“I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive so that our life experiences on the purely physical plane will have resonance with our own innermost being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being...

“There is something alive in a feather. The power of it is perhaps in its dream of sky, currents of air, and the silence of its creation. It knows the insides of clouds. It carries our needs and desires, the stories of our...

More and more I am stumbling upon arguments for lost hope and a throwing-in-the-towel for our planet. This backlash is seemingly based in fact: if you are just an average human and not a CEO, head of state, or president, who can make significant...

"Feeling into the sturdiness of feminine confidence, we cannot keep looking toward busyness to prove that our lives have meaning. All of this overdoing is a very fragile and untrustworthy method of connecting with our value. We must be diligent in...

You are hardwired for wilderness.

Modern life is increasingly persuading us, transforming us into some domesticated version of our human creature selves. Dead but living. So many of us are under some strange anesthetic, disconnected from the land...

"Fierce compassion cuts, cuts, cuts away with the teeth of discernment, pulling fascia away from muscle, continually moving you closer to the bone of truth...

One of my favorite stories that expresses this tough version of compassion is told by...

In the wilderness of ourselves... 

We are stripped of all the usual distraction, hiding, and excuse-making. It is here that the compulsive over-achiever in us trembles at being left as an ordinary human being, stripped of all of the ways she...

I have been waiting for her. Every week I patiently gather her leaf clothes into piles of bright flames. Some leaves get stashed under bushes to decompose through the sleep of time, while the brimming excess of others get put into an old, stinky...

The wind has been rattling her bony fingers all day, scraping them against window panes, rustling them through dry branches, using them to boldly clang the metal chime outside my front door. These are not the green winds of early fall who are just...

Bashing themselves about,

stag horns clashing as

cymbals of wood and wind.

The watchful mothers are stirring,

shifting their burdens as they

wait for their moment.

IT. IS. NOW.

Restless roots cleave the ground,

leaving...