Twirling Leaf

I cry daily these days. Until recently, I was never much of a crier. I found the anesthetic quality of anger to be more conducive to functioning amidst pain. I’m learning, however, that it’s healthy to process the more vulnerable feelings underneath the rage. So, over the past few years, occasionally, I would let myself cry. My kids’ report, however, would be that I cry a lot…because a lot is ever when an adult cries and you’re a kid. Right? I remember feeling that way too. It’s like seeing a hermit crab outside of its shell. It just feels…unsettling. Something that you’re used to seeing in a strong, shiny shell suddenly looks fragile and unfamiliar. 

But these days, I cry daily. I have to. I was just feeling anger, and then my hair fell out. Yes, you read that correctly. I have an autoimmune situation whereby when I’m under extreme emotional stress or not living my best life in terms of health habits (not sleeping enough, drinking alcohol too frequently, eating poorly) I wake up to find whole patches of my hair just missing. It’s alarming, to say the least. 

I mean, it figures that I’d get the least glamourous autoimmune problem. I’ve read through the literature, and there are autoimmune disorders where your thyroid is overactive so you lose weight. Not for me. I don’t get to have the tragic, beautiful waif disease. I experience unpredictable baldness. Awesome. Thanks, Universe. 

But truly, the baldness occurred as I was composing my last twirling leaf post about equanimity. And while I’m not perfect (I just got super angry at a woman on the trail this morning who refused to leash her large dog even though said dog (named, “Princess,” obnoxiously) has attacked Indi twice), and I certainly don’t claim to be the Zen master (I honestly will need to look up the meaning of Zen again before I post this), I do try to live a life of integrity. I try to walk the twirling talk. So if I post about equanimity, that means it’s a lesson I’m learning, and I’m trying to embrace it. 

So, I woke up with one bald patch and freaked out a little. Fortunately, my dad passed on some amazing Italian hair genes, so I have always had ample glossy locks (as my friend Marisa calls them) to completely obscure a rogue bald patch. So, I was stressed, but proceeded with life as per usual. Then I found another one a week later. And then a few days after that, another. At that point, I was feeling like a mangy dog. It was quite demoralizing. 

Equanimity, though. So, after an appropriate level of freaking out and wondering when and if this was going to stop (if you look up “alopecia” you will read that there’s no predicting how much hair loss one will experience or IF it will grow back. I advise you to stay away from the images search), I was like, well, I need to change some things. So I set out to clean up my health act. For the month of May, I committed to no alcohol, no refined sugar, no gluten, no dairy. I also committed to switching out my morning coffee for matcha, getting good sleep, running or hiking daily 3-5 miles daily, eating whole, plant based foods and fish, and supporting my system with adaptogen herbs. 

Soon the extra bandwidth and energy that I had from these practices was compelling me to more creativity. I began tincturing herbs (which requires a lot of math, and it was the first time that math was fun). I began curating special superfoods for myself and my family. One of my favorites are my version of Rosemary Gladstar’s Zoom Balls. My kids refuse to call them this, for obvious middle and highschool reasons, so I tried to rebrand them as “Zoom Bites.” I also made Kava Kava tea and drank it daily. Kava Kava is an anxiolytic, which means that it reduces anxiety. It also has been reported to enhance mood in general, producing feelings of warmth and openheartedness. I found myself smiling throughout my day, even when alone, after having a cup of Kava Kava tea each day. 

In sum, I was feeling pretty blissed out. 

And in this place of holistic flourishing, we decided to book a trip to Switzerland while Senya and Juniper are at camp in Vermont for two weeks. It’s a trip to celebrate our 20th anniversary a couple years late. Two years ago, we were just settling into our new house here in Topanga, just discovering the real impact of having sold our beloved homestead in Vermont, just trying to bounce back from an unexpected loss of income that we were relying on…it just wasn’t the right time to take a huge trip. But now, as things felt flourishing and stable within our life, we booked this long awaited trip. That was last Friday. One week ago. 

And then, within this short span of time from June 6th—our anniversay, when we booked the trip, to now, June 13th—I have cried most days. I cry while I’m running. I cry when I’m in the shower. I cry when my kids aren’t around so they don’t see my naked hermit crab soul. 

Why am I crying? 

I cry because last weekend my community members were rounded up and ripped away from their children while they were in school pick up lines or working hard at their place of employment. I cry because the National Guard is releasing tear gas into peaceful protesters standing against this type of inhumane behavior. I cry because the general public is getting a report that people are violently protesting, when the few people who were instigating chaos were likely undercover Maga supporters there to undermine the impact of nonviolence resistance. I cry because of the injustice. I cry because so many Americans voted this into being. I’m crying because I foresaw this last summer in the event that this administration got elected; I’m crying because, when I read the writing on the wall, I tried to move my family back to a peaceful farm in Vermont, and it sold before we could sell our house. I’m crying because we committed to staying here, and I now love it more than ever. And it hurts. It hurts to care. It hurts to feel empathy. It hurts to allow yourself to be a human, elevated to a level of integrated wholeness. It is more complex to deliberate complicated issues rather than slamming your gavel of judgment down on one side of a constructed binary. It takes a lot of work, a lot of care, a lot of energy to be an engaged, responsible human. And yet, so many people just steel their hearts, steel their minds, steel their humanity. 

This is why I cry. Not just because I am sad, but because it is important to feel. It is important to have empathy. It is an ethical duty when atrocities are committed to not steel ourselves. 

Again, anger, unempathic judgment, and indifference to human suffering are different types of anesthesia. It’s the emotional equivalent to a burst of adrenaline. It can serve a purpose in an emergent moment, but if we live in that state, it causes problems. If we live in a state of judgment without mercy, indifference without calculating the cost for others, and anger to the point of numbness, there is no end to the vicious cycle of violence, oppression, and dominance. We must care. We must connect. We must have empathy.

Empathy is hard wired into us. Humans have mirror neurons—a biological testament to our human predispostion for empathy. When we observe a behavior or action, these mirror neurons activate as though we experienced it directly. There are two different components of information that a person gets when observing an action done by someone else. The first component is WHAT action is being done? And the second (more complex) component is WHY (the intention) the action is being done. 

The complex beauty of the the second component is that then our mirror neurons try to figure out what will come next. And in this attempt at understanding someone’s intentions so we can assess and predict, we have “put ourselves in someone else’s shoes” (or whatever the colloquialism is. I feel like I always get idioms wrong. Like the time I so confidently used the idiom version of “amiright?” by proposing the rhetorical question, “Does the Pope poop in the woods?” That did not land coherently upon my listener’s ears. 

I digress. 

Mirror neurons are evidence that we are biologically capable and predisposed to empathy. We developed these mirror neurons with gestural speech. Communicating directly with hand gestures, facial expressions, and sounds around a campfire allowed these mirror neurons to develop and evolve. 

As communication has become more abstract—first with pictorial symbols, then with abstract letters—and the mode of delivering messages has increased in mechanical distance—first with hard copy mail, then calling on telephones, then emails on computers, then smart phones and texting, and now we even have AI to synthesize data and communicate for us—I would imagine thse mirror neurons are less activated than ever. And we see the effects of that in society. 

The more mechanical distance there is, the more hostility we feel comfortable holding. It’s easier to spout off at someone on social media than it is to say those words whilst looking in their eyes. Empathy—truly being present and being checked into the emotional and actual consequences of one’s words and behaviors—takes courage and strength.

I have heard that there’s a book going around in some Christian circles about the evils or pitfalls of empathy. This is about as far from the historical Christian idea of Jesus as possible—you know, the one who became HUMAN to understand humanity? Isn’t that what Christianity is supposed to have at it’s core? *That* particular belief? If that isn’t the essence of empathy, what is? 

You know how Whole Foods used to be a cool, authentic health food store? And then Amazon bought it? You can feel the difference; it traded soul and character for mass production and capital gain. Well, it feels like Christianity in the US was bought by conquest ideology and American Nationalism. And American Nationalism is now being courted by Authoritarianism. Jesus left the building a long time ago, guys. Those of you who are true followers of Jesus need a new name. ‘Cause your brand got co-opted by some really anti-Christian ideas and behaviors.

So today, on this Friday the 13th, I leave you with these thoughts. 

1. I’m terrified to travel right now because things feel unsettled in our country. Being on a different continent from my kids and animals feels vulnerable and uncertain. 
2. I’m going anyway because I don’t want to live in fear. I want to go experience life. I think the antedote to this mechanical distance we are all experiencing indicates that it’s more important than ever to return to more direct experiences and an open intake of real life. 
3. Empathy is strength. Steeling yourself is weakness. Living according to the latter path will lead to further disintegration and disease.
4. The way forward is, as always, LOVE and NATURE. Connect with others. Get together with friends. Go to a protest. Share meals with each other. Put your devices away when it’s possible. Make space for real human connection. Rest and connect with your own soul and your Higher Self, too. Find ways to spark your own spirit so you aren’t down trodden. Create. Express. Meditate. Run. Hike in the Woods. Roller Skate. Play Music. Listen to Music. Connect with Nature in a Sit Spot. Journal in Nature. Plant Living Things. Tend a Garden. Sit by a Stream and Listen. Listen to the Bird Song. Watch the Sunrise or Sunset. Go for a Walk by the Light of the Moon. Engage with your Life, the Beings around you (human and otherwise), and spend time in Nature. All of these are ideas (and there are plenty more) for how to fill up your soul while we live amidst these tumultous times. 

Lean into empathy. Lean into love. If you think that ICE is doing a service to our country then you are either scared, misinformed, or refusing to let yourself experience empathy. No human is illegal; we are all born as natural creatures on this earth. Nature gifts us all with the sacred birthright and invitation to belong to this earth. Nations are a social construct. Love is real. Nations are not. They are a shared fiction. I will not dirty my soul nor my integrity by upholding a racist narrative for a shared fiction. When you come for one of us here in LA, you come for all of us. That is what empathy looks like. And that is why it will prevail. 

We will keep showing up, speaking out, AND we will keep crying and having empathy. Not just for the victims, but yes, even empathy towards the oppressors. That does not mean there is no anger, but it means that I refuse to dehumanize or villainize my fellow humans. The second we do that, we also relinquish them from accountability. Love is stronger than hate. Empathy is stronger than dehumanization. I cast my vote with my mind, my words, and my life for the world I want to live in—a world where empathy prevails.

I’ll be protesting tomorrow in Topanga with Juniper, and Collin and Senya will be protesting in Downtown Los Angeles. We will be peaceful and nonviolent, and we will show this administration and the onlooking world the true force and might of empathy. 

This phase of life is novel and, at times, uncomfortable. A few months back on Twirling Leaf, I wrote about how much I loved and was rocking midlife. Suspend judgment for a moment when you read this next line, but: I wrote that while my kids were away at sleep-away camp for a few weeks. Anyone who reads my writing, sees my social media posts, or knows me in real life would never doubt my love (and like) for my kids. But, you see, when Senya and Juniper returned home from almost a month of being on the East Coast without Collin and me, they headed into their first years of high school and middle school, respectively. 

Now this was an emotionally turbulent transition for me for several reasons. One major reason was that we had homeschooled for most of the kids’ childhood. There was a brief stint in 2015 when Senya went to kindergarten at Topanga Elementary the year they were 5. And then we homeschooled until the 2021-2022 school year when both Juniper and Senya attended Mettawee Community School in Vermont for 3rd and 6th grade, respectively. Other than those experiences, our family has always homeschooled. That was one of the reasons that motivated me to return to Topanga when Collin was starting this new company, Mass Culture, based here in Los Angeles. He could’ve stayed remote (though being here has definitely helped launch the company further than if we hadn’t moved back, I think), but the allure of returning to Topanga and homeschooling again (versus the kids continuing to go to school for the remainder of their time with us) pushed me over the edge to decide that we all had a lot to gain from being based in California again. So, we got two more years of homeschooling for the remainder of Juniper’s elementary years and Senya’s middle school years. And for that, I’m grateful.

Over the years, homeschooling allowed our family to develop a very strong family identity. Whether we were in California, Arkansas, or Vermont, Collin and I created a family culture that became our sense of home. It was built on love, nature, adventure, and a sense of deep connection with each other and our lives. Sometimes we were riding around the US and Canada in an old RV for months at a time. Sometimes we were traveling in Thailand or Uganda or Costa Rica for months at a time. Then there were the four years we lived intensively on a mountain and homesteaded, and during this time, home became much more integrated into a physical place. Regardless of which iteration of homeschooling we were living, though, the continuity of homeschooling allowed us to embody our most core family elements in whatever way seemed best at the time. Essentially, whatever Collin and I imagined, dreamt, or envisioned, our whole family embraced. So, ending homeschooling this fall was a bigger change than I anticipated. That’s sort of how I do change; I leap and then I deal with the consequences once I’ve landed. 

Another huge contributor to my confusion and disorientation in this new chapter is that I thought we were moving back to Vermont this past fall. And in this imagined version of life, I was going to run a farm while they were at school. So much about that did not work out. We had such high hopes in January of 2024 and those hopes stayed super high until August of 2024. They stayed high even when the Vermont Land Trust made it very clear that I would never be a real farmer in their eyes. My optimism stayed high when we sought out qualified farmers and—per the VLT’s requirements—made a 20 year contract with them to farm the 35 acres of agricultural land in order to be allowed to purchase it. I willed my hopes to stay high when the VLT kept kicking back the beautiful Memorandum of Understanding our qualified farmer friends had composed with the criticism that it had to be “disproportionately favorable” for the farmers and less favorable for us since we weren’t really supposed to be allowed to steward this land. Even though somewhere along the way, the dreaminess and sparkle of moving to the farm under these terms wore off, I still pursued it. But every time we list our house, a mudslide blocks the main boulevard as if the universe is sending a very clear message: stay put. Mudslides and wildfires don’t exactly make it a seller’s market. I will say, however, I can hear the birds and the frogs much more since the boulevard is no longer a thruway from the valley to the coast. It’s been different, though, than the return I envisioned to a life where home was an epic, sprawling physical place. Chickens, bees, gardens, a mudroom, barns, and acres upon acres of bouldery meadows and forest to explore was what I pictured our kids having to call home once again. This did not materialize as planned, and so our home has remained more an emotional construct with a small physical space to hold our family culture.

Maybe I was trying to return to an era and thought I could find it geographically. In some ways, I know that we can never go back. Like Heraclitus says, you can never step in the same river twice because you’re not the same person and it’s not the same water.  

These changes became more apparent when Senya and Juniper started school at the Manzanita School here in Topanga this past fall.

I braced myself for them to start school in terms of the schedule change as much as possible. And honestly, the homework load was a lot less intense than I anticipated. This is because Manzanita—much like homeschooling—engages in a lot of the actual work and learning during the school day. So by the time they come home, they have written papers, done math problems, debated complex social and political issues, and even worked in a garden and built shelters out of Arundo cane as well.  If you’re thinking, “Wow, that school sounds amazing!” Yeah. My kids thought so too. And that was something I didn’t realize would be difficult for me. 

I had been used to being the adult my kids preferred. I was used to home being the place they felt most comfortable and inspired. I expected school to be a difficult transition for them. I expected them to return home after a school day and be exhausted and ready to decompress with me. 

Instead, they would come home happy. Fulfilled. Enlivened. Inspired. They even would come home talking about how much they loved their mentors. 

What fresh horror was this??? They don’t need me?? They don’t miss me during the day?? 

I was NOT prepared for that. But I couldn’t let them know that. I didn’t want them to worry about me or feel bad for me. So when one of them asked one day, with a hint of concern in their voice, “What do you do while we are gone all day, mama?” I tried not to miss a beat while my inner voice was like “don’t say all the home management or domestic type work you do. That will just sound pathetic to them because you did all that when they were home too. Say the things you love that you do that actually bring you life.” So I was like, “Oh, I am SO busy. Doing so much stuff. That I love. That keeps me reallllly busy.” This bought me enough time to compile a list to respond after they said, “like what?” 

Now, fortunately, Los Angeles is the one place where when anyone asks you,  “What do you do?” You can just reply with your hobbies, and that’s perfectly acceptable. No one is actually asking how you make money. They’re asking what you do that fulfills you or what your passion is. Or at least that’s how we all answer. So if you’re from out of town and you want to know how someone financially affords their life, you’re going to need to get specific about your question. Lots of people here make money doing whatever they need to do, and they define themselves by their art, their area of giftedness, talent, or creative passion. So the answer to the question, “What do you do?” is often answered by things like “I’m really called to tea ceremonies,” or “I’m a trail runner,” or “I’m a musician,” and really, that’s what they love. That is  not how they’re paying their utility bills or putting exorbitantly priced gas in their cars. I have always loved that about living here. So, in a very short time, I was able to answer the question, LA-style: 

“I trail run, I read books on and practice my herbalism, I write, I am perfecting my sourdough bread, and I still make time to manage our home life, even though I’m not homeschooling you guys anymore. There’s a LOT to do.”

To be honest, I answered with more feigned enthusiasm than what I actually felt back then. The first few months that they were in school were an emotional adjustment. I felt lost. I wanted to just enjoy my newfound time during the day, but I just felt extremely empty. I didn’t expect to love being a mom. I definitely didn’t expect to be a primary care-giver. But life kind of worked out that way after the one year that I was the income earner, and so for 13 years, I felt absolutely certain about my purpose and my work felt necessary and meaningful. The kids going to school changed that. 

I guess that’s a big part of why I wanted to be a farmer. I needed something to fill the vast void that homeschooling and parenting young kids had taken. Goodness knows I tried—even when friends and strangers alike were like, “buuuuut, you’re not a farmer”—I was like, “well, that’s YOUR opinion.” And they were kind of like, “Is it, though?”

But let’s face it. I’m incredibly impatient. I am likely to plant a seed, stare at the ground, and declare that it didn’t work after 5 minutes (a lived eternity) of waiting. I don’t know that I’m cut out to be a farmer. Also, I am extremely relational and—as much as I hate admitting this because it feels embarrassing—I was so lonely in Vermont. My social needs were different than the average Vermonter, I think. I would text someone to ask if they wanted to hang out and grab a coffee sometime (trying to keep it super cas’) and I wouldn’t hear back for like three days and then the person would be like, “I have a social thing already next week, so maybe we can hang out next month.” 

I’m certainly not reflecting on that to cast blame or even criticism; it’s just to note that—while I loved SO much of our life in Vermont and all the people we became friends with there—I did have some real struggles. It’s often easy for me to overlook this fact in my heartache to return to all that I miss there. But it’s an important part of becoming integrated as a person to look at all the facets of reality rather than just idealizing or devaluing.

Because a lot of people there were homesteading, farming, or doing other all-consuming types of work, they were pretty committed and overextended with their time in each day by virtue of just living their lifestyle well. I was homeschooling as my full time work, but my kids would play outside a lot independently, so I had the luxurious novelty of free time. I recognize that this was also partly due to privilege. Whatever the reasons, the result was that I was alone more than I liked. And that was really hard for me, and at times I felt unseen. 

So, I’ve had to face these hard realities this past fall and winter. There is no perfect place to live, and there is also no place to hide from the effects of time. 

Even so, we listed our house again in February, as planned, in an attempt to return to Vermont, but as the weeks become months and tick by without any interest from potential buyers, it’s given our family time to live into an unprecedented time of continuity and sustainability here in Topanga. Our financial situation is actually working which was not the case when Collin’s former company unexpectedly stopped paying him his “guaranteed payments” mere months after we had moved here. We saw our bank account get lower and lower as we hoped he could get Mass Culture to a point where it would offset the loss faster than our savings ran out. Fortunately, he and his fellow partners and employees at Mass and Brains on Fire are geniuses with integrity and a strong work ethic. Just as we hit a total eclipse of our bank account, the financial situation turned around. Turn around, bright eyes, indeed. 

As I mentioned above, this has given me the space to enroll in a two-year herbalism course based in Ojai. I spend one full weekend a month at the Krishnamurti Center, where the Earth Island Medicinal Herb Garden is nestled in the Topa Topa mountains. I drive there with a fellow student who has become a new friend and we’ve spent hours upon hours now having the liveliest and most ADHD-infused conversations about every topic. I’m pretty sure if we drove far enough we could solve all the problems. We have very different life experiences and hence different perspectives on some issues, but we find each other to be absolutely delightful and hilarious. There’s mutual respect and appreciation for each other’s differing perspectives and the sense of humor we both have while addressing these differences. 

So, the lay of the land of this novel chapter is such: the kids are in a school they absolutely love. I’m studying herbalism and having some time to invest in interests that have been dormant or on the shelf for a decade and a half. This has inspired Collin to start taking expeditions out into somewhere wild and natural one weekend a month. He leaves for Mount Whitney tomorrow on his first of these adventures. Our little Topanga town is resilient post-fire, and the people who remained or returned here feel more like kin now than ever…both here in Topanga and also the family and friends we have nearby. We are all trying to be resilient while being unsure when we will have access to the coast again, when our beloved trails will reopen, or when the businesses will have ample clientele and customers again. I’ve come to learn that there’s always going to be crazy stuff to weather. Some things that living in such a dynamic place teaches you are: to be resilient, to be adaptive, and not to get too attached to stuff. It literally all might burn down, so just be ready to grab the ones you love (human and otherwise), pack a go-bag with a few tokens of your most cherished or meaningful components in life, and in that bag, also pack way more underwear than you think you’ll need. Because honestly, life isn’t full of guarantees of what will or won’t happen. But we can choose how we respond to whatever life throws at us. And I’d personally prefer to be wearing clean underwear whatever happens.

So, this phase of life is evolving. My kids are growing up, and though that felt surreal in earlier eras, it is tangible now. We’ve got less than a handful of years with Sen before they likely move out and attend college. I don’t want to miss out on these years because I’m looking backward and being too mournful that the past is gone or because I’m scanning the horizon looking for an escape from the incessant march of time. I did have to grieve—with lots of tears, many nights wondering why it hurts so much to love so deeply, many sorrowful thoughts that the best is over— to be able to be present with and grateful for now. I’m sure this is cyclical work that will continue throughout the remainder of my life, but at this particular moment, I am able to feel grateful for what we’ve had, present with and invested in what is happening now, and excited for where we are heading. 

It’s been a journey learning how to be here and now. But what a beautiful journey it is.

“Though not true in a literal sense, a myth is not what it is considered to be in everyday speech—a fantasy or a misstatement. It is rather a veiled explanation of the truth. The transformation from fact to myth is endlessly fascinating.” —Joseph Campbell

I saw a Trump flag flying the other day and under his name, it said “Fuck Your Feelings.” I know this is exactly why that sign was made, but: it hurt my feelings. That’s just SO mean. And I know we’ve all made this connection between how mean this political party is and Christianity, but it just keeps astounding all of us, right? And yeah, I mean, at the end of the day—full circle—fuck my feelings. Because this isn’t about feelings. This isn’t just about being mean (even though that IS so mean). This is about right and wrong and the fact that so many Christians who profess to be deeply concerned with what’s morally right are forsaking the essence of Love. This is about detaining immigrants in military bases and separating families, deliberately eliminating diversity and inclusion from policies and hence society, firing hard-working laborers in all kinds of employment positions while lining the pockets of billionaires, and attacking the most vulnerable members of society, specifically based on the color of their skin or their gender identity. I mean, that’s just few things off the top of my head. 

Which brings me back to the fact that a lot of people are wondering how so-called Christians can align themselves with someone who is SO mean (noting here that “mean” is now an understatement. I think the words more aptly associated with the actions I listed above might be hateful, cruel, and sociopathic). I know there are a lot of people who identify as Christians and do not endorse this administration. I have to imagine they are shocked and horrified by how much “Christian” support Trump has. How can two such different expressions exist under the same label?

To understand this better, let’s discuss the nature of words.

Spoken words are sounds (phonemes) to which we assign meaning. Words are, in and of themselves, arbitrary. That’s one of their fundamental characteristics. Apart from onomatopeias (words that imitate the sound of what they symbolize, i.e., “quack, clang, buzz”), there is nothing innate about the sound of a word that determines its meaning. We take phonemes and assign them meaning in any specific language. Then we string these sounds together to make words. These words represent an idea, which is how we communicate or transfer thoughts or ideas from one mind to another. With the dawn of writing, which came with a pictographic language called Cuneiform circa 3,400 BCE, civilizations could transmit their ideas across space and time. People no longer needed to speak face to face to communicate; they could write their ideas down and they would last. 

This was a great technological advance, but like all technological advances, there’s a ripple effect in how it changes culture. With the invention of cuneiform came laws, government, and social class. From 3,000-1500 BCE language developed even further, moving from pictographic forms to abstract, phonetic alphabets. And as cultural anthropologist Claude Lévi-Strauss noted: 

“There is one fact that can be established: the only phenomenon which, always in all parts of the world, seems to be linked with the appearance of writing…is the establishment of hierarchical societies, consisting of masters and slaves, and where one part of the population is made to work for the other part.”

With the phonetic alphabet came even more change—including neurological evolution that favored abstract, linear thinking over intuitive, holistic thinking—according to Dr. Leonard Shlain, author of The Alphabet vs the Goddess: The Conflict Between Word and Image. Shlain presents archaeological evidence and links data to conclude that with the dawn of the alphabet came patriarchy, monotheism, and religious wars. No one is arguing for a return to an illiterate society, but his research does warrant a look at the correlations between the invention of the written word and violence as well as the one between religious texts and oppression.

The version of the Judeo-Christian God penned down from roughly 1200-165 BCE was transcribed into written Hebrew (the language of the government and the upper class) at a time ripe with patriarchal, violence-obsessed, themes. This version of God reflects that. When modern Christians align themselves with this version of God—the one that lacks empathy and compassion and smites whole civilizations that don’t follow His laws—they are living in a worldview that endorses an Us vs. Them mentality. In this mentality, there is a stark binary between those who deserve good (Us) and those who deserve wrath (Them). Anyone who doesn’t conform to the Us group is othered and dehumanized so that the hateful deeds that are done to them can be justified (rape, murder, slavery, etc.). Look, I’m not being dramatic, it’s all in the book. And this is the same God affiliated with Christianity. I’m really sorry for the offense this may cause, but that God is a sociopath and anyone who believes literally in and is loyal to this version of God (rather than holding it as mythological truth), is endorsing sociopathic ideas and behaviors. 

The brand of militant Christianity emerges when followers get too bogged down into the literal level of the words written on the pages. This type of religion has been weaponized all throughout history. When religious adherents value in-group loyalty and obedience to their leader over inclusivity and critical thinking, conquest ideology replaces a pursuit of Love and spiritual growth. The crusades were fought as “Holy Wars” between different religions sure that their version of God deserved vengeance and a violent display of loyalty. The Protestant Reformation was riddled with violence about different technicalities and beliefs about God. Priests and white colonizers used this brand of Christianity to justify forced assimilation and genocide of Indigenous nations. All throughout the founding of the United States this type of Christian thinking has been enmeshed with the idea of Manifest Destiny and white supremacy. To this day, nations and cultures justify religiously motivated violence and genocide against whole people groups. In the name of God. Sadly, our nation is becoming one of the aggressors aligned with this way of being. 

Trump specifically uses this Us vs. Them thinking that his fundamentalist constituents are primed to embrace. Among others, he has villainized immigrants and Transgender people. He preys on people’s worst stereotypes and phobias and further others these already vulnerable groups of people. He is stripping them of dignity, respect, and safety in the name of making America great, prosperous, and safe again. Fundamentalist Christians are buying into it. It’s racism and bigotry wrapped in an American flag and branded as the Lord’s work. It feels awfully glaring from the outside, but so many are so deeply afraid. His hate mirrors their deep fears and their idea of a wrathful God. 

In my heretical opinion, Jesus died to save us from that God. Please contemplate it for a moment; Jesus was trying to save you from the Biblical God of vengeance and dominance that was documented in the written word. Everyone says that Jesus came to save humans from themselves or from sin or from death—some go as far as to say God’s wrath—but have you ever just thought that Jesus’ whole life and death was about trying to save people from a wrathful God? Cause one could make a strong case for that.  

Living under the fear of a wrathful god who hates you, believes your nature is evil, and smites people—that’s such torture. It is why there are so many people so quick to hate, to support this administration, and so slow to question the meanest authoratarian voice in the room—especially when he poses with a Bible. 

If you read the words that authors credit to Jesus, they are all about love, social justice, upending the institution of church, and creating an egalitarian society. He is a very different concept than the God before His lifetime. Sidenote: Jesus likely spoke Aramaic, the language of the common people.

So, to quote the book from whence my arguments arise “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” 

The concept of Logos or eternal meaning and substance is described here in that verse. 

But it doesn’t end there, after about 13 verses of stuff about Jesus and John there’s a verse that says:

“and the Word became flesh.”

I think the Christians who internalized the deep truth that “the Word became flesh” are the people who are able to remain compassionate, dynamic, and alive in their faith. 

Before the written word, meaning and stories were passed on in the oral tradition. And so as life and knowledge evolved, so did the story. The deep truth remained constant, but the superficial contexts and details evolved to stay relevant. When people began writing things down, people started getting fixated on details. They stopped focusing on the deep meaning, the truth within, and they got hung up on the literal, factual level. They forsook the mythological or metaphorical level of truth which is a higher and deeper type of truth. Mythological truth endures. It persists. Literal truth is contextual. When we try to replace mythology with facts or view the two as the same currency that can be easily exhanged we rob ourselves of something much more lasting, more enduring, more universally true. 

So, when people wrote down their understanding of the truth, it worked for some while it was socially relevant. All the laws, the world view, etc—sure, thousands of years ago that was the context in which people were living and it made sense. But now, that mythology is obsolete and not operative because people aren’t allowing it to evolve. They argue about the details, the laws, and the truth at the literal, factual level. By doing this, they cheat themselves and everyone out of something much richer and what every soul needs—a cosmology that helps one find meaning and purpose throughout time and across cultures. They rob themselves of a relevant social and ethical code that creates more good than harm because it is dynamic and alive, exibiting the qualities of adaptation and evolution as anything alive does. 

Because some Christians refuse to let the truth evolve and adapt because they’re too fearful of losing some kind of “factual” element of the text, these Christians become dogmatic, militant, and inflexible. They live under the fear of a wrathful god who will smite them if they deviate from the details and don’t obey the literal words on the page.  

This is exactly what Jesus came here to alleviate—that fear of a wrathful, judgmental god who hates and judges more than loves and empathizes. 

The idea of Jesus, in the Christian faith, is that an expression of God (Eternal Logos) became embodied in human form to experience life as a limited mortal and to have empathy for what that’s like. The idea is that He came here to make a case—to that vengeful God— that it’s really difficult to be a human. Making this case, His purpose was to stand between humanity and the wrath of God as a bridge of understanding and empathy. And, through this lens of understanding, I’d like to think that He also came to reconnect with what was good here in the first place. To see the sunrise, to experience the awe and beauty that this natural world has to offer. To experience the satisfaction of seeking answers and finding them. To feel the rage of injustice and to take a stand against it. To feel hunger and then share a delicious meal with friends. To have good conversations, to laugh, to cry. To offer hope and see it take root in someone’s mind and heart. And most of all, to experience love and see how so much here in this very complex world in which we live is bound to (what we often think of as) it’s opposite. 

For example, Joy and Pain. There’s love and because of that there’s heartache. If we were unattached, we wouldn’t have pain or suffering. That’s the whole Buddhist idea. And I reject it. Yeah, sure. Take my material stuff and whatever, I get it that my meaning and purpose shouldn’t be all wrapped up in that. But actual attachment being something to eradicate? Hard pass. What’s the point without it? That’s love. That’s the deal. You love, you hurt. You care, you feel pain. You have something of value, it can be lost or broken or stolen. You live and you die. 

And I think that the mythological truth we can keep from that verse, “the Word became flesh” is that we no longer have to live in fear, shame, or in an unforgiving state of judgement. Jesus was an ally, and the whole idea is that He gets it. He knows how hard it is to be human. And also how beautiful it is. And the Word—the substance of law, the truth, the essence of the meanings contained within all the words that have ever been and what the archetype is of all those words—became one of Us. And made it possible for everyone to be an Us. And when rigid, literal Christians take up the old way of dividing, hating, othering, and trying to make this mythological truth fit into a list of tiny, literal and rigid facts, they are negating the very essence of Christianity as embodied by the life of Jesus. 

That is the problem with taking speech and locking it down in the written word: it loses that dynamic, organic quality that all living things have. The eternal Logos concept is that the numinous and the essence of what IS — all that exists—was always there. It was shapeless and devoid of form but dynamic and alive and it became a creative force that brought everything into existence. When humans started nailing it down in so-called sacred texts and overly defining rules and laws around how to properly relate to that numinous force, we killed the dynamic and living quality of the Word. And truly, if you believe the embodiment of the Word was Jesus, it checks out that the religious leaders killed Him. He was a little too lively and revolutionary for them. That’s because the literal level of truth changes but the deep substance of logos remains. That tends to make fear-based religious adherents uncomfortable. Our perspective adapts and evolves as life continues, but the deeper, archetypal level of truth remains. And that is why the Word had to become flesh for truth to be restored to the mythological, dynamic, and living level. 

So, Christians, do you make your life a practice that aims to embody and honor the mythological truth of Jesus’ life? Do you live and act like the Word became Flesh and is alive and dynamic? Or do you still hinge your soul’s worth and everyone else’s on a series of laws and rules that are static and dated and made by a wrathful version of a God devoid of empathy? The choice is yours, but there is so much evidence that Christians need a new mythology—one that is relevant, dynamic and suited to our current reality. 

You can take this or leave it, as I’m not a literal Christian. And the reason for that is that about 16 years ago, I developed a deep conscientious objection to the literal beliefs of Christianity. I could no longer believe that God hated people or that being gay was wrong. I could no longer believe that only the people who believe the Bible is a book of literal facts are not going to eternal damnation. I could no longer let my mind be thwarted by requiring it to remain obedient to a list of static, non-living words. Obedience is not a virtue; it is only as good or as evil as the ideas or people you are obeying. Critical thinking on the other hand, it’s a pretty good skill to have. You should never have to dim your intelligence to believe something. You should never have to squelch your compassion to obey someone. Ideas worth believing should check out with your intellect and your conscience. 

So, I unsubscribed to all the literal beliefs I had been indoctrinated to cognitively obey, and I started sifting through these beliefs for what actually resonated with my soul. This means that many of my core values have remained (Love, kindness, generosity, social justice, honesty, etc), but my beliefs have changed. 

Many of us who were raised in the Christian faith can no longer adhere to the literal beliefs of the Bible in good conscience. We need to find a way to evolve, adapt, and keep improving our knowledge and understanding of the world in which we live. We need to find a way to accept and celebrate scientific discoveries without fear that our entire framework for meaning and explanations will dissolve if we do so. We need to find a way to champion human rights and celebrate diversity, moving toward progress and not away from it. But we also don’t want to throw away our entire notion of truth, our concept of Love, and our spiritual practices forged during the entire first portion of our life. That’s why I encourage you to consider examining Christianity through a mythological lens of truth. Again, mythological doesn’t mean fantasy; it means veiled truth. It means that not everything remains literally true–especially given the contextual changes over thousands of years– but there is deep, eternal truth veiled within the words that is alive and dynamic.

If you keep the literal beliefs but forsake the meaning contained within the Word, you have missed the entire point of the life and death of Jesus. In that case, you are religiously obedient but not in agreement with Love. And as for me, I will always strive to choose Love.

As it’s almost been a month since the election results, I’m getting some perspective and some experience in the aftermath. I see a lot of people grieving and feeling the impending oppression that looms above us like a cloud of hopelessness. Part of what saddens us is how many of our fellow country mates cast their vote for this administration that comes in the name of freedom and morals but is actually using one of the most basic tool sets of control: fear and division.

Who will resist this oppression? Those of us who live by spirit and not by fear. The artists, the intellectuals, those of us with a soulful connection to nature, and the people committed to a path of integrity are not falling for this facade. 

If you are a painter, then paint. If you are a singer, then sing. Dancers, dance and writers, write. If you are a tender of the earth and a grower of food, then do that with all the integrity of heart and mind that you have. Whatever you do in life, engage with your spirit and live your creative acts of defiance. This is a resistance of the soul, of true spirit, and of our deepest connection to life itself. The oppression that is coming is one that comes in the name of change and revolution, but it is actually a move to control, suppress, bind together, and make us homogeneous. This has always been the difference between religion and spirit. 

Religare, the latin root of “religion” means to tie or bind together. Spire, the latin root for “spirit” means to Breathe. The breath is what connects us to our truest life source, to all that is. Religion can be weaponized and used to dominate. Spirit is vitality itself and, left in its flourishing and natural state, is not amenable to be used as a tool for dominance. Religion can be harmfully abused and can become the appropriation of spirit. People have been confusing religion and spirit for millenia. That confusion is being highlighted now in our nation.

Religion can be misused to breed a fear of true self expression, of diversity, and of individuals realizing their potential by connecting authentically to their spirit. Those rising to power are capitalizing on this fear because it’s much harder to control and dominate a population of people who are diverse, empowered, free, and unafraid to live with a flourishing and free spirit. It takes courage, now more than ever in my lifetime, to believe that the very fabric of our souls—especially that which makes us more sensitive, more caring, and more grieved is that which will save us all. 

When someone claims to come in the name of truth and righteousness—when in fact they are deceitful, self-seeking, and power-hungry—of course those of us who are the artists, the intellectuals, the genuine truth-seekers will feel appalled, horrified, and upset by how many have been taken in by his schemes. But some of us know how to recognize what’s false—those of us who have lived this path of sincerity to the the exclusion of praise and acceptance by the majority all of our lives. We have always forged our own paths, those of us who live by spirit, and we see each other with the recognition and admiration of a fellow sojourner. You and I may subscribe to different worldviews—we may call spirit by different names—but we are united by a common thread of the pursuit of what’s true, what’s real, and what’s good. 

This new administration comes promising to give you freedom, and in fact wants to squash the very spark within us. But it won’t. It can’t. Because that spark of spirit is Life itself, a force not so easily extinguished. It is the very creative power that made everything out of nothing, order and patterns out of chaos, from the details of fingerprints to the celestial bodies in the sky. Civilizations will rise and fall, but this current of Life that resides within us all will not ever be destroyed. It may change shape and form; there are small deaths and rebirths along the way. But in the end, what will prevail? Life itself. True Nature. Some people call this force “God” but I have come to know the numinous beyond religion, beyond cultural names, beyond symbols. So for me that name is too bound in literal interpretations. But whatever name you call the source of your spirit, the essence of all that is, don’t lose hope. You aren’t alone. You are part of something bigger and more eternal than you can even imagine. And the force of that is unstoppable in the grand scheme of cosmic time and beyond. 

But we are here and exist now. So it is our duty to resist and join our hearts to the true spirit of Life itself in defiance of hate, oppression, fear, and control.

So again, I compel you to create art and beauty in resistance to this cloud of fear that looms above us. In defiance of this illusion of hopelessness: write, act, tell great stories. Nurture that beauty and soul within you and others. To love and create art and truly live into authenticity will now be an act of powerful resistance. Take care of yourself and take care of each other. Tend to the earth, tend to the corner of nature that you steward. If you can reach beyond your immediate sphere, then do so. 

Now is the time to believe in all that you have ever held dear and embody it with your very life. That is how we will emerge victorious and stronger than ever. 

On our home planet, for every action, there is an equal and and opposite reaction. Let ours be of life, love, art, and beauty so much so that our light overwhelms the darkness. 

Don’t lose heart. 

The longer I live, and the more varied experiences I have, I realize that my psychological wiring is inclined toward feeling the peaks and valleys of the human experience. And while not everyone will relate to quite the level of intensity that I will describe here, I do think we all have the same, basic psychological needs that swing us across a spectrum of emotions and feelings. Here I’ll explain some of what it’s like for me to be an intense person, how that drives me to find meaning in the universe, my journey away from an established religion that used to meet these needs, and circle back to what I’m figuring out along the way. I’ll even throw in some tips for avoiding cults for free. 

In my darkest moments, I’m inescapably aware that I’ve got an aching soul that is fathoms deep. In these moments the adjectives are: insatiable, inconsolable, implosive. I feel like a black hole develops where my soul once was. No light can escape. I feel uncontainable. 

In my most illuminated moments, I am intoxicated by the very experience of being alive. I see profundity in the minutia and transcendence in the mundane. A song can enrapture me; a book can transform me. The adjectives are: passionate, electrifying, inspiring. I feel invincible.

I am pretty sure that I am missing just a teeny bit of momentum on the pendulum swing from being diagnosable as bipolar. I rely on Collin and my other closest relationships (including my therapist sister) to gauge this for me. For now, anyway, I’m comfortable understanding myself as: intense. 

Like seeks like sometimes, I guess. I’m drawn to intensity in music, art, food, coffee, wine. When I first heard Muse’s Map of the Problematique, I grieved that I wasn’t a note in that song so I could live inside of it. My soul quivered with deep relatability when I first listened to the lyrics of Frightened Rabbit’s Modern Leper. When I witness exceptional art of any kind—films, dance, song, poetry, painting, novels, sculpture, photography—I get goosebumps and could easily cry (if I let myself). I love philosophy and theory—often I spend more time with extraordinary, dead authors than living people. They are great company. Kant is a little bit of a stuffed shirt, but definitely a stand up guy. A reread of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein has given my soul great camaraderie as of late. And whenever I feel disappointment with regular life, I can count on Tolkien to immerse me in a world more akin to my need for the mythological. Give me strong, dark, French Roast coffee or give me death. Okay, not really. But f*** off with your overpriced cup o’ acidic light roast dirt. A finely crafted cheese can be a spiritual experience. The fragrance of baking chaparral in the mountains intoxicates my senses. You can extrapolate this quality of mine to feel both deeply and to great heights across every domain of life and being.

I’m never meh. There is no “mid” for me. “Easy breezy” has never been a phrase used to describe me (unironically, anyway).

My inner life is like the death of a massive star, and I expect that I will burn out in glorious explosion at the end. I hope I don’t just slip in the shower all by myself. That would be the worst. Since I hope it is many years down the road before I meet my glorious end, I am learning to accept my intensity as part of who I am rather than try to shut it down. Holding all of these vast and consuming feelings within oneself is a lot to contain, though. 

Wisdom is often found just by listening and understanding what’s happening in our natural world (after all, we are part of nature too). So, I sit with my intensity, and I wait for insight.

I’m reminded of wildfires. There’s one raging in Malibu tonight and another in Ventura. It’s that time of year here.

In the past, the thought was that it was best to just extinguish wildfires because they threatened homes, livelihoods, wineries, and other important cultural institutions. These extreme efforts to completely extinguish the wildfires have actually made them worse and changed the natural fire regime. Many fire-prone ecosystems are optimized for fire. The Ponderosa Pine has naturally flame resistant bark. The Giant Sequoias drop resin-sealed seeds that only open in fire, and the fires keep competing plant species from taking over the ecosystem. Many ecosystems need regular, destructive fires to stay balanced. In recent years, one strategy that has been working better for both culture and nature is the active management of wildfires. That is, letting them burn but not letting them get out of control. Sometimes the fire inside just needs to rage while we stand by as witness to our intensity and protector of ourselves and all those around us as we burn.

So, I manage my inner world of wildfires by running, eating well, sleeping enough, taking herbs, watching how often and much wine I drink (experiencing myopia is my favorite, but using wine too often to cope with being me is the potential pitfall), writing, reading, hiking, listening to music, constantly seeking meaning in this universe, and infusing my life with adrenaline-surging adventure and experiences.

There has not been much happening in terms of that last line item lately, though. Especially because we thought we were moving to a farm this fall and then didn’t. I’ve been in a state of…emotional flux…lately (read: some nights I lay in bed sobbing “the best is over; it’s all done.” And some days I skip around the house saying, “everything is possible! I am going to get my doctorate! I’m going to write a book!” On those days I’m super energized by that infinite possibility. And then the next day, I lie in fetal position in absolute paralysis. Often, I find myself questioning the meaning of life). 

Due to my intensity, and also the fact that I was indoctrinated from birth and then raised in a very all-consuming faith tradition that I intellectually left in my late 20s, I am constantly (often unconsciously) looking for a replacement paradigm that ties everything all together. 

While I’m not shopping for a new religion, I do have to hand it over to the institution of religion: it ticks off a lot of boxes in the psychological needs department. It can often be a one-stop shop for finding meaning, purpose, explanations, nurturing relationships, and belonging. 

When one departs from the core elements of their religion and henceforth their religious community, it can be disorienting. There’s an unraveling that happens as one walks away from the faith tradition of their youth. You take one, big step, you lose your explanations. You take another few steps, and you’ve lost your meaning and purpose. You take a few more steps, and you’ve lost your nurturing relationships and sense of belonging. It is just like Weezer and the sweater song. Soon you find yourself miles from church and naked—metaphorically speaking (possibly literally too). And then you realize: wow. I have a lot to figure out. 

The thing about psychological needs is that they are real and we all have them. To be aware of our needs means that we can be informed about how we meet them. Denying that we have them or letting others dictate how we may and may not meet these needs often doesn’t make things better. And yet, sometimes it’s so tempting to meet the needs for belonging, explanations, and meaning, and purpose that we buy these needs at the expense of self expression, authenticity, and our critical thinking. 

When an ideology or institution pressures people to suppress one, basic psychological need in exchange for another (say self expression and authenticity as expressed in one’s sexual orientation or gender identity in exchange for a sense of belonging) this is not healthy. And it’s also just people making stuff up. There are few universals; the rest is culture. Or as Ru Paul says, “we’re all born naked, and the rest is drag.”  And when a culture becomes too rigid and imposing, it can become oppressive. Worst case scenario, it could become a cult.

As for me, I’m always trying to avoid the cults. I admit that I am attracted to all-consuming groups and ideologies—at least in the beginning. I think it’s a relic from my past combined with my intensity-driven desire to be consumed by something bigger than myself. I used to want to live on a commune, and I was willing to give up a lot of myself to do so (especially if the commune would have been some sweet destination like Europe or a small island off the coast of New Zealand). I have to remind myself not to get too swept up in any one thing too quickly because I also have an analytical mind, and fortunately that always wins in the end. So it’s just a matter of time until someone says or does something that I think is madness, and if and when the group majority just goes along like everything is fine, well, that’s when I usually am like, “Dang it. I almost accidentally joined a cult again.” 

Here are some pointers I now keep handy for avoiding cults:

• Practice thinking analytically and try to come up with your own opinions incorporating real life (not just whatever the sacred text aka handbook is). Shop your ideas around a bit. See how people react. If they tell you that you aren’t “anointed” “enlightened” or whatever their special term is for “right” whenever your opinion is different than theirs—GTFO.
• Listen to whatever music you want. If someone tells you can’t GTFO.
• Wear whatever clothes you want. If someone tells you that you can’t: GTFO.
• If someone tries to get you to burn something to prove your commitment—money, music, books, photos, etc—just GTFO.
• If they try to control your body—including (but not limited to) your sexuality, GTFO.
• If you are noticing that there’s social punishment for authentic self expression: you may be in a cult and you need to GTFO.

We all have basic, psychological needs that compel us to seek belonging, meaning, explanations, etc. Different cultures and ideologies seek to address these needs in specific ways, but as we become a more global and integrated world—we can observe that these cultural expressions for solutions to our needs are not the universals in themselves. 

So all of this to say—psychological needs are real and important and part of humanity. Humanity is part of nature. As Carl Sagan once said, we are all made of star stuff. The iron in our blood, the carbon in our muscles, the oxygen in our lungs: it was all made inside stars before the earth was born. 

So yes, when I say that my inner life is like the death of a massive star—it’s metaphorical and possibly literal too. And rather than try to fix myself or escape myself, I’m learning to love myself as I love the stars, the mountains, the rivers, the ocean, and all the lovable beings that live among us. I would never consider a raccoon evil. Raccoons can lash out in defensive aggression when they are afraid. It’s the same with humans. We are not evil—sometimes we lash out—unfortunately in tragic and dangerous ways at times—when our psychological and physical needs are unmet. But underpinning all this, we all have the needs to belong, to find meaning and purpose, to self-express authentically, and among other things: to be loved. 

As I continue on in my journey of being an intense person who is trying to live an authentic, integrated life, I circle back to the value that has always served as my polaris: Love. Even my concept of Love has evolved through the years. I used to think that Love meant holding onto people never letting them go. But sometimes love means releasing people and encouraging them to evolve and become who they need to be. Sometimes love means noncooperation with unkindness or injustice. Sometimes love means laying down your life for others. Sometimes love means finding your own path and flourishing so that all those around you can be better for your flourishing too. Sometimes love means sharing your truth, and sometimes love means holding back when someone can’t handle it. Sometimes love means finding common ground, and sometimes love means creating a boundary. 

Love is a vital and dynamic force, so it takes practice and discernment to figure out what it looks like in different scenarios. And growth mindset: making mistakes is how we learn! I do think, however, that we are all equipped with the innate wisdom to connect with finding what the Loving path is when we quiet our souls and listen. Because after all, in the words of Juvenal “Never does nature say one thing and wisdom another.” If we are part of nature, then we have that innate wisdom within. 

I wish you all love and light, and may the fire of your massive stars within burn bright. “May it be a light to you in dark places when all other lights go out.” JRR Tolkien

My heart grew a chamber I didn’t even know was possible the day I brought my first, very own Labrador Retriever puppy home. When we arrived back to our log cabin in the Pennsylania woods that we called home, she strutted right up to the front door like she had lived there all along. Her waggly tail and puppy breath kisses were a balm to my soul that I didn’t even realize I needed. The first little being ever entirely dependent on me, she filled up my heart with a kind of love I had never known. We gazed into each other’s eyes, and a forever bond was formed. We named her “Zuri” which means beautiful and good in Swahili.

My sister and her little family, after having lived a very collaborative life with Collin and me in which we saw each other almost daily, packed up and moved away to Los Angeles later that summer. They spent their last night on the east coast at our house. They slept on a futon mattress and backpacking foam pads because we were 25 years old and didn’t have any spare furniture. The next day when we returned from dropping them off at the airport, I collapsed on the futon mattress face first and wept. I felt a little warm, furry body snuggle next to me. Zuri was just present with me in my sorrow. She didn’t try to change it or cheer me up. She was just present with me while I grieved. And that was exactly what my heart needed. 

Those upcoming weeks and months were hard missing my sister and her family. We felt their absence acutely. In the midst of the grief, however, there was a lovable, brilliant, emotionally intuitive and ridiculously goofy puppy. She loved all the same things that we did: hiking, camping, swimming, running, eating, snuggling, sleeping, and being outside as much as possible. She fit right into our life and hearts as though she was always meant to be there. And soon it became impossible to imagine that she ever hadn’t been there. 

She loved Christmas, and she would howl at her stocking on Christmas Eve when she saw it stuffed with all her favorite treats and toys. She loved to open her wrapped presents, and she would carry them in her mouth over to the person who gave it to her and thank them by snuggling up to that person and wagging her tail. Truly, she was one of the most gracious and fun people to give presents to. She really was a person to us; I often called her a “person in a dog suit.” I wondered if she thought I was a dog in a human suit. But either way, there was a large overlap of spirit and personality that we shared and where we related. We had our differences of course (these were mostly apparent in her undiscriminating tastes for various animal feces). But she really did have a deep, soulful understanding of human emotions and quite a wide grasp on the English language as well. 

Once we taught her a command called “stealth mode” whereby she would drop to her belly and crawl like a secret agent. Another favorite trick was “bipedalism.” For this one, she would stand on her back feet only, rising to her full vertical height, and walk forward and backwards to keep her balance for about 10 seconds. She looked like a dog on a unicycle because of the motion she had to use to stay balanced upright. It was one of my favorite things to see in the whole world. We had to tell her to stop this, eventually, because she started casually walking through the kitchen and taking food off the counter. What a comical sight, though, to come into a room to find my dog walking bipedally.

Another year or so passed like this, making memories with the third member of “the team” as we called it. She came pretty much everywhere with us, and one of us was always with her on a daily basis because Collin worked from home. She came on vacation with us. She trained for marathons with us. She was woven into our life in such an intricate and easy-fit way. 

About a year or so after having Zuri, I asked Collin if he was beginning to feel ready to have kids soon or not. Collin told me that he wasn’t sure he wanted to have kids…ever. This was a shock to me. This was probably bound to happen because we got married so young. On our pre-marital counseling test, there was a section about having kids. We both ticked the box that listed “5-7 years from now” as our potential timeframe for starting a family. When you’re only 21, that feels like an infinity away. So, when Collin explained his reservations about having kids, I understood. ish. But I had this intuition that we would love having kids, and that Collin would be an amazing dad. I could easily glimpse into the hypothetical future where one of our precocious kids would slightly mispronounce an elaborate word while taking themselves very seriously. In this hypothetical scenario, Collin and I would exchange a knowing but furtive glance that communicated “I might die of cuteness but play it cool to preserve their dignity.” That was enough for me to know that it was the best possible future for us.

Eventually, Collin came around on the kid thing. And I didn’t pressure him. I did what I knew how to do while he was deciding. I applied to graduate school and encouraged him to join a rock band. That gave him some much needed perspective—namely that he never wanted to be in a rock band again. 9 months later, we had Senya. 

When we brought Senya home from the hospital, I was worried about how Zuri would feel. She had been my first baby, and I was afraid that most people would now think of her as “just the dog.” I used to cry if someone would bring baby Senya a present and not Zuri. I slept with her on that same old futon mattress for the first couple of weeks that we had newborn Senya so that she wouldn’t feel displaced. Zuri, now 3 years old, seemed thrilled. Being a proud big sister, and elevated to the status of the family dog did not seem to dampen her spirits or diminish her sense of belonging. In fact, she seemed to take her role very seriously. She would hike out in front of the baby stroller and patrol for me, keeping at bay any other passing dogs. She would delicately use her stealth mode crawl to sidle up to baby Senya during tummy time. As Senya got older, highchair time came with some amazing perks—the glory of which Zuri had never dared to dream. All sorts of foods were continuously tossed from the highchair to her eager, smiling pupper face. Senya’s giggles and Zuri’s tail wags abounded. 

When Senya was 15 months old, the four of us packed up our most important belongings, rented out our cozy log cabin to another family, and moved to Topanga, California for a new job for Collin. We lived in a 450 square foot cabin. If you’re like me and can’t visualize that, just know that it’s TINY. We all shared one, small bedroom. Zuri and Senya shared a bed. “Bed” is a generous term. We all slept on mattresses and box springs on the floor. Then one day a pipe burst, and we had to get rid of the box springs. So it was just mattresses. We were, at that time, broke as a joke. That was how we found ourselves living 3,000 miles away from our serene log cabin. Though in our twenties we had known plenty, our thirties dawned just as the recession did too. We owned ten rental houses in Wilmington, Delaware, and they all dragged our financial situation down the tubes. Our property manager was also stealing from us, and we only found that out after he had caused a lot of long term damage to our finances. Around that same time, Wilmington, Delaware was named “Murder capital of the US.” It wasn’t great for marketing. 

I remember wondering if we were going to have to declare bankruptcy and trying to google what that even meant. That was the first time I became enraged at the man who would later become the 45th President of the USA. He, and others with too much money and power, had declared bankruptcy for their own financial gain so many times that George W Bush had pushed a bill into law in 2005 that made the consequences for bankruptcy bad enough that it would eliminate bankruptcies of convenience. Unfortunately, what’s bad for a business tycoon was also almost ruinous for a young family’s struggling finances. 

As I was thinking over all the assets that the bank could seize, my mind landed on Zuri. I didn’t know which technical category she fell into—asset or family member. My mind flashed into a hypothetical whereby the four of us were on the LAM headed for international sanction in Mexico. Fortunately, it never had to come to any of this. But I was ready. Instead we hired a lawyer, and, all-told, that plan worked probably much better than my go-to impulse to get the hell outta dodge. 

The stress of the financial situation was massive, but it was no match for my dynamic duo of cuteness and endless wonder. I was lucky enough to get to spend all my time with Zuri and Senya, and my heart was truly full of joy more than anything else. The three of us would trek around LA together exploring beaches, parks, and hiking trails. At 19 months old, Senya said her first “I love you.” It was to “puppy.”

A few months after Senya turned 2, Collin took another job in Arkansas. I was 3 months pregnant with Juniper. Growing up so close to the Mason Dixon line, it was important to me to identify as a northerner. I was nervous to move to the South. The people, however, were overwhelmingly kind, generous, and hospitable. The disheartening ordeal with the rental properties was a lot to bear, and somehow this little pocket of the world encouraged our weary hearts. 

We rented a tiny house on a big, gorgeous lake. We were optimistic about the neighborhood because the neighboring house had an Obama sign in their front yard. Also, the lake was perfect for Zuri. Those webbed feet got a lot of action during the almost 3 years that we lived there. Sometimes our neighbors would call us and inform us that Zuri was out for a swim about a quarter of a mile away from our house. She would swim up to people’s floating docks and lakeside patios—especially when people were grilling. She wasn’t a nuisance, though, she’d just paddle on if no one threw her any meat scraps. She had an obsession with swimming across the width of the lake—about 1/4 of a mile—daily and bringing back at least one, rather large rock in her mouth. The rocks she gathered were always the size of a small football; they were heavy! I’d worry about her as I’d see her paddling back with barely any of her face still above water. But she was a strong swimmer, and she loved her rocks. She’d roll on them, gnaw on them, and bat them around with her paws. By the time we left Arkansas, all four of her canine teeth were entirely flattened, presumably by this pastime. 

Juniper was born the first spring that we lived in Arkansas. Zuri welcomed her right into the pack with only a quizzical look at me as if to ask “just how many of these bald puppies are you planning to bring home?” But they got along like gangbusters. Juniper and Zuri were absolute partners in crime. Once, after mere moments of turning my full attention to something else, I found Juniper in the pantry with a box of crackers alternating a cracker for her, a cracker for Zuri. Another time, I walked into the room, and they were sharing her pudding. 

The second winter we lived in Arkansas, there was a huge blizzard. Zuri, now 7, was still strong and energetic. We outfitted her like a sled dog, and she pulled her tiny sibsters on a sled up and down our neighborhood street. She loved the snow. Sometimes, she loved it all little too much. She had a horrible habit of chasing me—just me!—anytime I went sledding. She would bark and nip at me while I was sledding! It was the only time she nipped me, ever! I would always forget this bad habit of hers until I was flying down a hillside getting nipped while she was frantically barking at me. Chaotic and maddening as it was, I couldn’t help but also laugh hysterically. 

When Senya was 4, Juniper was 2, and Zuri was 7, we made the very difficult decision to sell our wonderful log cabin in Pennsylvania. The decision to do so was difficult, but we felt that we needed to return to this vibrant city full of social, cultural, and natural resources to support us during the era of raising small kids. I had a dream of what our life would be like there—like an actual REM sleep dream. Many specific elements of that dream were realized in the upcoming years. 

The years we spent living in Topanga were full of sunshine and sandy days at the beach. We were outside every, single day. One year, Senya went to kindergarten a short walk from our house. We got to know a lot of people in our small town that way and formed some of our closest relationships with other Topangan families. We went camping on the Channel Islands together, made gingerbread houses every December, and shared a lot of playdates and meals together. The other years, we homeschooled with an amazing group of likeminded families. In addition to learning together two days a week, we also celebrated solstice and other special days together. We went on camping trips in the desert and the Sequoias together. Senya, Juniper, Collin, and I were rich in community and friendship, and we had fun and happiness sprinkled throughout every day. But Zuri was spending her life sleeping away the majority of her days in a tiny house. I would take her out for walks as many days a week as I could, but beaches and parks had cracked down on their “NO DOGS ALLOWED” restrictions since that first year that Zuri, Sen, and I paled around everywhere. Sundays we always went to a specific stretch of dog friendly beach in Malibu so that Zuri could swim and play fetch and dig holes in the sand. 

One Malibu Sunday, as a wave came gently rolling into shore, it knocked Zuri off balance and she fell down. She got back on her feet, but it happened a few more times that day. It was the first time that I really noticed that she wasn’t the invincible dog we had always known her to be. She was 9, but almost 10 at that point. Collin told me that this was an older age for a lab. 

I cried my eyes out. I bought her the most comfortable memory foam bed I could find. We got her glucosamine supplements to strengthen her aging joints, and we upgraded dog food to make sure she was getting the best nutrition for her age. 

Later that spring we decided to sublet our house, buy a used RV, and tour around the US and Canada for 3 months. Between the adjustments to Zuri’s lifestyle and the adventure of being on the road together, she really came back full-power on that trip. It was like Grandpa Joe when Charlie got the golden ticket. Collin would work during the weekdays and then drive a lot of the evenings and late into the night. Zuri would stand with her front feet up on the middle console, staring out ahead every minute that Collin was driving. 10:00 pm, you’d find Senya and Juniper fast asleep in their beds, and Zuri would still be standing up, next to Collin, helping him drive through the night to our next destination. 1:00 am and sometimes I’d be dozed off in the passenger seat, but Zuri would be standing there, 100% awake and dedicated to keeping Collin company in those long, dark hours of driving. Quickly into that trip, she earned the title of “Captain.” 

She loved that trip; right off the bat, we headed back to Pennsylvania. She loved the visit back east to her hometown. She loved visiting her grandparents and all of her family members out there. Everyone in our families got how central she was to our family. She had been with Collin and me from almost the beginning. Just the 5 of us, however, celebrated her tenth birthday on Old Tice Road, eating pizza and playing fetch. The double digits felt big. I wished I could slow down her age.

But she went on to live it up at the vitality of a much younger dog for the remainder of that trip. She loved the Grand Tetons, Glacier National Park in the US, Glacier National Park in Canada, and of course, she loved Banff. Collin and I had always dreamed of taking Zuri to Banff. It was one of our favorite places on earth, and we had backed 200 miles over the course of 3 weeks there before the Zuri era. Once we had Zuri and experienced how she loved hiking and camping and swimming as much as we did, we always wanted to take her to what we considered the quintessential place for exactly those things. And here we were, 11 years after that first backpacking trip, with Zuri and also Senya and Juniper. And all three of them loved it even more than I had dreamed. They loved the glacier rivers. Our whole family would swim down the glacier river currents for miles; the humans were all using inner tubes, but Zuri used those webbed feet with bliss.

She channeled her inner dolphin, swimming when it was deep and galloping anytime she could touch the bottom. She also hiked with us many miles on that trip. We summited mountains, traversed tens of miles to reach glaciers, and discovered many, gorgeous mountain top lakes together. The water was the color of gemstones. The memories we made there and then will always be some of my favorite moments of my lifetime. All 5 of us in my most favorite destination on earth. 

Once we got back from our road trip travels, we all resumed our lifestyles in California. For Zuri, this meant that she spent a lot of time sleeping on the sofa again. She did not consider our patio (our only fenced in outdoor space) a viable option for being outside. 30,000 cars a day sped or crawled (depending on the time of day) by our house daily. The noise pollution alone bothered her nerves. She found the heat and lack of grass equally off-putting. We took her on walks to dog-friendly parks several times a week, but this was such a different lifestyle than either her Arkansas or Pennsylvania lifestyle had been. I began to want to move back to the country life. Senya and Juniper were enthusiastic about this idea too. So, that following summer of July 2018, we got back in our RV and went to look for a place in the country. 

We investigated Boulder, Colorado (not exactly the country life, but we could at least have some semblance of a yard), and we examined Bend, Oregon. We considered moving back to Arkansas or Pennsylvania. But the place that kept calling to me was Vermont. We drove to Vermont and only planned to stay a few days to visit my uncles who lived there. We didn’t feel like seeing a lot of properties, so we narrowed it down to just one. It was in a tiny, rural town called Pawlet. The pictures made it look too good to be true. But then we arrived, and it was even better than the pictures made it appear. 

We drove about a mile up a dirt road, and then turned onto another dirt driveway. A former Buddhist retreat center, the property was studded with multiple log cabins: two the sizes of regular homes and one, small one. In the center of the unwooded section of the property, just steps in front of the main log home, there was a giant, clear pond surrounded by native bushes, grasses, flowers, and weeping willow trees. Out from the pond flowed a sparkling creek that cascaded down boulders and culminated in a large waterfall. Zuri yelped with delight when she jumped out of the RV. She was in paradise. Juniper and Senya loved it just as much. We put in an offer within the week, and within 3 months it was our new home. 

We lived there, on our beautiful mountain retreat becoming more intimate with nature than I ever knew was possible. It’s hard to mine the most sacred and intimate experiences from my soul to put them into words to share. Sometimes it feels like these moments recalled are like an ember pulled from the fire of my heart, glowing and sacred. How they are received by another depends on the fire of natural wonder in the listener’s heart. My words either become an ember they receive and add to their own glow, or the spark dims and darkens until it becomes a cold, dark lump of charcoal. 

One winter morning, the air was glistening with tiny flecks of ice crystals; the extreme cold had turned any moisture in the air to delicate, gold glitter. Another morning, we woke to almost 4 feet of snow after going to bed with none on the ground (Zuri all but disappeared when we let her out that morning). The Milky Way was stark and visible just outside our door– a celestial theatre broadcasting live nightly. The only sounds we heard were those from nature: birdsong, frogs, and crickets in the summer contrasted by a quiet hush from the soft blanket of snow or the wind rustling the bare branches in the winter. 

My heart hurts every, single day and longs to be back on our land. I had no idea how much it would ache to live away from the land where we had these intimate experiences as a family. Not only is that where Senya and Juniper’s childhood took place, but that is also where Zuri lived out the last years of her life with us. Therefore, my grief is all bound up together—grief for Zuri, grief for the kids’ childhood being over, grief for the land. If I could move back there today, I would. But I no longer have claim to that land, and the new residents have fallen in love with it too. This both hurts and comforts me at the same time. I am glad that the stewards of the land cherish it, but I also feel desperate to return home. I know the farm would be different; and the only way that I can hold that in my heart is to return to the story of Zuri. 

When Zuri died, I felt a loss I never knew I could experience and continue breathing. It didn’t make sense that my heart could hurt so much and yet still beat. It seemed that the pain and ache as intense as I felt in my heart should kill my body. Collin and I placed her well loved and lifeless body deep in the rich, earth of our beloved land– facing east towards the glorious sunrise and under where we’d see Polaris from our home.

Not everyone understands how someone can love a nonhuman person as much as they love their dearest humans, but that doesn’t make it any less real. She was simultaneously my first baby, my best friend, and my therapy animal. She shouldered so much of life’s burdens for me, and when she died—in addition to the grief so shockingly consuming that it stole my breath from my lungs—I also felt the heaviness of life return to my shoulders. She was no longer able to help carry the weight of life, and with the sorrow of her death it was heavier than ever.

I never thought I’d want another dog after Zuri died. But in the months following her death, I realized that the only one who could help me carry this particular grief was going to have to be another person in a dog suit. I didn’t know how to live life without a dog anymore. Love was the only thing that was going to heal my broken heart enough to be functional again, and I needed the kind of love that only a dog could bring into my life.

Indi came into our life like a little tornado. The opposite of Zuri in almost every way, she made it clear that—as younger siblings often do—she was going to fill the spaces that Zuri’s personality left vacant. She hates swimming (Zuri LIVED for water). She loves peanut butter (it was one of the only foods Zuri despised). She likes dogs more than she likes most humans (Zuri was more into humans than dogs), and she enjoys her dog-ness (Zuri always seemed a bit more refined and didn’t engage in butt-sniffing, crotch ramming, or jumping on people to greet them; conversely, these are Indi’s three top ways of saying hello). 

I will always, always grieve Zuri’s absence from my daily life. Where all the love I have for her brought me joy when she was alive, now, it still just hurts. It’s been more than 2 1/2 years since she died, and I still cry when I think of her. Having Indi hasn’t changed that, but she does help with the burden of grief that I shoulder. She did, indeed, help heal me with her unconventional methods of barking at me when I’d try to teach her commands, refusing to try to impress me, and sticking her entire tongue in my mouth unexpectedly.

Similarly, unless we ever move back to our old land, I will always grieve that loss. It felt like we had to move for various reasons, and I drive myself a little crazy if I question that too much. I know it’s been good for Collin’s company to be here for the start up phase, so I lean on that. We’ve met some dear friends we never would have known had we never left. And we’ve reconnected with family and friends in a way that has strengthened those bonds at a critical time in my kids’ lives. So, I try not to regret it, and these gifts help me accept what I can not change and be grateful for what we did gain.

But I’d be lying if I said that I don’t dream of returning to Vermont and living a land based life once again. I miss the seasons. I miss tapping the maple trees in the spring. I miss seeing the flowers return slowly and seeing the earliest ones get a snow fall. I miss the long summer nights and the short, dark winter days. The former good for being outside all day, the latter for cozying up by the fire around 6:00 pm (unapologetically in pajamas) with a mug of something warm. I miss the brilliant fall foliage that truly feels like a work of art. I miss the quiet. I miss the green. I miss living in the last place where I lived with my very first baby dog.

So even if I never return to the exact mountain where we used to live with Zuri and call home, I do know from experience that you can love another–dog, child, home–not the same way but the same amount as another. That is why I was reaching so hard for the farm. Because, I’ll say it again: love is the only thing that heals a broken heart. And that is why still, if we are ever lucky enough to move the farm, I know the love and bond that we have with the land and our nature based life can heal the grief and shoulder the burden of loss.

Until then, every morning I’m greeted by a big, wet dog nose on my cheek, followed by a dog tongue right on the mouth. And that helps a lot.

Nobody gets out of here unscathed. Let’s admit it—by the time we are born we are already a little dent and blem. In utero we have already incurred a certain amount of trauma whether it’s residual from generational stuff or whether it’s from our human host eating way too spicy Thai food. There’s a bit of grace baked into human development, however, in that our consciousness is a bit dull and sleepy when we are young. Childhood can be a temporary respite from facing the truly hard existential questions of life or the truly upending life events—for those of us who are lucky and born into a safe and resourced enough set of circumstances. When questions arise in childhood about why hardships exist, the young child can usually be pacified with a fun distraction, a simple answer, a hug, or some milk and cookies. At some point in any life, however, each person will eventually experience what Franciscan spiritual leader, Richard Rohr, refers to as one of the Big 6.

A Big 6 experience is something so huge that it breaks your framework for explanations. The 6 categories of experiences that can shatter your worldview are: love, death, suffering, sexuality, infinity, or an encounter with the numinous. This Big 6 event is the moment when we reach the edge of our psychological or spiritual skill set and our explanations and ability to make meaning fall short. In this moment, each of us has the opportunity to embark on a unique journey—one that will cause us to authentically navigate and not merely accept or pay lip service to an established path or prefabricated set of answers. Mythically speaking, this is what Joseph Campbell (and other mythological studies experts) calls the Hero’s Journey. When our framework or worldview no longer suffices, this is our call to discover our monomyth and to set out on our psychological or spiritual Hero’s Journey.

What does it mean to heed the call? I think that’s a personal discovery and will look different for everyone. I do think, though, that it begins with opening your heart and your mind. If you shut your heart and mind and believe you already know the path or that there is no path beyond an unpoetic existence of having a pulse until you don’t—then you may miss out on a deep and rich psychological and spiritual journey. In order to become who we can be if we realize our full potential, we do need to let our heartache crack us open to let our souls (or psyches) express and seek the meaning it craves.

Sidenote: If the word “spiritual” freaks you out, then just read “psychological.” The words soul, spirit, and psyche have been interchangeable in the literature regarding psychology, philosophy, and spirituality for thousands of years.

Sometimes there is an initial resistance and a moment of hesitation to heed the call of the Hero’s Journey. As one approaches the threshold of change—the departure from what they’ve always known—the desire to stay put can be appealing. The reluctance to answer the call could be due to a sense of duty or obligation to the status quo, fear of change, or any number of reasons that a person would rather not go on such an adventure. A temporary set back is not a problem, as the hero can still embark when they realize that this is their destiny calling. However, if the person refuses to answer the call finally, Campbell does not mince words about what he thinks will happen. It’s grim:

“Walled in boredom, hard work, or ‘culture,’ the subject loses the power of significant affir­mative action and becomes a victim to be saved. His flowering world becomes a wasteland…and his life feels meaningless …All he can do is create new problems for himself and await the gradual approach of his disintegration (taken from the Hero with a Thousand Faces). 

What exactly am I talking about when I encourage you to go on a spiritual or psychological journey? I’m saying—open your heart, do the inner work, ask the questions, challenge how you’ve always done things, disagree with the mainstream (corporate culture, pop culture, religious culture, whatever your mainstream is), honestly self reflect, and most of all: listen to your very own soul. Let your own soul have a voice and get quiet enough to hear it. What is it saying? What does it need?

We all have innate gifts within us—to mine and realize them we need to nourish the needs of our soul. According to Paul K. Chappelle, a Peace Literacy advocate and educator, there are 9 spiritual cravings (or psychological needs) that are an innate part of the human soul (or psyche). The 9 spiritual cravings are 1) purpose and meaning 2) nurturing relationships 3) expression 4) inspiration 5) belonging  6) self worth 7) challenge 8) transcendence. How much we weight these different needs will likely vary from person to person, stage of life, and circumstances.

Now, just like how when we get hungry we could eat something nourishing or we could eat something toxic, how we meet these 9 spiritual needs can be healthy or not. There are some very unhealthy ways to try to meet these needs. For example, this is one reason cults are a big hit. Well, maybe I’m the only one, but I am like a moth to the flame when it comes to extreme cultures and groups. My high needs for purpose and meaning, a sense of belonging, and transcendence can lead me right to the cults. Even if it’s like a one man band, sometimes I’m the only one living like I’m in my very own cult. I always realize I’ve landed in a cult-like frame of mind or group when I’m being super restrictive with my life (in terms of food, media, or influences that don’t singularly reflect whatever I’m consumed with at the moment).

Or another way a need that often gets tangled up is the need for transcendence so people abuse drugs.

However, if we keep our inner compass set to our true North, I believe that we can navigate our way. So, an important question is, what is your true North? Mine is Love. I believe that my moral compass doesn’t have to rely on following step by step GPS instructions when I allow my conscience to be aligned with the dynamic flow of Love. I will likely blaze my own trail, but that’s the excitement of true discovery and exploration. When you figure out what your true North is, you can set your compass and blaze your own trail. And that doesn’t mean I don’t need some assistance sometimes. A good friend, a therapist, a mentor of some sort—we don’t have to go it alone. But, I do think sometimes we don’t give our innate ability to find our path enough credit (I’m talking psychologically; in terms of physical navigation I’m doomed without googlemaps).

Campbell explains the situation for those of us who decide to take up this call to be trailblazers: 

“They’ve moved out of the society that would have protected them, and into the dark forest, into the world of fire, of original experience. Original experience has not been interpreted for you, and so you’ve got to work out your life for yourself. Either you can take it or you can’t. You don’t have to go far off the interpreted path to find yourself in very difficult situations. The courage to face the trials and to bring a whole new body of possibilities into the field of interpreted experience for other people to experience—that is the hero’s deed.” (Taken from The Power of Myth)

If you are reading this and it’s resonating with you, you are probably a free thinking, self growth cowboy (all genders can be included in that description) or perhaps you’re a sensitive artist in desperate need of a spiritual reboot. Again, if the word “spiritual” freaks you out, think of it as your psyche, your soul, the part of your being that is not flesh and blood but is arguably the most real component of you. 

It’s wild west territory to go spiritually rogue, and it’s definitely not for everyone. It is also not always an option for everyone. There are some phases of life or situations in life that demand almost all your attention or resources just to survive. That is really difficult, and if you’re in that place, then I hope you can find at least some small way to honor one need of your soul. Maybe it’s doing one creative thing per week (expression). Maybe it’s having an authentic conversation with a good friend (nurturing relationships). Maybe it’s meditating in nature or writing in your journal (transcendence and expression). Maybe it’s trail running or learning a new skill or discipline (challenge).

Listening to your soul, even if you have the resources to do so, and letting it express what it needs—that takes courage. To find your path in the bigger scheme of life, you need your soul to be healthy and your psychological/spiritual needs to be well met.  It’s a worthy endeavor to be psychologically healthy and to live an authentic life, however, and I think it’s more critical than ever that people acknowledge their psychological/spiritual needs. We are born with these needs just like we were are born with biological needs. And just like we have instincts to seek the resolution to our physical needs (i.e., we are born with hunger, and there is food; we were born with thirst, and there is water) we were born with a soul that has spiritual and psychological needs, and there are solutions out there for those needs to be met. 

Caution: It hurts. Allowing yourself to listen to your soul, allowing yourself to feel the pain and the ache of the needs not met is not for the faint of heart. To acknowledge suffering and struggle and yet still work to have wonder, curiosity, and hope that there is also beauty, love, and meaning here in this world to fill your soul’s cup when it runs dry—this is not an easy path. But this is the sacrifice that every committed artist makes; they allow themselves to feel. They allow the world to affect them, rather than steeling themselves, numbing their soul, or being resolutely apathetic in an effort to stave off the pain of truly being alive. And after all, our life is our greatest masterpiece, so let’s live like the most courageous artists we can be. 

When Senya and Juniper were tiny, and thus I was in the all-consuming phase of raising two kids under 5, wistful and nostalgic parents who were past their child-raising years would stop me in the grocery store or at the playground to admonish me to “Savor every moment. It goes by SO fast.” I never felt offended by this, but I also felt similarly to how I feel when people here and now tell me that my aura is blue or that their spirit guide revealed to them that they have telepathic powers. Just sorta like, “yeah, okay! That’s not really my take on reality, but if that belief is working for you, great!

But now, we are in the dawn of the era of high school and middle school. Those days of playgrounds, diaper bags, and morning shows are long gone. When I hear a theme song from one of the little kids shows they’d watch way back then (in the mornings so I could have a few solo minutes to keep up my basic personal hygiene) my heart tightens and my throat gets a lump as I viscerally go back to the feeling tone of that era. 

Yet, I would still say that it did not go fast while I was in it. I loved that era, as much as it was exhausting and all consuming. Not everyone, even amazing parents who love their kids, love the little kid era, and there’s certainly no judgment from me in that. We all have our target audience and demographic where we feel the most fulfilled or alive. I had extremely smart and conversational kids, so I attribute a lot of my fulfillment in parenting as a testament to their extraordinary qualities. 

By the time Senya was 2 years old, we were having pretty deep philosophical conversations enabled by their exceptional verbal and conceptual skills. When Juniper came on the scene, she had quite the joyful spirit and used her outlying intelligence quotient to bring a great sense of humor into the mix. The two of them kept me hopping between deep thoughts and goofy antics. I was never bored. There was no time for existential crises or questioning if what I was doing with my life mattered. I don’t think I ever felt so well-suited to any type of work until life made us an entourage. I felt like I was made for those days. And those days were exhausting. Both statements are true. 

So, while those days didn’t go quickly, I will say that the abruptness with which one realizes that era is over is sobering. It’s hard to articulate the “parenting trance” (as my friend calls it) because the changes happen somewhat seamlessly, yet relentlessly. And then one day you look back and those little kid days—and the versions of those tiny humans you so dearly and intimately loved and knew—are so far in the past that your heart feels a little tricked. And somehow you never realized when the last time was. When was the last time I carried Juniper around on my hip? When was the last time they both wore footie pajamas unironically? When was the last time Senya said “zuit case” instead of “suit case” (they got so few words wrong as a kid that we just let that one slide for as long as possible). When did Juniper stop having her tongue out all the time?

And while you know, cognitively, that these moments and phases will end, your heart is sometimes the last to get the message. It’s like you sign the emotional liability waiver with the Universe when you enter into the sacred bond of parenthood, but you just kinda skim it in your enthusiasm to just get to it (doesn’t everyone read the fine print that way? Or is that just my presumed ADHD talking here?).

The past two years have been another round of this processing in my heart. The last time we lived in Topanga (pre-Vermont) it used to be that whatever I was doing, my kids wouldn’t question coming along. They’d wear their Heelys through Costco and help me grocery shop. We’d spend hours in an empty parking lot biking, practicing our spelling in sidewalk chalk, or roller skating. We’d spend hours reading aloud in natural preserves and at the beach. We’d make flower crowns in the spring and I’d read books aloud about gnomes and fairies. 

When we moved back here post-Vermont, the difference was stark. No one was up for a Costco trip. No one wanted to bike around in circles in a parking lot. They were in a different phase of life, and their interests, musical taste, clothing expression, and hobbies all reflected that. Juniper was more interested in hanging with her friends than spending one on one time with me. Senya had traded books about gnomes for books written by Noam Chomsky.

I suddenly realized it had been quite a while since I had little, chubby-handed pals who were finding cool rocks or pretty flowers and giving them to me all day long. Gone were the days when I had people drawing me pictures upon pictures with the constant thematic purpose being to explicitly express in chunky handwriting across the page: “I love mama.” No one wanted to do whatever I was doing with me, side by side, just because I was doing it. People were fully clothed. And they were, of their own volition, taking showers. I started to realize that I was not their primary referent anymore; or at least, even if I was holding my own in the category of importance to their lives, their friends were giving me a run for my money in the influence department. 

Now, I’m sure that most parents go through this adjustment of their kids growing up. But, I’ll say, for those of us who have parented with our hearts and souls, it comes with some challenges. And it could be that this is part of why I moved back here to California. There may have been a part of my Peter Pan heart that believes Los Angeles is the closest Earth comes to having found Neverland. And because we were moving back specifically to homeschool again, I think I thought I could make time stand still or even rewind a bit. Like I wrote in another post, I was trying to move back to an era and I mistook that for being locatable on a geographical map. 

There was a lot of grief for me when I realized that the phase in which I found myself when we arrived back in California was vastly and permanently different from the phase we were in a year beforehand when we were just living our Vermont mountain life. Not even my version of Neverland could reverse the incessant march of time, forcing my kids to grow up. The cross-country move took up so much energy and focus that I didn’t realize how much they were changing. But that’s always how it feels in hindsight; after all, as Allen Saunders said long ago and John Lennon made famous: “life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

So, I had to grieve that. And I suppose that’s an ongoing process. Because life with them will continue to evolve, eras will end, and new chapters will begin before I’m ready. So, after allowing myself to indulge in a good cry anytime I am alone and want to (which—bringing it full circle—means usually when I’m going to Costco), I am also dedicated to staying present and also celebrating what we have now. 

And now—when I appreciate this phase of life for what it is rather than grieve what it is not— is pretty great. 

For example, they still both love doing Friday family movie and homemade pizza nights. Total win. And, I’ll admit, the caliber of movies is a lot better than it was 10 years ago. 

Also, they still get psyched for family vacation. The destinations are also a lot of fun because we can plan around cultural features (like going to San Francisco, the epicenter of all things Pride) or hitting up a music festival where artists we all like are performing. We can also plan around natural features and everyone is a lot more physically capable for bigger hikes (willingness is a different issue).

They aren’t driving, so we are still very involved in their social lives by necessity if not choice. Also, they’re usually in bed and asleep long before I am, so when I go to bed I can still check on them one more time before I retire. 

They aren’t in serious romantic relationships or having the complexity of navigating sexual relationships or the intensity of being in love, so that makes life feel comparatively simple. Though I am very excited to welcome and love whoever they bring home whenever those days begin.

But for now, they are still totally willing to hang out with us, and they even enjoy it. Sure, maybe it can’t be doing just any old thing anymore (especially for Juni, she’s invested in the activity not just the company), but as long as you make it fun, Juni is on board with hanging out (which is why Collin was dizzy for days after going to Magic Mountain and riding extreme roller coasters, and I had goggle marks on my eyes for days after repeatedly diving down to the bottom of the deep end at the public pool). Senya, truth be told, is still down for doing just about anything together because they’re in it for the company and the good conversation. This is one stellar example of where the gnome to Noam upgrade really shines. 

Getting to know who they each are as they differentiate and self express more has been a rewarding joy. That is some of my favorite magic of now. 

SO, some of you reading are not parents. Or even if you are, maybe parenting isn’t your main or most defining gig. And I get that. But we are all humans, and we all experience this phenomenon of time passing. And we all have those moments when the finitude of life kicks us right in the heart crotch (not my most poetic turn of phrase, but it gets the point across, I think).  We all experience aging and the sense that once the door to an era closes, you can only look through the window of memories. Even specific events can feel this way. Some moments are like shooting stars streaking across the sky, and we are witnessing both their beginning and their end all in one brilliant, breathtaking experience.

And what is it that hovers around all this experience of life—especially once you yourself leave childhood? It’s that nostalgia that comes with truly understanding impermanence, finitude, essentially the death at the individual level. Holding in our consciousness our individuated finitude and the impermanence of all that is material can be a sobering and poignant experience. But it also lends itself to our thoughts to remind us that the moments we have right now are fleeting and poetic, though not perfect. 

So, I guess the point of this post is to say that if you’re too busy looking backward into the past or forward into the future, you may miss out on the magic of now. And yet, I am not great at the power of now, so I have to think of being present as something different from a “today is the only day” sort of approach. I view being present as more of an integration of the past, future, and present.

Embracing the past, I have an understanding that where I am today is a continuation of a path I’ve been traveling for quite some time (some would say my ancestors even started this journey and I’m just taking up my part on the trek). As I honor the past, I allow myself to grieve all that has changed. The loved ones who have died (the death that still looms largest in my heart is that of my first beloved dog, Zuri). The relationships that have ended or grown estranged. My own youth. My kids’ childhood. All that is obsolete (including rotary wall phones with curly chords and all those sugary gum flavors made by Bubble Yum, Hubba Bubba, Bubblicious). 

For the future, I hold a reverence for the relentless nature of time marching forth. I acknowledge, simultaneously, that our lifetime is finite and passing and that the bigger story of life itself (of which we are a part) is moving ever onward.

And with those two in mind, in the present, I try to hold with reverence and appreciation what is now. What makes life precious is that it won’t always be. What makes life poignant is the interconnectedness of our one, small part in the story with the great story arc. What makes life sacred is the love we create and share. And if we live well and henceforth love well, that love will go on long after we are gone. 

So, sure, parenting is a weird gig. You sign the emotional liability waiver a little too enthusiastically and only remember the deal you made when you feel that ache in your heart as you realize it’s a one way ticket to their launch into this world without you. But isn’t that a quality of love itself? Whether it’s your partner, your dog, your cat, your kid, your parent, your grandparent, your soul mate, best friend, or any one of the people whose name you have indelibly etched on your heart and soul. You sign the waiver, acknowledge the risks, and you give yourself wholly and with abandon to loving them. As for me, I want to spend my life loving until I’ve spent it all—all my energy up to my very last breath, the last beat of my heart. When I close my eyes that final time, never to see the sun, our great yet temporary star, shine its light on me again, I will think of all the love I’ve had in my life. And really, is there anything more worthy than that? In the end, isn’t that the closest our souls brush with the infinite? 

On that note, I will leave you with some selected excerpts from James Badwin’s article, “Nothing Personal.”

“Four AM can be a devastating hour. The day, no matter what kind of day it was is indisputably over; almost instantaneously, a new day begins: and how will one bear it? Probably no better than one bore the day that is ending, possibly not as well. Moreover, a day is coming one will not recall, the last day of one’s life, and on that day one will oneself become as irrecoverable as all the days that have passed.

It is a fearful speculation — or, rather, a fearful knowledge — that, one day one’s eyes will no longer look out on the world. One will no longer be present at the universal morning roll call. The light will rise for others, but not for you.

Sometimes, at four AM, this knowledge is almost enough to force a reconciliation between oneself and all one’s pain and error. Since, anyway, it will end one day, why not try it — life — one more time?…”

“For, perhaps — perhaps — between now and the last day, something wonderful will happen, a miracle, a miracle of coherence and release. And the miracle on which one’s unsteady attention is focused is always the same, however it may be stated, or however it may remain unstated. It is the miracle of love, love strong enough to guide or drive one into the great estate of maturity, or, to put it another way, into the apprehension and acceptance of one’s own identity. For some deep and ineradicable instinct — I believe — causes us to know that it is only this passionate achievement which can outlast death, which can cause life to spring from death.”