Looking at the plants in my garden makes me realize that …Even though I know their names, in Latin and in English, I don’t really know them. Even though I planted them, they do not belong to me. They belong to the earth. They belong to some mystery my eyes cannot see, my words […]
One of our family members has a devastating disease. Witnessing their struggle has led me to a surprising discovery, one that has quietly turned a long-held professional conviction on its head. As a therapist, I spent decades gently walking people away from denial. Helping them see the situation clearly. Face it. Name it.
For a few years, I was fascinated by nests. I made them out of wire and cloth. I made them out of twine and material. The one pictured here I made out of clay and beads and feathers. Each one a symbol of a safe place — one that nurtures and protects the young and
When I think about the need to lean on someone, the redbud tree in my yard comes tomind. One of its branches has begun to split—not completely broken, but no longer able tocarry itself in the same way. Beneath it, another branch has grown at just the rightangle, quietly taking on some of
We’ve slipped into another world with unseen bonds.We feel them. Nothing seems separate.We stay silent. Words might break this spell.—from Unfolding. When women stand together, feet grounded around a central flame, something ancient awakens. The space between them begins to take shape. A mandala is formed not of paint or stone, but of
We are now in the midpoint between the winter solstice and the spring equinox, a time often called Imbolc. We stand in a season of quiet faith. Days are growing longer, yet winter still surrounds us. Much of what we long for remains unseen. This threshold invites trust in nature’s cycles. I Trust is written from
Today, I am thinking about what it means to be held. That phrase, to be held, passes from my lips with such ease. Hearing it, the cells of my body relax. I feel safe enough to allow my heart to be seen. Protection. Shelter. Nurture. These words string together like beads on a
In October, Don and I lost a dear friend, Roy Quiriconi. Sue, his wife, lost her soulmate of more than fifty years. If you saw our documentary Showing Up, you caught a glimpse of Roy and Sue. He was a man who explored life with passion and heart. Since his death, I have
Taos’ sun spills across the adobe walls of the Mabel Dodge Luhan House. Surrounding Sangre de Cristo Mountains glisten in the August sunlight. A top Mable’s is a solarium bedroom. A retreat participant sits there and writes a letter to her deceased father. A suggestion I gave her to do during our free time.
For twenty-four years, I have laid out this sacred cloth and placed a candle in the center of our circle. Next, I burn sage and sweetgrass. That clears the energy and invites Great Mysterious. The rattle, our talking stick, finds its spot in the south. This is the direction of trust on the medicine
