That little voice within has been talking to me for months now. I’ve been avoiding her messages, marking them as unread, hoping she’d bug off.

You know what I mean.

I could hear her, but I wasn’t ready to accept her truth. While I’ve enjoyed writing the garden series, I’ve been feeling depleted, knowing I was offering a fraction of what I’m able to, letting the beauty of my garden do the work for me.

This last week, I finally listened to her plea and joined forces with that wise inner voice.

After publishing 381 posts since July 22 of 2022, it’s time for a change.

This last year, I’ve spoken of my desire to write a sequel to Lessons of a Wayward Yogini. Over time, I’ve realized my free time allows only one major writing commitment, making it clear that now is the time for my second book.

I am beyond excited to write the sequel to Lessons of a Wayward Yogini, because, oh my, I have incredible lessons I believe are worth sharing.

Since publishing my book, I have achieved two major goals.

I’ve become that yoga teacher I once saw in my mind’s eye. No doubt I will continue to grow and expand, but my feet are firmly planted in the soil and I can feel my roots sinking deeper every time I teach. It’s certainly been a journey with many highs and lows, and at one point, a decision to quit. But with the gift of my angels, I’ve overcome my fears. The lessons apply to anyone about any subject.

I’ve also recently been attuned as a Master Reiki practitioner, a journey that began over twenty years ago. Combining yoga and Reiki in my practice leaves me shaking my head in disbelief that I’m lucky enough to welcome these new changes/blessings into my life at the tender age of 70.

I’ve at times questioned why I wasn’t writing more about these new experiences, especially since the title of my Substack implies a yoga theme. Ultimately, it felt like too much for a single post, or even ten posts, making it clear that these stories belong in Lessons Revisited.

So, dear readers, I’m pausing all scheduled content going forward. Although posts will be less frequent, I’ll share updates on my progress with the second book as milestones arise and I’ll also be posting when the spirit moves me, which will undoubtedly be often.

I’ll be pausing all paid subscriptions until I resume my regular writing schedule at which time I will notify you. You should not see any charges going forward, but If you do see that on your end, please reach out in a direct comment or even just a comment on any post as that will make its way to me.

Thank you for your support. You all continue to remind me that dreams do come true.

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Apologies for missing Friday. Truth be known, my friend, Laurie’s, memorial was scheduled for Saturday and I didn’t have the bandwidth to write last week. The gathering was lovely, but I dreaded it beforehand. Unsurprisingly, I managed lots of cleaning instead of writing.

On that note, your many comments about using cleaning as a distraction truly brightened my week. It seems I’m not alone in seeking solace through purging, and it turns out I have many friends who would welcome my help with their drawers. Thanks so much for bringing a smile to my face last week.

My kids are visiting again in two weeks, this time with mates, so we’ll have a full house. And yes, of course, I’ve already begun the cleaning. Windows got done this weekend, before and after the memorial service.

Is there anything nicer than sparkling clean windows?

But wow, of all the household tasks, tackling our windows stands out. We have 40 windows, some of which require a ladder to clean the outside. All of which have screens and slats that must be removed and cleaned. It is, by far, our largest project of the year, and I’m happy it’s behind us.

I’m breathing a little deeper this morning. It’s a new day with clean windows and blue hydrangeas peaking in, along with the slow but necessary acceptance that a lovely friend has made her way.

Back Friday with the Garden series.

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I had to laugh a few days ago when chatting with my Substack buddy about self-soothing, admitting that when the world spirals out of control, I clean. Every drawer or door I open lately becomes an invitation to purge, clean, and organize. Over the past month, I’ve made numerous trips to Goodwill. And while it is springtime, which is known for opening the windows and cleaning the closets, it’s not lost on me that this year the cleaning frenzy is on a whole new level.

Next weekend I’ll be tackling my windows as I’m running out of drawers and closets.

Would love to hear how you turn down the noise.

Be back Friday with more of my garden series.

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Settling back in after another trip down to LA to visit little Milo, I’m considering how calming it is to hold a sleeping baby. Welcoming a second new family member this year has deeply shifted my perspective, serving as a gentle reminder to appreciate the wonder in our lives. Amidst the ever-constant noise, I’m making a conscious choice to focus on gratitude and beauty, and oh yes, our two new littles.

Now that we’re home again, I’ll be working on more garden stories for next week. Wishing you precious moments of your own this week. Be back next Monday.

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Full transparency, I cannot recall the name of my next-door neighbor in my early 20’s. Her care for the garden seeped into my soul, sidling up next to what I’d already learned from my parents. I’ve given her a name because to refer to her as a neighbor without a name just doesn’t set with me.

My first house in my mid-20s with Ron, my ex, was a small two-bedroom tract home in San Francisco’s Sunset district. The backyard was a tiny patch of dirt, which our large German Shepherd quickly claimed and dug up. We left the yard to the dog and instead focused on the small front yard and gated entryway. Despite my efforts, the shady entryway resisted any attempts at planting.

That left the 25x10’ wide front yard. I learned which plants might thrive in the three-foot section next to the house. I vaguely recall planting a bougainvillea on each side of the gate, though my memory is fuzzy.

Our neighbor Marian, an elderly widow, kept a perfectly manicured lawn watering it by hand for twenty minutes a day. I would wander out to join her while she watered, ask questions, and try my best to apply her advice in our yard.

Though our yard improved, it never rivaled Marian’s, nor should it have. I was a novice, discovering a passion that would grow exponentially over the years.

As a young adult, Marian was my first garden mentor. I’ve been fortunate enough to collect many others through the years. And though there are no visible markers of their influence in our current yard, their teachings show themselves in intricate ways. Working with Rick, who also brings the wisdom of his Granny and his father, and combining our knowledge, vision, and care, we’ve created something special—a work in progress and a dream already realized, even if tomorrow a wildfire passes through.

Our blessings are transient— all the more important that we appreciate them each and every day.

Next post, my move to the sun-and-trees.

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Thank you to all my readers who responded to my Friday post with likes/shares and stories of their own about the love of a garden. My dear friend, Tracey, coincidentally offered this quote in her recent Sunday Agape Love Message, a lovely age-old message which could not be more true.

“Flowers always make people better, happier and more helpful;

They are the sunshine, food and medicine to the mind.”

Luther Burbank (1849-1926)

The roses in our garden this year are, in a word, gorgeous. I took all of the photos below this morning. We had to remove a few trees in our yard this past winter, which has opened it up to much more sun. It is remarkable what a difference this has made to the health of our rose garden. Another lesson we can take from nature is the importance of tending to our basic needs: fresh air, sunshine, rest, water, and essential nutrients.

I’m looking forward to continuing this garden series a week from Friday. In the meantime, here are a few flowers from our yard that remind me of loved ones for one reason or another.

Back next Monday.

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Many of my readers are nature lovers, so I thought I’d write about my lifelong love affair with gardening. I’ll also share some life revelations I’ve pondered recently while tending my lovelies—those will appear in the last post of this series. There’s a lot of history to cover, so I’ll break it up and hope you’ll share your stories, too.

Let’s start at the beginning. My parents were very different in nature, but both shared a love of gardening. I don’t remember many childhood chores, but I do recall being asked to weed the garden. Even now, I find it hard to pass an area that needs weeding without unexpectedly dropping to the ground and pulling the weeds. This typically happens when I’m heading to another task, which then gets delayed. Some might call it Attention Deficit Disorder; I just see it as an expedited item on my to-do list. WEEDS!

Looking back on my early adult years, my father and I didn’t talk much, or at least not about anything we disagreed on. If I thought he might disapprove, I kept quiet. However, gardening created common ground. We talked about our gardens, shared triumphs, discussed struggling plants, and brainstormed ways to help them. In some ways, those talks likely improved our relationship as well. It was never ideal, but at least we had that.

Long after my father had passed, I often visited one of the local nurseries, where a lovely older gentleman who had worked there for years would reminisce about seeing me come in with my dad when I was a little girl. Despite his body being riddled with arthritis, he limped throughout the nursery, guiding me to various plants and sharing his knowledge as we selected what I needed. I usually left with a little extra treat from him, something not listed on my receipt, which always brought me a sense of warmth and connection—both to him and to my father.

When the nursery closed some years later, I purchased the black bell that had hung on the premises for years. I’m guessing they used it at some point to alert workers that someone needed help, an early version of the walkie talkie. This bell, a small relic from those meaningful visits, has become a cherished part of our home. These days, the bell resides on our front porch, serving a new purpose, at times alerting Rick that dinner’s ready if he’s out by the fire pit.

More soon. I’d love to hear from you!

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Having paused my writing for the last few weeks, I’m feeling compelled to return refreshed and upbeat. But the truth is, the last few weeks have been a mix of two parts joy to one part sorrow. It could be worse, two parts sorrow to one part joy, so in that respect I’m feeling grateful. But it’s definitely been a time of retrospect and taking stock of my blessings, being reminded that life is transient and temporary, and needing to urge myself to seize the day.

On Friday night, we went to a birthday party, and I ended up laughing so hard I cried with a couple we’ve just started to get to know. Since I usually cry easily, it felt good to have those tears come from laughter instead.

Wishing you a few good belly laughs this week. Be back Friday.

If you ask what kept me from posting last week or keeping up on world events, I have receipts. A Monday morning conversation with Lucia was my priority. We had much to share and only a few days together.

Later that day, Amy made delicious homemade tortillas to go with my Spanish Chicken entree. As she kneaded and stretched the dough, Lucia and I once again spent time together at the kitchen table, the very table I fed my kids on when they were young.

Jordan arrived on Tuesday morning, the only day we were all together, as they were traveling down to the Bay Area to attend a service for their grandmother. Although brief, we made the most of our time together.

It was a week of comings and goings all too quickly, but I am ever grateful for the time we spent together.

And speaking of comings, Sammie and Scott’s little one, Milo Peter, surprised us by arriving a few weeks early. Saturday morning after dropping Jordan at the airport to return home, Rick and I continued driving down to LA to welcome our newest blessing. I will share photos once I have permission.

We arrived home last evening. I’m getting ready for a colonoscopy tomorrow morning. And we are scheduled to head down to the Bay Area this weekend for a birthday party. It’s a good bet you won’t hear from me again until next Monday, but I sure should have tons to talk about.

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Before I begin, I wanted to thank my readers for the many heartfelt responses to my Friday post. They meant more than I can say.

I said my next post would be a celebration, and I always keep my promises. Can you guess who’s visiting this Sunday? If you guessed the little one in the photo above along with my daughter and son, you’d be right!

And after a long weekend with friends and lots of time in the garden, I feel recharged on all levels and excited for their arrival.

In the photo above, Lucia sits quietly, watching the chickens in her yard. She’s sitting on a quilt I made for my son many years ago. This photo speaks to me about how important it is to slow down, stay curious, and remember we are always held by those who came before us. Little ones have so much to teach us.

I have a humorous topic planned for my next Friday post, which will be up a week from Friday, on May 1. Before that, I’ll be back on Monday, ready to share more as a proud grandma.

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Two forethoughts.

In this post. I, in no way, intend to suggest we need not fight for what we believe in, or against what we don’t. I believe quite the opposite. But a truth prevails, we always need hope to sustain us through the battle. And where better to find hope than in joy.

One of my favorite music stations as of late is SiriusXM: Life with John Mayer. He finds the balance between generations, and even more importantly, touches the deepest part of the soul with his music. I’ve quoted his lyrics in this post and will link the songs in the footnotes1. I often take a short lyric from a song that is not related to what I’m writing about, just because it resonates, along with the beauty of the music.

Walking across our living room, I’m talking back to the Sonos speaker as John Mayer sings—

I guess I just feel like
Good things are gone

Yeah, John, I agree.

These days, hope feels less like a comfort and more like a lifeline I’m clutching tightly.

I consider myself a yogi, and as of late a Reiki practitioner, who has aspired to peaceful resolutions as opposed to drama, a task that isn’t easy as a human, and one I’ll likely continue to work at until my dying days. I always try to offer a positive thought, a loving touch, an open mind, and a forgiving heart, while honoring my boundaries. I try to mind my own business, yet remain mindful that others might need a helping hand even if they don’t ask. I reject retaliatory or spiteful action or reaction. Instead, I remind myself that the Universe always has my back. My efforts in situations where I might be tempted to react will never be as useful or perfect as what the Universe can offer. And I try never to use the word hate; it’s such a powerful emotion that, in the end, only depletes the person feeling that emotion.

Despite my best efforts to stay grounded and positive, I find myself almost overwhelmed by frustration these days; this president is really on my last nerve.

Let’s pause here and shift focus, revisiting where this post originally began a few weeks back, as Rick and I traveled up and down California on Highway 5 on our way to Sammie’s baby shower.

A long drive down Highway 5 offers miles of rolling hills, thousands of cows, endless agriculture, and the occasional sign demanding Governor Newsom save farmers’ water. There’s ample time for conversation, reflection, or rest if you’re the passenger. On this trip, I did all three. Softly, John Mayer played through on Sirius for the whole journey. Something significant happens when we slow enough to allow our brains to sift through what’s been rummaging around inside. I realized a sad truth.

With the world in turmoil, I read less and less in general, but specifically on Substack—not from lack of interest, but from limited bandwidth. I focus on only one or two of my favorite writers (of which I have many) and one or two political posts, then run from my computer to the garden to sink my hands into the soil to set me free.

I’ve lost count of how many of my favorite writers2 are taking a break, or are returning from a break, and I get it. Each week, it becomes increasingly difficult for me to write something I feel is worth posting.

A new critic sits on my shoulder, asking disturbing questions and demanding viewpoints I never intended to write about. She raises her index finger at me, moving it from side to side,

No, no, you can’t write about being happy or grateful, or God forbid some lighthearted topic. What about all the people who are suffering in the world? Happiness is absolutely not allowed right now.

Oh, okay. I guess you’re right. But don’t we need the balance, positivity, and trust in goodness?

Well, I don’t know, with the world on fire, don’t you think you should address that?

Well, maybe. But maybe not, because I’ll never stop this train as one person, especially one person who is not politically savvy or motivated.

As I type this, the sky literally opens up, and the rain comes pouring down. Nature is always communicating with us.

I see I’ve lost my footing in the chaos, letting my joy in writing and thinking slip away.

I guess I just feel like
I guess I just feel like

Nobody’s honest
Nobody’s true
Everyone’s lying
To make it on through
I guess I just feel like

I’m the same way too

I guess I just feel like
Good things are gone

And the weight of my worries

Is too much to take on

I think I remember
This dream that I had
This love’s gonna save us
From a world that’s gone mad
I guess I just feel like
What happened to that

I guess I just feel like
The joke’s getting old

The future is fading

And the past is on hold

But I know that I’m open
And I know that I’m free
And I’ll always let hope in
Wherever I’ll be
And if I go blind I’ll still find my way
I guess I just felt like
Giving up today

The ride reminds me that every crisis is part of a larger cycle: goodness finds a way to resurface, and the truth eventually comes to light, even in dark times. We cannot control the world, but perspective matters.

Mile after mile driving up my home state slowly balances something deep inside. I find the courage to confess to myself, or the world for that matter, that not only can I not control the world, but I also can’t even control my small life. Influence is always a possibility and generally a reality. Control never is.

Somewhere between the tumbleweeds just north of the Grapevine and Harris Ranch, my favorite restaurant to stop at, a turning point comes. I vow to reclaim my right to enjoy my gifts and stop apologizing for whatever happiness I’m fortunate enough to experience. The drive reminds me that, though pain and conflict have always been part of history, recognizing joy is essential—appreciation and gratitude for each well-spent minute are not indulgences but necessities.

With wars and chaos everywhere, I resolve to value what I have, making each day count, and cherishing happiness while acknowledging life’s transient nature.

True happiness is found by cherishing small, meaningful moments—even in the midst of uncertainty— and in my case, writing about them.

I’ll be back soon, and it will be a post celebrating something. Doesn’t even matter what.

What a weekend of wild weather in the California foothills. Lightning and thunder entertained us on two evenings, along with gale-force winds and buckets of rain. Limbs fell everywhere, and our dining table was lifted by the umbrella and smashed into the deck railing.

I loved every minute of it. Had I felt unsafe, I wouldn’t have enjoyed the storm. But, instead, I was comforted by its spectacle. This morning, the skies are blue, and everything glows lush green.

Reflecting on these dramatic weather events, I’m reminded that storms—natural or political—are powerful yet temporary. As the skies clear this morning, I take comfort in the knowledge that political storms, too, eventually pass, leaving a renewed landscape.

I will continue to envision that outcome sooner rather than later. Join me?

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If my senses fail, meet me on the other side of Paradise
Free from complications of our sense of time

Otherside of Paradise- The Revivalists

Our tiny town of Cool, in particular our MahJongg group, lost a dear soul yesterday. Without much fuss, a few phone calls, an ambulance ride by herself, within hours, she was on her way to Paradise, pausing just long enough to donate her organs for someone who might be able to use them. Her departure mimicked exactly how she lived her life. Laurie was bright, quiet, orderly, responsible, thoughtful, kind, and funny. She will be sorely missed.

Last night, the sky over Cool seemed to cry with us. A pink-orange sunset appeared, with scattered clouds letting out a few raindrops. Rick and I stood on the porch, quietly taking it all in, ever grateful for nature’s embrace and for the blessing of friends like Laurie.

It’s Thursday, and I’m still feeling tired. It’s been three busy weeks in a row. While I started a first draft of this week’s post, it needs more work, so I’ll save it for the next Friday Post rather than rush it.

In the meantime, I want to share something exciting: Rick’s son, Matt, has developed a new app called Tastronaut - World Recipes. Mind you, while Rick and I struggle to make sense of all things IT, Matt’s idea of tinkering in his free time is building a complete app from scratch.

Let me tell you about the app!

Tastronaut is a free iPhone and iPad app that turns cooking into a global adventure. Instead of scrolling endlessly through recipe after recipe, you spin an interactive 3D globe and “land” on a random country. Then, cook an authentic dish from wherever you land. It’s a fun, low-pressure way to discover cuisines you’d never think to search for on your own.

The app covers 237 countries and territories with over 1,185 recipes, from Italian pasta to Ethiopian injera to Japanese curry. Each recipe includes step-by-step instructions, ingredient lists with suggested substitutions, prep and cook times, difficulty ratings, and notes on the dish’s cultural background. Additionally, there are vegetarian, vegan, and allergy-friendly alternatives built in.

To make things even more engaging, as you cook your way around the world, the app tracks your progress with achievements, cooking streaks, and continent-by-continent stats, all working toward the title of World Chef. It works completely offline with no account required.

Tastronaut is free to download, with 12 countries available at no cost. A one-time purchase of $9.99 unlocks all 237 destinations. No subscription is needed.

I enjoy this app for an additional reason beyond my love of food and cooking. Right now, with our world so divided, staying connected matters more than ever. Tastronaut allows users to share the culinary customs and traditions of others, fostering an experience that sends out the tiny tendrils of acceptance and inclusion.

I’d love to read your comments if you do check it out. You can find Tastronaut - World Recipes at the App store.

Back on Monday!

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Okay, it’s true, my morning matcha does not look like this.

After spending three weekends away, it feels wonderful to finally sit in my favorite chair this Monday morning. The milk in the fridge has gone sour, and I’m missing my usual warm matcha, but I’m glad to be home. Last week, we celebrated Rick’s birthday with close friends in San Francisco, and this weekend we attended a baby shower for his daughter, Sammie, in LA. I feel grateful for so many loved ones, even when the news from the world is heavy. Rain is coming, and I have a lot to catch up on this week, starting with my writing. I’ve had some good realizations lately, and I’m excited to share more about them in Friday’s post.

I hope you find some quiet moments to reflect as we start a new week. I’ll be back on Friday.

Share a cup?

I attended a three-day Thai massage training last weekend offered by Anjuli and Alok Contact Yoga 1 offered at Santosha Yoga Collective in Loomis, California where I currently teach. If you’ve experienced Thai massage, go ahead and inhale deeply and exhale—ahhhh.

You get it.

If you’ve never tried Thai massage, do yourself an enormous favor, add it to your bucket list.

The training was physical, no doubt, as offering Thai massage requires major use of the giver’s muscles and body parts. But in each class segment, we had the chance not only to offer a massage but also to receive it. This weekend of massage made its way to my list of favorite experiences.

I told a friend today: if I had to choose between sex or massage/back scratches, and could only keep one source of comfort, hands down, I’d pick the latter. Maybe it’s because, at five, I lived with two very unhappy alcoholics. My 18-year-old half-sister came to visit for three months before leaving to get married. During that time, she calmed my bleak reality, scratching my little back for hours. I’m not knocking sex in any way, but nothing soothes me and feels more like love than body work.

Fast forward to this weekend, filled with such loving kindness offered alongside training, I’m still floating days later. As the weekend drew to a close, in the early morning hours of Monday, Rick and I lay awake unexpectedly. As we cuddled close, sounds of contentment kept making their way involuntarily from my throat. Rick asked if I was okay.

Baby, I’m soooo good. Better than I’ve been in a while. And so grateful to be here with you.

I almost didn’t take this course.

We always have our reasons, right? Maybe we shouldn’t spend the money—take the time—be proactive with our health, our bodies, our ambitions?

While I learned a great many techniques I will be sharing with my yoga/Reiki students, the most poignant lesson I gathered this weekend is that the light I often speak of in my writing is alive and well, even when world events might suggest otherwise.

Ten, for the most part, strangers came together to learn an age-old healing modality from two compassionate and extremely talented people. We chanted and sang, and in the form of a massage, offered loving kindness to one another.

Interestingly, the lyrics from Coldplay’s song “Fix You” that I mentioned in my last post seemed to weave themselves into the weekend.

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

I’m always confident about goodness prevailing along with humanity, but if there was ever a doubt, it’s been completely extinguished after last weekend.

We’ll be okay, maybe just a little worse for the wear. We just need to keep putting one foot in front of the next. No breadcrumbs needed. Just gravitate toward loving kindness and pay it forward. Be there for others. Unstoppable strength.

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Spring doesn’t ask permission to arrive. It doesn’t wait until the world is less of a mess, or until we’ve figured everything out. It just comes, quietly and insistently, pushing up through the cold ground.

You get to do the same thing. - Ilona Guanos

The wisteria, along with the Lady Banks roses in our backyard, confirms ’ message in her recent post. They are blooming without regard to the chaos and strife in the world. One might say, they are blooming in spite of it, which is exactly what we must all strive to do. Because the minute we stop shining our light, evil prevails.

Not on my watch.

Join me on Friday— I’m looking forward to telling you about my weekend attending a Thai massage workshop.

I don’t paywall my work, but I sure appreciate it when someone is gracious enough to upgrade their subscription for $4.17 a month. Support can also be offered by sharing my writing with friends or restacking it here on Substack.

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Last week, I heard Coldplay’s “Fix You” on the radio. It had been some time. The song has always generated a mix of emotions for me, nostalgia, melancholia and longing. I’ve been humming the tune to myself ever since. I guess it’s no wonder, right, with so much to fix in the world.

In the last few weeks, two different women approached me after yoga class, tears in their eyes, to thank me for a reading I had offered during class. In each instance, the readings acknowledged the strife surrounding us and offered encouragement to stay the course, believing that goodness ultimately prevails.

Standing on our hill in front of our grapes yesterday, I discovered that many of the starters we planted last year had not survived the winter. Coldplay’s words

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

I’ll be picking up a few new starter plants this week, counting on the light to guide me home, continuing to reach out to those around me, and understanding that I can’t fix everything, but I sure as hell can try.

Stay the course,

I want to acknowledge that I used the words from Neil Diamond’s song “Suzanne” for the title to this post. I have loved Neil Diamond for decades and this song strikes a chord for me.

The new view in our yard, the story here, generated a gentle train of thought, a reminder that the future is always hidden, possibly holding wonderful surprises just beyond our sight. That reminder landed as such a gift on my heart, generating the idea for this post.

Let’s hold this comforting idea as we consider a time when change and accountability have come, filling us with hope for what lies ahead.

Because I’m a believer in the power of thoughts to shape outcomes, I invite you to join me in a meditation manifesting a better future, a thought inspired by my friend Peter. Spend a few minutes with me, will you? If you aren’t listening to this on Substack, you may need to read and rest, read and rest, and that’s okay. There are no rules.

Settle in and prepare to shift from focusing on your breath to envisioning positive change. Begin by finding a comfortable seat or lying down if that’s available. Close your eyes and tune into the rhythm of your breath. Take a minute to give thanks for just that, your breath. Notice the rise and fall of your chest, the feel of your surroundings, and any sound you hear.

Take a deep breath in, followed by a long exhale, actually making the sound of relaxation.

Ahhhhhhh.

Go ahead, no one’s listening. On the next inhale, pull your shoulders slightly up and back, raise your heart to the sky, and then exhale, relaxing the shoulders. Again, let the sound of release be heard. Repeat as many times as you’d like.

When ready, join me on a journey to the future. All things end, and new beginnings await—even when out of sight or seemingly unlikely.

Let your mind recall a time when something wonderful happened unexpectedly. You’ve had countless such moments—big or small. Let those joyful memories wash over you.

Take your time. When you’re ready, let’s visualize a future shaped by our collective hope for unity, justice, and renewal.

A future in which WE WILL—

Witness the efforts from the Trump administration fade away, replaced by clarity, humanity, and transparency.

See the perpetrators of injustice within the current administration held accountable for their actions.

Rejoice in the transformation of ICE, as compassionate and trustworthy people reshape it into a humane and effective force for good.

See once-crowded detention centers empty, returning to stillness and silence amidst the ruin.

See the victims of Epstein finally honored and all the perpetrators, including Trump, held accountable.

See the vindictive plaques beneath President Obama’s portrait in the White House removed.

Watch as our history books once again embrace the completeness of our nation’s story.

Celebrate the integration of all our histories, welcoming honesty and learning as we grow.

Remember forever more that this country was made up of all races, colors, religions, sexual preferences, religious and political preferences.

Honor past leaders with understanding and using what we have learned from their mistakes for the greater good.

Rebuild our education system making teachers a priority in our country in equal measure to celebrities and sports figures.

See a final return to women’s rights over their bodies, never to be eliminated, reduced or redacted again.

Rejoice as our country reunites with former allies, fostering unity and support, and once again building bridges from a place of kindness.

Learn from other nations like Norway, seeking greater balance and connection to nature for collective well-being.

Restore vital services for all citizens, and especially our veterans.

Support our leaders as they embrace new beginnings, establishing term limits to nurture healthy government and renewal.

The list is endless, and I haven’t even made a dent, so take a few moments to envision your most desired changes before we end our manifestation. We can spend as much time as you need.

As we close, take a deep breath in, followed by that

Ahhhhh.

And again, my friend. And again. There’s still no one listening, and it feels so good. Let those shoulders drop an inch and the muscles in your neck and upper back tingle in the process thanking you.

Believe in your thoughts. Believe in our power as a people. Believe in goodness, because above all, she/he/it prevails.

Bring your hands to your chest (Sukhasana Hands To Heart) and thank that beating heart of yours for this moment, and every moment you’ve ever had or ever will experience.

Thank yourself for taking the time to be here. Thank all those who may be reading and experiencing this moment for the energy you each bring. And I thank you all for being here practicing with me. It’s always an honor and a privilege.

Namaste.

I’d love to hear what you wish to manifest. Let’s join together.

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The phrase “you can’t see the forest for the trees” has unfolded at home, bringing pleasant surprises and encouraging a more positive outlook on world events.

Recently, we made a tough choice to take down four Liquidambar trees in our backyard. The trees were here when we moved in and have provided shade and beauty to the back side of our house. Planted by the previous owners, they should likely have been farther from the house given their mature size. Even more problematic, quoting from Google’s AI overview:

Liquidambar trees (Sweetgum) produce hard, spiky, 1–1.5 inch spherical seed pods, often called “gumballs” or “monkey balls” that fall in large numbers during autumn and winter. These bristly brown capsules create significant, painful cleanup, particularly on sidewalks.

When AI says large numbers, we’re talking thousands of monkey balls each year. Plus I’ve got news for AI: the cleanup is even worse on a sloped dirt surface. As the trees have grown, along with the quantity of gumballs, so has the number of times one of us has slipped and actually hit the ground, or just lost our footing and luckily caught ourselves without falling.

After debating the issue for quite some time, we reluctantly decided to protect our aging bodies and err on the side of caution, replacing the trees with similar, safer trees.

Last weekend we removed the trees. I cried off and on as we cut down one tree after another. But something quite lovely transpired as we sat on the deck at the end of a very long, arduous day; we discovered the view that had been hiding behind those trees, a view of the sky and the hills that is simply breathtaking.

Every day, I walk over to the windows numerous times just to enjoy the new view. And the evening views have been even more spectacular.

Would love to hear any of your examples of unexpected happy outcomes.

I’ve got a second part to this post, coming Friday.

In the meantime, be well, stay safe, take good care of yourself and those around you, and keep looking up.

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