I slept through the turning of the New Year, but woke this morning well before the promise of a sun’s light that has yet to break through the grey drip of rain outside my window. There was no celebratory toast at midnight, nor the watching of a silver orb dropping from the sky. Instead, 2024 passed into 2025 rather quietly. The evening spent with my husband and college-age son watching a film and eating takeout sushi before I retired with my head cold to an early bed.
Inevitably, there were moments of reflection as the years turned into each other. And one word, in particular, taking root in the firmament of my being. “Determination.” A few days ago, while driving home from the dealership where my husband’s car had undergone maintenance, bold white letters on a green billboard drew my gaze away from the night road. “Start Building Your Sanctuary Today.”
It was a sign. Literally and symbolically. I seized upon its blatant command with, well, determination. I have not made a list of resolutions, but one singular objective has carried me through 2024 into 2025, and that is to find and start building my sanctuary. I am trusting, with determination, that this will be the year that the land presents itself to me and we begin to build our contract with each other. I trust because I have learned that when something like this grabs ahold of your consciousness with such steadfast determination, it will not give up until it is realized.
In the midst of a world that feels very much in a state of global upheaval, I am looking forward to planting the seeds of connection in a sanctuary that will, one day, be open to all.
I wonder what word, or words, are pulling others into this new year? What impetuous is driving you forward into another turning of the calendar?
My sister and I walk the streets of our town talking about Tyler Henry and ghosts. Decades removed from our atheist childhood, we are now bonded by belief. We find ourselves haunted by the absence of our grandmother nearly three years passed. Confused and perhaps a bit letdown that she has not returned to talk with us again, we trade our theories and inevitably kick up the past along the way.
It is here that I find myself being led to the shadow self, Carl Jung, and the tether of the umbilicus. We talk about the struggle to cut the cord that draws life from the mother into the child and how the stories too long held become trapped inside until they churn like a storm. And so we reminder ourselves that sometimes the only path forward is a severed one.
How foolish of us to pretend we are fully freed of the cord that binds. For a reminder awaits me in my mailbox. Threads stitched by the mother-hand sent to my daughter. Bypassing me, but not really. The refusal to fully release tugs away at frustration; an endless loop that looks for reason. We cannot control what we cannot change.
Yet, sometimes peace finds us in unexpected places. Here I am, a day later, sitting in a darkened room, waiting while my eyes adjust to forced dilation. The room is warm and quiet. A machine hums white noise, infusing the space around me with a soft peace. So content, I find myself melting into that state between waking and sleep. And in this liminal space where we are reminded of infinity, I welcome my absent grandmother to join me. In no time she is beside my right shoulder. My grandfather on my left.
There is no need for surprise, or resistance. After all, love is patient. Instead of forcing an invitation, it waits, ever ready for the opening.
How many times do I return to this haze of disbelief. Is this really reality? Did I really sign up for this? Did all of us?
At my per diem job, I check in the blissfully proud disillusioned with their American flags stitched in China on their brows. I listen to a white man boast to a brown man in the waiting room about hero worship. Barely two pennies to rub together, but determined to buy the gold shoes from his elected leader. Oh so proud he has no idea who he is talking to. He doesn’t care. He is a white man.
I watch the white woman with her red shirt, rising through her own idea of rank in her myopic world blind to the offspring she has forsaken. Proud, oh so proud, to have fulfilled her familial duty.
On the road, I am behind a black truck with a sticker reading “God, Guns & Trump,” and find myself channeling my father-in-law, “He is so stupid, he doesn’t know he’s stupid.” When did God become a weapon of death?
I am living in a haze of disbelief. Back at my desk job, I try to tune out the proud words of the born-again brown skinned immigrant. Proud, oh so proud that he is an American legally that he cannot wait to send his brothers and sister back to where they came from. He chants scripture to battle the evil inside. I have never met anyone so righteous with hate. The name of the son of his chosen God bookends his car. Hypocrisy at its finest.
I am living in a world gone mad. Bat-shit crazy…
But it is nothing new.
This is his-story. History.
Her-story is being pushed back into the her body, but she is not dead. She never was. Her dormancy is a ruse. She watches in wait. She stirs with unease and sometimes she erupts. She is our Mother, our Sister, our Lover. She is Us.
A dry summer and fall has led to a low water levels, revealing the path of the mountain stream on its journey to the lake.
These days I find myself drawn to the boarder lands. I walk along the coastline of lakes and rivers searching for connection amidst separation.
The detritus of oak leaves collects in the shifting boundary between water and land.
I study the blurring of water, sky, and land where there is the perception of a stark contrast. A boundary of colored light or the density of collected molecules creates the ruse for the eyes, begging them to find the line of separation.
Light plays with reflection and color, creating false boundaries for the eyes to decipher.
It is here where I see the melding of elements.
I am stilled by the rhythmic lap of water, wetting the drying earth.
I pause to watch the sky pour down color into the shadowed lands and am reminded of hope. How something that may seem heavy is really weightless.
Try these sounds to work through heavy emotions. Start with fear, move through anger, then anxiety and grief. End with a self hug.
I created the above image this morning, and posted it on my social media. Currently it has 15K views on TikTok. I’m surprised, but I’m not. This week, many of our deepest emotions have risen to the surface in the aftermath of the 2024 US election. Half the country is celebrating in bold, proud displays of MAGA pride, the other half is experiencing the trauma of shock, and an ungrounding mixture of fear, anger, anxiety and grief. We are in a stating of mourning and uncertainty. We are broken, but still whole.
For many, the everyday routine has become something that feels tenuous and fragile. The constant pounding of hatred has broken the hope that threaded the fabric of our collective humanity. We are broken, but still whole.
We need to find the frayed pieces. We need to find a way to sew the seams back together to find a feeling of unity. We need to find the goodness of common ground.
“Hello darkness my old friend. I’ve come to talk to you again,” this song of silence has words. We know it well. We have been here before. So many times we have cycled into our darkness, and once again, we are being asked to thread the light back into our collective story.
“We can do hard things,” because we’ve done them before. We can find “Goodness in common ground.” We can find “the light behind the story.” We have to, because we must.
It is a time of mourning and processing. It is a time of self-care and caring for others. Check on yourself, your friends, your family, your neighbors and your peers. If you are struggling, please ask for help. There are so many doors opened in kindness. Seek them out. There are more than ever. Be one of them.
If you don’t know what that door looks like right now, trust that its definition will form. I am relying on trust and faith. Navigating uncharted waters requires us to find the strength within, and the knowing that the way will find us.
I am also offering a free Zoom this evening, at 7pm EST. All are welcome. It’s spur of the moment, but that’s the nature of these uncharted waters. If you or anyone you know is struggling right now, please know this door is open to you. We will be working with the yoga and sound to process our emotions and find a greater sense of peace in these uncertain times.
Together we can find our way. One breath. One day at a time.
Sometimes we need to stop and assess. To pause and figure out where we are in relation to the past, the present, and the future so that we can progress.
Here we are now, metaphorically paralyzed, in a tangle of time. Threaded with anxiety about the future, we attempt to unravel our humanity weighted by the mistakes of our past.
Again.
The other day, I found myself returning to the origins of my blog, and why I renamed it, years ago, to “The Light Behind the Story.” I thought about where I existed in this folded continuum of time and where I exist in the bigger “we” of human existence as I watch our collective history repeat itself.
And, I thought about why we seem to cycle, over and over again, back to the hold. Holding tight to our darkness as we snuff out our light.
Why do we choose hate over love?
Why do we choose to believe lies over truth?
Why do we follow, with blind faith, the immoral would-be leader?
I need to search my own story alongside our collective stories for answers. Nothing is revelatory, yet there is a persistent nagging of what cannot be overlooked.
A need for inclusion.
A need for acceptance.
A need to be a part of a collective for fear of being rejected as the “other.”
When I follow the threads backwards, I see myself as the other, and as the collective. I see myself as the blind follower, and the outcast. I see myself searching, over and over again, for definition, for unity, for wholeness. And it is through these points of struggle to define myself that I can achieve a greater sense of the struggle that permeates our collective “we,” even if I cannot understand the specificities of why.
Why the choice to hold on stubbornly to immortality.
Why the persistence of virulent amnesia and denial?
Why is there a pervasive refusal to remember the hard lessons of the past in order to not repeat them?
Here, I find only the false backbones of pride and hate, and they both trouble me. From this precarious structure, I need to widen my gaze to the horizon to see the light beyond the shadows. I need to gaze into the vast expanse of blue and believe in the power of truth.
It began with a large murder of crows and ended with the Northern Lights. Hundreds of the black birds spread across the rooftops and trees, flying into the brilliant October sky to send their caws to the wind and my awakened ears as I ventured from the parking lot to my class.
This would not be an ordinary day.
After a morning of teaching yoga and running errands, I returned home to a day without work. I fed the demanding cat a second breakfast, and the dogs their treats, then settled on the couch to cull through emails. Moments later, I felt an impulse to lift my head. Beyond the layers of autumn leaves and woven arms of the old apple and surrounding pines and maples, I saw a black shape in the oldest pine at the edge of my property. Even though it yielded no discernible shape, I knew instantly it was a bear.
Throwing caution to the wind (I do not advise this), I grabbed my phone and, without alarming the oblivious mutts, made my way onto the porch, out the back door, and through the gate in my backyard so that I could get a better look at what was attached to the old pine.
Mama bear from her sentry position on the pine
And there she was, staring through the golden leaves, watching me. Slung of the lowest limb that would hold her weight was a mama bear. Scampering up the trees above, were her three cubs. I inched slightly closer as I tried to focus my camera through the foliage to capture my unexpected guests. Not a smart choice, but I was close enough to the fence door for a quick exit should she decide to leave her post. Strangely, I felt safe and calm. Mama watched me without alarm as I snapped a few photos, and filmed her family as they settled in for a nap (Sorry, I am not attaching them film because I did utter an S*&t in shock).
And nap they did, for the next hour or so, while I wandered back inside to observe behind the safety of glass with Millie the cat. The dogs, succumbing to a strange impulse to slumber through their lunch hour, slept on their respective sofas, unfazed until their internal alarms finally alerted them that they had missed their meal.
Well not really, I fed the dogs a late lunch (and the cat, of course), and heated up some leftover butternut squash soup for myself while I strategized how I was going to walk the dogs without disturbing my slumbering guests.
It was as though the bears had put a spell on the household, and in particular the dogs. Quick to react to a passing dear, even when the curtains are drawn to the darkness, they failed to detect the four ursine intruders in their backyard, even after we walked through the front door. The only challenge was convincing Rosy that she did not want to take her usual lap around the house before we ventured down the street.
We were gone a mere ten or fifteen minutes, which is not uncommon for our walks these days. Senior dogs prefer the couch to the pavement, and so we turned back home before too long. As we entered the driveway, two crows flew above our heads, cawing into the pine behind the house where our visitors slept. Continuing to caw, as though in warning, they stayed in the tree until we were back inside.
As the dogs settled onto their couches to rest after their strenuous walk, I scanned through the foliage for my four friends. An hour unfolded into another as the bears woke, one by one, and casually made their way down the pine to explore the wooded area behind my house. Five hours in total, as I watched in rapt wonder with the occasional break, as they wrestled and played to the drumming of the woodpecker on my apple tree.
The cub I called Sula, trying to figure out how to use the swing in my backyard
It was pure magic. Joy mingled with peace as the protective calm of mama bear flooded the area around my home and made its way to settle any energy of unease inside my home. What a gift it was to be present, for these five hours, in quiet observation of these wild wonders. Naturally, I could not help thinking of my Warriors of Light protagonist Sula while I watched the bears climb and play. Lover of trees and slumber, Sula carries inside of her the spirit of bear. And it is bear medicine that found me yesterday, as it always seems to at unexpected, yet perfect moments, to pull me through the veil of dreams. Tugging, gently, the cloak away from courage.
Sula bear on the seesaw
What are you waiting for…come play
And as if this was not enough magic for the one day, the night decided to compete for wonder in a show of Northern Lights:
The northern lights viewed from the back and front yards
It couldn’t have arrived at a more perfect time. An unexpected message caused my phone to buzz near the end of my work day. Do you want to lead a retreat for teens at my farm?
Three weeks later, a small busload of high schoolers walked into her barn while we chatted about the agenda. They were ten minutes early, and more prepared than I had anticipated. My agenda for the day was defined, but loosely. With plenty of room for options, I had not wanted to assume we would share a yoga class together. Instead, I had factored in time for yoga-ish activities.
Imagine my delight when I realized I needed to make a quick wardrobe change and set up the space in the loft while my eager yogis enjoyed a light breakfast of yogurt and fruit downstairs. Reluctance had not arrived that morning on the bus, only eagerness and anticipation.
It is rare that I define anything with the word perfect, but as the quiet magic of connection threaded through the morning, I knew each one of us was where we needed to be. If a small group of teens can willingly leave their phones in a box for three hours to practice yoga together, gather leaves and stones to happily create nature mandalas, and harvest lavender in the hot sun with joy, then how could I define a morning with any word other than perfect?
I want to share some of the beautiful mandalas that were created during our day together. And, if you happen to find yourself near Warner, New Hampshire in the future during lavender season, do stop by Pumpkin Blossom Farm. It is truly a place of beauty and wonder.
Nature Mandalas Created During the Teen Retreat at Pumpkin Blossom Farm in Warner, NH
Not today’s scene, but a recent one from earlier in the summer at the lake
Outside my window, a yellowed leaf from the old apple tree twirls from an invisible thread. It is dancing in the rain with the illusion of magic. I am mesmerized, unable to detect from inside my home, the strand of the spider’s web. Watching it, I am reminded of how easy it is to find wonder. When we pause to observe, we find it all around us. It is, quite literally, inescapable. Wonder exists in this ability to type words on a screen and send them out to readers across the globe in an instant. Wonder is the pull of gravity that holds us to the Earth, as well as the lift of force and currents that allows us to rise above it. Wonder is the code of beauty held inside a cell. It is the expression of joy on a child’s face…
Yet, wonder quite often escapes our notice when we rush through the minutes to tick off tasks and accrue accomplishments. Our egos, feeling the boost of satisfaction, quickly fidget for more, while wonder pleads for presence to nurture the soul, begging us to remember that we are, in essence, creatures of wonder.
A painted lady bending a limb of the butterfly bush in August
Mid August has found me in the gardens pulling the dried, brown leaves off the tall phlox whose blooms are still scented with summer. Beside us, the butterfly bush boasts a brilliant fuchsia, sending out its heady pheromones, urging pollinators to drink their fill as though eternal youth is a promise.
The endless pursuit of bittersweet is threatening the borders again, so I pull their greedy orange roots and toss them onto the black pavement. Bittersweet. I can think of no better word to describe this season of life. Earlier in the day, when the house was humming with waking life, I stilled the words in my husband’s mouth before they could find air. Placing a breakfast bagel in front of our son’s chair, I told him, “I only have a few more opportunities to do this.”
I can feel the ocean in my eyes. Does the tug of the mother-womb ever leave us? I want to hold onto time as much as I want to let it go. There is an old farm in Maine that whispers a love song to my heart, which constricts with impending loss. How many mothers rejoice and weep in the same breath as the longing for the redefinition of self competes with fierce pull to hold onto the children walking through the threshold of adulthood?
I need to get used to the quiet, remembering that in the space of silence the soul can sing loud and strong. There is a season for everything, and each one holds an open and a closing. The neighbor’s children remind me of days filled with pool floats and small feet racing over wet concrete, and I realize there is a different sound I seek. Already I can hear next summer’s bees and the full-throated call the bullfrogs down by a pond that exists somewhere that is not here.
The Light Behind the Story 