But, when the day came to scatter her ashes, I felt the sun shining in the sky, saw the tree blowing in the wind and walked a path we had once walked, together.

And that was enough.

Six months later, I turned sixty. A big deal, indeed.

For months, I made plans. Big plans. Memorable plans.

Then the day of the anniversary of my birth came.

And I got up, as I have done most days of these sixty years.

I went for a walk.

I meditated for my personal journey and prayed for our collective journey.

I went out for dinner.

Came home.

And thought, "So, this is sixty. No big deal."

A few months ago, I marked the twentieth anniversay of my afore-mentioned spirit journey. It began in a grand way (a talking Raven rose up from my bedroom floor, said, "It's time" and disappeared), so I thought, surely I am supposed to make a big deal of that.

I got up the morning of the anniversary with a whole bunch of rituals and mantras and sitting-just-so meditations.

Then I stepped outside, where they all disappeared just as quickly and unexpectedly as the Raven had that April Saturday twenty years prior.

Because it was morning time.

Of a new day.

A new day that didn't need to be made a big deal of.

Because, when you think about it, isn't the big deal that there's a thing called morning the first place?

Isn't the big deal that we're here for however many of those mornings as we get to be?

And.

Isn't the big deal that we have ancestors who love and guide us? Some by blood, some by life. Some while alive, some while dead.

There's no need to embellish or accesorize any of that. Life takes care of that.

All that we're asked to do.

Is live it.

This is a short, little story about perspective and algorithm. Specifically, the choice of perspective and the power of algorithm.

It's a story from a few mornings ago. A morning when I was running ever so slightly behind and kinda rush-walking to a coffee shop to grab some breakfast before my first meeting.

As I made my way, I came upon a woman who was headed in the same direction.

She was more ambling-walking. Not slow, but most obviously not in a rush.

Now, my mama raised me right, so as I approached her, I said, "Good morning. How are you?"

Because my mama did not raise me perfect, I didn't really slow down as I greeted this lady.

At least not until, just as I passed her, she said, "You know, it is just one of those days!"

I turned around, expecting to see some grump-isha look on her face. The kind of look we get when we say something like, "It is just one of those days!"

Instead, I saw one of the biggest smiles I've seen in a long, long time.

"Isn't that great," I both thought to myself and said out loud. "How so?"

"Well," she said, "it's not too hot yet. I've had a nice walk and was just texting a friend."

I tell ya, I've thought about that woman every morning on my walk.

About her perspective.

Which was grounded in the simple things of the present moment.

Versus my perpsective.

Which was pitched past the present. Somewhere in the future of quick breakfasts and upcoming meetings.

But I've also thought about the algorithm of our lives.

Which of course is created by us so it can influence us. A weird sort of self-jailer.

I've thought about how, these days, a lot of us are conditioned to hear "It is just one of those days" and expect the worst. In part, because the algorithm we've created for ourselves shows us the worst.

But what if we changed that algorithm?

What if, everytime we thought or said the negative version of "It is just one of those days!", we remembered the woman I met on my walk.

And thought or said, "Nah, actually it's one of those days!" and made it a practice to look around to see the good that's in each and every day.

Might change the algorithm.

Might change us.

See these trees? I saw them this morning while visiting St. Louis.

My first thought was, “What a bunch of orderly trees!”

They were all lined up, just so, with the ones on the outer left and right swooning over a bit to allow room for the ones in the center (a bit like one of those old Esther Williams swimming numbers from way back in the day!).

My next thought was, “This is how a lot of people started their day today.”

Lined up for another week, another Monday.

In queue for their coffee.

For the bus, subway or highway entrance ramp.

Then the elevator, escalator, hallway.

Where they lined up at their cubicles. The ones on the edges leaning out to make room for the ones in the center.

The ones with power.

It can all seem so very ordinary, all this order.

Maybe even a bit dull or uninspiring.

Until.

Until.

Until you remember.

That out of sight from all this orderly ordinariness.

Are the anything but orderly roots of these trees.

Roots that most definitely don’t line up in formation according to someone else’s plan or design.

But, instead, roots that reach this way and that.

Down into the earth for nourishment.

Out to each other for support.

Roots that are always there.

Rooting.

Our roots are like that, too.

I mean, sure, on the surface we’re lined up for coffee. Driving in our separate cars and working in our separate cubicles.

But underneath the surface.

Are our shared roots.

Of being human.

And just like the roots of those trees, our human roots are always connected.

Always there.

I know a lot is written these days about how isolated so many of us feel.

But the truth is that, while we may sometimes feel isolated, we never really are isolated.

We have our roots.

Reaching down, reaching out.

In support.

Of each other.

I tend to think about.

To experience.

Wonder.

At least once a day.

It’s not something I force or try to find.

I don’t run around saying, “Come on wonder, give me a sign!”

But it is something I try to stay open to.

To receive.

Even if only out of the corner of my eye.

And I’m not talking about some big ol’, dramatic sign from the gods and goddesses (though isn’t everything a sign from the gods and goddesses?).

No, I’m talking about everyday wonder.

The kind of wonder you’re reminded of when you see a dog smile as its sniffs.

And sniffs.

Whatever it is a dog sniffs.

The wonder of watching a group of trees dance together in the breeze.

Or my personal favorite.

The wonder that we’re even here.

You, me, the dogs, the trees.

In the first place.

Think about it.

If things hadn’t happened exactly as they did.

When they did.

Where they did.

We wouldn’t be here.

It really is the universe’s most exclusive club, isn’t it?

This being alive.

I mean, not only are there a lot of once alive beings who no longer are alive.

There are way more…what?…seeds, eggs, nothings.

That never even had the chance to begin with.

Which is why I try to stay open to wonder.

On days when everything goes right.

On days when everything goes wrong.

And on days (most days) when everything is a little of both.

Because I have the chance.

To be here.

And that’s pretty wonder-full to me.

This is a story about how I found my voice as a writer. I share it in case you’re on a journey to find your voice, be it as a writer or as the artist of your own life.

It took place years ago, when I was still married, still lived in Boston and still very new on my spirit journey.

The story begins with three words: “Be a writer.”

Words that came to me via …

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Do you ever have moments, these days, when it feels like you’re the only one? That no one understands what you’re going through and that if just one person.

One single person.

Got you, saw you.

Was there for you.

Then things would be better.

Do you ever feel like that?

If so, this story is for you.

It’s from February 2014 and it takes place in Abiquiu, New Mex…

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My Daddy died at 8:15 a.m. CST on Monday, June 29, 2009.

He was in Dallas, having been placed on hospice one week prior, which happened to be the day after Father’s Day. I was in Boston.

I didn’t talk with Daddy that Father’s Day. But I did talk with him that week.

“I love you, Daddy,” I said.

“I love you, too, son,” he said.

That was it.

9 words. 9 simple wo…

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“Does anyone genuinely feel like they belong?” That’s the first thing I saw from the first post I looked at this morning.

“What a great question,” I said out loud.

And how very much I have changed my thinking about the answer.

You see, up until just a few years ago, I would have said “yes.”

And thought “no.”

Because deep down, in parts of myself that I didn…

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To be clear, I never wanted to live in New Orleans. I didn’t find her particularly attractive, felt she was way too touristy and knew she was way, way, way too hot and humid for me. I mean, I had left Texas for New England in order to never, ever live through a hot summer again.

And yet.

New Orleans knew better.

It started with a dream. Ever since my “what…

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What’s the first thing you see here?

An old fence in need of repair? Or nature having a ball with bright blooms and a wandering vine?

It’s a good question to ask because, for me, it’s a reminder that every second of our lives.

We get to choose our perspective.

Sure, our minds are capable of processing both answers mentioned above. But where do we go.

First?

…

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I wasn’t one for self-reflection.

Not before a talking Raven rose up from my bedroom floor.

But, ya know, something like that can change a fella. So it was, about a month after Raven’s appearance that I decided to go to a yoga & retreat center called Kripalu in the Berkshires. Now, if I’m being honest (and I am), I didn’t go to Kripalu to self-reflect. I …

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There are moments when life floods me with joy and wonder.

Sometimes, the moments come when I’m very intentional in seeking them.

Sometimes, when I am desperate for them.

Most times, they come when consciousness, god, goddess, buddha, who/whatever feels like I need a little reminder.

Of joy.

And wonder.

It was one of those “most times” that occurred a few day…

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In the beginning, after a talking Raven rose up from my bedroom floor, I had no idea where I was or what I was supposed to do.

The life I had known.

The happy life, successful life, full life.

Was behind me.

Already starting to fade away.

In front of me was a foreign and indecipherable place.

Of shapes and forms and shadows and light.

Pulling.

Pulling.

Pulling m…

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There really is, I have come to believe, a matrix that connects us all.

An eternal space where reside all the stories.

Of every living thing.

That ever has been.

Ever will be.

Ever is.

Now.

That matrix speaks to us, through us, as us.

When we feel what it is to find love (and, again, when we lose love).

Now, I also have come to believe that, beyond the eternal matrix is an infinite consciousness. A space of no-thing-ness (as a Zen buddhist once explained it to me) that is beyond words. A space that gives the first spark of every thing being born and that receives the final dust of all things having died.

So it was, in April 2006, that this infinite consciousness sent a spark through the matrix down to the garden unit of a three-level brownstone in Boston’s South End at the precise moment that I opened my eyes from a Saturday afternoon nap.

A spark that took the form of a Raven.

A talking Raven, rising up from my bedroom floor as I awakened.

But not a talka-tive Raven, for this one said only two words:

“It’s time.”

Before disappearing into the ceiling.

To report “mission accomplished” back to the vast no-thing-ness that sent it.

Now, do not read this and think I am trying to tell you that I am someone super special. Far from it. One of the cool things about the matrix is that, if it really does connect us all, none of us are more or less connected than the other. None more special than the other (thinking otherwise is the work of ego, not matrix).

Instead, I’m trying to tell you two things:

First, that this is how my spirit journey started.

Second, that the infinite consciousness sends signals, sparks, messages out into and across the matrix all the time. To all of us.

Including you.

We just don’t always pay attention. Or, rather, we don’t always choose to pay attention.

That’s certainly what I did through my teens, twenties and thirties. So much so that if, in that spring of 2006, I had told anyone who knew me what had happened they would have thought I’d had a breakdown (I say this because, later, when I did carefully start telling people, that’s exactly what more than one said).

But there was something about that moment, this Raven.

And those two words.

That I couldn’t quite shake.

Though, truth be told, my mind, my fear, my desire, did indeed try to shake it more than once.

(And probably, more truth be told, will try to do so again.)

But here’s something else I have come to believe.

When that inifinite consciousness sends a spark through the matrix to wherever you are at whatever moment it is sent.

That spark lights a fire within you.

Now, you can ignore that fire.

Pretending not to see, too afraid to see or, maybe, to mind-full to see.

The persistence of its slow burn.

Or.

You can go to it.

With no clue if, upon arrival, it will devour you.

Or free you.

On that Saturday afternoon in April of 2006, I at first chose the former by rolling over and returning to my nap.

But when I awakened again.

I got up.

Climbed the stairs to my office, with my little Scottie, Tyra Banks by my side.

And chose the latter.

I say that my practice is like a tool box that’s been passed down from generation to generation. It’s got a little bit of everything: well-worn and proven tools that those who came before me have used. Plus some new ones that I’v…

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Why? Well, it’s no secret that a lot of us are feeling pretty wonder-less these days. The Pew Research Center found that almost 70% of Americans feel pessimistic about our country. And the American Psych Association recently found that 54% of Americans feel isolated.

A lot has been written on all the reasons for these stats.

But there’s one reason that I think gets overlooked: We have forgotten to see the wonder in our lives.

As such.

We have forgotten the essence of what it is to be alive.

The way I see it, we’re not here to go to work, have a house or even vote. Those are social responsibilities that come with the job of being human.

But the life of being human?

Well now, that’s another thing entirely.

Something that, perhaps, we once knew as children. But somehow forgot amidst all the divisiveness and stress and doom-scrolling of these times.

So, I’m here to maybe help remind us.

Not so we forget about all the divisiveness and stress and doom-scrolling

But so we can live through it.

With a different perspective.

One that might, over time, make us less divided, less stressed out and less interested in scrolling doom.

—----------------------------

—----------------------------

I hope you find this Substack to feel less like a newsletter and more like a neighborhood bar or coffee house.

A place you can duck into when you feel isolated or in need of support.

A place to, maybe, just help you feel better.

There’s no preaching here. No lecturing about what is (and is not) “everyday wonder.”

Instead, there are just stories.

Stories that might make you pause every now and then and look around.

To notice the marvel of a tree dancing with the wind.

The memory of a grandmother’s voice.

Or the way a certain song from the past still gets you every time.

Stories that, maybe just maybe, help you look around and notice, remember even, that you’re not alone.

We’re not alone.

We’re here.

Right now.

When so many are not.

Living life.

Together.

As so many have done before and so many will do after.

Which is the story of the essence of being alive: that we simply are, wonder-fully, alive.

Thanks for stopping by, thanks for reading and, if you feel called, thanks for clicking the button below and subscribing!

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