Tag: Story

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Flying with Owen

Rocketing down the runway a few days ago, I suddenly remembered another flight home from the West Coast many years ago.

I was sitting at my gate, listening to music and absorbed in a book that had been waiting far too long in my “to read” pile. I had several uninterrupted hours ahead of me and intended to enjoy every one of them.

My attention was interrupted only once, when I heard a young boy urging his much younger brother to hurry.

“We’re going to miss the plane!”

Both boys were pulling their own small suitcases and weaving somewhat precariously through the crowd while their mother followed, gently assuring them that they had plenty of time.

I smiled and returned to my reading.

When I boarded the plane, I discovered that the older boy was sitting beside my window seat, engrossed in arranging his book and snacks. I greeted the mom and boy and settled quite contentedly inside the private world I had created with my music and book.

“Excuse me,” the boy said. “Can we switch seats, please?” He wanted the window.

I understood. The window was part of the magic of flying. I agreed to switch, even as my anticipated cocoon of privacy quietly disappeared. The middle seat isn’t my favorite, but I was young once and I do love a good view from the plane.

His mom was genuine in her thanks and I met Owen before his nose was pressed up against the oval window.

Once he was settled beside the window with his seat belt fastened, I returned to my music and book. I was remarkably good at narrowing my attention and tuning out everything around me.

Until a small, persistent movement at the edge of my vision entered my awareness.

Owen’s legs were bouncing.

Sitting cross-legged in his seat, he was practically quivering.

I couldn’t yet tell whether he was anxious or delighted, but he had captured my attention. There is something wonderfully contagious about a child who can barely contain his excitement.

We had begun moving toward the runway. I leaned toward him. “Do you like to fly?”
“I love to fly, especially when we take off.”

Now, here was a boy after my own heart. I immediately became grateful for those bouncing legs. They had reminded me that I was about to fly through the sky inside an enormous metal machine, a marvel in itself. And I had nearly missed it because I was absorbed in someone else’s story.

As the plane taxied, Owen and I discussed where we might be going and how we would know when we had reached the runway.

When we finally arrived, his legs began moving with even greater enthusiasm. A piece of gum suddenly flew through the air and landed in Owen’s lap, surprising both of us. His mother had apparently decided that the moment called for gum. Owen nodded his thanks, began chewing, and turned his full attention back to the window.

“Here we go,” I said as the engines grew louder and the plane began moving down the runway.
“That was the nose lifting off,” Owen declared.
“You think?”
“Yep.”
“Look at the terminal. Is it still there?”
“Oh, it’s still there.”

The plane gathered speed. “Now that was the nose lifting off,” he announced with great authority. Then he noticed that the terminal was still level with the window. “Hmmmn.”

“Tell me when you feel yourself pushed back in your seat and the terminal disappears,” I suggested. A moment later, the plane lifted from the runway and pressed us both back into our seats.

Owen turned to me. “THAT was the nose of the plane lifting up.”
“Yes, Owen. THAT was lift off!”

Together, we leaned toward that little oval and watched the terminal disappear and the landscape grow smaller beneath us. Then Owen returned to his book and I returned to mine.

Throughout the flight, he surfaced only occasionally to share something funny he had read or ask his mother for a snack. By then, I was attuned enough to enjoy him without leaving the world of my book entirely.

I remember feeling grateful that, of all the possible people who might have occupied the seat beside me, I was flying with Owen.

His joyful, jiggling legs had brought me back to the moment I was actually living.

I still love disappearing into a good book. I definitely appreciate a quiet flight and the rare pleasure of uninterrupted time. But sometimes Life arrives at the edge of your carefully narrowed attention and asks you to look up.

Sometimes it even sits beside you, asks for the window seat, and begins to quiver.

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Ecological Belonging

Everything belongs. Everything has its place in the grand web of Life.

I was thinking about this recently as I wandered through the forest and stopped by a lake to chat with an old turtle hosting a flowing forest of algae upon his shell. I watched the long strands lift from his shell to dance in the water as he nibbled on balls of algae, pausing occasionally to gaze at me.

Nothing in nature exists by itself.

Every tree is in relationship with the soil, fungi, underground waterways, rain, wind, sunlight, insects, birds, and creatures sheltering beneath its branches.

That which is visible and microscopic engages in a relational dance of nourishment, consumption, and destruction. Life competes and cooperates. It grows and decays. Some of what you encounter is astonishingly beautiful and some decidedly less so. Yet everything has a place within the ecosystem.

Everywhere I move, I witness this ecological belonging.

In the Andean path, you experience the world as Living Energy.

Pachamama and heavens. Mountains, oceans, rivers, clouds. Elements, animals, ancestors and humans. Past and future. Seen and unseen. Nothing exists outside the living fabric. Relationship moves in every direction.

A central practice in this wisdom tradition is Ayni, the way of reciprocity. You recognize yourself as both steward and relative within this living weave. And the message comes forth.

You are welcome here.

You belong within the weave of Living Energy.

You are essential in this garden.

After listening to the Angelic realm for over twenty years, I recognize the same messages of welcome and belonging.

You are wanted here.
We delight in your presence.
You are precious and your existence matters.

You are already woven in the cosmic light.

And within Via Sophia, the Way of Living Wisdom, I find it again.

The Mystical Mothers do not ask you to prove that you deserve entrance to the garden. The Great Mother reminds you that you were born within it.

You belong here.
You belong to Life.
You are part of this garden.

You are a precious blossom already planted here.

Different traditions. Different languages. Different ways of understanding existence.

Beneath them, I hear the same message.

You already have a place. This is ecological belonging.

It isn’t belonging as a feeling you achieve when the right people finally love you in the right way.

Ecological belonging is more fundamental than that.

It doesn’t require achievement or fitting yourself into an acceptable way of being.

From the moment you enter this life, you are already woven into relationships that extend in every direction.

You have a place within the family and lineage you came through, even when those relationships are difficult or you choose not to remain in contact. You have a place in the human family, among the other creatures with whom you share this planet, within the history that preceded you and the future that will continue after you.

Relationships change. Communities come and go. You lose people, leave places, become estranged, feel lonely, or long for relationships that do not yet exist.

Belonging does not erase any of this. Belonging is foundational.

You belong when surrounded by those you love. You belong when isolated and feeling lost. You belong when uncertain of your place in the world.

You are a creature of this Earth, breathing air, drinking water, soaking up light and walking upon ground that has held life for billions of years.

Perhaps one of the great misunderstandings of belonging is imagining that someone else has the authority to grant it to you or exclude you.

The natural world suggests otherwise. Nothing has to demonstrate value to earn a place in nature.

The bird doesn’t confer belonging upon the tree.
The tree doesn’t grant membership to the moss.
The water doesn’t award the right to swim to the turtle.

They are already participants in the same living world. As are you.

Perhaps the invitation isn’t to seek those places where you belong. Perhaps it is to remember the place you have never actually left. And to choose how to live as a human who belongs in the garden where you are planted.

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Seeking Treasure

When I was young, the neighborhood kids and I would spend an entire day playing a game we called Seeking Treasure.

Ranging in age from seven to eleven, we’d split into two teams and retreat to separate houses, where we sprawled across the floor mapping out a plan to outwit the other team. We’d write and decorate clever clues on slips of paper. Each team had a designated area of the neighborhood and a firm no spying rule.

We hid clues in trees, on porches, in birdhouses, and mailboxes.

Every game brought a new challenge as we searched for hiding places that would thwart the opposing team. One clue led to another. You didn’t know where you were going when you started, and you couldn’t gauge how far along the other team was in their quest.

That was the fun of it.

At the agreed-upon time, the teams met at a central location. Once the first clues were formally exchanged, the race began. I honestly can’t recall a single clue or whether there was even a treasure to be found.

Yet I have a visceral memory of packs of children running madly through the neighborhood. Putting our heads together to decipher a clue. Climbing trees, sticking our hands into small places, getting really dirty, and screaming wildly for everyone to hurry and keep up.

It was exhilarating fun.

I remember the pleasure of creating, the camaraderie, and a keen feeling of aliveness. Strangely, I have absolutely no memory of winning or losing.

Eventually, both teams ended up at the designated house where somebody’s mom had snacks waiting.

Apparently that’s when we learned that every good quest should end with celebration and plenty of food, no matter who won.

Somewhere along the way, we grew up and stopped seeking treasure.

Even if you never played a game like this, I imagine you left behind at least some of that childhood creativity, freedom of movement, playful exploration, and trust that one clue would somehow lead to another.

Instead, you probably became very good at figuring things out.

You make lists, research decisions, compare possibilities, and ask other people what they think. You may even try to understand what something means before you’ve had a chance to experience it and see what emerges.

There’s nothing wrong with thinking. Your intelligent mind serves you beautifully. But some things are discovered differently. Not by trying harder to find an answer, but by becoming receptive enough to notice what meets you.

I think we need to play again.

That’s the spirit behind Awaken Your Inner Oracle, a day of Oracle Card Readings and Treasure Mapping at Soul Sanctuary.

Imagine arriving among friends, new and old, with a few questions that are alive in your life and absolutely no requirement to know the answers. We’ll play with Oracle cards, share lunch together, and spend the afternoon seeking treasure throughout Soul Sanctuary.

You’ll have an opportunity to relax, play, follow your curiosity, and discover how much more you perceive when you’re not trying so hard to be intuitive.

I’ve enjoyed so many days like this with others at Soul Sanctuary, sitting around playing with Oracle cards, seeking clues, and having no idea what we’ll find.

My favorite part is watching the doubt disappear as people discover how easily they can perceive the wisdom hidden in plain sight.

When I was running around the neighborhood all those years ago, I trusted that something would catch my attention and lead me toward the next clue. I didn’t need to know where I was going or how things would turn out before I began.

I just played.

On Saturday, September 26, I’d love to invite you to come play with me. Bring your curiosity and whatever questions are alive in your life. Let’s have some fun and see what finds you.

Come for one workshop or make a day of it. And I’ll definitely have snacks waiting for you. Some traditions are worth keeping.

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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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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Living Your Convictions

I recently found myself thinking about activism. About the many ways we show up for what matters to us.

As I considered this, three memories arrived. Rapidly, as if they were part of my contemplation.

The first was a conversation I had with a woman in my town. She was giving me an update on her recent gathering with other mothers protesting against gun violence. I was interested as we had explored what mattered to her as she approached retirement. Protecting children in schools and on street corners mattered, so she joined with other moms who cared about the same.

She described the experience standing at a busy street corner in a local town.

I could see it. Lots of mamas showing up with hand made signs, chanting together, and hoping to make a difference. Some passing drivers honked in support. Others rolled down their windows, shouted insults, or flashed rude gestures. She couldn’t believe the hostility. Neither could the other mothers.

So the women shouted back. Righteous in their indignation.

“So you’re an angry activist?” I asked.

She stopped speaking. There was a long pause. Then she laughed. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “I am an angry activist!”

It wasn’t a criticism. It was just something to notice. How easy it is for our nervous system to become shaped by the very energy we’re trying to change. This led to a rich discussion of how to stand for what truly mattered without giving way to dysregulation and anger, regardless of how others in her group or those passing by reacted.

The second scene also took place on a busy street.

I recalled walking past a Tesla showroom in Washington, D.C. last fall. The sidewalk outside the storefront was filled with dancing people. At first, I thought there was a grand opening or something to be celebrated. As we joined the other pedestrians in single file to walk slowly past the dancers, I took in the scene.

Music filled the street. The DJ broadcasted uplifting music as the happy protesters danced with signs.

Some just busted a move and exuded a joyful countenance. After reading the signs, I looked around me. Some people smiled. Others scowled. A few applauded or shimmied a bit, while some muttered their disagreement as they walked by.

The dancers kept dancing. Whether people agreed or disagreed didn't seem to determine their state.

 

No one seemed dysregulated except for the dude who was clearly dancing to his own rhythm.

These activists expressed what they believed without becoming entangled in every passing reaction. That was interesting.

The third memory was of a recent visit I had with a family friend.

This beautiful soul is in her late eighties and has spent much of her life standing up for what she believed was just. I grew up on stories of her protests, occasional arrests, and dogged determination.

When I visited her assisted living community, I noticed a small sign attached to her walker. Every Vote Matters.

“Still at it,” I observed and we shared a smile.

I noted that it was a quiet statement. Later she showed me the larger sign that now hung in her room. It had once been displayed on her walker, but the community had asked residents not to display overt political messages in shared spaces. Let’s just say that wasn’t so quiet as her message was clear, in all caps, and brightly decorated.

But she adapted. Not because her convictions had changed, but because her wisdom had.

I later saw a photo of her at a family party. There she was, rolling around with that bright sign visible for all to read. It struck me that she understood that there is a difference between abandoning your values and expressing them skillfully within the environment you inhabit.

As I thought about these three scenes, I realized they weren’t simply different activists.

They represented three different ways of inhabiting what they cared about.

One became caught in the reactivity around her. And was open to shifting her approach.
The dancers expressed their convictions without becoming pulled into every response.
And one displayed that wisdom sometimes means changing the form without changing the heart.

Whether the moment calls you into protest, parenting, teaching, voting, caring for a friend, or simply having a difficult conversation, how you live your convictions matters.

As I drove home, I found myself less interested in activism than in how I live my convictions.

Not what I stood against. But how I stand.
Not whether I cared. But how I carry what I care about.
And how I meet those who see the world differently than I do.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Leaving Home to Arrive Home

Eight years ago, I traveled to Costa Rica for a week-long retreat centered around ayahuasca, breathwork, yoga, and deep inner exploration.

Like many people who are drawn to these experiences, I went seeking something. You might call it a Divine encounter. You might call it awakening. You might call it healing.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for. I only knew there seemed to be a place people spoke about. That place beyond ordinary life. A place where greater peace, greater freedom, and greater love existed. And I wanted to know it for myself.

On the first evening, I lay on a mattress beneath an open-air pavilion in the Costa Rican jungle.

Night settled around the group as the ceremony began. I was relaxed, open, and curious.
As the plant medicine took effect, I remember making one simple commitment to myself. Don’t turn away. Whatever appears, it is here for you. Meet it.

For hours, I was shown scenes from ordinary moments of my own life.

Every one revealed where I had turned away from what was actually present.

Countless moments where Life was present but I was not.

When someone reached toward me and I wasn’t fully there. 
How beauty quietly presented itself and I hurried past. 
Ways I turned away from myself. 
Living my life while imagining that real life was somewhere else.
Times I let go the Mystery and a sense of wonder.

Scene after scene unfolded. Some scenes were so small and ordinary that I might never have noticed them at all. Others were much more significant and far reaching. There was no judgment accompanying what was bring offered.

Only the opportunity to see clearly. And with the seeing came tears. I cried for hours because I suddenly understood what I had been missing.

I wasn’t grieving my failures or feeling concern about hurting anyone. I was grieving the countless missed opportunities for relationship that had quietly passed by while I was looking somewhere else.

The next morning, I walked alone along a path through the jungle.

Trees swayed gently in the warm breeze, providing a gentle landing for the birds who sang beneath the bright sun. My body felt tired with some lingering sense of motion sickness.

A hangover of sorts from a night of traveling through so many landscapes.

Walking along that path, my inner voice spoke clearly: Now the work begins.

 

Yes, I understood and I agreed.

Almost immediately I heard that same voice laugh. You came here for a magic pill, didn’t you?

Touche. Indeed, I did. I had to laugh. Some part of me believed I would arrive in Costa Rica, meet the Divine, have love break me open, and leave transformed into an entirely new person.

Instead, I was being invited back into relationship with my own life.

The ceremonies continued for three more nights. Each one delivered exactly what it needed.

As I returned home, that invitation reverberated through my being. 

Now the work begins.

Not the work of becoming someone new. It was the staying within the ordinary moments I was living.

It was the invitation to return to the people in front of me, my own body, the quiet beauty, and the potential to meet the moment as it arrived.

To turn toward the life that had never stopped inviting me into relationship.

Looking back now, I don’t think I went to Costa Rica seeking some mystical state, inner contentment, or existential peace. I think all along I went seeking my own life. And Life, in its mysterious generosity, gave me exactly what I needed. 



Not another destination. 

A way of returning home.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Parking with Dan

About twenty-five years ago, I was driving with a colleague to a local conference. As we approached the hotel entrance, I noticed an open parking spot near the front door.

“There’s a spot,” I said, pointing to the right. He drove past it.

A few seconds later, another one appeared. He drove past that one, too. Then I pointed to a third. “There’s a spot.” Without the slightest hesitation, Dan replied, “I’ll leave that for someone else.”

And he calmly parked much farther away. As we walked to the entrance, I asked about that statement.

Dan explained that it was a practice of his. Whenever possible, he left the closest parking spaces for someone else. Perhaps there was someone carrying packages, or struggling with luggage and young children. Maybe someone was tired or had difficulty walking. Whatever the reason, Dan left the closer spots for those who simply needed it more than he did.

I nodded. It made sense, so I adopted that practice for myself that day.

I had hired Dan as a psychologist for the nonprofit agency where we worked with adolescents and families in the community. It was his first professional position after completing his PhD in clinical psychology.

He was fifty years old. It remains one of the most enjoyable interviews I’ve ever had.

When Dan was a young man in college, he found himself asking a question many people ask but few act upon: “Where can I find meaning?” Someone answered, “Go east.”

So he did.

He left college and traveled to Tibet, where he spent years studying wisdom traditions, meditation, and the art of bookmaking. By the time I met him, he had returned to the United States carrying something difficult to define but easy to recognize. He had a quiet steadiness about him. He moved through the world differently than most.

Throughout our years working together, we had many conversations.

When I told him I struggled to quiet my mind, he suggested a simple breathing practice. He asked me where I felt most peaceful. At the time, my daughter was an infant. I told him about sitting in a rocking chair in the dim light while she slept nearby.

“Start there,” he said.

And so I did. That became my place. Not a meditation cushion or a retreat center. A rocking chair beside a sleeping baby.

Dan rarely offered complicated answers. Instead, he pointed toward something simple enough to live.

Like leaving the closest parking spaces for others.

Over time, that simple practice expanded into dozens of small acts of consideration. Not dramatic gestures. Just quiet awareness of the people around me and the people yet to arrive.

Dan and I were together exploring neurofeedback for our clients when news of the attacks on the Twin Towers reached us. I remember walking out of my office and seeing staff members crying as they tried to tell us what had happened.

My first thought was, “What have we done?”

I meant it in the broadest human sense. How had we arrived here? What conditions had brought us to this moment? What responsibility do we all carry for the world we create together?

Spending time with Dan always expanded our view of life and enlarged our circle of belonging. We shared an awareness that our lives are connected in ways we often overlook. Simple yet profound connections that quietly shape the quality of life for those around us.

After we both left the agency, we continued to meet occasionally at Starbucks.

We would catch up on our practices, our work, and our lives. Yet somehow the conversation always returned to ordinary things. A simple question or an observation about the world and our place in it.

Then Dan would say something small. Just a sentence. I learned to pay attention to how his gentle comment reverberated through my being.

Sometimes long stretches of silence would settle between us. Neither of us rushed to fill them. We would sit with our tea, each following our own reflections until one of us felt we had something worth sharing. Or not.

I came to appreciate these simple statements which would often unfold over weeks or months, perhaps gradually becoming another lived practice.

The older I get, the more I realize that wisdom often arrives quietly. Not through grand teachings, but through regular moments with ordinary people who have learned how to pay attention.

A parking space. A deep breath in the midst of tragedy. The pleasure of a perfectly placed rocking chair. A slow conversation over tea.

Dan eventually moved across the country in search of a slower life. I was happy for him. It seemed exactly right.

The funny thing is, I never miss Dan. Not because he wasn’t valued in my life. Quite the opposite. I thoroughly enjoyed our exchanges, our clinical collaboration, and all we discovered together.

Those people who are a beneficial presence in our lives somehow remain present.

I still leave the closest parking spaces for someone else. And when my passenger points out that I missed a few spots by the entrance, I smile.

Because Dan is right there with me. An invisible reverberation of a lesson well modeled.

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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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.