Surrender [is] an active decision, an act of strength and courage, with serenity as its reward.

~ Richard Schaub



I’ve made a decision – one that’s been a long time coming – to finally stop and rest.  To allow my body to heal from an illness that has become chronic.  To take a “gap year”, and figure out what it is, exactly, that I want to do in the world for the next twenty years or so.  To dream some long held dreams into being.

And to do that – any of that, to say nothing of all of it – I need to surrender.  Fully, unconditionally.  It’s time.


Serenity will just be a happy bonus!




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There was a time when I would not have shared this photo with anyone.  A time when I would not have seen the beauty here.  Followed by a time when both the grace and the imperfections would have registered, and I still wouldn’t show it to a soul because, you know – it isn’t perfect.


And now?  All I see is the depths of stunning luminosity.  All the dirt does is highlight the purity, the brilliance, the gorgeous design.


Now I know that it’s all perfect – and that perfection is so not the goal.


I know that the shadow only makes the light visible.


Some days, I see all this in myself, too.  And I always see it in you.







Rest is something I don’t have a lot of experience with – or expertise in, certainly.  It’s time for that to change, no questions asked, and so I’m fumbling with what it looks like, how it feels, and when I need to fall into it, trusting that this is right.


Here’s something I unearthed in my research – the most beautiful words around rest that I know.  Listen.


Learn by little the desire for all things

which perhaps is not desire at all

but undying love which perhaps

is not love at all but gratitude

for the beings of all things which

perhaps is not gratitude at all

but the maker’s joy in what is made,

the joy in which we come to rest.


~ Wendell Berry, 

   from “This Day: Collected and Sabbath Poems”  (thanks, Lindsey!)






Everything is alright.

Always has been, always will be.




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What if we all knew that we are ready?  (And what if I remembered that, too.)







There are days I lead and days I follow.  Lately, in pretty equal measure, which is not the way I thought It Was Supposed To Be.  Not at all.


I thought that someday, when I was big (and I have been for some time now), that I would know what I was Supposed to Do and then I would Be that.  And I’d be the teacher.  The one who always knows what to Do.


Now I see that it’s all about Being.  Simple as that, and then Doing from that place only.  And that I will always (thankfully) be the student.  That not knowing what to do makes for a pretty interesting life.


What a relief.


I believe this is what I believe, more and more –


We teach what we need to learn – and learn what we need to teach.


And it seems to work beautifully, when we allow it to.  When we play and learn and figure it all out together.


Again, a huge relief.  Ah.




So here’s my new question.


We are all so needed, so full of gorgeous wisdom and knowing, our very presence so desired by this Universe, by each other.  What holds us back?


Why do we hold it all back – from ourselves and each other?



Let me know.




And here’s to Being who we are, and weaving all that Being, collectively, into a whole new world.  And maybe dropping the Doing entirely.  Namaste, people.  Namaste.


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I wonder if we all feel invisible sometimes.  I certainly do.  Right now.


A wise friend asked a question in a small group setting recently, and while I wanted to answer the question – essentially, what did we dream of being when we were six years old and what would we tell that six year old now – in an endearing, perhaps even amusing way, this is what came out.


“When I was six, I felt invisible. Unseen. An extension of others. As if there was no place for the knowing and imaginings of my heart, only the owning of my body by said others.

What I’ve been trying to show that six year old me, ever since then, is that only she can create the welcome she yearned for. That it doesn’t matter if is safe or not, that bringing that incredibly beautiful wisdom she had – that we all have- to the world is what life is all about. That the how doesn’t matter – it’s the bringing it that counts.”


Not so pretty, eh?


And yet that’s who I am.  I go deep.  I touch the raw places.  I speak the words I am not supposed to speak, even when it’s scary.  (maybe especially when it’s scary)

It usually works out just fine, once I get past the hurt.

And in polite company, it makes me feel invisible.


The more time I spend in the intuitive realm, creating and weaving from the depths of my soul and the beautiful souls of others, the less comfortable I am when the conversation is all cerebral.  It’s not that I don’t have a big and powerful brain – I do and I know how to use it.  I’ve just chosen to live from my heart and in many situations that makes me feel outcast.  Alone.  Invisible.

So sometimes I wish I could climb back in my brain and stay there and talk about politics and the weather and make polite chit chat.  I really do.


Then I remember this…


the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.

-Jack Kerouac


And I know who I am and why I am here.  To burn bright, to illuminate the darkness, to dive deep and revel in all that could be.


And I know I’m not alone.


PS.  That photo?  Taken for a selfie program last year, when I had the flu.  It’s not pretty either, yet it sure does show the rawness I am feeling now.



Murmuration from Islands & Rivers on Vimeo.


There’s a phenomenon I just love, one that I’m seeing often, no matter where I travel.  It’s that moment when starlings take to the sky in a wild woosh of motion, with great energy and great control and even greater synchronization, all at once.  I love the sound of it and the patterns across the sky, and the other evening, I managed to capture it in an iPhone photo I posted to Facebook early the next day.  Jessica and Sarah knew, bless them both, the name for it.  A murmuration of starlings.


Yes.  A murmuration.  That is the perfect word.  Yes.


And then Sarah posted this video for me and Jessica and we all watched it together.  In Minnesota, Virginia and Ontario.  Through the magic of the online world, we connected and banished the heaviness of  what had started off as a not so great morning for each of us.  Our hearts connected for a few minutes, and then we each went on our way, all the better for the time together and this incredibly beautiful footage.

And now I share it with you.

Murmuration.  Magic.  Maybe both.