Every day we have a sunset.

I think of sunsets as a kind of completion.

Sunsets are an opportunity and an invitation to pause and reflect about what is completing in our lives.

What is completing for you today?


As I took my morning walk, the Eastern sky lit up in a tapestry of yellow, orange, and blue.

Every day, we are blessed with a sunrise, a new awakening, that is calling us to new potential.

It occurred to me one day that sunrise is a thing worth celebrating and worth pausing and taking a breath.

It is an invitation, every day, to welcome what is awakening in our lives.

How can you celebrate what is awakening within you?

Waiting Again

Nature has been showing me a lot of examples of Waiting lately.

This wren house is waiting for the wrens to return from their warmer winter grounds.

The cycles of nature comfort me, and they invite me to relax into patience, and into waiting with equanimity.

These rhythms of nature reassure me that they is a time for every thing and that my life has momentum, and that I will benefit from moving with that momentum, rather than pushing on it.

How would you like to be with the Waiting, in your life?



There’s a tree that stands midway up our driveway. It’s been dead for several years, but it is still beautiful, and still standing tall. It feels like a totem to me.

It is a sacred presence that welcomes us home.

What are the things that are a sacred presence in your life?

The Wild Places Beyond

This is the view outside of my office window. It is an east view, so I often see the rising sun from here.

This morning my eye was drawn to the hills beyond that fence.

I was asking myself: What are the Wild Places, towards that horizon, that are waiting to be explored?

I can feel the beginnings of a need to explore some new territories.

What are the wild places that are calling to you?


The woodpeckers have started to drum on the trees. This is what they do in the Spring, to establish their territories.

To me, the drumming of the woodpeckers symbolizes awakening.

It is one of the early signs that Nature is awakening from the deep slumber of Winter.

What is awakening in you?


I sketched these Snowbells just after they came up this year.

These bulbs amaze and delight me, because to me, they are little beacons of hope.

They come up in February and subject themselves to all kinds of weather: blizzards, fierce winds, snow and ice, and they still survive, year after year.

They are evidence that Spring is on its way.

What gives you hope?

The Dark Soul of Potential


Just before winter every year, I fill a pot with potting soil and plant some seeds in it. These are seeds that I have collected during autumn, usually along the road where I live.

It is fun to see what emerges when these seeds are given some light, water, and warmth. It is also fun to have some new growth in the darkness of the winter season.

But mostly I plant them to remind me of the power of being in the darkness, as these seeds are when they are planted, and before the plants start to emerge.

There is a lot going on, beneath the surface of the soil, in the darkness.

These seeds are preparing themselves for growth. They are putting down roots, and then developing their root systems, which will, of course, eventually be the mechanism by which they take in nutrients to grow.

These root systems are what keep them stable when their foliage starts to push up above ground.

These seeds teach me about the blessing of the darkness.

I am comforted to know that the darkness of winter is not just a dead time for me to get through.

It is instead an essential time of being in the darkness, and putting down roots for the creative energy that will grow and emerge from me in Spring.

What is the darkness about for you?

The Inbetween Time


Today it is cool, rainy, and I am shivering in the damp as I watch the leaves being blown off the trees. Yesterday was a cool sunny day, with a crisp, blue sky. The day before that, a hot, muggy wall of heat enveloped me as I walked out of the house.

We are in a transition from Summer to Fall.

We are in The Inbetween Time.

Every year, when we move into this transition time from Summer to Fall, I feel ambivalent, and, at first, a little disoriented. It always seems to me like it arrives suddenly, when I wasn’t looking.

I find myself wanting to hold onto the long days of summer, and the bright colors of growth.

I can feel the resistance in me as I am dragged into shorter days and brisk winds.

In The Inbetween Time, we are living some of the old, even though we know it is being dismantled. We can see and feel some of the promise of the new, but the details aren’t clear or sustained. The new is a wisp, rather than something we can hold onto yet.

In this time, if I let it,  Nature is teaching me how to be with uncertainty and change, how to be an explorer and an adventurer, and how to come to life with openness and curiosity.

The Inbetween Time is a powerful space of creative potential, if I can let go what I expect and where I think I am going, and instead be open to surprises and the gifts of the new season.

Most of all, I want to feel grateful for the gifts of absolute uncertainty and surprise that The Inbetween Time brings.

I want make space for what is coming, even though I don’t know what it is yet. In the last few weeks, I’ve had an instinct to clear my office, and my mind, for new possibilities.

For me, it takes faith to welcome the abyss, and to let the unknowing and the space just be, until clarity begins to form. I have to hold myself back from filling the space with what I know, in order to leave room for the unexpected. Nature gives me this faith, because Nature is a model of rhythms and cycles.

The Inbetween Time is a threshold, a suspension. It is a luminous time of transition, between what we know and what we don’t.

How do you want to be, in The Inbetween Time?

Dance of the Falling Yellow Leaves

falling yellow leaves

I’m sitting on my screened porch, enjoying the first day this year when the air feels like fall.

The dry, cool air is noticeably different than the humid days of summer. I can literally feel the change in the air.

The thick humidity has been sucked out of the air, for the first time all summer, and the leaves and flowers are crisp and clear. Every leaf stands out now, instead of blending into a homogenous backdrop.

A brisk wind comes up and the dance of the falling yellow leaves begins.

There is a huge walnut tree in the back yard. We call it The Goddess Tree, because its presence is so dominating and feels so sacred. The strong presence of The Goddess Tree can be felt in every season, and in any kind of weather.

One day, every year, sometime in August, a wind arises and the air is filled with yellow leaves, dancing and drifting down from The Goddess Tree. The tree still looks green, but there are yellow leaves tucked in amongst the green ones, and they are ready to let go.

These kinds of days inspire me to jump into life, to re-engage at a fuller level. I can feel the passage of time in the wind. Life feels more precious on days like this, and I feel more alive.

It’s like life isn’t just sauntering lazily along, and it certainly isn’t pausing to give me time to catch up.

The dance of the falling yellow leaves heralds a different, more changeable rhythm of life. It is so very different from the slow, relaxed days of summertime.

I need to quicken my step, to keep in time, to sense the rhythm of the change, and embrace it.

These days dare me to come more alive. It is not just an invitation; it is a dare.

In this dance, all of life is a demand to wake up.

What do you want to wake up to?



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