I usually hate silence. But tonight I weep alone.

My father’s sister died today.

I have to be the first one to admit that I did not know her as well. I would be negating my authenticity to announce longing phrases and “she was” sentences. The truth is I didn’t know her well.

And yet, I am hyper aware of the dynamics within our family. Our complicated, imperfect family (as so many are). The drama and history seep into my empathic energy like paint and brush.

And I cry. I sob. I shed tears for the ones who they never got to be. For the life they never lived. Hoping it was enough for them and maybe it was.

I cry for their struggle and their pain. I cry for the ones who didn’t know how to support them and the ones who didn’t care.

My ancestral chords are vibrating. They’re shouting at me to help but I don’t know what to do.

I yearn to go back in time…to be a fly on the wall or a be a participant in a Doctor Who like interaction.

I think about my father’s parents who I never knew. And the two grandmothers I lost this winter.

The DNA in my bones longs for connection to my roots - to the family I never knew; to the history that can only be passed down in pictures and words instead of memory.

At the end of our days will we whisper, “did I truly live my own life?” Will we stand in our power and seize the day? Will we look back to the days of our foremothers and forefathers and say “things were so much simpler then”? Will we pass on knowing that we did our best?

Most importantly, what will you be remembered for?


I think I stopped writing because I forgot who I was writing for.

I wrote with the intention of an audience; forgetting that I started writing for me.

I’ve written several blogs I haven’t published. Why?

Because they were for you, I suppose, and not me.

This blog has had many iterations over the past 4 years.

The most important moment was summer 2017 when it was all about me. Without the pressure of anyone reading it. It was an outlet.

I stare at the keys now and words come out. As if posesssed by some higher power - as if in in a trance. Like a ouija board. Now interrupted by spotify ads and plagued by glaring spelling errors which my busted trackpad refuses to fix.

I let something guide me. My vision blurs. The keys are familiar. The presence of wisdom. It’s here.

In this moment is where I find peace.

The busyness of life fades away. The lists. Checking all the boxes. Doing all the things. Presence is found in the quiet if we allow it. I’m always afraid of what I might hear in the silence. So I focus on the space in between - the bardo.

Presence is in the in between spaces. On the other side of chords or a comma. After a pause and before a breath. It’s in the anticipation of a kiss, the seductive moments prior to chocolate, the adrenaline of exertion. It hangs in the air after the rain. It lingers in the smoke swirls. It whispers in the trees. It rushes the shore with the waves.

In these moments, life seeks us. Calling come and play. Reminding us to breathe. Take precious care. Life is for the living.

How Many Times Do I Have To Tell You? The Story of Six Hawks

How Many Times Do I Have To Tell You? The Story of Six Hawks

This is the story of Spirit and the Six Hawks.

About a month ago I had a great experience. I created my own experience.

It was one of the first times that I visualized and created for myself my "ideal day". It's an exercise that many spiritual mentors and coaches recommend and I do too. It started out with tea and a lovely breakfast with my boyfriend.

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