“The door is finally open,” she said from behind me.

I startled.

We were standing on a hill behind a stone structure that had been under construction all summer.

Summer is construction season in Minnesota, and a section of my favorite trail along Lake Superior was also now closed. So, I’d been forced to take a new route, and this unfamiliar way took me down to Gitch, where I dipped a hand in the water, and brought it to my forehead, my throat, my heart.

I’d started to climb back up when I came to the backside of the structure. That’s when the woman approached.

At first, I had no idea what door she was referring to. Then, I spied a small opening in the stones in front of us. It was dark and yawping.

“Do you want to go inside with me?” she asked, taking a step toward the door.

Now, I believe in signs—in my own life and in others.

Like when a blonde chipmunk joined me on a walk.

Like when a red dragonfly appeared on the arm of the deck chair of my friend as she told me about something hard she was going through. I wanted to point to the winged thing and whisper, “Healing is on its way.” But I didn’t.

Like when another friend tells me about his ritual of smoking one Dunhill a week. He loves to smoke, but he doesn’t want to be chained down by addiction, so he has made the choice to sit on the beach, smoke one cigarette a week, and savor.

But recently, he’d been wondering if he should give it up. This past week, he wrote, “The cigarette went cold and fell from my hand onto the sand.” He tossed the rest of the unfinished cigarettes and lighter into the trash can. He called it “a litany of freedom, and it felt good.”

I’ve always been impressed by this ritual—talk about being intentional—but his recent experience sure seemed like a sign to let it go.

And on this morning walk, I was particularly primed for signs. I had just pulled the Fool Card in tarot—the opening of new doors. The card is all about adventure and “who knows?”

It was also the morning of the full moon and the eclipse. In other words, even the skies hovered in a space of possibility—dancing between shadow and light.

“Do you want to go in with me?” the woman repeated.

A man sat behind us on the rocks, close to the water.

Why was she so earnest?

Was she an angel who had majored in Environmental Studies, ready to reveal to me the meaning of life?

Was she going to stab me and steal Alfred?

It’s hard to explain just how weird it was—her sidling up beside me out of nowhere, her energy, her invitation. The moment felt like both a sign and a warning. Live with wonder! one voice inside me cried. Don’t be stupid! another warned.

“No, thanks,” I said with equal parts resolve and regret—for as I walked away, I couldn’t help wondering—what might have happened if I said yes? What didn’t happen because I said no?

It was yet one more time when I wished I could watch what might have unfolded if I’d made a different choice.

But because I am willing to be weird and trust that Mystery is whispering to us in all kinds of ways, and I don’t want to be stupid, I could only go with what felt right in that moment.

It was an important lesson. I do not have to enter every open door.

Nor do I have to stand at locked doors and keep trying to open them.

Nor do I have to force my life either in the direction of the rational or the magical.

And I can always go back.

To that door.

On my own terms.

After I finish my croissant and my coffee and my musings. On what if. On what next. On how best to walk on.

Like a wise fool.

p.s. I did go back. Here’s what I found. I’m still baffled why she was so eager for the two of us to go in together.

It’s a world where I can get the best sweet ice cream right here in Duluth. (It’s at Love Creamery, and if you’re ever here, for the love of all that is holy, go.)

It’s a world where I found a sweatshirt on my walk the other day. Because I am part crow, I brought it home, laundered it, and then noticed it was a Louis Vuitton. It cost over a thousand dollars. For. A. Sweatshirt.

A world where I get to look into these eyes every Friday when I watch my grandson.

Not to mention a world where I can visit a scraggly tree that clings to rock at the edge of Gitchi Gumee (a.k.a. Lake Superior)—where storm is storm and ice is ice, and that sacred living thing has held on like that for over 500 years.

I drove up the North Shore to see the sacred tree this past week, bringing the Wild Altar with me. I couldn’t wait for the two of them to meet.

To see the tree, you need a guide from the tribe, and the young man who shepherded me through the mossy quiet forest to get to the tree told me how he used to accompany his dad out to the tree with visitors. “He taught me everything I know.”

When we came to the opening where the tree first makes herself known, we stopped. He said, “There she stands.”

His simple words, her impossible presence, clotted the emotions in my throat.

He pronounced her name in Ojibwa. “Manidoo-giizhikens.”

It sounded like something the silver water in front of us might whisper at night.

“Our language used to be illegal,” he said. “Many of the old people are still afraid to speak it. But there are now immersions schools where it’s against the rules to use English. The kids are learning science, math in the words of our ancestors.”

“That’s amazing,” I said. “I remember reading somewhere that Ojibwa is 75% verbs—how to be and move through the world. I haven’t done the math, but I have a feeling English is probably 75% nouns—what you own.”

A difference, to me, that explains volumes.

We climbed over the fence and made our way down a rocky trail to get to the tree that stood at the water’s edge.

The young man handed me some tobacco from a pouch to sprinkle on the rock below her.

After I’d done so, the two of us stood back and beheld her. My guide said, “For me, she embodies grace, resilience.”

Yes. She rose into the blue sky like a queen, somehow wizened and strong, tiny and huge all at the same time.

I pulled the Wild Altar out of my backpack and placed her at the base of the tree.

I laid down on the rocks to take pictures.

As the young man watched me scampering about like a billy goat, he kept up a general flow of conversation, “When I was young, I lived right on the shore. I used to dream the water was crawling up my windows.”

I paused in the midst of taking my photos and looked at him. “That’s a powerful dream.”

He nodded and continued, “As kids, we were told there was a water serpent who lived right here. The people in my tribe would pray to the tree, to protect them from the serpent. I don’t know if the serpent was supposed to be real or metaphorical. Maybe, it was just our elders’ way of telling us to be very careful on this water.”

“She is so strong and unpredictable,” I said, going on to tell him how the Big Water had taken my other sheepskin away one day when I didn’t pay her enough respect.

He nodded. “Sounds like her.”

The waves murmured beneath us. The wind stirred the branches.

“I wonder if it was your dad who guided me out here before,” I mused. “I remember the man saying a part of him was afraid every time he walked down the trail to see her. He didn’t know if that was the day she’d be gone. Then he said something I’ll never forget: faith is faith and wind is wind.”

The young man stared at the tree. “There are all kinds of forces at work in this world. Some we can control. Many we cannot.” Hepointed his chin at the gnarled trunk, the draping roots. “She’ll go when and how she chooses.”

I had no doubt he was right.

I stood in the breeze, next to the Wild Altar and beneath the Spirit Little Cedar Tree. I placed my hand on the orange moss that blanketed the very rock she clung to. I bowed my head.

The last time I was here, I was married.

The last time I was here was before my diagnosis.

The last time I was here, much of what I loved had not yet been taken away from me.

Again, my emotions rose, much like the water crawling up to the windows in my guide’s dreams.

Resilience.

Grace.

A standing tall in the face of all that is.

Rooting into the earth.

Reaching into the sky.

One of the things I couldn’t get over—the first time I visited and now—was how the Spirit Little Cedar Tree looks like both the rock and the water. How she has literally taken the waves into her body as she holds on.

Almost as if to say, This. This is what it is like to be alive.

In a world of storms and stars.

Of wind and ice.

A world where bodies can hold the holy.

And sing the sacred.

Sometimes, without making a sound.

Suddenly, our chickens began squawking when they should have been roosting.

The din didn’t stop.

I dared to put on my boots and walk across the crunchy tundra to investigate.

At first glance, I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary—except the chickens running around their yard, alarmed. One fussed at me from the low branch of a tree.

Maybe there was something in the coop?

I knelt in the snow and turned the toggle switch that locked the door. Opening it, I came face to face with a huge snowy white owl clinging to the roosting bar. She blinked her golden eyes at me, and I would like to say I had the presence of mind to bow and thank all that was holy.

I screamed and fell backward as I crabscuttled away.

Breathing hard, I tried to figure out what to do.

I went into the garage and found a lacrosse stick. Carrying it with me back to the coop, I gently offered it to the owl. She stepped on it with all the grace and poise of a queen. I pulled the stick out, and the owl launched herself into the night.

I will never forget the utter silence of her wings as she flew away.

I’ve thought about that moment often.

Why didn’t I sit down in front of the coop and simply be in the presence of that incredible bird?

Why did I rush the holy away?

It was a watershed moment for me. Now, when things like this happen—when I come across a fluffle of baby rabbits in the garage at the house I owned for a year, when I see a deer swimming in Lake Superior back and forth, back and forth until she finally clambers out and runs right past me onto the shore—I see them not as random events but as holy encounters.

And the thing is, they almost always happen within sight of home (except for the spine of a whale I found on a beach with my daughter in South Africa).

Why does that matter?

Because my most recent encounter like this happened right after I’d returned from my incredible trip to Paris. While I was there, I filled up on all kinds of delicacies—from truffle pasta to croissants and coffee with one of the most beautiful sanctuaries in the world.

Now, I was back home, standing under the threat of the tsunami that is a new semester, and I was feeling just a little sorry for myself.

I was sure all the magick was gone. I could feel what that thought was doing to me inside—making the darkness come.

So as I walked toward Gitch (a.k.a. Lake Superior), I murmured, “Today, I choose to roam into the wild, open door. Let’s see what magick I can find.”

Ten steps later, I found a charm of a pink unicorn.

I picked it up and carried her along the shore.

One section of the trail along the lake curves up and to the right. Just as I started this climb, I noticed something in my peripheral vision down by my feet.

It was a blonde chipmunk.

Not an albino—it had brown eyes—but I’d never seen anything like its beautiful light pelt before. Even more astonishing? It was trotting along beside me as I walked.

For at least 25 feet.

Alfred didn’t pay any attention to it, and it was like I was walking two creatures instead of just one.

Finally, the chippie dashed up into the green leaves, where it perched on a rock and stared at me.

This time, rather rushing away, I stopped and stayed. “Hey,” I whispered. “Thank you for visiting me today.”

It blinked.

It brought its tiny hands toward its furry face, almost as if in prayer.

I mirrored the gesture.

It disappeared.

I walked on.

When I googled “What does a blonde chipmunk mean spiritually?” I learned that it’s a rare, illuminating breakthrough of abundance and joy. It symbolizes preparation and playfulness. It is a message of unique blessings, a reminder to let my true, authentic self shine.

Joy.

Abundance.

Playful and rare blessings, right here at home.

To honor the moment, I gave the pink unicorn to Hope, the angel I see every day on my morning walks.

I put the talisman in her open hand, bowed, and walked back into a world that is always ready to remind me—hope and magick are everywhere, as long as I am ready and willing to roam into the wild, open door.

A friend commented: “Good for you! Have fun. Please do something that I wouldn’t do . . . then tell us about it.”

My warrior self declared, “Ready my chariot. We’re off!”

Another part of me quailed. What did my friend have in mind?

Did she mean being a nude model in a life drawing class at this age (for hadn’t I just read an essay about that)?

Or was she thinking I’d grab the nearest Frenchmen and ask him to kiss me by the Seine? My luck, he’d turn out to be from Akron.

I carried her suggestion like a niggling worm everywhere I went . . . along with half the world, it seemed. Paris was crammed and hot as the cigarettes that burned everywhere.

When I started to notice the energy of those around me, I had an idea. Many moved around the famous sights with an Excel spreadsheet kind of energy—check, check, check.

What if I picked just one and sat.

Stilled.

Stayed?

I started to arrive early in the morning at Notre Dame, a five-minute walk from my hotel.

I’d eat my croissant and sit with the big and sacred body.

I say with intentionally, for that was something else that occurred to me on this adventure. When we travel—myself included—we often take energy from the things we encounter. Please! our spirits cry. Gimme whatever makes you special, because I want to be special too!

As the buttery flakes wafted down on my bare legs, I wondered if Notre Dame or Mona Lisa ever felt like hot and sweaty parents—yes, wanting to shepherd the spirits in their care to the Good—but at the end of the day, depleted by all the demands.

So, I would sit in front of Notre Dame and bless her.

Thank you for offering hope and grace.

Space and light.

Thank you for showing us how to come back from tragedy and be even more beautiful than before.

Then, I’d rise, brush the crumbs from my lips, and make my way to the line already forming to go in the sacred space.

Once inside, I turned left and stepped the side chapel where this hangs from the massive stone wall.

As I stilled, and more and more people swelled past me, I found myself slipping into two of my favorite practices. The first was visio divina—where you sit with a work of art and wait for the Greater Than to reveal something—quietly and shyly as a deer.

I’ve been arrested by this practice again and again—and soon, my spirit sees.

Behind.

Beyond.

In Light of.

And that’s the other practice—trataka.

It’s an ancient yoga practice of steady, uninterrupted gazing at a single point, most often a candle’s flame. It both cleanses and calms a restless mind, and it was one of my favorite things I learned in my yoga teacher training. Whenever I do it, I feel its effects almost immediately.

So, there I sat on a hard, wooden bench in Notre Dame morning after morning. Some days my eyes would fix on a single spatter.

Others, it was the tiny wooden door on the altar beneath the tapestry.

Sit and stare.

I could sense people stopping to look at me, could hear them whispering. And taking pictures of me. Of what I was looking at.

Sit and stare.

Stare until I was sure the door was about to open, and who knew what bright spirit might step out?

Stare until the sacred mess of black dots turned into a Face. That’s when I readied myself to hear whatever it was going to whisper.

I almost laughed aloud when I heard it: Oui.

Yes.

This.

I suddenly felt like fragrant wood had been thrown into the fire inside of me.

I burned.

I sat.

Yes.

Just so.

I stared until I cooled, still as the stones around me.

I blinked.

And blinked again.

I held out my open palms.

And bowed as I left.

A few days later, I would stumble upon a mass in a different church. As I sat there, I didn’t understand a thing the priest said except for two words: hallelujah and amen.

A sudden realization of the good and joyful.

So be it.

Oui.

There’s the couple who looks like they’ve been married 60 years and still appear bemused, delighted even, with the world and each other.

And then there’s the bald man whose tats map his open skin and whose pit mix wears a spike collar and is always off leash.

I’ll admit it my reaction when I first saw the two of them was to be on guard. What will dog and man do?

But the guy always greets me with a big smile and kind eyes, and so far, his dog has never tried to make a snack out of Alfred.

“Is your dog okay with other dogs?” he asked me one day this week.

“He is,” I said. But is yours??

“This is Biscuit,” he said. “The collar’s a joke, because she’s as sweet as can be.”

Well, there was a little hackle raising on Biscuit’s end, but only because Alfred wanted to jump up and lick her eyeballs, just like he did with Rufus, my old dog who died a couple of years ago.

While the two dogs did their dance of hey and oooooh, anal glands! the man and I talked.

I learned his name was Burt and that he worked as a therapist in prisons and psych wards. “What I’m trying to get these men to understand is that their new chapter starts now. Doesn’t matter if the ex comes back or if they win their case. It’s all about hope now. Hope with purpose.”

I wondered if he knew a statue with Hope etched in her right wing stood right behind the two of us.

I often offer her blossoms and pine cones as I pass by. So do others.

“That is such important work,” I said, knowing I couldn’t even begin to imagine what stories he must have heard—the pain, the violence, the despair.

“It is,” he said, and his humility was palpable.

I asked if he had any plans for the day. He said he had to get the air conditioner fan in his car fixed and that he planned to attend church that night with friends. “Are you a believer?”

Oh.

I proceeded with caution. “I went to seminary to be a pastor, but I have a complicated relationship with the divine.” I paused, “But yes, I believe there is a Big Energy that wants the Good for us.”

He looked at me—his eyes clear, and again, the word I kept coming back to was kind.

This was no zealot.

No, “You will suffer in the fires of hell!”

No, “My God is sword and tank. I will cut you down and run you over with my Truth.”

Burt lifted his ball cap off his bald head before returning it into its place. “What people don’t know is that Christ Jesus can always change their story for the better.” He paused. “You know, I bet you have a story.”

I smiled. I do, Burt, and I bet you do, too. “It was really nice meeting you, Burt. And Biscuit. I hope you have a good day at work.”

As I walked on, the phrase that came to me was “the scandal of particularity.” It’s something I learned back in seminary, and it’s what theologians use to describe Jesus—he became a particular human with a particular story. One filled with donkey manure and dead men, healing and love.

It is what makes the story so compelling—and so dangerous. That particular story has become weaponized, and people are literally dying because of it.

But love, faith, hope—they all begin with particulars. This dog. This sunrise. For that old couple I often pass—this man, this woman.

We want to be loved, cherished for our thisness. And to put a fine point on it—it is in the nitty gritty that we experience the shit and the miracle.

And yet the danger is, if we stay in the particular, we stay small.

I only love what I know.

Or What I believe is what is right and everything else is wrong and should be feared, condemned, destroyed.

So it is right and good to move from the particular to the universal. Are we really going to argue that there is only one path up the Mountain?

And yet if we always stay with the universal, it’s like living a zamboni life. Everything is so rhetorically smooth, nothing Real sticks.

As usual, I don’t have any answers, but I do have a way forward. When I meet someone, especially someone who might be different, what if I begin with Burt’s wisdom: I bet you have a story.

It probably wouldn’t hurt to be humble, real, and have eyes that are kind.

And see the Hope standing behind everything.

The sentiment is antithetical to my usual modus operandi of “I can’t stop.”

Which is why I bought the shirt. To remind me that balance isn’t a one-and-done; it’s a continual conversation with the present moment.

About what’s here right now.

About what I might bring.

About what I might let go.

It’s also a conversation about ratio.

How much this?

How much that?

We often forget that the answers we offer to these questions affect everything in our lives—mind, body, energy, health.

It’s what I was trying to convey to the high school football kickers I taught yoga to this past week. These were fit, strong, young men, and yet many of them were grunting and groaning as we moved throughout the practice. Their bodies were so used to being strong that they had a hard time being soft. Supple.

I say this not to shame them, but because to me, it was a perfect example of the balance I’m talking about.

I invited these guys to think about the difference between a stone and a river.

A stone is strong, certainly.

But it can’t move.

It sits there hard, immobile.

Whereas a river moves with flow and power.

Balance often invites more both and rather than either or.

An important lesson, especially when I’m so prone to rushing.

Yes, it is important to get things done. To live the hell out of life.

But when I rush, I not only miss things, I often break things.

When I slow, still, I see the bunny eating clover. I spy the white chipmunk hiding beside my path. Momentum no longer rushes me past the present so that I miss it entirely.

And maybe most importantly, I stop treating life as an emergency and start treating it as a sanctuary, where holy things are hidden in plain sight.

Like a summer peach.

Sweet and succulent, ripe right here and now.

I stop.

I taste.

I feel the difference.

Between eat and savor.

Between living for the next and abiding in the now.

All it takes is One. Slow. Bite.

A juicy joyspring of dribble & laughter.

Yes, here.

Yes, now.

Slow. Simple. Sweet.

One day this past week, I pulled tarantula.

I have a healthy respect for spiders, but no real fear, so I was more intrigued than repulsed by this possibility.

A tarantula can represent experiencing transformation, facing your fears, and patiently weaving your destiny. It also encourages us to confront hidden shadows, embrace our authentic self, and trust our intuition, especially when navigating life’s sticky situations.

What I didn’t realize is that tarantulas regularly shed their shells. And grow entirely new everythings.

This means a tarantula has multiple opportunities for resurrection—a tough, tender, and miraculous rising from what is dead and gone. A leaving behind of the hard and prickly shell for a new existence, one ready to fit and serve the new you.

One post I read included a video that showed a tarantula shedding. It was like watching someone pop a pimple—a whole lot of ewwwwwwwww!!!! followed by a weirdly satisfying sense of Oh, would you look at that!

What was constricting, hard, and no longer a good fit or worth hauling around was gone. As the creature gently emerged, there was a sense that—soft as the new thing was—the story could only get better from here.

But how—when it feels so much better and safer to know what we know.

Trusting what we don’t know? Who wants to do that?

Sometimes, it is right and good to hold on. To remain and repair. To honor the commitment. To not cut and run when things get hard.

I think this can one of our biggest lessons as first-time humans—to learn how to remain in the challenge, and even to say, “Yes, this belongs.”

It’s often what I invite my yoga students to do, especially in poses they hate. I, for one, hope that whoever came up with chair pose had to sleep on a bed of nails. But even as I think that, I know the pose is doing good work in and for me.

It’s a question of grit—a staying with, even when—especially when—it gets hard. And grit gets celebrated as a virtue for a reason.

And at the same time, when we let go, we hold space for who knows what next. It reminds me of a guru who once complained the ripe fruit in his life wouldn’t fall.

If we hold on so tightly to what was, we leave no room for the sweet and juicy what might be.

So how in the name of all that is holy do we know which to do—and when?

That, my friend, is the crux of being real. And human. Brave. And messy. And a whole lotta vulnerable.

It can be so easy to strap on our shells and forge our way into the battle of everyday.

And yet I’m learning more and more that good work and good love leave both me and the world softer. To get there I need to be less armored.

This ain’t easy. In fact, to help me do this work, I’m going to a delightful young man who shoves needles into my body and then attaches electrodes to them. The result is this insistent thump, thump, thumping deep inside my neck and shoulders—and it is finally softening the tension I hold. I can literally feel my body coming out of its shell.

Nor is this process pretty. The new tarantula in that YouTube video? It’s a moist and gooey mess. If you’ve ever had one of those gut-wrenching sob sessions, when you are just trying to let it all go . . . well, let’s just say there’s a reason it’s called “an ugly cry.”

Changing, healing, resurrecting—we can love those words and hate the actual process.

Of becoming.

New.

Lighter.

Softer.

More vulnerable.

But it’s a chance to say, “Yes, this belongs. And oh, here comes a unicorn.” Some unexplained magic trotting into the empty space we braved holding.

So yes, trust stillness and change and tenderness.

And rise. Oh, brave one, rise.

“Elbow!”

“Don’t you dare step off our train track. I will get out of the way. If I don’t, I’m the instructor, so it’s all on me.”

And “I am the boat. You are the tube. Follow me.”

Thus declared the young blonde who had a scar on her cheek and a red shawl tied around her hips. I was trying another dancing lesson—this time West Coast Swing, and she was my partner.

My last dance experience was all speakeasy & gin. This one was Sergeant Kale. With her, I was going to do it right or not at all.

The yoga teacher in me was startled by the commands. While some gurujis used to hit their students until they got a pose right, I’d been taught to invite students to explore, get curious.

Which can be wonderful—and a bit woo woo. What does that mean, exactly?

Which is why this young woman’s no-bullshit directives were appealing. There was no kinda sorta. I was literally being told what to do, and even though it wasn’t in the sonorous voice of Morgan Freeman, the clarity was refreshing.

My body, however, was having a harder time being delighted by her directness.

“Are you a dancer?” she asked me at one point.

“No, but I am a yoga teacher,” I said.

“That explains it. You are very concerned about balance.”

You have no idea, I wanted to tell her.

And as we moved and practiced, as she hit my wrist again and again to get it to relax, I thought about how an unending seeking of a balanced state can create its own stress and strain, a kind of eternal bracing.

I have to be balanced! Easy-going! I have got to find the effing flow!

Maybe I wasn’t so willow and magic wand after all.

But telling myself to relax is about as helpful as trying to tell myself to go to sleep when the last thing I can do is go to sleep.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

“Chin up!” she commanded. “Get some confidence!”

My nostrils might have flared, but okay. Fine. Chin up, shoulders back, wrist soft—step, step, triple step. Step, step, triple step.

“Better!” she said, delighted. “Could you feel it?”

I nodded, proud because I knew this was not some kind of verbal participation trophy. I had no doubt that I’d actually earned this praise.

“Okay, now we do the Sugar Push. You come in, and I push you back.”

Ah, the classical will they/won’t they, come hither/go away dance.

When I tried it the first time, she said, “Too light! You have to come in with enough energy that I have something to work with.”

I tried it again and again, finally finding the Goldilocks of Just Right—effort, trust, flow.

“The Sugar Push was based on the Sugar Step,” the instructor explained as we took a break, and she began to swish side to side, all smooth and easy.

“Oh!” I exclaimed, recognizing the move. “My grandma and her sisters taught me that one when I was five. It was a summer night, and we were on our back patio. They were all in their 80’s, but there they were, feet shushing on the cement bricks, hips swishing. I think a couple of them were flappers, and you could see it all come back.”

I could still hear their laughter, could still see the light in their eyes.

“Isn’t dancing great?” the instructor asked, pulling me out of my reverie. “It’s like it’s what our bodies are meant to do. Shall we?”

I slipped my right hand into her left and as we moved, I smiled.

“That’s it,” she murmured, as I followed, chin up, eyes bright.

There I sat, feeling like I was back in seventh grade gym class during our square dance unit, waiting to learn how to Do Si Do and Allemande Left!

I was in a brewery a couple of blocks away from my condo, and they were teaching swing dancing.

What if I was as awkward as I had been in my strange and weird 13-year old body, all flail and fail?

As I sat in my chair waiting for the lessons to begin, a woman sat down next to me. Her husband played trumpet in the swing band that would be offering the music for the night.

She showed me her feet. “I’m wearing flip flops. A sure signal I am not here to dance. But are you ready?”

“I’m a little nervous,” I admitted. “I’ve never been very good at following.”

“Me either. Close your eyes,” she suggested. “That way you can feel what your partner wants you to do next.”

Another woman offered, “Or you can pretend you’re a little drunk.”

I nodded, not sure if those suggestions made me more or less nervous.

The band played a few songs to warm up, and immediately, I was transported back to playing sax in my high school’s jazz band. We’d often host our own Swing Nights in the dim cafeteria, and my parents would often come. I’d usually take a break for at least one song and let my dad lead me out onto the dance floor.

He was an incredible dancer. Or I should say leader. He stood almost stock still while he pushed me this way and pulled me that.

I thrilled at how well he could move me around that floor. At the same time, I often wanted to growl as many a teenager does, Don’t tell me what to do, Dad—on the dance floor or in life!

If only he were still here to give me some wisdom now and then.

All of that came flooding back as I listened to the music swell in the brewery. Even though I was sitting down, my body started to move. I couldn’t help it.

A 20-something professional dancer wearing tight pants and soft shoes sashayed out into the middle of the floor and said into his headset, “Okay, time to begin! You get to decide if you are going to be a leader or a follower.”

I chose follower.

He lined us up—leaders on this side, followers on that. Then, he said, “As long as you know these basic moves, you’re dancing. It’s rock step, march, march, rock step, march march.”

We practiced on our own—rock step, march, march, rock step, march, march.

Next, he told the leaders to put out their hands like they were holding two beers.

We followers were to dip our hands into those cups. It sort of felt like my hands were bees, entering a flower.

“I’m Alex,” the man across from me said.

“Betsy.”

“Okay, let’s practice!” the professional commanded.

Rock step, march, march. Rock step, march, march.

“You’ve done this before,” Alex murmured, a look of deep concentration on his face.

“It’s been almost 40 years,” I smiled.

“Well, your body clearly remembers.”

And as we switched partners again and again, I could feel the truth of what Alex had said—my body did remember. Before long, all I could think was what Shakira knew all along—hips don’t lie.

It’s something I often say now when I’m teaching yoga.

Hips reveal if we are feeling tight and uncertain or rooted and radiant.

As the music blared, an old spark inside of me glowed bigger and bigger.

“Sorry!” kept popping out of mine and everybody’s mouths as we accidentally crunched toes or knocked an arm against a forehead when we dared to attempt a spin.

And then it was time. Time for the band to play and our bodies to cut loose.

The nerves twanged inside me again as I went to stand along the wall—like any good junior high girl did.

What if no one asks me to dance?

What if I look like a right fool out there in front of God and everyone?

One of the professional dancers sauntered up to me. He reminded me of Patrick Swayze’s character, Johnny Castle, in Dirty Dancing—young, cocky, ready to pull me onto the dance floor and see what these bodies of ours could do.

I started out as stiff as Baby who clearly flustered her molten partner in the movie, just as I was probably frustrating mine.

But before long? Oh. My. God.

I spun.

I twirled.

Dare I say I even gyrated?? Just like Baby did in Johnny’s arms.

At the end of the song, my gallant dipped me back as far as I could go, and it was the wildest heart opener I’ve ever done in my life. I couldn’t stop smiling.

“Well, that was amazing,” the woman murmured when I returned to my seat. “Even with your eyes wide open, it didn’t look like you had any trouble following.”

“He knew what he was doing,” I giggled as I fanned myself with my hand. “It was easy.”

Dawn. The woman’s name was Dawn.

As I walked home, I thought about what I’d learned. Not just rock step, march, march, but how important it is to find what moves you.

To dance—even if it’s just with your chin.

To shimmy wild and oh baby, to live free.

And we got the tradition of snapping wishbones from the Etruscans, an ancient Italian civilization, who loved their chickens.

Apparently, they believed that the birds were oracles and could divine the future.

They even turned the fowl into walking ouija boards with a ritual called alectryomancy, which basically translates as “rooster divination.”

Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?

Not really.

Because when it sucks, when we can barely breathe or hold on one more second, we want to know what’s coming next.

We are so damn tired of living with the uncertainty, that we want a rooster, a penny, god, even a dust bunny to tell us something good is on the way.

Because it’s hard to not know.

To hold space. Space that we might not have asked for. Or space that feels like it will never end.

And where in the hell is Morgan Freeman’s voice to tell us it is all going to be okay?

Change, uncertainty . . . those words can cause trembling and fear in the bravest of souls.

And rightly so in this world of ours right now.

I preached in my hometown this past weekend, and in my sermon, I talked about a book I’d been reading, The Not-Yet God by the Franciscan nun, Ilia Delio. Delio says that in the past, God was out there. In the sky. A majestic figure on a throne.

But with quantum physics—those weird and mysterious happenings at the smallest of levels—she argues that we need to consider seeing that God is In. Ilio claims “we are gods in the making and making the wrong god makes the wrong kind of world in which we live.”

What traditional theology shares with rooster divination, Magic 8-balls, and tarot cards is the seeking of an Out There to tell us what is going to happen next. To make it all okay.

But if we are gods in the Making of this world, then we have the power to create the world as we know it. Will it be one full of love and holiness? Or hate and fear?

I confess, I often use tarot cards, and I never pass up a chance to ask a Magic 8-ball a question whenever I see one . . . but more and more I’m learning that I don’t have to look out there to Divine the Future. I can do it with each choice I make.

Which steps, which acts, which habits make me less god? Which ones make me more god—a being who shines with an inexplicable radiance, one who lives with love, especially when it’s hard?

While a furcula might or might not be able to bring us all we wish for, our choices sure will.

Step by step, choice by choice, that’s how we become the Light That Shines in the Darkness. The Love That Never Ends.

I have a complicated relationship with that which cannot be explained.

Take, for instance, what happened to the friend who was digging up some of my many flowers to take home to her garden. I was inside working, and she said that she thought she was going to have to stop, because the plants wouldn’t budge. The flowers resisted with every last root hair.

My friend, who had helped me through an incredibly difficult time, began talking to the wild things. She thanked them for protecting me and my house. She praised them for all they had done and told them their work here was done. That I would be okay. “Suddenly, it was like the plants were leaping out of the ground,” she later told me.

Another inexplicable happened when I was at a yoga teacher training this weekend. When I arrived, I felt ornery and depleted, exhausted by a sharp and fragmented energy. The relentless sun we’d been experiencing lately had burned a hole in me, just like a cigarette on a carpet.

My yoga teacher led us through a grounding series of breathing and postures, and I could tell the exact moment the oppressive emotional storm inside broke. Sparks of light fell behind my eyes like a shower of stars.

When we were done, I was asked to read something aloud. My voice had dropped at least half an octave. It was deep, rich, utterly grounded.

Or there’s how our bodies remember. How years can pass, but somehow our bodies know, even if our conscious minds forget: this was when a beloved one died or the day of the diagnosis.

My complicated relationship with the inexplicable is this: I want magic in the world. In fact, I seek it out, relentlessly.

And I often can’t stop my brain from tearing apart these kinds of experiences, in a search for the rational explanation.

Why do we think it has to be one or the other?

Science is good. So is wonder.

Why not use every single clue available to us to understand this mystery that is life?

The sorrows, the joys, the facts, and the inexplicables—what are they all trying to tell us?

When we feel small, what narrative chains might we need to break?

When we feel so walloping big that no container in the world can hold us, how can we hold all that ache and wildness in our soft and fierce hearts, letting it feed us in the dark and cold days?

How can we brave seeking out the thin places, where we meet the raw, the hard, the breathtaking? Because that is where awe lives.

It’s a new day. How about living our hearts out, open to encountering again and again the wondrous inexplicables.

Then, we can stand, agape and agog, lucky to be amongst the weird of the world.

People walk, bike, jog, and often hurry along the Lake Walk to get to Canal Park in time to see the big ships come and go.

Last week, I wrote about my first experience watching a ship come home.

This week, what captured my interest was a boat heading out. Letting go of the safe harbor to navigate whatever smooth sailing or wild adventures might be ahead.

One of my favorite mantras—it can all be true—seemed only too apt.

Harbors keep boats safe, especially when who knows what kind of weather might blow in at any minute. Harbors welcome home, and there can be no bigger sense of relief than that.

And, boats are created to be Out There, floating, flying, meeting the waves big and small.

So, too, are we designed to both roam and rest, to head out and nest. I suppose a definition of wisdom could be knowing which to do when.

All those thoughts rolled through me as I stood amongst the crowd, gaping at the navigational feat unfolding in front of me.

To leave the harbor, the long boats have to execute a 90-degree turn. It reminded me of the game Operation—too close to the shore (with its docks and buildings) and game over.

Before the big ship passed by, smaller boats zipped through the canal. Some things dart into our lives for a mere moment. Others arrive to stay.

Of course, sometimes, the things we want to stay are the very things heading out toward the horizon, away, away.

Or we can’t wait for the big things hulking in our space to clear out, but there it sits, growing more and more barnacled every minute.

What became especially clear to me as I stood and watched was that if something Big is moving through, it needs space . . . and time.

Pause. Breathe. Sit. Let go.

This sounds easy. It is not. Sometimes, it’s a spiritual feat worthy of the greatest saint with all kinds of ways it could go wrong.

So we do it again, and again: pause, breathe, sit, and maybe, just maybe, at some point we can wave and wish a bon voyage?

We all live amongst giant energies. What courage and wisdom it takes to work with them.

To hold on.

To let go.

And see where the Big Wild Wonder will take us next.

That blustery November day, my son-in-law suggested we go down to the Lift Bridge to watch one of the big ships come in to port.

My first reaction was much the same as when I considered visiting the Grand Canyon on my first solo trip to Arizona. It’s a hole in the ground, I thought. How big a deal can it be? But as soon as I stood at the edge of the Canyon—that gaping and gorgeous slash—awe sluiced through me. I stood, a dumb witness to the wonder in front of me.

The thought of striking out into the cold November wind of Duluth that day just to see a big boat felt much the same. Really?

We got in the car and soon found ourselves huddling with the other brave souls along the canal wall to watch the ship come in.

Alarm bells starting going off—to warn people away from the Lift Bridge that literally rises up in the air so the gigantic ships can pass under.

I thought of the people stuck in the cars, wondering if they knew to expect this delay, wondering if some were hammering their steering wheel with a frustrated fist—at this forced pause in their day.

The ship’s horn blared like the triumphant shofar of the Lord, that spiritual wake-up call to reflection and renewal.

Soon, a low-riding, iron beast glided into the canal as it came home to dock, to unload its burdens.

To be still.

This makes it sound easy, like parking a car in a wide open parking lot, but that day was wild and windy, and the ship felt like it could hold my entire small hometown. White caps slapped against its massive hull, and the canal gave the ship what felt like 50 feet of clearance on each side. How in God’s name was the captain able to navigate that?

I’ve driven boats before, and it is definitely not like driving a car. When you turn the wheel of a car, you generally know what will happen next (unless you are hydroplaning or skating on ice).

Turning the wheel of a boat often feels more like a suggestion than a command—because Unseen Forces that you can’t control are at work. Wind, wave, current—all these pullings and pushings—sometimes subtle, sometimes fierce and howling.

And it takes time to change direction with a boat. The bigger the vessel, the longer it takes. Deep time, slow time, to turn, to go the new way you want to go.

As often happens when I am in the presence of Big Energies, I could feel myself wanting to weep. This world. Yes, it is the world of English muffins and toothpaste—predictable presences in our lives, and these stalwart companions to our days can make us feel in control. We know how things will unfold.

But then something arrives to remind us of how small we are. Not only can these Beyond-Our-Controls push and pull us, they can capsize us,leave us crashing, flailing, sinking.

They can interrupt our story. Make us wait for who knows how long for who knows what next.

They can leave us in awe. Not only at their scale, but at what can happen when they are handled by an expert hand. Years of study. And practice. Steady, easy.

A wonder, really.

And a chance to invite all hands on deck, to help navigate the challenges ahead.

As I stood there beside the ones I loved, I thought, This. This is how you come home.

My daughter wasn’t feeling well one day this week, so I got to go over to their place one morning to help out.

Wilkie played.

Wilkie ate.

Wilkie pooped.

Wilkie slept.

And as he slept, I murmured things to him. “Oh, little one, you chose such a good house to live in.”

And “Yes, swing at those toys dangling above you with your left hand, because we need another leftie in the family.”

And “I’m not gonna lie, Little Nugget. Life is good. And hard sometimes. But I will always be here for you.”

As I rocked and he cooed, two songs floated up in my mind—“Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,” from the musical Oklahoma, and “Feelin’ Good,” by Nina Simone.

Both celebrate the new day.

The brightness and possibility.

Looking down at this new life in my arms, it was a beautiful morning, and it was easy to feel good.

For the sake of Wilkie and all living beings, I wish the cowboy Curly’s jaunty vision of life from Oklahoma was true.

But as catchy as it is, it’s bubble gum. A whole lotta sweet that at some point will pop and pfffffft into a sticky mess.

Anybody else have to get their bangs cut because they got gum stuck in their hair? I can still see that me in the mirror—strange, jagged edges framing my small face.

Which is why I trust Nina Simone’s version of life. You can hear it in her voice.

She knows.

She’s been through the strange.

The jagged.

And she sings.

She has to.

Her spirit will settle for nothing less.

Every day, we get to choose, what we do in the face of all that is.

There’s nothing wrong with pulling out our best cowboy swagger now and then.

“Bring it,” we can whisper as we stare down whatever it is that has arrived in our lives to take us on.

But we also need to remember that actually, this is our first rodeo.

Or as I’ve said before, we are all like Wilkie—first-time humans trying to figure it all out.

Life is good.

And hard.

And so we all need to find the people who show up for us. Those who tell us the truth, who hold us close, and murmur, “I don’t care if you are strange, or have some jagged edges. No matter what, I will be here for you. Always.”

It’s hard enough to talk about someone you don’t know, let alone someone whose story doesn’t seem to have much light to bring to what can feel like the darkness of death.

Not knowing what else to do, I scoured different funeral liturgies, and a phrase in one leapt out to me: redeem our memories.

At the time, this seemed like as good an option as anything—I thought it might speak to those few who had gathered to say goodbye.

On a morning walk recently, the phrase returned to me, probably because I was getting hooked by old stories, their sharp barbs digging into my tender heart.

I didn’t want to erase them, because they are woven into the warp and woof of my being—a part of who I am, whether I like it or not—but I also didn’t want them to infect me.

That’s when Redeem our memories floated back into my brain.

Redeem means to free from what distresses, what harms.

To release from blame or debt.

To atone for.

To clear.

To change for the better.

Given that I read this phrase in a book of liturgy, it could be understood that the power of redemption comes from some outside force, be it God or some sexy cowboy riding in on a wild stallion to save us.

It can be a long wait, staring at the sizzling horizon, hoping for a savior.

It can also leave us feeling helpless, which might turn into hopeless and from there go headlong into bitter.

Someone fix this! we might cry.

But the more I looked at the definition of redeem, the more I realized all of those things fall squarely within our own power.

We do not have to wait.

Or hope.

We can act.

Here, now.

Where do we need to ask for forgiveness? To name our part?

What might it take to clear? (Time and silence are ever ready to help us heal.)

And maybe the biggest question we can ask, especially when our stories feel particularly sticky, is when do we need to stand firm and say No more?

When I teach peaceful warrior in yoga, I invite my students to take a wide and fierce stance with their legs, but their torsos arc up and away from the fight. “Sometimes,” I’ll say, “the bravest thing to do is to walk away.”

To move on.

To atone and clear.

This is not to deny what happened.

No, it often requires that we name things in plain and powerful ways.

This happened.

And oh my god, it hurt.

We also need to know this is not a call to look back at our lives only through cotton candy eyes—all spun-up, sweet air that has no substance.

Redeem our memories means letting go of living in the haze of has been.

It’s a call to walk fiercely into what will be.

To live light now, so that when our end comes, people can’t wait to tell our Good Story.

Amidst the wild waves of life, tests like this can be tempting—a cosmic ring buoy to pull us into the safe harbor of knowing This, this is who I am.

Enter the personality quiz a friend and I came up with once—Which Element Are You?

We decided he would be salt. Full of flavor. Of the earth. Acting as a cheerleader for others. Crucial for making life good.

Someone else we knew was definitely helium—all swirling air and often delightfully ridiculous.

Copper would be someone warm, bright, and grounded, whereas someone who kills the energy slowly but surely must be lead.

We agreed I am mercury—that quick, silvery element that has a hard time staying still.

Mercury can also read temperatures, which tracks, as I am constantly cued into how hot or cold situations are running. It’s one of my superpowers.

And it’s exhausting.

Which reminds me of something my therapist once observed—our superpowers can also be our potential downfalls.

If you are gold—shining, invaluable, soft—people will adore you, but they also might use you, shape you into things you’d rather not be.

If you are carbon, you are the foundation of life, the ultimate shape shifter. Yes, you can meet whatever the demands of the situation are, but the pressure!

My quick, changeable energy often serves me well. Like Clark Kent, I can transform on the fly from professor to yoga teacher to writer to pastor. Now I’m in spandex! Now I’m in heels!

And my ability to take the temperature of a room can help me to know what’s the best energy to bring into a situation, and yet all of this can leave me feeling like Superman in the presence of Kryptonite.

It reminds me of something my mom often says about Alfred, my Chiweenie.

Whenever he’s interested in something, his elephantine ears rise like antennae, and my mom will ask, “Don’t his ears get tired?”

Don’t we all get tired sometimes? Of being who we are? Of leaning into our superpowers?

Perhaps, that’s why elements bond. Two hydrogen join forces with one oxygen to make water, something more stable and yet also more able to go with the flow.

Which is why it is so important to bond with those who bring out our best qualities—and they might be wildly different than ourselves.

Which brings its own challenges. Some combinations bring big reactions.

Like the time our high school valedictorian put wet paper towels over a sink in our chemistry classroom. Turning the Bunsen burner on, he aimed the unlit gas down into the deep well and lit a match. The explosion burnt off his eyebrows.

There is power—in our ways of being.

In the potential combinations we might make.

So we need to treat the elements of our personalities with a healthy respect. And as I am learning more and more, we need to practice working with rather than fighting against.

I once read, “I am as God created me.” I repeat it now on days when I feel too Betsy.

But as the wise prophet Popeye oft proclaimed, I yam what I yam, just as you are as you are, each with our own powers and pitfalls.

And in the midst of all this, we can bond.

And see what’s possible.

Hey. Take care of you.

And your eyebrows.

As I walked along Gitchigami’s shore the other day, I realized something: She never apologizes. She is what she is. Period.

A Roaring Is-ness.

A full-throated Can You Feel All That I Am?

How I yearn for that.

And yet I often shrink from my own power.

Why?

Why do we continually murmur, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” for the energies that move us deeply, for our own wild churning?

Because we know wave & storm can wreak havoc, leaving behind the litter of devastation.

Our emotions, words & actions can do the same.

So what are we to do?

Work & work to be ever placid & pleasing?

No.

Just no.

We do not have to live like puppets—forever mouthing scripted words; hiding behind perfect, wooden faces; feeling empty inside.

And at the same time we have to remember that raw, unchecked power can—and does—lead to destruction.

Unlike Big Water, we get to choose.

We do not have to be big & wild & mind-less.

We can learn to dance. Now in chaos.

Now in stillness.

To live wild & boundaried.

To move & be held.

To be all hubba hubba to that tall drink of water over there, the one in whose ear we want to whisper, “Hey. Wanna lick my toes?”

We get to laugh.

And cry.

And choose.

Is it a good day to be in the light?

To float & soften?

Or is now a good time to sink into a dark Quiet that’s okay.

A Quiet that’s safe because it’s a chance to drop away from the outer churning.

To land in a fluid Center that holds an ancient Deep.

One ready to offer us important lessons in peace & passion.

Lessons in how to fall. And rise.

How to live a new day. Ride a new wave.

And wonder—where this Wild Mind might lead.

You.

When the commotion comes, sit.

When it’s too much, breathe.

Like a tree, find your roots . . . what holds you . . . here.

Feel your breath in your body.

Let your body breathe this breath.

Now this one.

May you trust this time.

May you walk your path.

May every strategy you try have love and hope in it.

May you come to understand what hurts.

May you come to understand what heals.

Let go of that which makes you small and afraid.

Soften.

See all that you do, all that you are, with the greatest of tenderness.

Embrace whatever arises as if you were comforting a child.

Hey.

It’s okay.

You are okay.

In the darkest of times, may you find what shines—in yourself and in others.

Then, may you let it all go, just for this breath in. For this breath out.

Remember, you are stronger than you think you are, stronger than you feel right now.

Remember, you will blossom. If not this season, then the next.

Be still.

Breathe.

It might take some time.

Cast the good seeds onto the back of the wind.

See where your next takes you.

Find the wild.

Kneel before what is holy.

Open.

And whisper yes to Mystery.

Hey.

You.

Everything beautiful is on its way.

In our inner kingdom, we play god, authoring dramas of love and dragons. In this bubbling cauldron of history and myth, prayer and spell, we are everything from hero to villain to prisoner trapped and tormented by things beyond our power and ken.

Then there’s the outer world of bird, waterfall, manure. We navigate this kingdom with our physical bodies—we hear the old love song, taste the bitter coffee, touch the wild water.

As edgewalkers, we live our lives in both.

Might seem like an odd way to start a piece heralding the arrival of my grandson in the world this past week.

Hello, Wilkie!

But when something like this happens, it’s easy to go big, existential. To wonder what kind of world this innocent spirit has been bourne into.

The thing is, we know. We all know.

Which is the other reason for pondering these two realms—because it’s been said that newborns are closest to magic.

They’ve been held safe in an inner kingdom where anything is possible—eyelashes appear from nowhere; little ears that look like shells get sculpted out of the softest skin.

How is this even possible?

How quickly the magic can fade.

As soon as these little bodies burst into the outer kingdom, it can be easy to get caught up in the milestones—the how far, the how much. There are letters to learn, numbers to master, boo boos to kiss. This outer life can bring our human bodies to our knees, and then the existential questions become Why? and How will I bear this? maybe even most importantly, How will I rise?

As a parent, it can be easy to get caught up in the realities of this external realm, especially when well-meaning folks ask things like, “Is he walking yet?”

As a Bibi (the name I’m using instead of grandma) and as a woman who walks around with a wild altar on her back, I get to bring as much magic as I can into this little nugget’s life.

And I am not weird for wanting to do so.

Well, yes, I am, but I am not wrong to have this as my new mission in life.

Because studies have been done where babies were introduced to magic tricks. When a ball or truck “disappeared” behind a wall, even months-old babies already knew that the “rules” of the world were being broken.

And here—for me—is what matters most about this: the babies most captivated by these magic tricks became the most curious toddlers. The baby’s interest in the surprises of the world predicted their future cognitive ability.

In other words, babies who loved magic became curious and smart human beings, and oh my, do we need that in the world right now.

So, I cannot wait to bring this little one to the wild edges.

Where who knows what we might meet.

Where wind whispers secrets to pine.

Where water spirits sing.

And the two of us will use the shells of our ears to listen.

The energy behind them is part hound—nose to the earth to sniff out all kinds of wild trails—and part Luna Lovegood, that airy spirit from Harry Potter who celebrates the strange and moves through whatever is happening with an almost unsettling hope.

I started writing these prayers because I need some of that energy in this riot of a world right now.

Riot can mean a violence against—human against human, or against the sacred earth. This can bring us to our knees, hearts breaking again and again.

But riot can also be what every bud in my spring world is readying itself to do right now—burst out and shout in scent and color.

(And let’s not forget all the babies readying themselves to bust their way into life on earth and begin living their own adventures—including my grandson who is due any day now!!)

It comes down to choice.

Against—fighting, fighting—is one way to live.

So is living with and in and for. This is what the holy fool longs to do—to be the one on the journey who pulls out the unsettling hope just when the darkness feels like it will last forever.

Because our roads are not easy. We might expect a zambonied life—smooth, frictionless—but every holy fool knows that adventure involves beasts and bandits, wrong turns and even peril.

In this, in all of this, we are called to be the holy fool. A liminal being. One who can navigate the boundaries. The betweens.

Like the hound, we get to be rooted, in constant contact with the earth. How can we care for her and all the other fools around us? And oh my, where will this joy trail lead?

At the very same time, like Luna Lovegood’s namesake—the moon—we rise. We live our days with the sky, finding that which makes us shine, wondering what wild hope can we give wing to today?

I don’t have answers. Just questions.

And a wild altar.

And my holy fool of a heart offering the unsettling hope of prayer. Here’s one of my favorites that I wrote. Take care of you.

o

holy

fool

you

trickster

playing

along

the

edges

of

the

world

teach

me

to

be

ajar

wide

open

always

ready

to

live

between

here

&

hello