived longer than memory can hold. 

Not just by plane or train, but by stepping into a rhythm already in motion.

The Duomo rises before you, not asking for attention, but receiving it anyway. Gold mosaics catch the light in a way that feels almost intentional, as if the building itself knows how to speak to the human longing for beauty. You stand there, looking up, letting your eyes follow stories set into stone and glass. There is devotion here, layered over centuries. Hands that built, restored, and protected. A quiet insistence that something sacred matters.

In the main square, the blue clock turns its ancient face toward you. 

Time, but not the kind you check on your phone. This one carries a story. Figures emerge, disappear, reappear. You watch, not because you need to know the hour, but because something in you recognizes continuity. The kind that outlives urgency.

The tide has pushed into the square and you step through the water at its edge. 

Shoes in hand, coolness around your ankles. People laugh, hesitate, complain, adapt. It is all happening at once. Venice does not pause for inconvenience. It absorbs it.

Later, in a narrow alley, you sit outside and eat what you are certain is the best pizza of your life. The kind that requires no commentary. Simple, perfect, immediate. The table is small. The air is close. Voices move around you in languages you do not need to understand.

You wander.

The streets curve and narrow, then open unexpectedly. Every turn offers something. A small shop filled with glass. A doorway framed in flowers. A bridge where someone pauses just long enough to take a photograph and then disappears into the flow again.

You notice the people.

Waiters moving quickly, carrying plates with practiced ease. Some warm, some indifferent, and some clearly tired. Shopkeepers who greet you with a smile or barely look up. 

There is no uniform mood here. Just life, in all its expressions. 

You can feel the weight of history beneath it, not as something romanticized, but as something lived. A place that has known beauty and strain, wealth and hardship, continuity and change.

And then, without planning it, you stop.
A window.

At first, it is simply a display. White masks, dozens of them, layered and suspended in different shapes and expressions. Some delicate. Some exaggerated. Some almost unsettling. The glass reflects the street behind you, so for a moment, everything overlaps. Faces without bodies. Movement behind stillness.

You step closer.

Masks have always belonged here. Not as decoration, but as function.


In another time, they offered anonymity. Freedom. Protection.

A way to move through society without being fully seen. To speak, to act, or to participate without consequence. They held power. They allowed expression that might otherwise be constrained. They served a purpose.

You stand there, looking at them, and for a brief moment, you see your own reflection layered into the display.

And something in you recognizes something. Not as a dramatic revelation that demands attention. Just a quiet noticing of the masks you have worn.

Not the literal kind, but the ones that form over time. The ways you learned to move through the world. To be accepted. To stay safe. To navigate expectations. To belong, or at least to avoid exclusion.

Some of them were subtle. A tone of voice. A way of agreeing. A way of not saying something. Some of them were more defined. Roles you stepped into. Identities that shaped how others met you, and how you met yourself.

None of them were random. They formed in response to something real. A moment, a relationship, or an environment. Each one carried intelligence. Each one served you.

You can see that now.

Standing in front of that window, in a city that has made an art form out of masks, you are not inclined to judge them. Not yours. Not anyone’s.

There is a kind of beauty in them. Although, you notice that you are no longer reaching for them. Nor have you forced them away. Not because you have decided they are wrong. Simply because, in this moment, they are not needed.

You stand there, unmasked, and realize nothing is missing.

No performance is required. No adjustment is necessary. No role to step into. Just presence.

The street continues behind you. People pass. Conversations unfold. Life moves without interruption. The masks remain in the window, as they should. Honored for what they have been. Available for those who still need them.

So you move on without fanfare. Walking, just as you are now, through a city that has seen everything.

And in this moment, that is more than enough.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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A Horse Bumped My Heart

I’ve always had a distant relationship with horses.

I once rode the pony a friend cared for at a local barn when I was a pre-teen. I’ve done a few trail rides, including what felt like a few death-defying adventures in the Colorado Rockies. I even calmly steered my horse back onto the trail after she reared and raced down a small forest hill.

It was a natural instinct. After all, I’ve watched enough television to witness experienced equestrians deftly managing rearing horses.

Beyond admiring the beauty of horses, especially those running free, I’ve never had any interest in spending time with them. I admired my friends who cared for horses, offered equine-assisted therapy, and even rode into their forest wedding ceremony on their horses with a miniature “flower horse.”

When friends at Liberty Stables in Florida invited me to visit with their three horses, I was eager to witness their new project, which has brought much joy to their lives. Visiting the horses was part of my interest, but mostly it was my relationship with the humans that warmed my heart.

My ambivalence lifted with my first surprising meeting with Zor, a gorgeous Friesian horse who stands between 17 and 18 hands tall.

On a snowy day in New Jersey, I took a break in my comfy chair. Closing my eyes, I noticed the replay of a short “movie” I’d seen of Zor dancing with his previous trainer. He was magnificent, and the fluid interaction between horse and human was like a ballet that moved me deeply.

Suddenly, I saw Zor’s face in my inner sight appear directly in front of me. We were almost nose to nose.

As soon as I indicated a ‘hello and welcome,’ my chest warmed, my heart blew open, and the image disappeared. I stayed within that delicious experience for a while, now intrigued to meet Zor in person.

The first day at the barn, we were going to greet the horses and spend time with them in the paddocks. Liberty training offers the horse freedom in space and interaction with humans.

With four paddocks to choose from, the herd of three horses and three humans would spend time in territory together.

Entering the paddock with some trepidation, I was struck by how Zor towered over the other two horses. I was fully anticipating watching them graze from afar, so was surprised when Zor came directly toward me. I put my closed fist up for a possible greeting, like a fist bump to his nose, as instructed.

Almost immediately, Zor lowered his head and bumped his nose hard against my heart, pushing me back a step.

Contact established, power demonstrated, and heart connection activated, he wandered away to another paddock.

I, in the meantime, took a few moments to both welcome the greeting and calm my nervous system, which had activated with that push.

The afternoon was spent lazily relaxing in a chair beneath the shade of a tree. 



Eyes closed, perception widened, I listened to the breeze in the trees, the bird song, and the sounds of the horses grazing. At times, a horse would come to stand behind us, presencing the harmony felt within the natural world and our bodies.

I felt like I took a nap without sleeping.

I enjoyed watching my daughter and friend brush the horses, always keeping my respectful distance. I squatted before the smallest horse as he ate his hay and had a lovely exchange through both spoken language and inner awareness. All in all, it was a lovely day.

Two days later, I woke up with genuine excitement as I couldn’t wait to spend time with Zor. I was surprised by feelings of strong affection and even a bit of inner longing.

Upon arrival, I was immediately greeted by one of the smaller horses. Again, a nose-to-heart bump, followed by a lovely exchange.

Once these niceties were complete, I made a beeline for Zor. I noticed my delight and respect. Even as I was careful of my position given his size, the intimidation of the previous day was gone.

As I dry brushed his coat, chatting with him, I was struck by the intimate, relational nature of the encounter.

Here was this enormous animal, power incarnate, demonstrating the same comfort with me as I was feeling with him.

Once brushed, Zor walked away to roll around on the ground before returning to me for yet another brushing session.

Laughter, care, and increasing familiarity left me conversing with Zor on multiple levels. Chatting aloud with him and others around us often seemed to narrate the quiet exchange we were having beneath the surface.

When an afternoon snack of hay was delivered, he received my offer of energy healing.  Instinctively, we worked together. It was quiet, clear, and intimate.

Later that evening, I saw some photos my friends had taken of us during this healing exchange.

It struck me fully then what I had experienced but had not fully realized at the time. After a lifetime of indifference or intimidation around horses, I was completely at ease and confident in my interactions with Zor. Beyond comfort was a full-body sense of delight within the beautiful “territory.”

I realized then that this wasn’t about skill development or even courage in the face of a really huge horse.

It was coherence.

Horses respond to the state you are presenting. When the heart, breath, and nervous system settle into rhythm, the body becomes steady. Nature is naturally coherent, and horses, finely attuned to the natural field, recognize coherence.

When you arrive in the ‘field’ or ‘territory’  open, present, and steady, you naturally enter deeper states of coherence.

Beyond your own nervous system relaxation and expanded perception is the dance between other coherent systems: birds, horses, pasture, breeze.

Upon reflection, I recognized there was a mutual reading of one another’s state of being that allowed trust to arise. The connection with Zor revealed itself between us in the relational space enhanced within coherence. Trust was established rapidly, and a relationship formed.

My last moments with Zor were outside of his stall after he enjoyed his snack of watery green nutrition.

I had a hard time saying goodbye. He tried time and time again to give me that hard nose bump to my heart. Given his dripping green snout, we settled for ear scratching.



Coherence exists naturally. When you relax enough to meet life within it, you begin to notice the quiet harmony already unfolding all around and within you.

You don’t need to hang out with horses to discover the way in to coherence. Time in nature is often an easy way to explore harmony within and without. If you’d like to learn more about heart coherence and a simple technique to support you, feel free to enjoy my free resource The Self Soothe Strategy. 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Care within the Cold Dark Winter

Driving into Soul Sanctuary last weekend, I noticed the trees were engaged in a wild dance.

I should have paid closer attention as I got out of the car, because the wind nearly took me with it. Walking to the door, I had to lean in and brace myself for a moment just to stay upright. The cold whipped through my clothes and found every uncovered space, sharing its bone-numbing chill.

I’m a bit over the cold, dark days of winter. And it’s only the beginning of February.

I wondered how a child who grew up playing and skiing in the snow could become an adult who avoids the cold like a hot potato.

I’m not alone in feeling that this winter has been long and unrelenting. The cold settled in, the snow kept arriving, and the darkness has lingered a bit too long. I’ve noticed that people who usually move, walk, and gather are sharing a quiet resistance toward going outside.

It’s not dramatic. More like a deep reluctance to push against what is already heavy.

It shows up when you don’t want to go out. You don’t want to muster and you want to stay within the comfort of home. Yet, alongside that is a missing of being outside, walking and breathing, and moving through the world more freely.

I’ve been thinking about how comfort soothes dark and cold times, both with weather and with the circumstances of life.

In Norway, there are months when sunlight disappears almost entirely. People don’t fight the inevitable. They prepare, adapt, and even celebrate the dark cold. They cultivate warmth in their homes with candles, roaring fires, and hearty soups. They strap headlamps on and walk to meet friends at a café or pull bundled-up children on sleds to family gatherings.

Some brave souls even gather at the sea, entering frigid water with hardiness and laughter as a communal ritual. While the thought makes me shudder, I appreciate the reminder that aliveness, in any weather, can be celebrated.

In my neck of the woods, people have grown used to mild winters and a few days of melting snow.

Persistent cold invites retreat inward. In some ways, this mirrors the season of Winter itself. A time to slow down, enjoy the quiet, and allow the body to restore. This is where seeds of inspiration are nourished, waiting for warmer days and heightened energy.

When moods, energy, physical activity, and social engagement dip, there is often a quiet, or not so quiet, voice that says something is wrong.

That you should be handling things better, staying upbeat, being more productive, or pushing through some imagined standard.

What if that story isn’t true? What if this long, dark, cold stretch is asking for a different kind of care, one that doesn’t require justification?

Caring well for yourself in winter invites honoring how your internal rhythms are moving and what you genuinely require at this time.

It’s a season when your system may be conserving energy or seeking comfort because conditions are demanding. Responding accurately means noticing this rather than overriding it. Winter invites choosing warmth, beauty, and pleasure without apologizing for them or framing them as indulgence.

Comfy clothes. Time under blankets. Home-cooked meals. Less socializing and more contemplation.

For most, this isn’t the season for optimization. Winter is the season for tending.

 

You might find yourself drawn to slower mornings, softer lighting, heavier blankets, and food that takes time.

You might want fewer conversations but deeper ones. You might want to read instead of scroll, sit by a window instead of pushing yourself out into the cold, or let your evenings close down naturally rather than staying artificially bright and busy.

It’s also important to discern whether you’re enjoying winter and thriving in the cold, or pushing yourself to maintain a rhythm that’s easier with light and warmth. People vary. It helps to know where you land.

Layered beneath this cold, snowy weather is another kind of winter.

Looking out into the world right now, the climate feels harsh in more ways than one. Division, outrage, harm to people and the environment, and unsettling news create a sense that something essential is being strained or torn.

Witnessing the state of the world can feel like a long season with no clear thaw in sight.

That makes personalized care even more important, not less.

Choosing comfort, warmth, and nourishment, if that’s what’s called for, makes good sense.

It’s wise to harmonize your nervous system, calm your mind, and soothe your emotions. This is how you remain capable of kindness, discernment, and presence when the world feels loud and fractured.

Care doesn’t have to be dramatic. It can be quietly pleasing.

A candle lit for no reason. A meal that actually satisfies. An early night without explanation. A conversation that feels human instead of performative.

You don’t need to earn these things by being productive first. You don’t need to frame them as self-improvement. You are simply responding to Winter as Winter, living in a way that matches your preference and bandwidth.

Movement will return, of course. Light is already on its way. Cold and snow will soften, and days outside will become more inviting.

But those days have not arrived yet. Don’t jump ahead or live as if they have. There’s something deeply supportive about being in sync with your inner rhythm in every season. When you’re not, strain builds inside and everything outside feels harder.

This cold, dark, often windy season asks you to stay close to yourself.

To tend the small hearths of your life in ways that feel pleasing and comforting.

And if you worry that you’re withdrawing too much from the world, be at peace.

This is a time to inhabit the way you’re called to live right now. Close, warm, and true to yourself.

There will be a time to turn outward again. Listen for the inner urge, but there’s no need to move before you’re ready.

Enjoy this time if you can. Seasons change. Light returns. And warmth is always generated from within.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions.