Who are you really? What makes you tick? Not what do you do for a living. Not who are you in relationship to others…(mother, son, sister, brother, wife, grandpa, etc.). I was asked to describe who I am. After much thought about why I think I’m in existence, I came up with this description.
I am love. I am light. I am truth, real and raw. Both colorful and dark. I am synchronous with growth, death, rebirth following the cycles of nature. I am my own best friend, confidante and lover. I am sensual, funny and deep. I am a beautiful mix of human and spirit. Light and heavy. An unchanged core of varying human experience, I am a beautiful mess.
I’m in love with black crows. Oil slicked, feathery friends. Squeaking and squawking, fussing and snibbling. Full of warnings and messages never wasted on me. Arriving for shenanigans, socializing or eating, entertainment abounds.
Oh so mysterious and secret, now we are curious. Stealth like flight patterns they enter the scene from all directions. Each claiming their temporary evergreen perch. Trees burst alive with chatter. Argumentative, jolly, shape-shifting visionaries. Calling sharply, commanding attention.
Both thief and giver. Leaving found trinkets behind. Gifts from beyond. Silently placing shiny metal barrettes, paper clips, beads, springs, pins on our path. Crows see us. Recognize us. Inquisitive looks from tiny black-seed eyes, watching our humanness.
Crows playing. Hopping, yapping, springing and swinging. Soaring above. The murderous group, dressed all in black. Heard but not seen in the thick pines. They claim their roost. Once again. I’m in love with crows.
I’m in love with loud purring. Body shaking and telling of fondness for life. A soft, rhythmic blanket of furry love. Unscheduled pleasure. Rising and falling, sleeping and waking. Our eyes closed tightly, savoring the tune. Your whispers of fuzzy somethings at the foot of the bed.
The 3am motor, my favorite engine sound. Sheets ripple, erupt with fluttering plaid flannel. Sleepy pats offered. Met with nudges, of the predictable kind, to carry-on. Purring the kind of purr that becomes more audible with a rub.
This is where sensory joy lives. Comfortably. Amidst the pitter-patter of sounds from this warm furry throat. No troubles in this moment. Or this one. Or this one. I lay my heavy head on your fat, warm belly. Your kitty pillow accepts my forehead. Riding with the gift.
My ear bathed, absorbing the peaceful concert. Feeding my needy inner child soul with fizzy sound waves. Soothing even the most silent of frazzles. Within.
“Bottom line is that you cannot heal and resolve your emotional material with your mind. Knowing our issues is not the same as healing our issues. Your emotional material does not evaporate because you watch it. I have known many who could watch and name their patterns and issues—as if they were scientists, researching their own consciousness—but nothing fundamentally changed, because they refused to come back down into their bodies and move their feelings through to transformation. It’s safe up there, above the fray, witnessing the heartache without actually engaging it. Yes, you may be able to get so skilled at a witnessing consciousness that you can overpower your triggers. But that’s not presence. Real presence comes through the open heart. The key to the transformation of challenging patterns and wounds is to heal them from the inside out. Not to analyze them, not to watch them like an astronomer staring at a faraway planet through a telescope, but to jump right into the heart of them, encouraging their expression and release, stitching them into new possibilities with the thread of love. You want to live a holy life? Heal your heart. That’s the best meditation of all.”
(~an excerpt from the best-selling ‘Grounded Spirituality’, available at bookstores and on Amazon (paperback, kindle, audiobook) at