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Soulence's Substack: Point of Exhale

Conversations with Plants: How I Find Sustenance in a Wounded World

I walked down the hill to the gnarly flowerbed preparing to remove the matted dried dead remains of last year’s display of wonder, allowing more space for the soft green yarrow peeking up from the earth below. Before I knew it, I was in a conversation…not with the person near me, but with the plant itself. I didn’t speak aloud, mind you, it was something from the heart, wrapped in mystery, via a practiced and trusted space of inner knowing.

Do you feel neglected? Are you relieved that we finally came down here? Have you been longing to be free from winter’s remains? I asked the yarrow. The plant simply replied We grow. We know how to grow. I am growing right now in this way and when you remove the dead remains, I will grow more freely.

It was a simple response, and I thought to myself later that it felt like something a wise elder might say to such curiosity.

Two days later, a friend read a passage from Braiding Sweetgrass, reminding me of Robin Wall Kimmerer’s teaching that plants and animals are truly the elders among us and certainly the wise teachers for the human kin.

I think back to the start of my journey of talking with plants, years ago when I first read Kimmerer’s work and being completely enamored with the profundity of the relational accessibility we have with the natural world, if only we are willing to invest in practices of listening, gratitude and reciprocity, ultimately re-membering ourselves to the land. 

I began carrying tobacco in little jars, keeping extra in a container tucked under the seat of my car, always ready with a gift to offer a place I was meeting, visiting or working on. I practiced pouring back upon the earth the nourishing substance of life, not as compost, but as ceremony. I developed a practice of listening to trees, surprised as all get out when they started talking back, in a way that I can only describe as down to earth. 

When I talk with trees, I mostly see energy or get a vision of what they want to share with me. I’ll see a shape or a texture and when I open my eyes, I’ll look for the image on or near the tree. Trees have shown me how they appreciate the sun shining down their trunks. Some delight in the expanse of their branches. Some are mindful of their holes, and still others want me to know how special the tree next to them is, or how they watch the nearby trail where humans pass. It’s all so beautifully wholesome, present and filled with being.

And what has happened is that I no longer feel like a stranger when I enter the forest. There is not a sense of visitation as much as being right at home, a place of belonging that is unparalleled in our screen-obsessed human world full of violence. 

Years ago, a friend said to me The plants love us. At first I didn’t know what she meant. But I came to understand how many plants actually offer themselves as medicine. I lived on my own suburban property for years before I knew how many plants here are not only edible but medicinal.

I also learned how the plants that live in our spaces know us and are aware of our energy, through their own version of consciousness. I remember a friend, who was deep in grief, told me the plant in her office hadn’t bloomed for about the length of time she had been filled with angst. The week she realized she was over the hump and moving into a lighter space, the plant bloomed. 

I have resisted sitting down to write this because 1. I am no plant expert and 2. I am aware that I sound crazy. But I only sound crazy in light of a world that has forgotten this relationship, this belonging. My credentials are my willingness to pay attention, to be astonished and to tell about it, as St. Mary of Oliver instructed. She is one that left the forest gate open behind her and invited us to follow. I am in the forest most days now. I meet friends there as much as in coffee shops. I’m considering practicing spiritual direction among the trees for those who would appreciate it.

I share because we need all the medicine we can get these days, and I’m here to encourage you to go lie down in your yard and introduce yourself to someone you’ve never formally met, to tell your best jokes to your houseplants, or walk into the woods and let the trees teach you what it means to be alive. And maybe even kind.

“Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the earth gives me daily and I must return the gift.”

-Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass

Letting 2023 Be What It Was

I feel it as soon as I begin reflecting - the pressure to turn away from my personal griefs because there are things happening in the world that are far worse.

Don’t get me wrong - I believe in perspective and in our oneness. I give attention to that regularly. I also learned long ago that skirting my own grief processes did nothing to serve the world at large.

2023 was an incredibly challenging year. My dad died. I had two health scares that resulted in biopsies, and were at times far too terrible to talk about. In alignment with my inner prompting, I had to make some choices that changed my inner social circle, which initially left me feeling pretty lonely. I made a decision to quit my day job. 

None of these things are inherently bad. My dad lived a long, full life, and was given the gift of dying at home, the way he wanted. I’ve learned to walk with him through the veil and feel his presence in a new way, which in many ways feels closer than ever. I’m grateful that the biopsies were both negative in the end, and I’m choosing to accept the gift of having to reach my expensive deductible so I can now freely explore weekly chiropractic treatments which have proven to be good medicine. I joke after each treatment that I feel like I’ve grown an inch. My range of motion has changed and I feel the adjustments affecting other systems positively. My relationships are super intentional and mutually supportive, and I’ve embraced a slower pace of life, where I don’t hold busyness like a trophy of self-worth. I’m leaving my job, having ended strong, feeling great about the work I have done.

I don’t take any of this for granted.

This year I also had the opportunity to expand my spiritual awareness and learn to live from a fuller state of being. This shifted a lot for me. I let go of a deeply rutted place of unconscious living that I was convinced I couldn’t live without. And it felt like shedding a tight, uncomfortable skin and moving into new freedom. Coming up for air.

What if the glimmers finally outweigh the triggers? Am I reading the room if I am still able to find joy in everyday living? When the world is on fire, is it okay to be okay?

I want to contribute to the healing of the world through this place of being. To know that at every moment I am contributing something, and the quality of that is precious. I’m not just talking about a surfacey “love and light” here, I’m talking about something deeply essential continuing to be restored within me, allowing me to live fully, to receive the gifts while present with the grief. To listen for how to share that and lean into an abundance that somehow remains present, even when the landscape appears to be bleak. 

I want to live in such a way where I don’t avert my eyes from anything - the pain or the joy, the distortions or the love.

Perhaps instead of making a resolution, I welcome the chance to continue to be resolved of anything that impedes an authentic life in the coming year. 

May the past year be laid to rest with gratitude.

May the new year be received with openness of heart.

May our vision be courageous and clear.

May deep essential living be restored.

May we contribute to the healing of the world.

The Gift of a Lifetime

I really liked my dad.

Some of the things I loved most about him was that he was always up for making a joke. He almost always smiled at you. He was fearless - at times it was scary - but it was always entertaining. I loved how he jerry-rigged projects with this creative DIY mindset. They always made sense to me when I examined them. He had no need to be fancy. He often lived beyond ego. He loved the woods. He deeply valued his spirituality. 

I like to think these are all qualities he helped to instill in me from a young age as well.

I liked spending time with dad - whether on his Hoover Refrigeration service calls, riding motorcycles, boating at Raystown Lake, spotting or watching deer in the evenings, and my favorite of all - morel hunting in the spring. I was often interested in the things he was interested in, and he nurtured that. He was, from my memory, usually willing to include me and teach me. He often affirmed me during those times.

When I was a young girl - I’m guessing 8 or 9 years old, I was in my dad’s home office with him. I was checking out a promotional item he had received from Mueller, which was the brand of milk coolers he sold. It was a small flathead screwdriver that was made for a keychain, and it had the Mueller logo on it. He saw that I liked it, and he gave it to me. I remember so clearly what he said to me that day - “I wouldn’t give this to just anyone.” I remember that that meant the world to me. I felt trustworthy and special and I vowed to myself that I would take utmost care for it - because this item was so special.

Of course when I grew older, I realized that it wasn’t the screwdriver that was so special, it was the way he was relating to me in that moment. 

But nearly 40 years later, I still have that screwdriver and I’m happy to report that it’s in pristine condition. I’d like to think that it’s symbolic of how special my dad was to me and my desire to honor him and our relationship. 

Even though our relationship changed over the years, and Dad didn’t always see eye-to-eye with my life choices, I want to believe that in my heart of hearts, I didn’t let him down.

Often after a loved one passes, I have moments of clearly feeling their presence. For days after my dad passed, I couldn’t feel him. I was already on the other side of the world, leading a group of students in Palestine, and felt so far away from home. Finally one night I said, “Dad, I can’t feel you right now and I just want to feel you. Please let me hear from you.” I went to sleep and the next morning I was startled awake by a man’s voice saying my name. I immediately thought my husband Tim was waking me up. I turned to look and there was no one there. I looked at the clock - 5:27am. That’s when I felt Dad from the other side of the veil and I could even feel his sense of humor coming through. Really Dad, you don’t have to wake up that early anymore. But I love you for it. And if you’re jerry-rigging the pearly gates, which I can only imagine you are offering to do, I’ll be holding the screwdriver for you.

Reflections on Fear

I’m back in Palestine for the first time in twelve years.

We are staying in Beit Sahour, a town just “down the hill” from Bethlehem. Beit Sahour is a predominantly Christian town and is famous for the Shepherds Fields, where the angels appeared to proclaim the glory of the birth of Jesus.

Some of the most famous words from that story sit with me: Do not be afraid.

Before we left, many friends told us to “be safe.” While this is not surprising, I sometimes wonder what each person imagines may endanger us. Bombs? Guns? Protests? Israeli soldiers? Checkpoints? Palestinians?

What are we afraid of and why?

The other day, following an agency visit, I left the group and returned to one of my new favorite places, The Walled Off Hotel in Bethlehem, famous for its collaboration with the artist Banksy. The hotel sits meters from the Apartheid Wall which cuts Bethlehem off from Jerusalem and Palestinians from their land.

Here I walk the streets alone, cross roads in front of cars, and engage in conversations in broken Arabic. My body knows - remembers - how to do this without fear. My body, mind and spirit have a relationship with this land and people.

That day I grabbed a taxi to return to our guesthouse in Beit Sahour. The taxi driver, a Muslim man, was eager to engage me in conversation. He had just had an experience with an American man who told him that he had come into the West Bank and “left his family in Jerusalem” because he had been warned that if you enter the West Bank with your children, you will return empty-handed. (Meaning, they would be kidnapped.) The driver was so distraught about this.

Given that I’d shared that I had lived here before (everyone wants to know how you know Arabic), he asked me if I’d ever heard of such a thing - kidnappings in the West Bank. I told him no. He knew I had brought my children with me, so he asked me how I felt about that.

I paused. Then I said, “In the last eight weeks, my son’s school has had five lockdowns. In America, we never know if our children are safe in school. There are so many school shootings. In America, guns are a huge problem. I inserted the Arabic word for ‘crazy’ to make my point. But here, my children go out walking and I don’t worry about them, because I know the people. I know they are safe.”

He was speechless. This man, who lives under military occupation, was speechless. He had no idea what to say in response to a society that threatens its own children.

I hoped I’d answered his question.

The conversation moved to religion. We were both smiling at the end of the ride.

The only children that disappear on this side of the Apartheid Wall are the illusions we’ve nurtured. Will we, like the shepherds, respond in fear to the things that arrive to liberate us - relationships with those who are marginalized, true stories of heartbreaking dispossession and creative acts of resistance?

The situation in Palestine will break your heart, and you must be courageous enough to let it.

Close up of the Apartheid Wall in Bethlehem, where art and wit merge to form an act of resistance by imagining a view of the holy city of Jerusalem.

My Gift to Ireland

Last September I had the opportunity to visit Ireland for the first time. It was a spiritual pilgrimage of sorts and I was going to participate in a retreat program. When I visit a place, even the woods near my house, I often take a gift for the land. It’s usually tobacco or seeds, but as I packed for this trip, I took a little extra time to consider what my gift would be.

Once there, our retreat included visits to holy sites - many of them Druid or pre-Christian. We visited holy wells, megaliths, and faery glens. What I love about the pre-Christian holy sites is how they embraced the land. Mountains and lakes, for example, were sacred orientation points for deciding megalith locations. The life of the land was dimensionally layered - below, on and above. The light of the Divine was in everything and could be found everywhere. ​​

In some cases, these pre-Christian sites had been overlaid with Christian crosses or statues of the Holy Family and scripture. Christianity was brought to the Emerald Isle in the fifth century by missionaries like St. Patrick who became the patron saint of Ireland. 

The pre-Christian Celtic Wheel of the Year marks the rhythmic seasons of light and darkness with solar festivals of solstices and equinoxes. In between each of these four festivals is another festival that celebrates the liminality of each season - acknowledging both what has been and what is becoming. For me, these celebrations do not compete with Christianity, but rather expand our awareness of the Divine in the world around and beyond us. There are ways that Celtic spirituality has embraced both beautifully. Celtic history is itself incredibly complex.

St. Patrick’s Day is celebrated on March 17th because it marks the death date of St. Patrick. Ironically, it also falls very close to the spring equinox. You’ll find that this is true for Christmas and Yule/Winter Solstice, Easter and Ostara, and All Saints Day and Samhain among others. There is a lot of complexity here but there is also beauty and the opportunity to expand our understanding of the Divine.

One of the things St. Patrick was known for was “driving the snakes out of Ireland.” Most people know that there never were snakes in Ireland. “Snakes” referenced the pagans. It saddens me how much of Christian history is not about Jesus but rather wielding toxic power to colonize land, people and traditions in order to assume, demonize and exclude. 

As I sat reflecting on all of this last September, I knew what my gift to the land would be.

On one of my last days in Ireland, I took a long walk into the woods. I found a beautiful spot off the path and knelt down. Opening my backpack, I cracked my book open and slid the flat, dried snakeskin out of it. I buried it in the rich dark soil. It was my way of not only honoring the land, but the ones who belonged to it. 

No matter how we do or don’t celebrate today, may the shimmer of plastic shamrocks, the glistening of a Guinness, or a flickering votive remind us that Divine light is everywhere if we are willing to broaden our gaze and let it in.

The Dreams that Make Us

I did not have big dreams as a child. To admit that makes me feel as if I should be in a confessional booth of some kind - sheepishly revealing that I somehow failed to get it right when it came to aspirations. Sure, there were times I wanted to be a singer or imagined myself on some other kind of grandiose stage, but what I’m saying is that these things never really stuck, never really inspired me.

What did I want to do? Honestly, when I was young, I remembered wanting to be a cashier. Perhaps it’s because they all seemed so friendly. They got to talk to so many people and have a chance to add a touch of kindness to each person’s day. But mostly it was those buttons. Those thick early 80’s cash register buttons were so attractive to me. Like ASMR before anyone talked about it. This is what I chose to act out in my playtime - running the register.

A little later in childhood, but still a young girl, I remember walking by myself and trying to imagine finding a place of perfect peace. I remember wondering how I could participate in making that peace possible for all to enjoy, through some mix of kindness, creativity and a deep love for the world. It was as if I knew it existed, but I had just never yet experienced it.

There is a thread that connects these dreams, and there is still something about both of them that inspires me. But I think the thing I notice is that I never needed big dreams. I always felt that I was big inside, and somehow that was enough. This helped carry me through a lot of childhood trauma and deep spiritual injury. 

This week as I prepared to model my “River of Life” journey to a small group of university students, I was recounting the things that had had the biggest impact on my journey. And one of the main things I shared was my dreams. Not the dreams I just told you about, but my sleep dreams. 

I recalled one dream I had in 2018 when I was in an airport. I went through security, which was clearly symbolic of dominating powers-that-be controlling the scene. I approached and took some magical dust out of my pocket and instinctively threw it into the air. When I did, time and everyone in the scene froze, except for me. I knew I had a chance - I ran through the airport looking for a room. I knew it was what I was looking for. I was desperate to find it. I ran to a door and somehow knew it was the right one. It was unlocked. Even while dreaming, I was aware I was dreaming, and panicked that I would wake up before I received what was there for me. Frantically, I yelled in the space of the empty room, “What’s the message?! What’s the message!?” Then a voice said to me, “You can do anything, as long as you’re a healing presence.”

I woke up.

As I sat with my River of Life, I was able to see the lines of pink marker highlighting all of the things in my life that have been reclaimed. It was my first grade teacher that made me hate school, and I became a first grade teacher that loved her students. My early childhood was defined by abandonment by my biological father, leaving my single mom to keep us afloat, and now I work for an organization that serves single mothers and children. I could go on and on providing examples of these things in the way my journey continues to play out. And it seems that the deeper the river goes, the more reclaiming takes place.

All of the dreams - both the young girl ones and the nighttime revelations - point me in the direction of the big lesson. It’s not the aspiration, it’s the inspiration. It’s not about obtaining, but realizing what bigness I already possess. It’s not about proving myself, but living in a way that acknowledges that I am already enough. I AM my dreams. 

Now the work I do as a spiritual director is to walk with others toward that I AM space of the soul landscape. One could describe it as a place of perfect peace. And it’s endless. Who knows what you’ll encounter there. Maybe dragons. And that’s pretty epic.

Image: Dragons by Chris Hoover Seidel (my current soul landscape)

Encountering Brigid in Ireland

I recently traveled to Ireland for a nature-based spiritual retreat. Woven into the retreat were visits to sacred sites including faerie glens, the poet Yeats’ tomb, holy wells and megaliths. There was a leaning into the pre-Christian Celtic spirituality at these sites even as many were overlaid with Christianity.

As I have been leaning into my Celtic ancestry, it was important to me to experience all of this. At the core of Celtic spirituality is finding the light of God in all things, including other people and the natural world. Part of my leaning in over the past few years has been following the Celtic Wheel of the Year, which orients around the solar rhythms - solstices, equinoxes, and periods of transition in the in-between times as well. This is how I first met Brigid of Kildare, whose name means “brightness” and is honored during the celebration of Imbolc. She is revered as a fire goddess and also a Christian saint. She holds a particular space in Imbolc as the earth’s inner fire is reignited (in the northern hemisphere) and we transition to new spring life emerging. Imbolc is celebrated on February 2, which is more commonly known as Groundhog Day. That overlayer I mentioned before? It happens in a lot of ways.

When I was in Ireland, I was reading about Brigid. She is a liminal being. As I mentioned, she spans pre-Christian and Christian spirituality. She comes to us in the in-between of the season. And she offers her steady light. Here are a few lines from JP Newell’s book, Sacred Earth. Sacred Soul. about her that demonstrate this:

Legend has it that Brigid was born just before sunrise, in the twilight of the early morning, in that time governed neither by the sun’s light nor the moon’s light, but by the two lights, twi-light. It is also said that her mother gave birth to her neither within the house nor outside, but at the threshold of the dwelling. 

She combines the Druidic love of the earth with Christianity’s awareness of heaven. 

Source: https://espressocomsaudade.wordpress.com/2014/07/26/honest-mythceltic-brigid/

Further reading referenced her as “The Woman at the Crossroads” and she is known as a symbol of the sacred feminine. I realized she’s been with me from before I could name her. My seminary capstone project, submitted over six years ago, was titled “Sophia at the Crossroads” and I attempted to follow the sacred feminine presence throughout the biblical text. These realizations make me weep, as they show that the things we think we are pursuing are the things that are pursuing us in some grand conversation that our minds can’t cage.

I was ruminating on all of this when two incredible things happened that week. The first was when a few of the retreat participants decided to take a four hour trip to Sliabh Liag (pronounced: Sleve League) to visit some amazing cliffs along the Wild Atlantic Way. We entered the visitor center with our taxi driver to use the restrooms and pay the entrance fee. While the others were shopping for souvenirs, I stood waiting with our driver Andy. I gazed at the wall past the manager’s desk and saw a handmade Brigid’s cross. I went over to him and asked if it was for sale. “This!?” he asked surprised that I wanted to purchase it. He had made it himself out of rushes. I said, “Yes! Can I possibly buy that from you?” He took it and handed it to me as a gift. For many reasons, it wasn’t for sale and couldn’t be bought. And that made receiving it much more incredible.

In keeping with the liminal legacy of Brigid, her symbol “carries within it features of pre-Christian symbolism, The Irish cross form is a symbol that we find in many ancient cultures, including those in India. With its four equal arms, depicted almost in rotating motion, it can represent the sun emerging from the winter darkness of the earth, rotating through the four seasons of spring, summer, autumn, and winter, before being reborn into a fresh coming of light in the spring.” (Newell) And it’s also a cross.

St. Brigid’s Cross

I treasure this handmade symbol, made from the beautiful land of Ireland and gifted freely.

The next day at a faerie glen, which was shown to our leader by a member of the Druid community, one of our leaders whose gift is seeing energy many cannot physically see guided us a thinning energetic veil hanging from a tree branch. We were invited to walk through it and notice. I went barefoot in the cool, wet autumn weather, but the ground beneath me felt warm. I felt suspended and light. It was very peaceful. When I walked out, the leader came to me and asked me if I knew the medicine woman who walks with me. “Well, she’s not quite a medicine woman…”, she led. “Yes, a wise woman?” I replied. “Yes!” she affirmed. I nodded. She’s been with me for years. I sometimes tap into her presence and other seers have mentioned her as well. The leader hadn’t only seen her, but she had received a blessing from the wise woman. The wise woman was showing up for a reason. It struck me that this was a manifestation of the sacred feminine - Sophia, Brigid, Woman Wisdom. They are here walking among us, blessing us.

I don’t think any of these experiences make me unique. I assume all of us walk with presence and guidance that takes many forms simply because we are beloved.
But can we be present back? Can we ask what guidance is here for us in this present moment? What wisdom does Brigid offer when Christianity in my context is finding itself in chaos? What liminal spaces do I occupy and how can I show up with my fire and light in them? How does walking with Wisdom inform how I journey?

Where is the veil thin for you and what are you noticing there?

In the Trenches: The Practice of Presence in a WTF World

“How many times a week, on average, do you feel like you don’t want to engage the world?” asked the nurse practitioner. “Three to four?” “Yes, that sounds about right,” I replied.

“Do you feel depressed?” she followed. “Yes, I can feel that a bit.”

“Okay, I have to ask more questions,” she added, just as I had anticipated.

As she asked the follow-up questions, I could honestly answer “no” from my deepest self, but I could also feel the weight of everything she expressed. I’ve been feeling it for over a year, and it’s not just mine, it’s the weight of the world right now.

“It’s just the pandemic,” I offered as a succinct bottom line summary. It was sufficient albeit inadequately complex. “I think we’re all feeling it on some level.” She nodded immediately as if circling back to what she already knew before the prescribed questions had to be stitched together to find the truth in this particular situation.

(Note: These questions are important and not everyone’s feelings are the same as mine. My words in this story were about my situation and not intended to undermine more severe mental health struggles.)

This appointment had come after months of being put off due to a lack of providers available, and it had been entered incorrectly, which meant that instead of a doctor, a midwife entered the room and told me she was expecting to have a women’s exam with me and not a physical. Tears flooded my eyes. I tried to remain calm and kind. “But I came here because I have pain in my toe and shoulder and hip. I just turned 45 and I need to have my colon checked. I want to get my blood work done.” “Sorry, I can’t do any of those things for you.”

After some pivoting, she graciously got me a new appointment for the following week (Spoiler: This also ended up being entered incorrectly.) and I hurried to my car. There I sat and let the tears flow. The can of worms known as grief had been opened and there was no stopping it.

I did the next right thing and got an iced coffee with all the fixins and drove to a wooded labyrinth. I walked a path to the back of the labyrinth and saw another woman, roughly my age, just sitting in the middle. I quietly sat on a large stone and waited, giving her space to complete her process. I wondered what she was sitting with and if it felt similar to my own stuff, all the while knowing it did.

Around the same time as this, I reached out to a friend who casually mentioned that I had entered her spirit and had stayed with her. She felt the weight of what I was holding. We got together for coffee and she offered loving and non-judgmental presence. She offered a safe space in which I could say the whole truth. I could say things like “Being a woman in leadership is pretty much bullshit. There just aren’t the right resources in place to support new ways of being.” and she could see me clearly and understand me completely. What a gift this was. It was also a reminder that all I have been feeling is not unique.

(For perspective, I also want to offer that our certain societal norms of individualism and consumerism greatly exacerbate these conditions. It also speaks to privilege. There are people who have walked longer with much worse conditions and fewer resources that are no doubt navigating these times with a wisdom that others of us may only be newly encountering. This is not a note of shame or guilt. It’s just a more expanded practice of awareness in the here and now.)

I feel that many of us are struggling in uncharted territory. I feel we are searching for a new definition of “okay”. I think many of us feel we walk the line between keeping it together and losing our shit on an hourly basis. I think many of us who reject performative living are recognizing that it’s almost a survival skill right now, and maybe we’re struggling to make peace with that.

I recognize that this is vulnerable sharing and may lead some to seriously question my ability to move through my work and life right now. But here’s the thing - feeling all of this and naming it is spiritual work, spiritual practice. There’s a saying in spiritual direction: You cannot accompany others in places where you have not been willing to go yourself. Sitting with all of this and processing the grief is like professional development for a spiritual director. And it’s just important work for anyone. Don’t try to find yourself a spiritual director who doesn’t have trenches. Find one that knows how to sit in them with presence.

Sitting with spiritual direction clients is the one place that remains so wonderfully clear and aligned. It’s the space I leave feeling reassured and refreshed, grateful and hopeful. There’s a lightness in that space where we can be present with one another on the deepest level and know that we are safe and anchored in unconditional love. And the presence and support I feel from other realms at this time is heartwarming.

I’m convinced that we need these deeper, underground connections to sustain us these days. Each month I send out a Soul Speak newsletter. This month I prefaced it by saying that if I could, I would extend my hand to each person receiving it and help them remember that they are not forsaken. I got more responses to that email than any I’ve sent out in the past two years.

I recently explained to a friend that if I step back and bring my awareness to the bigger picture, I can picture each of us almost as grains of sand on a vibrating table. These tables can vibrate at certain frequencies and form sand molecules into various patterns. When we watch the process as observers, we can see the miraculous process of beauty manifesting in response to the vibrations. But if we only are aware of ourselves as the grain, we will feel like the whole world is ending and maybe we are screwed and about to fall of the edge.

And really, it’s a both/and situation. We have to be present to the grain and the grandeur. And we have to remind one another that we are not alone and we are not forsaken. We are. We are here. We are here now. We are here now and. We are here now and not. We are here now and not forsaken. Step by step, clarity by clarity, presence by presence, we can walk in our belovedness as whole and complex beings.

Opening Portals: A Labyrinth Journey

A few weeks before my 45th birthday, I built a labyrinth in my backyard. This was something that I had wanted to do for years but was determined it would be too difficult and too expensive. Then one day I pushed beyond a scarcity mentality and called the local quarry to price stones. Soon thereafter, I ended up creating the labyrinth in a matter of hours and for under $20. From that point on the labyrinth became for me a symbol of abundance.

Building it meant I got to wear a hardhat and drive into the quarry near my house. I got to hand select each rock from the small mountain I had parked beside. This wasn’t just cool, it felt really important in a way I can’t quite put words to. But it has something to do with being present to the process. I also felt like a kid, receiving this unexpected invitation to play. Two trips later, I had all stone I needed and then some.

A few days after the labyrinth was built, I found two wooden Adirondack chairs, worn but intact, placed curbside in my neighborhood, free for the taking. I had been thinking about asking for a set of these chairs for my birthday, and here they were. Now they sit overlooking the labyrinth.

As I've continued to sit with the labyrinth, looking at and listening to it, walking and tending it, I feel as if I'm in a conversation with something mysterious. The original design in which I had placed the stones wasn't working for me. So one day I sat staring at the labyrinth and listening. After a while I could clearly see the path that was right and I promptly adjusted it. 

Almost daily, I watch wildlife, birds, butterflies, squirrels and spiders at work and at play in and on the labyrinth. The labyrinth is pregnant with mystery. One day I began walking and noticed a stone overturned in the middle of the path. I looked at where the stone had been and saw a narrow but deep hole had been dug. I couldn't imagine a squirrel was able to move the stone, but it must have. Around the center edges of the labyrinth I placed symbol stones with animals marking the cardinal directions. One day the eastern eagle stone was missing. I asked my husband if he had seen it when he put mulch down, as I had asked him to make sure the stones didn't get lost. He said it had already been missing. I searched in the mulch and all around the center altar. Nothing. The next day I found the eagle stone between its original placement and the altar. How was it missing and how had it returned?

Chewie, Guardian of the Labyrinth

Simply creating the labyrinth has opened doors for me to participate in more labyrinth creations with trusted companions dedicated to creating spaces for contemplative practice. 

In some ways, it feels as if I've created a portal by building this labyrinth. It's not like the portal to The Upside Down in Stranger Things, rather it's a portal directly from my heart into the world. It has expanded the conversation and in some ways made it more accessible. That's why this labyrinth is more than consecutive circles of stones on dirt. That's why it's sacred. And the more I converse with it, the more people walk it, the more the birds, squirrels, butterflies and spiders and my dog bless it, the stronger the portal becomes. 

The altar in the center built with stones from my childhood home, petrified wood and special rocks my uncle had saved over the years. A fox skull I found at the Jesuit Center in Wernersville, PA and a whelk shell I had been gifted by the ocean. Sage, a turkey feather and some snakeskin.

As someone who lived in the Middle East, the Holy Land, I have felt both the awe and the ordinary in visiting holy sites. Holy sites can be made by loving our own two bare feet and the earth upon which we place them, open to expanding the conversation by walking with love and intention., because that is where we can acknowledge what is Divine.  What are your portals?

Candlelight Labyrinth I was invited to help create at Tenemos Retreat Center in Chester County, PA.

Same design as the labyrinth in my backyard.

When the sun finally set...

We are the Starfish: Lessons from a Medicine Woman Named Grief

I’ve been grieving a lot lately.  

Grieving what is reaped from war. Grieving the effects of toxic power. Grieving religious institutions. Grieving a world on fire. Grieving the mind-numbing realities unfolding in hospital beds. Grieving the idols created by capitalism, Christian nationalism and White Supremacy.  

Grief is a dear friend of mine. She’s the one who comes in with a broom and sweeps my house clean, throwing up the window sashes and waking me up to all the brutal realities I’m turning away from with the covers over my head. She’s a medicine woman. 

This process of clearing puts me face-to-face with my conditioning and attachments, all the things that keep me from my truest, unconditionally beloved self. When I am cleaned out, I feel a sort of "fresh” presence, in a space of humility and fearlessly grounded. There’s nothing I’m trying to release, I am released. In that place, there is space for guidance.  

The guidance that unexpectedly emerged in my heart the other day seemed so random. It was about that really popular starfish poem. You know, the one with the person who was walking along the beach and there were a bunch of starfish ashore and the tide was going out. The person kept picking up starfish and throwing them back in the ocean. Upon being questioned about the futility of these actions compared with the multitude of beached starfish, the person replied, “It mattered to that one.” Well, my heart was telling me that we had it wrong – it wasn’t about saving. 

When I lingered with what was emerging, I acknowledged that this poem has been leveraged to condition people to be saviors - understanding that the world is something to be saved and we are the ones who need to save it. This perspective, however, does not acknowledge that the world is what we have made it and that we are making it in each moment. We are not the unattached white savior, but rather one with life around us. Perhaps what the poem really shows is that our attempts to fix the world will never be enough. Otherwise, we are missing the bigger picture. Instead of moving us away from our grief with each toss of a “saved” starfish, it reminds us that there is a “yes, and” - there is also so much to be grieved, dying upon the shore. 

The poem is attributed to Loren Eiseley, an archeologist, anthropologist and naturalist who seemed to understand that to love the world begins within a person. He understood water to be magic. He had a connection with animals. From what I understand, he wasn’t focused on being a savior, but rather being present with the world he loved and the way he could love it. He understood that to become anything in this world, we must first allow ourselves to be fully human.  

Part of being human is knowing Grief. Grief comes because she is a healer equipped with the medicine of tears and body shakes, and she somehow puts me more in touch with a deep knowing that I am held by something unconditionally loving and far more dependable than my grand notions of saving the world. She allows the pain to break my heart wide open so that I can hear it, feel it, and live from it more deeply. She asks me questions like, “Are you willing to live from love without presumption?”

That means I can also see the parts of myself that are hard to face, but from a place of love. I see that I am addicted to happy endings, another attachment to be released. This does not mean there is no hope in the world. Quite the opposite. Hope is something lived each moment we are willing to show up as fully loved beings, wanting for nothing more than to live from belovedness. No matter what. I am convinced that all starfish, living or dying, have no doubt that they are beloved. They have always and only ever been so. They were, all of them, already saved.

Untouchable Essence

by Laura Weaver

There is a place within that cannot be destroyed

by flood or fire, by bloodthirsty armies or devastating illness—

it this untouchable essence of us that quakes

with irrepressible light and bears the

intolerable weight of all that must be felt to awaken.

When I first remembered myself after surgery,

my own name strange, both of my breasts removed—

I did not feel loss nor grief,

but a love so ferocious it rolled through me like thunder,

bringing healing rain.

After that, came a knowing of my own wholeness

beyond any story, beyond any dismemberment—

this revelation of our luminous body

that remains intact in spite of all of our sacred shatterings.

And yes, now the landscape is unrecognizable—

yes, now, there is no old path to go back to—

yes, now there is the quivering arrow of this moment

piercing the heart—

the illusion of invulnerability stripped away,

laid bare to this truth.

And so it is. And so we are.

Before I came to this life,

I was shown this world from the distant shores of it—

and in that moment, I saw the full arc of my days here,

the exquisite range of this embodied dreaming.

Oh how beautiful, I cried. Oh how terrible.

Oh—This terrible beauty.

And the angel who guided me simply pointed and nodded, and said—Yes.

We Need Ceremony

I’m sitting in the Subaru dealership awaiting a recalled part replacement. Technically I can be here with no mask, but I’m not. The closest person is about ten feet from me, masked and coughing. A few weeks ago, I was delighting in joining the ranks of the fully vaccinated and now I can be mask-free in most places and my children can get vaccinated. The amount of gratitude I have for these new realities after a year plus of social distancing knows no bounds.  

And at the same time, everything is strange. There’s a new form of social awkwardness pervading our interactions as we are flinging back into “normal” which is no longer a place we fit in the same way. Do we hug? Shake hands? How close do we get? There are still so many variables.  
 
The reality is that the social regrouping has been an anti-climactic experience. I haven’t been able to run across the yard flinging my arms open to a friend and embrace them. Instead, we come slowly together, maintaining some distance, or keep our masks on and hug with our faces turned away.  

And the reason isn’t because we are overloaded with fear, but because we’ve spent the past year caring deeply about those we love and those in our community. We have kept strict practices for ourselves and our families because we wanted to get back to this point. There is love here. 

So how do we transition? How do we name the pain and the joy, the desperation and the elation? 

I don’t know the answer, and I think part of that is because I’m largely disconnected from meaningful ceremony as part of my heritage. I’m working to change that. 

Recently, I was invited to hold space for a group that was marking an ending/transition after a long and difficult academic year. The folks I was with were the ones who held and maintained safe space for learning and community in a pandemic. I will never know the depths of what that meant for each of them, but I know it wasn’t easy. I began listening in, prayerfully, for a way to mark this time. This is the ritual that came... 

We began with river rocks, the stones worn smooth by the force of the water. We held the stones and felt the weight of them, remembering the weight of the past year. When ready, each person placed their stone in the center, creating a cairn. Then each person assigned meaning to the cairn; them memory they wanted it to hold. We honored tears and grief, the energy of water’s flow. 

Next we took the gemstones, created by minerals forced together under pressure and heat, usually a shifting of tectonic plates creating something new and beautiful. We took in their lightness and luster. We allowed the river rock cairn to become a gratitude altar for the gifts and joys found in the midst of the pain. Each person was invited to lay their gemstone among the river rocks. We honored the fire and the resilience. 

Then we took it all in, the pain and the beauty. We left behind what we were ready to leave behind and took the gifts of our becoming with us, all unique and complicated, yet no longer unrecognized.  

Afterward, a participant said it felt good and right, that there had been a shift. Yes, ceremony allows for shifts with gentleness, respect and consent. It honors the whole of what we carry and what we want to lay down. Because despite everything that has happened, the earth never stopped holding us. We never lost our status as beloved children of the universe. We can move forward with dignity and grace if we honor it all. 

The Particularity of Loving the World

Near the office where I work, there is a red fox family that lives in a field. I first encountered one of them at night in the parking lot. She was walking across the way, likely on her way to hunt, and took a moment to glance at me. There was such beauty in the encounter. I had been sitting with a difficult process at work and had just come out of a long meeting. When I saw that fox that night, I felt a feeling of peace. It’s as if she was heralding good news. Just seeing her felt like good news. A fox! This fox! Here. Now. 

From then on, I kept an eye out for her and finally noticed her or another fox in a nearby field. Ah – they lived nearby. Then it became a practice to look every time I came. Once, I saw one standing over the body of another, dead, in the field one day. Was I witnessing grief? Another time, I saw one lazing on the big round hay bale at the forest end of the field, with the ease and confidence of one who owned the place. I was so taken by that sight that I brought my daughter by the next day and there she was, lazing again, but this time with two kits frolicking in the field below her! My daughter was extremely delighted. 

I haven’t seen them for a while and I miss them. I am grateful for a window into their beautiful lives. They felt like my foxes, but not in a possessive way, rather in a way where I was able to love this particular fox family. I felt how this deepened my appreciation of all foxes who hunt, herald peace, grieve, lounge and play. 

The same has been happening with a young buck in the woods near my home. When we spot him, I hold the dog. He stands watching us, too unafraid. I speak to him, telling him to run, it’s okay. He waits until we walk closer. His stubby antlers grew exponentially within one week.  

There are particular trees that I love. Particular wild flowers at the end of a winding path I walk almost daily. These are the beings that bring my heart closer to this earth and to loving it better and more authentically.  

If I say I love my neighbor but can’t name a single one of them, how deep is my love? 

Love is the beautiful abundant thing that operates in particularity. Like in The Matrix Revolutions when Neo meets the architect of the matrix and has a choice between saving the world or saving Trinity, he makes the choice to save the particular one he loves, which is foundational to how the rest of the story plays out. 

The future is built on the particularity of our love. It will help us find our way. 

The Importance of Being Still and Knowing

Part of my childhood to teenage years included being in a cult. But we called it church.

Once we were finally kicked out of the cult, we were devastated. We had lost what was, to our brainwashed minds, our one true connection to being “in” with God.

We had no idea the years of recovery ahead of us. We did not seek therapy because we understood therapy to be wrong, a tool of the “world.” We had a hard time trusting the words of what loved ones we had left outside the church.

This breaching felt as vast as the ocean. We were located elsewhere internally. Then, after a few years, I had the opportunity to go to college and begin to travel the world. This was part of decades of my own organic deprogramming.

Yet, the ones who had left but hadn’t the same resources and opportunities to deprogram, they were the ones who were most outspoken against the cult. And the further unattached I got from it myself, the more I realized how much their words and actions were still reflecting their programming.

Looking back, I realized that deep down I always knew in the way you KNOW things (beyond the mind) that I was deeply loved by the Divine. Yet, that was the thing I had the most trouble reclaiming intellectually. But it was this deep knowing that kept me on the path to reclaiming. And I am grateful for the many lights along the way that helped encourage me to keep listening to that inner knowing, and open me to the possibility that what I was waiting for to save me was already inside of me - Belovedness.

When Donald Trump was elected, I sobbed uncontrollably. My grief was a reflection of what I already knew about the long-term damage he could do as a cult of personality. And it is very unsurprising to me that much of what is happening is being done in the name of God, because I know from experience that God is often the ultimate control tactic when manipulated by humans. And now that I watch loved ones being caught up in ridiculous conspiracy theories that they are defending with more “God-sanctioned” assertions, I know that we have to be committed to something deeper for the long haul. That deep voice of inner knowing.

Politicians and parties won’t save us. I’m not saying that with my head in the sand. I’m a critical thinker, a faithful voter, and an actively engaged citizen. Yet, as I observe the rhetoric, I see that the “other side” isn’t so dissimilar to what they are most outspoken against. Many are stuck in a loop of distraction and reaction. Even some calls for unity and healing are part of this loop - void of the understanding of the deeper process required. We have to first recognize that we are stuck.

What matters most is what is right inside of you, whispering your worth and your belovedness. It has been with you from the beginning, present and longing for you to be present with it too. From there you can know, observe, and respond. From there you will experience a new level of inner freedom. From there you will know what is yours to do and yours to leave undone.

This is why I am invested in spiritual direction. Eckhart Tolle writes,

“The only function of a spiritual [director] is to help you remove that which separates you from the truth of who you already are and what you already know in the depth of your being.”

Can you feel your inner knowing inviting you to be reclaimed? To come home? To claim freedom here and now in this present moment? Stay there, present. The next step can only be known from there.

You Do Not Have to Be Good

Years after her passing, Mary Oliver’s voice and masterful art of being still speak to me in new ways. In her poem Wild Geese, she opens with this line, offering a doorway to self-love, grief, and the invitation to be fully part of this life.

I’ve been sitting with this line for awhile now, because the wild geese in the winter skies above me are heralds of the daily reminder, which awakens something in my heart. These are reasons to pay attention.

What I have realized is that being good is one of my most deeply rooted attachments. I think of attachments as anything we cling to that stands in the way of claiming our wholeness, the truth of who we are. They block us from being able to simply be present to what is, because they are dictating what has to be.

Being good always seems to be a lingering goal. When I don’t feel like I’m a good mom, it haunts me. But who’s to say if I’m a good mom? Pause for a moment and consider all of the ways you try to be good…

If I’m trying to be good, I’m striving. Striving is a red flag on the soul level. When I’m striving, I’m reaching for something outside of myself. Even if I receive affirmation, it’s temporary, and I’ll keep striving for more affirmation when the feeling of satisfaction dissolves. There’s no true contentment of being. There are loads of messages from our cultural conditioning, religious communities, and social networks that tell us what it means to be good. Once I’m off and running, chasing after those end points, I have left myself. In that way, being good becomes an attachment - something I feel I must be able to claim - which keeps me from being present and responding from the truth of who I am.

The systems we live in count on this vicious cycle. Capitalism needs me to need something outside of myself to prove I’m relevant. White Supremacy needs me to subscribe to an illusion of purity and goodness. Patriarchy demands that my goodness as a woman is defined by what I do for others. These are all lies.

My cultural conditioning looks different than that of others, based on my particular social location, but we all have it. Fill in the blank: Am I _________ enough? Underneath it is an attachment to being good enough for someone or something. Creation was good before the question “Am I good enough?” existed. The separation from our soul consciousness is what drives the need to prove ourselves worthy - through relationships, possessions, and status. This is actually causing harm, because we are not operating from our truest selves, claiming our wholeness, and committed to simply being present.

How did Mary Oliver know that we don’t have to be good? Perhaps it was a hard-earned lesson from her life own life experience. Perhaps it was wisdom that came from paying attention in the natural world; seeing those flocks of wild geese just being who they were, never in conflict with the “I Am” state of presence. Personally, I think she practiced it. She allowed herself to be still enough for a deeper voice to emerge. It was the truth that set her free and informed her work. She was a great poet because of what emerged from her soul, because she was learning what she had come here to learn.

Releasing attachments is deep work and some of the most important spiritual work we will do. It takes trust to let go and know that what needs to emerge will emerge. But I have experienced this over and over again. The times I let go are the times when what I truly need comes to me. It’s how I knew to write this.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

– Mary Oliver

Eight Lessons from My Octopus Teacher

This is the best thing I’ve ever seen. Full stop. is me talking about this documentary, lived by South African filmmaker Craig Foster. It turned me inside-out. I’ve been sitting with it for weeks, savoring all those deep sea pearls my soul gathered along the way.

Here are eight take-aways. Yes, eight.

We are part of nature, not separate from it. There is an inner stillness we seek and find in the natural world, a world from which we have become disconnected. That inner stillness is within us as well. Look at any piece of “nature” around you - a shell, a stone, a tree, a piece of fruit - and notice its stillness of being. Do you know what that is? It’s the confidence of becoming exactly what you were meant to be without spending one moment questioning it through a lens of unworthiness. It’s where we move beyond believing to knowing. A realm beyond words.

We find ourselves in the deep places. This may be somewhat metaphorical, but the ocean is deep. Returning to the love of your childhood is deep. To stop striving for the life you think you need is deep. Committing to a practice of returning over and over is deep. Trusting something new that comes into your world is deep. Giving yourself over to what is is deep. Being an observer with enough respect to not disrupt a natural system is deep. All of this takes us beyond the social conditioning that has built up, layer upon layer upon us, suffocating our inner freedom. We shed those layers, knowing that somehow the experience requires us to be bare-skinned in the holy space we enter.

What we see in the world is a reflection of ourselves. This is a tough one for some people to grasp because it sounds egoistical, yet requires us to move beyond ego. Basically, every moment, every brittle star, every snail in our world - actual or metaphorical - is there to teach us a lesson to bring us more into alignment to our dynamic wholeness - full of ever-changing colors, shapes and textures.

The wisdom of generations lives inside of us. This is a wonder. We can live from embodied wisdom - a wisdom that surpasses the mind’s ability to comprehend. And we can grow that wisdom through our own interactions with the world in order to pass it on - to our children, perhaps, but also as a contribution to the collective wisdom of the world. It will amuse us, guide us and heal us.

We cannot bypass pain. It may cause us to hide under a rock for a week, pale and limp, but that space is a healing space. Something new will grow if we allow the time and space for it. This cannot be rushed, and it is something that we will continue to live into even after we come out from under the rock.

We are part of a larger story. It’s humbling to know that we are only one heartbeat in the rhythm of generations. It’s humbling to know that we are one part of the larger whole of our society, and live our singular life in contribution to that whole while simultaneously allowing ourselves to be shaped by it.

Be gentle.

Be open.

Making Wreaths of Rosemary: How I Am Preparing for the Upcoming Election

What are your thoughts on the election? a friend asked me recently. I’m sure you’ve encountered that question as well, whether as asker or askee.

First, let me say one thing. My head is not in the sand. I have many feelings about this administration and the upcoming election. I have words that I am not afraid to mince in response to this question. Part of me just wants to vote for that jet pack person - what ever became of that anyway?

And yet.

There’s a deeper place in me - a place of expansion - that I practice cultivating. When I go to that place, my answer is much different. It may actually seem a little surprising.

My answer is simply this: I’m cultivating a way of being that ensures I will remain grounded and present no matter what the outcome of this election.

I am someone who has a lot of privilege, yes. But I’m speaking from a place deeper than that. An inner place where I can continue to stay present, to focus on responding rather than reacting, and to listen for my invitation to do justice here and now. To hold space for a deeper soul consciousness to emerge. To know that there is a force more powerful than the kingdoms of this world. That force lives within each of us as Presence.

This answer is born out of Love and not Fear.

But the only way I can get there is to acknowledge my fear, and let all the feelings, like pain, anger, fear and grief move through me. When I can look at them, I am in touch with a deeper and more expansive place within. The Love place. And true to Love’s nature, it transforms everything. So instead of me becoming the feelings, they become my teachers. They become stars in the constellation of my soul, shining light on how I want to show up in the world and what my work is to do. This is what I mean by responding instead of reacting. The point is to feel it all, to acknowledge it all, and by doing so, become more expansive.

I know, we’re all tired. The news is overwhelming. It is not normal to process so much constantly.

But here’s the thing - my soul is not tired. My soul feels more alive and as energized as ever. It’s because of this space I’m cultivating within. I’m nurturing it. I’m connecting with others who inspire it. I’m prioritizing self-care. I’m listening for daily guidance and practicing responding faithfully.

For example, the other day, these words came through me:

I’ll hang wreaths of rosemary on my door,

to remind you who you are.

I hear these words as song lyrics or a line in a poem. They are beautiful. These words are greatly metaphorical for me as a spiritual director, but here’s the thing - I actually made rosemary wreaths and hung them on the doors of our house. It was a way to respond, to say

I’m listening, and thank you for these beautiful words. Thank you to the Presence inside of me, allowing me to hear what is emerging. I trust you.

It was a way to be in conversation with something more powerful than the news. Some call this prayer.

What happened the next day? A friend texted I need you. Turns out she just needed to be reminded of who she was. She needed to re-member that place of Love and Presence inside her. And true to form, it transformed her as well. She shifted to a whole new place, full of possibility and empowerment.

When we nurture this space within ourselves, we are ready to walk each other home as well. There are moments when this feels like a superpower. And it IS!

Try it right now in this moment….

Take three deep breaths.

Notice the mental chatter fade as you enter your body.

Notice where you’re holding tension. Then breathe in and squeeze the muscles around that area and breathe out, relaxing the muscles. It’s a way of saying I see you and feel you and I won’t forsake you. I invite this life force to flow through you. 

Put one hand on your gut and one hand on your heart.

In this moment right here and now, can you name three gifts? Three things that you are grateful for? It could be as simple as the softness of your shirt.

In this moment, are you okay?

In this moment, is anything emerging? Listen. Don’t judge it. Trust it.

This is the place.

Hang an energetic wreath of rosemary on the door to remind you you are home.

Then return, return, return, until you can no longer bear to leave.

 _____________________________________

If you are interested in cultivating this place further, please be in touch. I’d love to work with you. Visit soulence.space to learn more.