NOTE: Somehow my narration with Anthony’s piano play in the background ended up somewhere else. It you’d rather listen, it’s above.

This piece is dedicated to my dear pals: Anthony Deutsch, Claudia Looze, Annette French and our gracious AirBnB host Douglas Alexander.
———

It’s our last week in Madison.
For one glorious month we’ve rented a corner house overlooking Lake Monona. Every morning the Wisconsin State Capitol rises above the water. At sunrise it seems to hover above the lake. By evening its dome catches the last gold of the day and finally serves as a luminous beacon seen for miles away.

It’s difficult not to fall in love with a place like this.

We came partly to escape Tennessee’s summer brutal heat and humidity, but also because old friends live nearby. In August we’ll head to Milwaukee, where I’ll direct my one-act play, 444, for The Brick House’s Bar Project. Before that, I had work to do. My synopsis had been accepted, but now I had only a month to finish writing the play itself!

So I settled into a workspace surrounded by our host’s books, family photographs, and one framed quotation that seemed to belong exactly where my characters were living inside the 444 play:

“Forgiveness is giving up my right to hurt you for hurting me.”

There are certainly worse places to spend a month wrestling with dialogue about the meaning of friendship.

Meanwhile, Greg embraced Madison in a completely different way. He and our host bought kayaks and explored the lake almost daily. Snowball became something of a neighborhood ambassador, charming nearly everyone she met on our walks while introducing us to people we otherwise never would have known.

Life here has unfolded at an unusually human pace.

From our windows we’ve watched an endless procession of young parents pushing strollers in a buggy parade, cyclists gliding past, runners, walkers, paddle boarders, and swimmers. I’ve amused myself judging e-bikes versus old-fashioned pedal power and wondering how Wisconsinites define “hot and humid.” Coming from Nashville, I remain unconvinced.

One of our favorite discoveries has been our generous Japanese-born hair stylist, whose enormous black dog, Munchkin, happily plays with Snowball while refusing to tolerate any of her tiny-dog bossiness.

The grand piano anchoring the living room of our AirBnB inspired another unexpected gift. When our host learned that our friend Anthony Deutsch, a gifted singer-songwriter, would be visiting, he immediately had the piano tuned. That gesture turned into an intimate living-room concert shared with old friends and new ones.

Anthony wandered from Bob Dylan and the Beatles into his own beautiful songs, and by the end of the evening everyone seemed lighter than when they had arrived. Snowball, naturally, considered it her personal responsibility to make sure every guest paused long enough to show her the adoration she demands.

I call Madison the Berkeley of the Midwest. It’s a deeply progressive university town, full of bookstores, bicycles, neighborhood cafés, conversations, and people who still seem willing to smile at strangers.

I even discovered my ideal summer job:
Operating one of Madison’s giant aquatic weed harvesters.

Seriously. Watching those enormous floating lawn mowers glide across Lake Monona each morning looked oddly satisfying. I became slightly obsessed.

Then we were reminded that no place escapes the larger world.

When we arrived, Madison was experiencing temperatures every bit as oppressive as Nashville’s. Soon afterward came the smoke from the Canadian wildfires.

One morning the Capitol simply disappeared.

The building that had anchored our view every day vanished behind a rusty curtain.
The air smelled acrid.
My lungs hurt.
My skin itched.
Snowball’s walks became early morning and late evening affairs while we waited for the air to clear.

The postcard image dissolved.

And just as the smoke lifted, another kind of heaviness settled over the city.

A young man was fatally shot by a Madison police officer during an arrest.

Almost immediately the Capitol Square, which had quietly watched over the lake all month, became something else again: a gathering place for grief, protest, debate, and demands for accountability.

That isn’t new for Madison.
The Capitol Square isn’t simply beautiful.
It’s also where disagreement lives.

For generations people have gathered there because they believe public life should be argued in public. From Vietnam War protests to demonstrations supporting teachers’ unions, from No Kings marches to today’s calls for justice, the Capitol has never been merely an architectural landmark.

It is a place where democracy keeps showing up.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been learning this month.
I wasn’t really looking for a perfect city.
I was looking for evidence that such a place still existed.

Madison gently refused the assignment.

Its beauty never disappeared. Neither did its struggles.
Both were always here.

I still love it.

I love that strangers say hello.
I love watching the Capitol catch the evening light across Lake Monona. I love the bicycles, the bookstores, the families, the concerts that spring up in living rooms, and yes, my imaginary future piloting a lake weed harvester.

None of those things became less meaningful because the city proved to be imperfect. If anything, they became more precious because they were real.

Madison isn’t paradise.
It’s simply a place that reminds me that beauty and struggle have always shared the same shoreline.

For information about Anthony Deutsch:
https://linktr.ee/deutschmusik

And, yes, weed harvesting on a lake is a real thing:
https://aquarius-systems.com/persistent-high-lake-levels-set-stage-for-big-flood/

Thank you for reading my Substack!
Please consider subscribing, free or if you’d like to toss me some money that’s cool, too.

copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

Where Is the Beauty?

That was our deceptively simple prompt in my writing group on July 3, 2026.

Where is the beauty here, now, in this country, the country I’ve been so ashamed of these past few years?

There’s no need to revisit all the reasons.

But I wonder: can shame live alongside achingly wonderful beauty?

On our recent drive Up North from Tennessee to Wisconsin, through the almost-middle of the United States, we passed beautiful farmlands, gushing rivers, and small towns with church steeples rising above the trees. But the beauty remained at arm’s length. We were making good time, watching America through a windshield.

A few years ago I made that same pilgrimage alone, taking only local roads without a husband or a dog. Back then, it was difficult to see much beyond the enormous MAGA signs, especially in southern Illinois. Those same farmlands felt ominous.

Lately, though, I’ve been seeing America through strangers’ eyes.

Or rather...through YouTube.
Not because I’ve suddenly become a sports fan.

I couldn’t give a shit about sports. I’ve never understood building identities around teams, cities, mascots or billion-dollar stadiums. Left to my own devices, I’d never have clicked on a World Cup match.

But my chronic insomnia introduced me to an unexpected corner of YouTube: videos of European, Japanese, Australians - even Canadian and Mexican - visitors traveling across America for the World Cup.

I’ve watched Scottish fans march through Boston in kilts, bagpipes blaring, apparently determined to drink the city dry.
I’ve watched Japanese tourists bite into ribs from a gas station barbecue, their eyes rolling back in delight.
Germans. Dutch. Swedes. All of them amazed.

Again and again they say the same thing:

“We were told America was dangerous.”
“We thought everyone had guns.”
“We expected people to be unfriendly.”
“The media said American cities are ugly and dirty.”

Instead, our guests found generous strangers, astonishing landscapes, and an openness they hadn’t expected. They’re enchanted by the vastness of the country, the kindness of the people, the absurdly large soft drinks with endless free refills, and - during this relentless heat wave - the glorious miracle of air conditioning everywhere. So many noted that the a/c we take for granted hardly exists anywhere in their counties.

Watching them, I realized they weren’t just discovering America.
They were introducing me to her again.
To an America I’d almost forgotten.

An America stretching from East to West and North to South with breathtaking diversity, not only in her geography but in her people.

It also helped me understand something I’d never quite appreciated before: how John Denver’s song “Take Me Home, Country Roads” somehow escaped its West Virginia roots and became an anthem sung by football fans around the world. Thousands of strangers, united by a song about home.

I never saw that coming.

So on this Fourth of July weekend, when I could be bemoaning the fact that the current leaders of this country are embarrassing and, yes, shameful, I find myself tearing up when I hear stadiums full of fans sing that corny old song.

Those tears remind me of another journey.

More than forty years ago, I climbed into a taxi outside a shabby hostel in Beijing after spending months working in Wuhan, a city that was virtually unknown to most Americans at the time. I’d spent weeks trying to get a ticket home. I was exhausted and ready for this experiment to end. My once insatiable wanderlust was spent.

As the taxi pulled away, the driver slipped a cassette into the player.

And there it was: Take Me Home, Country Roads.

Back then, when China was just barely opening its doors to the West with understandably jaundiced eyes, there was a thriving black market for Western cassette tapes. Somehow those twangy C&W melodies resonated beautifully with Chinese ears.

As the song filled the cab, I got choked up. Verklempt.
After months of chasing the next adventure, I was homesick.

Over forty years later, hearing that same song, I still tear up.

But now it’s for a different reason.

This time I feel strangely connected to those visitors who have fallen in love with my country.

Maybe beauty doesn’t erase shame.

But neither does shame erase beauty.
Beauty was never waiting for me to agree with everything my country has done.

It was waiting for me to look again.

Sometimes it takes leaving home to appreciate it.
Sometimes it takes coming home.
And sometimes, it takes a stranger.

Happy Fourth of July, Y’all.

Thank you for reading, please consider subscribing.
It’s good for my ego.

Enjoy the videos linked below.

copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

Country Road on the Road

THE SCOTS in BOSTON:

In my monthly writing group, a small group of us are offered prompts by our generous and kind-hearted host. This week it was related to the upcoming Soulstice, the day of longest sunlight in the Northern Hemisphere. A timer is set and we write, then read out loud to each other.

“What is coming into Full Light for you that you want to carry forth?”

I thought I knew the answer.
But then Nashville had other ideas.

This week Greg and I attended two events that so embodied funky East Nashville that they made me fall in love with this place all over again, reminding me why we moved here from Milwaukee back in 2019.

The first gathering was a singer-songwriter round held in a private home. We arrived as strangers and were welcomed into a living room where three artists shared their work, pouring their hearts into guitar strings, their voices lifting us to places that had me wondering how on Earth human beings could produce sounds filled with such yearning.

One song in particular got to me.

“Skinnier,” written and performed by Maura Streppa, explores a question many women know by heart. Would people love me more if I were thinner? Would life be easier? She sang about becoming good at comic relief in order to receive attention.

And this landed like a stone:

“I hate to admit I don’t like myself either
Maybe I would if I was
Skinnier...”

Skinnier.”

Ouch.

Afterward, I spoke with Maura. She was warm, gracious, and completely unpretentious. Her artistry allowed a song so personal that a room full of strangers suddenly found themselves nodding in recognition.

The next night, Greg and I attended The Greenhouse, part of Nashville’s Story Garden theater group. Every month this workshop invites writers to bring ten pages of their scripts - films, plays, and new media - for volunteer actors to read cold.

For a few months now, I’ve followed the stone steps down to a cheerful church basement and settled in among the other writers and actors, dreamers all of us. I usually bring some pages for actors to read. The group’s writing spans everything from science fiction to realistic couples counseling to a quirky musical about metal detectorists.

And while the writing is wonderful, it’s the actors who amaze me even more. They sit on a makeshift stage with pages they’ve never read before and completely commit to their never-before-seen parts. They don’t know whether their character should have a Southern drawl or a Wisconsin whine. They simply leap.

But is it so simple?

Watching them, I realized something. For the past few years, I’ve found myself standing on the edge of a cliff, hesitating. I’ve turned away, deciding not to leap.

Why?

It’s no coincidence that in these same years I’ve gained more weight than I ever thought possible. I could point to four open-heart surgeries, a bum hip, or the crappy genes I inherited. They certainly haven’t helped. But none of that explains why I’ve allowed the number on a scale to become the gatekeeper for so much of my life.

Outwardly, I’ve become skilled at pretending the weight gain doesn’t bother me, but the truth is that it affects much more of my life than I’d like to admit.

I’ve declined invitations. I’ve avoided social gatherings. I’ve hesitated to travel and meet beloved friends whom I’ve known for years through Zoom calls and online classes.

When I catch a full-length glimpse of my reflection, I’m horrified. I don’t recognize myself anymore.

And there it is: my deceased Mother’s voice, the one who put me on amphetamines when I was twelve years old and weighed 125 pounds. Just not skinny enough for her. Maybe she would have loved me more if I was, like the song says, skinnier. All these decades later, I’m still trying to silence that voice or at least bargain with it.

I ask myself: Was it my weight that kept me from going to New Jersey when she was dying?
I still don’t know.
It’s an awful question and might have an even worse answer.

What I do know is that another voice has been with me for the last thirty years.

When Greg and I first started seeing each other, he would put his arms around me and I’d instinctively pull away, not wanting him to touch my stomach. One day he reacted, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Don’t let your hang-ups about your body stop me from enjoying it.”

When I told my sister-in-law Victoria what he’d said, she didn’t hesitate.

“He’s the one.” And, knowing me all to well, she added: “Don’t screw it up.”

She was right, of course.

Three decades later, I’m beginning to think Greg may have been right.

What’s become clear to me - the “Light” I want to carry forward from the writing prompt. - is that no one cares nearly as much as I do. The friends inviting me to dinner aren’t conducting secret evaluations of my body. The people asking me to travel aren’t hoping I’ll lose twenty pounds before I arrive at the gate. And those fearless actors in the church basement certainly aren’t standing around wondering whether they’re thin enough to read a part.

They’re too busy stepping into characters, taking risks, and willing to make fools of themselves in front of strangers.
They’re too busy saying YES.

Somewhere along the way, I seem to have made a bargain with myself:

“I’ll travel when I lose weight.”
“I’ll say yes to more acting when I lose weight.”
“I’ll stop hiding myself in photographs until I lose weight.”
“I’ll put myself out there more when I lose weight.”

The problem is that life refuses to wait for the weight to change, for that future version of me to arrive.

Life keeps sending invitations.
Stories keep calling.
Time keeps moving.

And in this particular moment, I’m determined to finish a screenplay about my Near Death Experiences and improbable mystical adventures. I have ultra-talented friends who are willing to help bring it to life.

But they’re insisting that I play the lead: my fictional alter ego, Nina Rini.

Nina is the woman who survives impossible situations, makes terrible decisions, gets herself into outrageous relationships, yet somehow manages to keep going. For all her flaws, Nina Rini has never seemed particularly concerned about fitting into a smaller pair of jeans.

I never put the constraints on Nina that I did on myself.

That’s what came into Full Light in that East Nashville church basement.

It’s not as though I’ve solved my lifelong struggle with weight. I haven’t suddenly learned to love every photograph of myself.

I’m simply tired of postponing my life.
The screenplay isn’t waiting.
My friends aren’t waiting.

The directors who want to cast me in their plays and films aren’t waiting.

Greg isn’t waiting to hug me.
Life isn’t waiting.
And it’s time I stopped waiting too.

Thank you for reading!Please consider subscribing.

copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

For more information about Maura Streppa. She’s on Spotify, too:
https://maurastreppa.com/
”Skinnier” on YouTube:

The Greenhouse:
https://www.nashvillestorygarden.org/greenhouse

A few days ago I spent several hours at the hospital preparing for hip replacement surgery. It was the much anticipated Pre-Op appointment where three different nurses took blood, gave instructions, asked questions, required signatures and offered two pamphlets complete with exercises that looked painful.

The orthopedic surgeon and his team had moved Heaven and Earth to make this happen before I headed north to Madison, Wisconsin with Greg and Snowball to escape Nashville’s brutal summer humidity.

After months of pain, months of waiting, months of imagining a life with less suffering, the finish line finally seemed visible.

Then came the phone call.
My cardiologist wanted a PET scan before giving surgical clearance.
The earliest appointment wasn’t until August.

Just like that, certainty vanished.
At first, I felt caught between two competing stories.

One story in my head said:
“Push forward. The surgery is scheduled. Everyone has worked so hard to make it happen. Don’t lose your place in line.”

The other story whispered:
“Slow down.”

No one was forbidding me from proceeding. In fact, my cardiologist ultimately left the decision in my hands.

And that may have been the hardest part. I might have wanted someone else to tell me what to do. But then again, I don’t respond well to the word “should.”

Instead, I found myself thinking about one of Yogi Berra’s most famous lines:
“When you see a fork in the road, take it.”

People laugh because it’s absurd. How can you take both roads?

What made this difficult was realizing that reasonable people could reach entirely different conclusions. I wasn’t looking for someone to decide for me. I was looking for certainty. They aren’t the same thing.

I had finally seen the fork.

One road said, “Proceed with the surgery. Trust that everything will work out.”

The other said, “Slow down. Gather more information. Listen.”

What I wanted was a signpost pointing toward the right answer. What I got instead was a choice.

The fork itself was the lesson.

Not which road I took, but the realization that this decision belonged to me.

For months I had been pushed through appointments, referrals, scans, insurance approvals, scheduled calls, and the sheer momentum of wanting relief from pain. Suddenly the conveyor belt stopped.

I was no longer being moved.
I was being asked.
And while that felt terrifying at first, it also felt strangely empowering.

For most of my life, I’ve treated my body like a stubborn employee. A machine. A project. Something that needed fixing, improving, disciplining, or overriding.

Push through.
Ignore the signs, the pain.
Work harder.
Be grateful.
Try another diet.
Try another medication.
Try another miracle.

Lately, though, something softer has been happening.
I’ve started talking to my body.
Not in a mystical way. Not because I expect her to answer.

But because I’m beginning to understand that “she” has carried me through sixty-nine years of living, loving, grieving for the premature death of my husband at age 36, creating, surviving a heart attack, enduring four open-heart surgeries, and somehow continuing to show up every morning.

She’s tired.
She’s hurting.
And she’s earned the right to be consulted.

So I began asking different questions:
”What is my body telling me?”
”What is this pain asking of me?”
”What am I avoiding?”

The answers weren’t dramatic.
No lightning bolts.
No cosmic downloads.

Just a growing sense that fear and wisdom sometimes wear similar clothing.

For years I’ve heard teachers speak of wounds as initiations. I usually imagined something more dramatic: A vision, a revelation. A White Lion appearing in my dreams.

Instead, I got a painful hip, a postponed surgery, and a difficult decision.

Perhaps initiation is not always a doorway into the mystical.

Perhaps sometimes it’s simply the moment you begin listening to yourself differently.

I realized that postponing surgery wasn’t giving up.
It wasn’t weakness.
It wasn’t failure.
It was a decision made from respect rather than desperation.

The old version of me wanted certainty before acting.
The newer version is learning something more difficult.

Sometimes strength means acting despite uncertainty.
And sometimes strength means refusing to act until uncertainty has been better understood.

The surgery will probably still happen, but in September when we’re back in Nashville.

And here’s what I’m hoping for:
I want to walk farther than I can now.
I want to travel with less pain.
I want to move through the world with greater ease.

If I’m honest, the surgery had quietly become my next miracle. The thing that would finally get my life moving again.

That’s a lot to ask of a single procedure. Perhaps too much.

For years I’ve been searching for healing as though it lived somewhere outside me. In another doctor. Another treatment. Another medication. Another breakthrough. Another crazy fasting protocol.

But maybe healing also begins with listening.
With treating my body less like a problem and more like a friend.
A treasured friend.
A lost child.
A companion who has been trying to get my attention for a very long time.

Again I think of what Yogi Berra said, “When you see a fork in the road, take it.”

I finally saw the fork.

Not just between surgery and postponement, but between an old way of treating my body and a new one.
One path demanded certainty, answers, guarantees.
The other asked for attention, patience, and trust.

I don’t know exactly where this road leads.
What feels different is that I’m no longer being dragged down the road by momentum, fear, or other people’s expectations.

I saw the fork.

And for perhaps the first time, I understood that taking it meant choosing consciously, not in a victory over my body. But in a loving partnership with her.

Go figure!

Thank you for reading, please consider subscribing.

copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

For more Yogi quotes:
https://www.authenticmanhood.com/blog/20-great-yogi-berra-quotes

I like that these videos YouTube showed up before I went to bed last night and they inspired me. Good ol’ Carl!

I came back from South Africa changed, but not in any “Group Retreat Testimonial” sort of way. This isn’t the first time this has happened to me.

About a week after returning home, many of the folks I traveled with gathered on Zoom to share their experiences with friends. Most spoke with an immediacy about their Dreams, Visitations, Messages, Synchronicities, Revelations.

Meanwhile, I had spent the week sick in bed.
Listening to everyone’s passionate and specific recollections, I found myself wondering:

Where are my downloads?

At Camp Unicorn, I’d been deeply moved by the beauty and intentionality of the place itself. The stones and crystals lining the pathways, the altars, the enormous photos of White Lions, the locally made arts and crafts, the trees and exotic plants, the turquoise pool. Everything felt placed with loving care. In fact, we weren’t allowed to either leave or take any objects away, no matter how well-meaning the gesture.

The absence of Wi-Fi and photography limited to our first and last days in camp created an atmosphere of reverence that’s increasingly rare in modern life. Under the guidance of Linda Tucker and Andrew Harvey, the camp felt less like a retreat and more like a sacred listening space devoted to the land, the Lions, and even ourselves.

And yet, almost immediately, I felt myself shrinking inside the group experience.

On the Outer Edge Of the Circle

Part of it was physical. I’d gotten a cortisol shot back home but after many hours of air travel and a bumpy safari vehicle ride the pain in my right hip had returned with an intensity I’d not experienced before. So I couldn’t sit on the floor cushions or curl up beside others on sofas. I kept myself on the outer edge of the circle in a high-backed chair, trying not to draw attention to how much pain I was in, and nearest an escape route if things got to be too difficult. I kicked myself for forgetting to bring a cane.

Pain has a strange way of isolating you, especially inside highly charged group experiences. I often felt caught between wanting care and wanting to disappear.

During the Zoom call, many spoke with remarkable certainty about what they continued to experience. They knew the names of the Lions that appeared to them. They could clearly articulate what everything meant. Their stories flowed effortlessly.

I sat there feeling humor, skepticism, loneliness, envy, tenderness, and confusion all at once.

If this had been a stand-up comedy routine, I might have said that everyone else had upgraded to LionOS 12.0 while my own spiritual operating system still read:

“Buffering…Buffering…Buffering.”

What if they all came home transformed while I just came home? That question stayed with me longer than I care to admit.
Because beneath the envy was something even more uncomfortable: the concern that I was somehow failing at spirituality itself.

But as the weeks passed, another possibility slowly emerged.
What if the experience had not bypassed me at all?
What if, instead of visions and mystical downloads, I had come face to face with something far less glamorous and far more immediate: the current state of my health and my own mortality.

I returned home not with ecstatic certainty, but with gastrointestinal collapse, exhaustion, worsening hip pain, mounting medical realities, and the growing awareness that I could no longer meditate certain physical truths away.

I had crossed an ocean searching for White Lions while quietly trying to outrun my own limitations.

The older I get, the less interested I am in performing transformation for other people.
When we were asked to share our experiences, I withdrew.
I can’t manufacture revelation simply because revelation is expected. Not a failure of transcendence, but a forced return to embodiment.

Sometimes silence is more honest.
Sometimes exhaustion is real.
Sometimes the most spiritual thing that happens on a pilgrimage is the moment you realize your body has been speaking to you for years and you can no longer afford not to listen.

I still don’t fully know what happened to me in South Africa.

But for the first time in a long while, beneath all the noise, symbolism, longing, and comparison, I became quiet enough to hear myself.

Quiet enough to insist that my doctors hear me, too.

And finally, after three years of trying to meditate the pain away, I’m scheduled for a hip replacement. Go figure.

Thanks for reading! Please consider subscribing.

copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

I came back from South Africa almost a week ago and have spent most of that time in bed.

Not dramatically ill. Not exactly well either.

A fever-less fever dream.

Days and nights of sleeping without feeling rested.
Broth for breakfast.
Tiny sips of water.
The strange roulette of wondering whether an urge is a fart or something much less dignified.
The less-than glamorous re-entry no one posts about after a supposedly life-changing spiritual journey.

Friends are eager to hear about the trip.

And that makes perfect sense because I spent months building anticipation around it myself: the White Lions, the visions in meditations, the mysterious re-appearance of Linda Tucker’s book, the Lion Hearts’ journey, the spiritual significance of it all.

But something unexpected happened.

I don’t want to talk about it yet.
Or maybe more accurately: I can’t.

Not because the journey lacked meaning. Quite the opposite.

It still feels too alive.
Too unfinished.
Still shifting around inside me in ways I don’t understand yet.

Some people process profound experiences by speaking immediately, by sharing every single minute insight while the emotional embers are still hot. I’ve learned that I’m not one of them.

I need silence first.
Space.
Time for the experience to settle into the body before I ask it to become language.

And maybe that’s what this strange in-between week has really been about.

Not just illness.
Assimilation.

I’m aware that memories fade when we don’t capture them quickly. But there’s another kind of loss too: the loss that comes from naming something before it has fully become its truest self.

So for now, I’m resisting the pressure to turn the trip into a story with neat spiritual conclusions.

I’m still inside it.
I’m protecting the sacredness of the experience before cementing it forever with words on a page. Or shared on a Zoom call with a forced smile.
I’m resisting turning this into a narrative too quickly.
It’s a way of simultaneously remembering and forgetting.

Younger versions of ourselves often rush to explain transformative experiences because we fear losing them.
There’s another possibility: meaning sometimes deepens in silence.

I’m still somewhere in the fever-less dream.

In the meantime, please enjoy this video of feeding four wild zebras who visited our AirBnB in Limpopo, South Africa.

Thank you for reading my Substack.
If this resonates, please consider subscribing either for a small fee or free.

copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

Two days ago an enormous White Owl appeared out of nowhere, tapped on my office window, just above Snowball’s bed - and all three of us made eye contact with each other before she stretched out her wings and flew away. Snowball, who usually barks at the tiniest creature that dares to step in front of our house, simply gazed up at her. It happened so fast that I wondered if it happened at all.

No time to put words to it now...

Soon afterwards I had a session with Ana Maria Vasquez - the joyous multi-talented multi-sensory multi glorious person - to see what’s up with Snowball. I almost forgot to tell her about the White Owl.

She laughed and simply said: “You can’t make this shit up!”
There’s a lot of this shit going around, in spirals and loops dancing around my head, diving into my body.

There’s a backlog of writing building in me and, for once, I’m not trying to catch up.
Not the piece about the brown shoes or another round of down sizing.
Not the piece about my latest addictions.

Moments, images, fragments - some of them feel important, some of them don’t make sense yet.
Like with the White Owl visitation, I often try to catch them, shape them, understand them.

But I’m about to step into something, some place, some beings that ask for the opposite. And I’m answering.

I’m choosing to live it first.

To let it be unformed, unshared - maybe even a little forgotten - so it can become something truer later.

I’m heading into a place with no WiFi, no way to document or explain in real time.

To see if the White Lions of Timbavati will see me the way Gigi saw me.
And yet I try to not even imagine that.
To simply be of Open Heart and Open Mind.

Less capturing. More experiencing.

So I’m putting the pen down for a bit.

I’ll be back.

I just don’t know who I’ll be when I return.

Thank you for being here.
Consider subscribing if this speaks to you.

copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

To learn more about Ana Maria’s wonderful work with animals, trees, rocks…the Earth…everything!
https://www.intentiontraining.com/

About the Releases:
These are a series of lived experiences - moments that unfolded over time but only later revealed themselves as part of a larger pattern. They are not written in strict chronology, but as they return to me, as they ask to be told. Each one stands on its own, but together they trace a path I did not consciously set out to walk.

I said yes to returning to the Wild Animal Sanctuary in October 2025 before I fully understood why.

It had been a few months since joyous travels through Iceland and Denmark; followed immediately by the disappointment in not finding a home in the Hudson River Valley.

The Sanctuary was less than an hour’s drive from Dr. Joe’s Advanced Follow Up retreat outside Denver. Close enough to reach.

And this time I went alone.

The Retreat hadn’t officially begun yet. That evening, there would be music, introductions, and a party where we were all invited to dress as our “Future Selves.” It was meant to be celebratory. Expansive.

But I wasn’t ready for that yet.

I didn’t want to rush in to the Sanctuary - or the Retreat - this time. I wanted to arrive quietly.

Most of my encounters with Lions had taken place with my eyes closed: in golden fields, in healing rooms, in those interior landscapes where the body softens and time loosens its grip. This would be different.

These Lions were made of muscle and scar tissue.
Of histories written into bone.

They had lived through things.

During the drive, I found myself repeating a simple prayer - not out loud, but steadily, like breath:

I approach with humility, respect, and love.
If you have anything to show me, I am open.

When I stepped onto the raised walkway at the Wild Animal Sanctuary in Keenesburg, Colorado, another sentence formed, just as quietly:

My journey to you has been far less painful than yours.
I come with reverence.

The space was vast. Not a zoo. Not a performance. Wide, open land where rescued animals lived out their lives without being handled, without being asked to do anything for anyone.

I spoke with two volunteers - gentle women who carried the weight of these animals’ histories with a kind of quiet steadiness. They told me about the Lions who lived in this section of the Sanctuary.

That’s how I learned about Gigi.

She had been purchased as a white Lion cub and given to a five-year-old girl in Mexico as a gift. When the reality of her wildness overtook the fantasy, she was passed along - through a zoo, through systems not built for her - until she was finally rescued and brought here.

She was now bonded with a powerful male named Cana, who had his own story of being taken far too young and surviving what he should not have had to survive.

Their lives, shaped by human harm and human intervention, now unfolded under open sky.

I could see Cana easily. His mane lifted now and then as he shifted in the shade.

Gigi, though, was hidden.

I could make out only the pale curve of her body behind him. A suggestion more than a presence.

So I sat.

People came and went along the walkway. Some moved quickly, scanning, as if checking something off a list. Others lingered. There were moments of noise, then stretches of quiet again.

Eventually, the movements thinned.

The volunteers drifted to other parts of the Sanctuary. The conversations fell away.

I found myself alone on a bench, looking out over the field where Gigi lay mostly unseen.

I didn’t ask for a sign.
I didn’t try to make anything happen.

I simply stayed.

And just as I was preparing to leave—already turning my body back toward the long walk to the entrance, already thinking about the evening ahead—

she lifted her head.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Gigi looked in my direction.

And I stopped.

We remained that way for what felt like several long minutes. Two beings, separated by distance, by species, by history—held in a single line of awareness.

Was she looking at me?

I don’t know.

But something in my body answered yes before my mind could intervene.

There was no surge of emotion. No dramatic recognition. Just a quiet, unmistakable meeting.

And then, just as simply, it was over.

She lowered her head again.

The field returned to what it had been.

I left the Sanctuary in a kind of stillness I didn’t want to disturb. I didn’t try to name what had happened. I didn’t try to hold onto it.

I just carried it.

That evening, I returned to the retreat.

The music, the lights, the laughter—it was all there, waiting. People dressed as the lives they were stepping into. Versions of themselves not yet fully lived, but already claimed.

And I was there too.

My Future Self wore a flowing gown—black, scattered with tiny stars—and a crown of hearts resting lightly on my head.

It felt both playful and strangely accurate.
Not a costume, exactly.
More like something I was trying on…or remembering.

And yet, even as I stood there among everyone - laughing, talking, stepping into whatever we believed was next -
something in me had already crossed into a different kind of future.

Later, in the healing rooms, the Lions returned.

Not as memory.
Not as imagination.

As presence.

They were no longer cubs.

They were adolescents now: strong, precise, unmistakably themselves. A male and a female. I knew them immediately, the way you know something in your body before you can explain it.

They moved through me and around me in ways that felt both intimate and exact. At times it was as if they were removing something; digesting what I no longer needed.
Not violently, not forcefully, but with a kind of natural authority.

There were moments when I felt them cleaning me the way animals clean a wound.

There were moments when I felt held between them.

And there were moments when I disappeared entirely into the field they created.

Tears came in the first healings - not just mine, but from others in the room. A kind of shared release, as if something under pressure had finally been given permission to move.

One of the healers later told me he saw a Lion enter me.

He said it carefully.

I didn’t need him to say more.

On another night, I felt them positioned above and below me, my body resting between theirs. It should have felt strange.

Instead, it felt like the safest place I had ever been.

By the final days of the retreat, something had shifted again.

There was less intensity. Less emotion.

The great male lay across me for a time. The female beneath me. It felt…complete. Not finished, exactly. But no longer beginning.

And then, in one of the last sessions, I noticed something different.

There were no tears.

No surge of feeling.

Instead, I felt them working on my body in a quieter, more deliberate way - as if they were removing something I had carried for a long time. Something protective, but no longer necessary.

It felt almost practical.

As if a phase had ended.

Between the Sanctuary and the healings, I began to understand something I had not understood before.

These Lions were not visiting me as symbols.

They were working with me as a form of intelligence I do not yet have language for.

One part of them lived in the open—under sky, in bodies shaped by survival and care.

Another part moved through interior space—through breath, through sensation, through the places we don’t often speak about.

Gigi healed in the open.

The Lions met me in the dark.

And somehow, I stood between those two worlds.

What I didn’t fully grasp then—but feel more clearly now—is that these were not separate experiences.

They were preparations.

Gigi lifting her head.

The Lions entering the body.

The quiet knowing that brought me back there in the first place.

None of it felt like a beginning.

It felt like continuation.

In April, I will travel to South Africa. To Timbavati. To the land where the White Lions live not as rescues, but as guardians.

I don’t yet know who I will be when I stand on that red earth.

But I know this:

I am no longer only witnessing.

I am participating.

Further Exploration

For more information about Diana Summerland’s work with Merlin:
http://themerlinspeaks.com/

To explore the work of Joe Dispenza:
https://drjoedispenza.com/

If you’re ever in Colorado, you can learn more about the Sanctuary here:
https://www.wildanimalsanctuary.org/

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All three of my fellow writers in Maine were wrestling Moms.

It‘s a good thing that I didn’t have children. Not because I would’ve been a bad Mom but because - like every man whose ever wanted to impregnate me has declared - I would’ve been a great Mom.

But I would not have had my own life. I wouldn’t have known how to maintain that balance between their lives and my life.

I see Josie, Sarah and Jill - my fellow writers in this particular group - as incredibly well-rounded, well-traveled and successful women who also happened to be Mothers.
And dedicated Mothers!
How did they do that?

I never trusted myself to not lose myself to a child. And I don’t like saying “No,” something you have to say a lot to raise a decent kid.

So I didn’t have one.

It seemed so much easier that way.
And now that I’m old enough to be a grandmother, even a great grandmother, - because I am in fact a great aunt - I still have no regrets. Yeah, I might end up alone, drooling in a hallway with no one to visit me, but that’s the chance I was willing to take. Plus, I’d probably take a bunch of pills or find some other method to leave this Earth before getting to that point anyway.

These Moms - like my angelic sister-in-law Victoria - baked brownies for their wrestling boys, they cheered them on, they followed the score cards, the travel schedule, the weigh-ins. Such selfless acts! Vic even learned how to shoot and edit videos to promote her sons’ team.

I only went to a few of the wrestling matches for my nephews Nick & Luke; I had to leave the gym early. I spent most of the time outside smoking cigarettes. Why? There were times when they were pinned, or I heard the loud thud on the matt and imagined hearing bones crunching, tendons ripping and I just couldn’t take it.

I didn’t like football for that reason either. The injuries, the pain, just didn’t seem worth it to me. The concussions, the brain bleeds...for what?

So on holidays when everyone watched football I’d go off on my own, hating the sounds of the cheering echoing from the tv room...because the sounds of those cheers meant that the other side lost something. Maybe not a broken bone but a broken heart, a defeated spirit, a crushed dream. I just hated the sadness that came over the faces of the losing teammates.

There is something that’s just too cold, inhumane and simplistic about winning and losing to me.

There are no points for “close” and “almost”; no kudos for a job well done, and or a fight well fought.

Maybe that’s why I like the Olympics with their Bronze, Silver and Gold Medals. But even then, there are so many who have spent the better parts of their youth practicing their skills and just to have their dreams snatched away from them because they had a bad day.

So even the Olympics make me anxious. I hate when a skater falls or a skier takes a tumble. And I don’t even KNOW these people!

Imagine if they were my kids! Nope, in Jill’s words when told she should bake her brownies from scratch when the boxes were just fine: “No. I wanted none of that.”

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Copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

* I was introduced to this type of writing practice in Natalie Goldsmith’s book “Writing Down the Bones.” We’ve made some adaptations.

What comes up when I think of Blessings?

With another night of twisting and turning and bouts of sleeplessness from something I can’t pronounce torn in my hip…I welcomed pre-recorded blessings through my AirPods, meditations that so many before me have accredited with spontaneous healings - and I’ve even met some of those people - they go into the Quantum Field and they become a new, changed person with a whole new body, the one without cancer or diabetes or ALS.
They go there and they are blessed, they are changed.

And I have also been blessed many times over in my life, too many blessings to count. But my mind goes to the “stone in my shoe,” as Sicilians would say.

So I can’t help but wonder why I haven’t received one of those spontaneous healings on my bum hip. Surely it’s much simpler than a brain tumor or - like one woman did - easier than regrowing an entire rectum.

It would change my life.

As my trip to Africa bears down on me with its 17 hour flights, long layovers, bumping around in a jeep, sleeping in huts, I’m really hoping for a blessing, a miracle to take away this pain so that I can be more there, more present, more open to whatever the White Lions may have to say to me, if they have anything to say at all.

When I was chosen to be a healEE at a Dr. Joe Dispenza retreat last summer I started to shake and could barely walk to the table behind the screens where I would be told what was about to happen. The beautiful man who escorted me must’ve sensed my nervousness as he took me into his arms and whispered, “I was exactly where you were a couple years ago. You just have to know that you are worthy.”

So I wonder, with all the meditations,
the classes
the readings
the retreats
the transmissions
the lectures
with all of it,
when do any of us know that we are truly and finally worthy?

Will that be the last note to be pulled on the chord of my Heart? A Heart that is so willing and wanting to give to others yet finds is so difficult to accept, to believe and to truly know her own blessings.

I hope to be able to ask for at least enough blessings to heal this damn hip and give me a good night’s sleep!

Until then, I wish you all the blessings you can muster.

*This practice was first introduced to me by Natalie Goldberg in her book “Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within.”

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copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

I said adios to something that has been in my life every single day for almost 3 years: that little animated green owl - the búho - of Duolingo.

Greg and I were seriously considering moving to Ecuador when I first started learning Spanish as an adult. High school Spanish got swallowed up by Italian and futile attempts at Portuguese a long time ago. We followed the YouTube entries of obnoxiously cheerful expats who raved about the excellent healthcare, the fresh food, the low cost of living, as they floated effortlessly between cosmopolitan cities. Take your pick: coastal breezes or mountain air.

It felt like a possible future.

So I subscribed to Duolingo.

Babbel hadn’t worked for me, but Duolingo - with its cheerful nudges and relentless encouragement - somehow did. Duo the owl danced with glee as I climbed up the leagues, a sweet and silly coach that I needed in those early days. I was a devout student and I reigned proudly at the top of the Diamond League for weeks on end.

I was hooked.
Then something broke.
My 500+ day streak disappeared.

I wrote to customer support.
Again.
And again.
And again.
No one could find my account. No one could fix it. The problem was gently - but persistently - blamed on my Apple devices.

So I went to the Apple store where a “Genius” ran diagnostics.
“It’s not an Apple problem,” he said.
Is anything ever an Apple problem?

Eventually, seemingly out of nowhere, Duolingo just started working again.

But by then, the damage was done.
Weeks had passed.
The rhythm was gone.
And instead of letting me start over - which is all I wanted - they dropped me back into advanced levels where I no longer belonged.

Here’s the short version of what I wrote to them:

Your app stopped working. No one could fix it. I lost weeks of learning along with all my momentum. When the app came back, I asked customer support for one simple thing: let me start over from the beginning. You said no. And now I’m stuck wandering through lessons that no longer make sense.

Even now, I’m surprised I went back to give it another chance.

Another 170 days.
Fifteen minutes a day.
Past tense, future tense, stumbling forward and feeling…tense.

It was never the same.
I lost the fire.

And somewhere along the way, something else became clear:

We’re not moving to Ecuador. Maybe Madison, Wisconsin. Maybe not. But not out of the country for the foreseeable future.

Yet I still long to speak Spanish. There’s the key word—speak.

Because here’s the truth: even at my Duolingo peak - when I was El Numero Uno in the Diamond League - I would walk into a Mexican restaurant and freeze. Yet Greg - with his crystal blue eyes who couldn’t look more like a gringo - would happily chat with the staff, while I - who could probably pass for Latina - managed only a few pathetic words:

“Sí. Gracias. Por favor.”
Nada mas.

Duolingo taught me words. Lots of them.
But it didn’t teach me how to speak.

And maybe that’s the deeper truth I didn’t want to face: learning a language isn’t about streaks or leagues or animated owls.

It’s about conversation.
Risk.
Embarrassment.
Real people.

And I wasn’t doing that.

There’s another truth, too - one I hesitate to say out loud:

Maybe I waited too long to end this relationship. (I have a habit of doing that with personal, actual human relationships that, in classic New Age parlance, “no longer serve me.”)

I’m stretching myself in so many directions these days - classes, a monumental trip to Africa, training our newly adopted dog Snowball and perhaps most of all trying to take care of this body as it asks for more attention than it used to.

Learning Spanish was supposed to be good for my brain.
Instead, it became one more thing that felt hard on my psyche.

And I’m at a point in my life where I’m starting to ask:

What difficult things are worth doing?
What gets to stay?
And what can I gently let go of?

So it’s Hasta La Vista, Duo.

Thank you for the words. Truly.

I know now that if I’m ever going to learn Spanish, it won’t be through an app.

It will be across a table.

Probably in a Mexican restaurant, where Greg is already mid-conversation, asking the chef if he knows how to cook Huevos Motulenos, the way it’s made in the Yucatan.

He’s obsessed with that dish, but that’s another story.

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Copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

A Fond Farewell to Margot Café & Bar

I don’t usually write restaurant reviews, but when a special place in my neighborhood is closing, it feels important to say something.

My husband Greg and I didn’t rush in immediately for a final meal after Margot McCormack announced last November that she would be closing her East Nashville establishment. But it’s impossible for me to run errands in the Five Points neighborhood—grabbing a bite to eat, visiting the cat at Elder’s Hardware, or enjoying music at The 5 Spot—without glancing at that gracious brick exterior and feeling a pang of sadness.

Recently, Greg and I returned to Margot’s for dinner after a long absence. We ordered an array of appetizers, each a tiny work of art presented on unique china dishes—not the standardized white restaurant-warehouse plates that have become so common. To be in Margot’s is to be in a place that carries East Nashville’s history.

There was a time when the nearby Art & Invention gallery displayed its dazzling crystals and artwork, when tourists occasionally found their way here—but not nearly as many as now. Just up the street was Margot’s sister restaurant, Marche, a bright and airy bistro that was the perfect relaxed brunch spot. Marche closed permanently in 2020, a casualty of the tornado and the long, grinding battle against COVID-19.

And speaking of the 2020 tornado—which damaged both establishments—Margot opened her doors afterward for an outdoor gathering, offering free food to us shell-shocked East Nashvillians. There was music, soft lighting, and a feeling of family. A sense of we’re all in this together.

The Five Points neighborhood is going the way of so many funky places I’ve been part of over the years—from the East Village in New York City to the Village of South Orange, New Jersey, to Brady Street in Milwaukee. They all begin as places artists can afford, filled with independent shops and creative energy. Little by little, those locally owned businesses are replaced by chains—Starbucks here, Party Fowl there. Before long, the neighborhood begins to look like every other place in America.

Homogenized. Predictable. Boring.

For some, that kind of reliability is reassuring. For me, it feels like the slow creep of corporate America into every last corner.

With Margot’s Café closing this June, there’s still time to make a reservation and enjoy the carefully prepared food. To soak in the ambiance created by years of simmering sauces, laughter, and celebrations. When you choose a restaurant for a birthday, an anniversary, or another milestone in your life, that place holds a permanent space in your memory.

And so I know Margot Cafe lives not only in the hearts of East Nashvillians, but in the memories of anyone who ever stepped inside.

As Greg and I savored our Sunday dinner, I watched the other diners. Everyone seemed relaxed, joyful, at home. From my seat I had a perfect view of the kitchen, where the staff moved in a graceful, focused dance—the complete opposite of the chaos portrayed in television shows like The Bear. Or anything with Gordon Ramsey. That grace translated through to all the servers and we were particularly lucky to meet the soft-spoken Naomi, who offered delectable recommendations. And she laughed at my jokes.

In Margot’s own words:

“I have had the pleasure of working with so many talented people, each one bringing to the table their own unique sense of style. They have contributed in countless ways to our success and many I consider family. For most, this is the last stop before they embark on their own journey, to open their own restaurants, shops and small businesses and start their own families. They are my legacy and I couldn’t be happier or more proud of them.

“We would not have achieved this level of success without the dedication and determination of our farmers, growers, purveyors of fine foods, wines and spirits. I have learned so much from you and value each and every one of your gifts.

“I have watched East Nashville grow from a handful of small independently owned businesses to today’s vibrant, bustling and nationally recognized hot spot. The growth has spilled over into other up and coming neighborhoods all over the city. There’s a new brigade of chefs sharing their vision. It is an exciting time.

“We have survived 9/11, the recession of 2008, a flood, the influx of so many new restaurants, a tornado, COVID, and so much more. The last five years have been harder than the first 20 put together. I am that much older and wiser and don’t have much more fight in me. I am ready for a new chapter. I’m not sure what that means just yet but it begins with dinner at home.

“So, it is with a full heart that I announce to you all that June 5, 2026 will be our last day of service. Marche was a victim of COVID and it fell by the wayside with little fanfare, which is why I want to let everyone know now. So mark your calendars. I hope to see as many of you as often as possible right up until the end. We are going out with a bang with many celebrations yet to come.

Bon Appetit Y’all.”

How gracious.
How modest.
How very Margot McCormack.

Thank you.

You will be sorely missed.

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Copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

Before I begin, I should probably explain something about my experience of being an Italian American.

Today “we” seem fully absorbed into American life — politicians, judges, CEOs, movie stars, neighbors in every suburb. The vowels at the ends of our names no longer raise eyebrows. Somewhere along the way, we became mainstream.

But assimilation took generations. My grandparents arrived carrying dialects, recipes and customs that didn’t easily fit into America’s idea of itself. Like many immigrant families, they gradually let go of their native tongues so their children could belong more easily. I regret that loss — the music of those languages disappeared from our family — but it probably helped us survive and succeed here.

Identity is strange:
We crave shared identity when it brings pride.
We reject shared identity when it brings shame.
We can never fully escape it.

Growing up in the 60s and pretty much raised by the TV that was constantly on, I scanned shows’ credits to see if any Italian-Americans had worked on them. Oddly enough, one of the WASPiest shows on the air - “Leave it to Beaver” - gave me the greatest hope. Beaver’s best friend Whitey (yes, that was his name on the show) was played by Stanley Fafara and in a reversal his friend Larry Mondello was played by the WASPy sounding Rusty Stevens.

By the time the likes of DeNiro and Pacino rose up, the battle for acceptance was mostly over even though their roles as mafia bosses could feel like two steps forward, three steps back. Maybe the best portrayal of a nutty Italian family is “Moonstruck,” and I’m okay with it being way over the top.

Even now, when I hear a surname ending in a vowel, something in me perks up — a small, irrational flicker of recognition.
Pride sometimes.
Embarrassment other times.
A feeling that, whether I want it or not, we are somehow connected.

Even when difference disappears socially, it survives emotionally.
Something still lingers. A sensitivity. A quiet awareness that belonging had been earned, not guaranteed.

I don’t keep in touch with much of my extended family. My closest relatives are just as progressive as I am. But some cousins went the other way and I can’t explain why. I’ve always been shocked when I find conservative Italian-Americans. It simply doesn’t make any sense to me.

I’m texting one of my MAGA anti-Vaxer cousins. He thinks I’m a communist so we avoid talking about politics. But I’m sitting in an orthopedic surgeon’s office and he’s had both hips replaced so that’s what we talk about.

While I wait to be called for the doctor, texting my cousin about recovery times, I’m simultaneously watching Pam Bondi’s oversight committee testimony. Watching her refuse to turn toward the survivors, listening to that shrill voice, and seeing that finger point at everyone else but her own reflection in the mirror...I wonder how “we” got here.

I’m tempted to ask my cousin, a man who had two of the same immigrant grandparents that I did:
“Still?
Do you still think she’s a shining example of a good citizen who is serving this country to the best of her ability?
Or are you starting to see how she’s protecting pedophiles?
Are you not ashamed that she’s Italian American?”

And as soon as I imagine asking him that, I feel the ground shift beneath me. Because this isn’t only about Italian Americans. The embarrassment doesn’t stop at the edge of ancestry. It spreads. It moves outward — from ethnicity to gender, from gender to country — until I’m no longer asking why “we” got here, but how all of us did.

My embarrassment has widened from Pam Bondi representing Italian-Americans on the national stage, to the likes of puppy murderer Kristi Noem representing women, to...what? To any of them in Trump’s cabinet, to the Republicans who continue to support him, to the MAGA voters who refuse to acknowledge that they were duped by a modern day snake oil salesman.

And, damnit, why do I have to take that on? Why should Bondi, Noem and the rest of them bring me down?

Ultimately, I’m disappointed in the citizens of this country even though I’m not surprised by the racism, the anti-semitism, all of it.

A friend of mine recently announced on Facebook that he no longer wants anything to do with anyone who still considers themself a Trumper/MAGA. I get it...but where does that leave us? How do we exist with more than half the country that voted these traitors into office. And not just Trump and Vance but the whole lot of them that support their platforms?

Do I simply surround myself with people who think like me, act like me, look like me? If I did that, I certainly wouldn’t be living in the South.

We all want connection.
We want shared identity.
What we rarely admit is that shared identity carries responsibility, whether we asked for it or not.

For me, I cannot claim Sinatra without also inheriting Bondi.
That’s the unbearable trade.
I don’t know how to stop feeling implicated.
I don’t know how to love a country that embarrasses me.
I don’t know how to stop belonging. Because belonging is not voluntary.

I can’t resign from being Italian.
I can’t resign from being a woman.
I can’t resign from being American.

I still don’t know why the actions of people I have never met can make me feel ashamed, or why I cannot simply refuse the connection.

Maybe belonging is not a choice we make but a condition we inherit — family, gender, country, history stitched into us whether we welcome it or not.

I only know that turning away feels like another kind of loss. So I remain here, uneasy but unwilling to surrender the hope that we might yet become people worthy of belonging to one another.

In the meantime, I wait for my name to be called, wondering if I’m going to need a hip replacement. And realizing that the person who takes care of me might very well have voted for TrumpStein and I might not have any choice but to put my life in his hands on the operating table.

And so it is.

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In memory of my Mother, Laura Sanzone Maroldi, who wrestled with these notions her whole life.
She would have been 99 years old today, February 27, 2026.

Brooke Maroldi
Copyright 2026

As someone who’s become known as “The Heart Lady” in my town and at various retreats, I’m kind of getting sick of the over use of Hearts.

Especially on Valentine’s Day. This photo came up in my email from Earth/Sky News, allegedly of the Heart Nebula, an enormous gas cloud some 7,500 light-years away. That’s a stretch, but ok.

GJR and I haven’t celebrated V-day in any traditional ways for decades.
No flowers, no overpriced “Valentine’s Special Dinners,” no cards, none of that.
When we were in Rome a few years ago on V-D the restaurant served pizzas in the shape of Hearts, perhaps to remind us of that saint’s particular fate. Or maybe it wasn’t just one person who continued to wed Christian lovers under Roman rule. History often presents two versions.

Maybe there’s something romantic - or simply delusional - in the air during the month of February.

On this particular February Andrew Harvey’s book and the same-named course “The Revelatory Love of Jesus and Mary Madeline” came out. The Shift Network’s first module was more of a heart-centered transmission than a class, one in which Andrew shared what he has come to know about the way the Divine Feminine has been denied for the past few thousand years.

And so much more.

There are many challenges to the the traditional beliefs held by major religions about the relationship between Mary & Jesus; this course and Andrew’s book are the culmination of his work around these two mystics.

At the end of the first module, Andrew challenged us to imagine what their vows would be. To put ourselves there at the Mariiage of Cana. And then to write vows to our selves - inviting our own Sacred Masculine and Feminine sides to join together. And finally, how would we write the vows to our own Significant Other or Husband or Wife?

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that week marked the 30th Anniversary of the first time Greg and I had laid eyes on each other, our first date. We’ve told the story of our meeting both publicly and amongst friends. It’s one of those miracles that happens once in a lifetime, even crossing generations as ours did.

So Greg and I wrote each other new vows, vows for the Us that is now.
The Us that is fighting, bickering, unsure of what the future holds for us separately or together.
The Us that acknowledges we get on each others’ nerves, that we need space, that sees all sides of ourselves.
The US that is constantly doing shadow work, separately and together.
The US that knows we’re the only ones who could possibly stand each other for another 30 years.

Our vows were different yet somehow aligned.

And we made another Vow that week, a new vow.
An innocent vow that fills me with astonishment, fear and wonderment.

After more than a year of fostering a wide variety of dogs - from the gigantic Saint Bernard who dragged me across the road to Triumph, the tripod who we nursed after the amputation of his front leg, to dogs who loved Greg but feared me and vice versa...All these dogs, so many dogs that we’ve lost count…

And in comes this 7 and a half pound wisp of a thing with her tiny black eyes and pink nose…riding in on the winds of the worst ice storm in Nashville’s recent history when so many were without power…

This little girl made her way into my Heart.

When the Wags & Walks volunteers told us that several people already wanted adopt her, it stopped me in my tracks. I couldn’t bear the thought of her leaving me.

I just had to convince Greg.

Thankfully, he had the courage to make the plunge, to fall in love with this silly little girl.
To say Yes.
Yes, to love.
Yes, to responsibility.
Yes to the ridiculousness of adopting a dog at our age, with so many unknowns.
Yes, to this Love, to this little dog.
This one little life.
Yes.

P.S.
And, yes, they’ve both getting on my nerves today!
Both are barking and complaining in their own ways.
I don’t know how to make either of them happy.
I’ll just try to love them.

In the Foster world of dogs, they call this a “Foster Fail.”
I’d like to come up with a new name for it.

copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

Thank you for reading my Substack, please consider becoming a free or even paid subscriber! It helps a lot.

Thank you Wags & Walks!

https://www.wagsandwalks.org/adopt-nashville

Monday, January 26, 2026

Well, it’s my birthday.

Here in Nashville it’s another day spent inside. Another day surrounded by ice-covered trees, fallen Bamboo, and pathways not accustomed to frozen snow.

So far, my most selfish wish has come true:
that we don’t lose power. And we haven’t not yet anyway.

A massive snowstorm swept through an unprepared South before hitting the Northeast. The last time I checked, more than 220,000 of our city’s residents were without electricity.

We are among the lucky ones.

And, inevitably, my mind goes to POWER.

To everything pre-Trump.
Pre-ICE agents executing innocent civilians in our streets.
Pre-anti-abortion Supreme Court “justices”.
Pre-MAGA nation’s openly racist grip on the minds of many Americans.
Pre-anti-science, anti-education politics.
Pre-dismantling of Obamacare.
So much more.

The wishes to reclaim our national power is a long list - and every day it gets longer.

So I find myself doing a kind of self-regulating dance, especially on social media.

I post photos of adorable foster dogs, then share a link urging people to call their representatives about cutting ICE funding.

I alternate cheerful Happy Birthday! messages to friends far and near with angry videos about the Epstein file cover-ups.

I fall asleep with Dr. Joe Dispenza meditations in my earphones - more necessary than ever after I’ve filled my head with images of protesters being tear-gassed, a president and his minions lying without consequence, January 6 insurrectionists and drug cartel leaders getting pardoned just for starters.

I watch videos from political pundits who are more politically savvy than I am:
Conservatives Liz Cheney or Heather Cox Richardson.
Young, idealistic Jack Cocchiarella.
And the sardonic, wry hosts Jennifer Welch and Angie “Pumps” Sullivan of I’ve Had It.

And then I try to balance that out yet again with YouTube videos about dogs and reactions to “Love is Blind” episodes.

Did I say I fall asleep?

I usually don’t.

It often takes several rounds of guided meditations before I reach for mediCAtion. Tylenol PM isn’t cutting it anymore. Eventually I dig up the trazodone prescribed a couple of years ago. Less sleep, later mornings; I inevitably wait too long to take it.

Sometimes I’m tempted to vape again. Or take edibles. Or dip into the remaining stash of legal psilocybin I’ve kept tucked away.

But then I remember how hard I worked to rid myself of addictions.

It’s been over two years since I had a cigarette.

The result is that emotions sit closer to the surface.
The “ugly” ones - anger, sadness, regret - are all right there, waiting to be felt, processed, and shown the door.

There are personal reasons for those feelings. Personal birthday wishes, too.

But then there are the wishes for this country, this planet - and that’s where hopelessness and helplessness swell into bitterness and confusion.

How could otherwise intelligent people elect this criminal? This pedophile?
How are we still allowing his staff to lie openly, stripping away our rights bit by bit?

My birthday wishes for myself are very simple today:
I hope we don’t lose power.

My birthday wishes for my country:
I hope we don’t lose power.

It feels like we’re barely hanging on.

Outside my window, everything is beautiful - but it’s a harsh, unforgiving beauty. A beauty that does not sustain human life.

And when I look at images of huge protests in Minneapolis and cities across the country, I feel a sinking sense that none of it matters. In the pit of my gut I feel that those in power simply turn off the images and invent their own stories and at least a third of the country, maybe more, is still drinking the Kool-Aid.

I start to wonder about my own Kool-Aid.

Thanks to my practical Dad, I was always suspicious of propaganda.
Skeptical of every politician who ever lived. And yet I still believed in ordinary people - in kindness, mutual aid, basic honesty.

That Kool-Aid may be the most toxic of all.

Maybe giving up entirely is the smarter move. Succumbing to 21st-century nihilism.
Embracing a Machiavellian worldview.
Living only for myself.

I’ve looked at those ideas. I’ve read them. I’ve tried.

And I’ve tried to understand the MAGA mindset - truly I have - but I can’t.

If my Kool-Aid is poisoning me slowly, then so be it.
I’d rather hope for the best and expect the worst.
I’d rather cling to a shred of faith in the people of this country than surrender it entirely.

So, on this day - my birthday…

I hope we don’t lose power on my little street in East Nashville.

And for my country:

I hope we don’t lose power
on every street,
in every town,
in every city,
from Coast to Coast.

Thank you for reading! Please consider subscribing, whether it’s free or otherwise.

Here are some links to people I respect:

I’ve Had It
Join Jennifer Welch and Angie “Pumps” Sullivan on their political pop culture podcast ‘I’ve Had It’ every Tuesday and Thursday. IHIP News, a daily or twice daily podcast, serving digestible political news in short doses. ...moreivehadit-shop.fourthwall.com

Jack Cocchiarella on Youtube
@JackCocchiarellaShowJack Cocchiarella is a progressive Gen Z political commentator. ...jackcocchiarellashow.com

Heather Cox Richardson:
DescriptionHeather Cox Richardson is a political historian who uses facts and history to make observations about contemporary American politics. She has written about the Civil War, Reconstruction, the Gilded Age, and the American West in award-winning books whose subjects stretch from the European settlement of the North American continent to the history of the Republican Party through the Trump administration. She is the author, most recently, of the best-selling Democracy Awakening: Notes on the State of America.
Join the discussion over at heathercoxrichardson.substack.com, where we talk about history, politics, and the relationship between image and reality in America.

Links
Substackheathercoxrichardson.substack.com
Facebookfacebook.com/heathercoxrichardson
Twittertwitter.com/HC_Richardson
Threadsthreads.net/@heathercoxrichardson?hl=en

Liz Cheney:
The official YouTube account for Liz Cheney. A strong voice for Wyoming. http://www.CheneyforWyoming.com

The Lincoln Project
DescriptionThe fight against Trumpism is just beginning.
The Lincoln Project launched with two stated objectives. The first was to defeat Donald Trump at the ballot box. The second was to ensure Trumpism failed alongside him.
As we have seen, our fight against Trumpism is only beginning. We must combat these forces everywhere and at all times. Our democracy depends on it.

Links
Websitelincolnproject.us
Twittertwitter.com/projectlincoln|
Instagraminstagram.com/lincolnproject.us
Facebookfacebook.com/thelincolnproject.us
Tik Toktiktok.com/@thelincolnproject
Threadsthreads.com/@lincolnproject.us
BlueSkybsky.app/profile/lincolnproject.us|
www.youtube.com/@TheLincolnProject

FOR MY SPIRITUAL WELL BEING:
https://drjoedispenza.com/
Be careful on youtube, Ai is imitating him a lot.
”Dr Joe Dispenza is a New York Times best-selling author, researcher, lecturer, and corporate consultant. His company oversees the world’s largest database of research on the effects of meditation on the body. Based on scientific principles, he has developed a practical formula to help people transform their lives. His passion lies at the intersection of neuroscience, psychoneuroimmunology, epigenetics, and quantum physics, exploring the science behind spontaneous remissions and personal change.

Dr Joe teaches people how to heal their bodies, transform their lives, and evolve their consciousness through the mind-body connection. On this channel you’ll learn about meditation, neuroplasticity, mind-body healing, the placebo effect, and the effects of sustained, elevated states of mind and emotions. Subscribe to discover how to rewire your brain, change your energy, and ultimately, change your life..”

Links
Unlimited Websitedrjoedispenza.com
Instagraminstagram.com/drjoedispenza
Facebookfacebook.com/DrJoeDispenzaOfficialNewsFanPage
Twittertwitter.com/drjoedispenza
TikToktiktok.com/@official_drjoedispenza

More info
www.youtube.com/@drjoedispenza
Here’s a good interview with him:

And for FUN, I watch lots of videos about Japan. And I just love this guy:

There are more that I’m way too embarrassed to admit that I watch!

Two Welcomes
TENx9 – January 19, 2026

A couple decades ago, when my husband Greg and I were living in WisCONsin, we discovered a sweet cottage on beautiful Lake Sinnissippi in the town of Hustisford — population about 1100.

To me - an outsider from the East Coast - this place embodied my romantic vision of a small Midwestern lake town.
There were just as many bars as churches.
And even a tiny bowling alley under one of those bars.

It was only an hour from our home in Milwaukee.
We had all-night campfires under the stars, friends over for holidays, and peaceful nothings. It even had a tiny island, connected by a footbridge, which we named after our dog, Lafayette.
It was our respite from city life.
We named her Serenity Cottage.
It was magical.

But during the first couple of years, I kept noticing something.

Whenever I went into one of the town’s convenience stores or the local cheese shop — I’d walk in cheerful, trying to make small talk. You know. The weather. The lake. Whatever.
Just not politics or religion!

I was a heavy smoker back then, so I went into those stores a lot. I always paid in cash.

And every single time — no matter who was working, no matter the time of day — the cashier never made eye contact with me.

Never.

They didn’t respond to my attempts at conversation.
And every time, they threw the change back at me across the counter.

I stood there, palm open, gathering quarters and nickels that skidded over the shiny surface, wondering:

What did I do?
What did I say?
How did I insult this person?

Not just one. All of these people.

And here’s the thing:

When Greg went into those same stores — same people, same counters — he’d come home smiling.

“Oh, that gal at the Tri-Par is so friendly!”
“Had the nicest conversation with the cashier!”

This happened over and over again.

So it wasn’t him. With them looking at us as Big City folks invading their small town community and raising the taxes on lakefront homes. No.
It was me.

Eventually, I stopped trying.

The one exception was Mike - at Hardware Mike’s.

Mike was always polite to me. As long as I didn’t mention gun control. Especially when he caught me looking up at the huge photos of him standing next to the grizzly bears he had murdered - or as he’d say hunted - up in Alaska.

Greg and I were fixing up the cottage, and Mike appreciated our business. Mike was no dummy.

But I avoided going to his shop early in the morning — that’s when the old-timers gathered. The town elders would sit around and gossip.

Greg would go anytime of day. One morning he needed to pick up some paint.

At Hardware Mike’s he walked straight into a heated conversation amongst the old timers.

There had been a grocery store just outside of town run by an East Indian family. Whenever we went there it was empty. Then it suddenly closed.

When Greg came home, he looked stunned.

In that discussion Hardware Mike insisted that the store didn’t close because the town failed to support it because of racism.
He claimed there was no racism in Hustisford.

And Greg — who is one of the whitest men you will ever meet — innocently said:

“Well… how would you know there’s no racism? It’s not like there are any Black people here.”

Without missing a beat, Hardware Mike said:

“Well, there’s that guy who works at the high school.
And then there’s your wife.”

“Brooke?” Greg asked. Just to make sure they were talking about the same person.
Yes.
Brooke.

And Greg, also without missing a beat replied - and every gossip monger within ear shot heard him say it:

“Brooke’s Italian.”

FRANKLY, I wish he’d said “Brooke’s Sicilian.” That would’ve really confused them! But that’s another story for another time!

And suddenly - everything made sense.

The silence.
The refusal to make eye contact.
The change they threw back at me.

Over the next few months, word got out. I give credit to the gossip mongers who were at Hardware Mike’s that morning.

Little by little, people were chatty.
Handing me my change.

You want to talk about change? I hadn’t changed.

Or did I?

Because now I had absolutely no interest in befriending people who were only kind to me after they realized I wasn’t black.
And I’m abiding by TENx9 guidelines here by not saying what I really wanted to say to them or the hand gesture that goes with it!

I bought my cigarettes elsewhere. I kept to myself.

Our cottage remained an island of Serenity for us, but we took a new route and avoided the town to get there.

Now, listen: I don’t want to end a Welcome story on this sour note.

I want to tell you about a real welcome.

Right here in Nashville.

Just three months after we moved into our sweet East Nashville neighborhood, the March 3rd 2020 tornado hit. We really didn’t know anyone yet.

Many of the houses around us were destroyed.
Somehow, our little MidCentury brick ranch survived — even though the roof was gone, all the windows imploded, a tree landed on my desk, and our car was crushed.

But everything was fixable. We were lucky.
A rag tag group of guys with chainsaws - including Greg - worked non stop to cut through the fallen trees and connect our street with the rest of the world. Meanwhile, we stayed in a hotel, contacted our insurance company and let our friends and family know we were safe.

The day after we drove to our house in a rented car to find hundreds of people.

All up and down our street.
In our front yard.
Our backyard.

People who took time off from their jobs.
Wearing work boots and gloves. They brought their own shovels and rakes. They hauled debris out to the street.

Little kids pulled red wagons filled with Gatorade and Moon Pies.
Handmade cards that said:
“We love you.”
“Nashville Strong.”

It was the first time I let myself cry after the tornado.
Everything else was just stuff.

And it hit me - standing there in the wreckage, the wreckage of what I had hoped my new life would be - isn’t easy it is to call yourself welcoming
when you’re surrounded by people who look like you?

But here, in Nashville —
on one of the worst weeks of this new life —
No one needed to know a thing about me or Greg.

They just showed up.

So now, when I hear the word welcome,
I don’t think about small talk. Or Hustisford Wisconsin.

I think of little kids,
pulling red wagons
over broken tree limbs and shattered lives.

I think about who shows up
when there’s no need to explain.

Thank you, Nashville, for welcoming me.

Thank you for reading my Substack, please consider a free subscription! Or paid!

copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

Check out this wonderful storytelling group in Nashville:
https://www.tenx9nashville.com/

I first met a group of mystics called the Lion Hearts in a transmission from Merlin, channeled by Diana Summerland, in the Spring of 2023. Ancient wisdom met modern technology on a Zoom call with about twenty people, many of whom had known each other for years. The initial conversations were familiar, inviting.

Then we all fell silent for the opening song, a calming invocation.

Dianna channeled Merlin, who welcomed me by saying we had spent many nights together stoking a fire, wondering about the mysteries of the universe. And here we were again. With the exception of Janice, whom I had also “met” via Zoom in a writing course that neither of us quite jived with, I didn’t know anyone else in attendance.

But I felt at home.

Later that year, when I underwent four Open Heart surgeries, it was the Lion Hearts whose healing energies uplifted me every day. I felt their prayers, their good wishes. I felt the steadiness of being held by them. Greg was there, boots on the ground. But the Lion Hearts and a couple others were always circling somewhere around me.

It was a lonely time; friends I’d known for decades seemed to vanish. In truth, I wasn’t an easy friend in those days. I asked people not to call me while they were driving because they didn’t feel present; I could feel their obligation being checked off a To Do List. Talking on the phone for any length of time was exhausting as I struggled to breathe. When I had to end a call early they took it as a sign that I didn’t want them to check in at all. Many of them simply drifted away. And I don’t blame them. It’s like when a loved one passes; people just don’t know what to say or do. They don’t realize that they don’t have to do or say anything.

Nestled safely inside the container of the Lion Hearts - with people I’d never met outside Zoom calls - I never felt abandoned.

We even gathered for an in-person retreat in Maine. It was there that my visions of Excalibur merged with the sword of Archangel Michael descending from the sky over the lake and into my body, directly into the place where I still bore the scars from surgery. Somehow, Excalibur was installed inside me.

Other visions followed, slowly at first, then more insistently. During an Easter transmission, I had a vision of standing on a hill outside Jerusalem with hundreds of spectators below me, all of us witnessing Christ on the Cross. I could feel his beating Heart and saw the sacred light from that Heart expand outward in all directions, falling on everyone who was present. I was afraid to see that Heart stop beating; that fear landed heavily in my own Heart.

I was there.

Merlin asked, “And did that Heart ever stop beating?”
No. No, it did not.

I wish I had kept better records of what was said to me and when, the visions - exact dates, exact sequences. I simply don’t know all the timestamps.

I only know what stayed.

In the spring of 2025, Merlin spoke of the Ancient Order of the Lions. Something moved through me - a quiet lightning bolt down my spine. I remember thinking, What is this now? Not as a question to be answered, but as something newly alive.

Around that same time, I was studying Dr. Joe Dispenza’s work. Many of his guided meditations ended with an invitation to ask for a synchronicity - not as proof, per se, but as a quiet confirmation that you were aligned, that contact with Source had been made.

So when Deepak Chopra - pop guru extraordinaire - and his YouTube review of the book “Mystery of the White Lions” by Linda Tucker appeared on my laptop seemingly out of nowhere, I couldn’t be completely surprised even though the review was more than ten years old. I remember staring at the screen, wondering why it was appearing now - and what question it might be answering.

I had known of Linda Tucker’s work for years because Andrew Harvey had led sacred journeys and shamanic retreats with Linda and the White Lions. But in May - the same Spring - Andrew had lost all of his earthly possessions in a devastating fire, and it was unclear whether he would ever return to Timbavati.

And yet - he was traveling. The Himalayas. South India. France. Scotland. Andrew, in true form, was unstoppable.

I shared the book with the Lion Hearts. All of a sudden, many of us were reading it at the same time. A fire was lit.

That Summer 2025, a friend and I traveled to Colorado for a week-long, in-person Dr. Joe retreat - our first. Less than an hour from our hotel, I discovered The Wild Animal Sanctuary in Keenesburg, Colorado: “a 33,000-acre refuge specializing in the rescue of large predators who had been mistreated, abandoned, or would otherwise be euthanized.”

And there were White Lions there.

Dr. Joe holds retreats all over the world. Yet I had chosen this one, at this time and in this place.

At the Sanctuary, I walked nearly three miles of elevated pathways in significant physical pain. I was distracted by visitors treating the place like a zoo - chatting loudly, expecting guaranteed sightings. Did I see White Lions that day? I don’t honestly know. But I did see white tigers, and many tawny lions. Enough to feel something stirring just beneath the surface.

Back at the retreat, I was chosen to be a “Healee” - one of the lucky ones who receives healings in small groups. Somehow Dr. Joe made a lavish hotel’s ballroom feel like an intimate, holy space. During those sessions, and throughout the long days of lectures and meditations, the Lions returned to me in visions.

A great male Lion appeared.
He opened his mouth, and I crawled inside him.
A female followed.
Then young ones.

Pride became presence.

They visited again and again - sometimes on me, sometimes beneath me, sometimes surrounding me. Over time, I noticed something else.

They were no longer cubs.
They were adolescents now.

What’s even more incredible is that many of the Healers saw them, too, giving me assurance that I wasn’t losing my mind!

I knew.

After the retreat, the rest of the summer blurred into nonstop travel motion - Iceland, Denmark, delayed celebrations for Greg’s birthday. Visiting family. Finding the house I fell in love with, only to have it vetoed and taken away in an instant. Waterways and volcanoes. Bicycles in cities where it’s safe to swim in the harbor.

I wasn’t drinking. I wasn’t smoking - not even weed. No magic mushrooms, nothing hallucinogenic. I didn’t need anything because everything was already heightened, almost too vivid. I could barely catch up with myself.

Returning to Nashville brought a much-needed landing. Regular daily meditations again. Ongoing physical pain. Long-distance doctors who didn’t quite understand me. Friendships I thought would be life-long ended with surprising swiftness.

Life continued, and sometimes it even made sense.

But one thing was unmistakable.
I knew I had to return to the Wild Animal Sanctuary.

And when the opportunity came, I said Yes.
Yes, yes.

For more information about Diana Summerland’s work with The Merlin, visit this beautiful website. It may resonate with you:

http://themerlinspeaks.com/

My friend/big sister Janice does incredible Body work online and in person: https://bodydialogues.com/

And if you’re ever in the Denver area, consider visiting:

https://www.wildanimalsanctuary.org/

Thank you for reading my Substack! Please consider subscribing and commenting here. It’s free unless you decide to support with payments.

In just one week, something happens when you foster a dog.
Just one week.

The fear turns to trust.
The hesitancy as they walk through the rooms becomes a confident stride.
They once backed away; now their tails wag as you approach.

With Triumph, there was never any of those emotional “befores.” When he looked into our eyes — just hours after a major surgery to amputate his entire right leg — we saw a gentle spirit who immediately trusted us. Yes, he yelped from the pain now and then, but that was physical.

Perhaps my connection to Triumph became so deep and in such a short time, because I, too, had a part of me ripped open — not just the obvious four open-heart surgeries two years ago, but more recent emotional heartbreaks.

We don’t know what Triumph’s past was. He’s a few years old, and Wags rescued him from another shelter. He’d been living with a serious handicap his whole life, and the decision to amputate was made so that he would no longer have to compensate for the shorter club foot.

But it was clear that Triumph - like all dogs - didn’t dwell on the past, didn’t feel sorry for himself, didn’t ask “Why me?” Whereas for us humans, it’s so easy to feel all that, to ask that question. Working on forgiveness and self love is a daily, even hourly, task.

Within two days, he was running all over the place — chasing birds in the yard, knocking over plants in the house with that ever-wagging, sweeping tail of his.

I thought he might be my dog. Our dog.
But in this marriage, we have veto power over big decisions — and adopting a dog is a huge commitment that affects every aspect of life.

Greg is rational.
If he wasn’t, Triumph would be sitting next to me right now, looking out the window from the spot I cleared in my office, lying on the comfy rug I placed there for him. Now that the cone is off after healing from surgery, he’d be allowed to have toys… and he’d probably be snuggled up with the big Lamb Chop doll.

Yes, it was the rational thing to do.
It was smart not to adopt Triumph.

And that became obvious a couple days ago when his most recent foster mom, Anna, was kind enough to open her home to us and let us see him again. A potential adoption family was also coming. (We’re discovering that the foster community is pretty tight — Anna had also fostered our first guy, Paul Bunyan, now called Bunny.) I really wanted to meet anyone who considered adopting Triumph. I’d wander around the house saying out loud to Greg: “Who the hell are these people? Are they just looking for a conversation piece kinda dog? A trophy dog? A Doodle Tripod with a story, like the rescue vet said?"

When Anna opened “his room,” Triumph came bounding out — jumping, leaping, friendly, of course — but not like “Hey! MOM! I missed you!”

I could have been anybody.

I realized we had this tiny window of time — this tiny window of love — in which Greg and I had the honor of witnessing this brave boy heal and then meet the world with enthusiasm and joy.

It occurred to me that fostering dogs - all dogs - helps makes one’s Heart muscles stronger, more flexible and always more open.

The new family arrived: a young couple with two little boys, like a family you’d see in a 1960s sitcom. In true form, Triumph welcomed them too, and of course they fell in love.

Their previous dog had been much heavier and had many health problems, so the Mom felt very comfortable handling this excitable dog on a leash.

We left them to work out the adoption details with Anna. And though the ride home was a tearful one, I finally didn’t care about what Triumph’s past had been — because now I knew his future with this family would be full of love, full of adventures, full of life with those two boys who would become his new best friends.

Triumph was my dog,
if only for a week.

NOTE: I’ll post a photo with his new family as soon as I get permission!

Thank you for reading my Substack, please consider subscribing and commenting here - it’s free and it really helps me out!

copyright 2026 Brooke Maroldi

NOTE: This piece is part of an unfolding series called The Releases - Episodic writings shaped by seasons of change rather than linear time. Some threads continue forward; others will be returned to later. I’m releasing them as they arrive.

Release Two
Years passed. I remained a grateful friend to Ana Maria, who taught me so much about the natural world. The Cubs faded from conscious focus, folding quietly into my inner world.

Then, in March of 2020, the roof of my outer world was torn open.

Just after midnight on March 3 a tornado tore through our East Nashville neighborhood. Our house remained standing; the trees that surrounded it did not. In the days and months that followed - through COVID lockdowns, displacement, and a kind of psychic free fall - I returned to the language of trees I had learned years earlier. I’ve written elsewhere about that season of rupture, survival, and the strange clarity that followed. What matters here is this: the world had been broken open, and I was listening differently. Something in me had already been stripped back, made porous, made ready.

It was in that unmoored time - tornado behind me, lockdown ahead of me - that I found Andrew Harvey.

I discovered him through a YouTube astrologer who said he was one of the few teachers who truly understood what was happening in the world. I followed the link, watched the interview, and felt something ignite. I downloaded his book The Hope, which he offers freely on his website - a handbook for sacred activism. I watched every interview and article I could find. Then I signed up for his online Engoldenment Course via the Shift Network in April 2020. It was the first of many.

On my first Zoom call - late to the course by a few sessions due to my ever changing living situations - I shared my tornado story. Andrew listened with an intensity that made the world narrow around his attention. The course asked for a mission statement, which I mentioned. When I finished, he said:

“Oh my goodness. You’ve written some wild things! There are lots of golden leopards in your room…I’ve been waiting for you.”

Those were his first words to me.

Two years later, at a retreat in Mexico celebrating the year-long Global Mystics course, he greeted me again with words of recognition:
“I’ve been waiting for you.”

He offered me a small statue of Ganesha and wrote Om Namah Shivaya on a scrap of paper in his own hand. I still carry both.

And still, the Lions remained in the background.

They, too, were waiting.

This is what I carry.
This is what stayed.
Nothing else was needed.
I kept living.

Thank you for reading my Substack, please consider Subscribing. Most posts are free!

copyright 2025 Brooke Maroldi

December 19, 2025

On these every shortening days
with the 3i ATLAS comet closer to Earth than ever,
with this New Moon,
I find myself standing in a doorway different from the ones I’m used to.

Usually, I’d be looking up.

I’d be searching for the comet even though you can’t see it with the naked eye — yet able to see more than usual on a New Moon night when the sky is so black.
I’d be watching videos, listening to messages from my favorite astrologers — from Chani, whose app lives on my phone, to Pam Gregory, to my old favorite Kaypacha with his Pele Report that once led me to Andrew’s classes and an entirely new Inner World Order. I haven’t consulted astrology in many months.

This year, I’m not looking at the stars.

Not on this day.

On this day, I’m remembering yesterday —
how I looked into the big brown eyes of a dog.

Our foster dog.
A dog we had for only one week,
who left an indelible mark on our hearts and souls.

He was named Turbo at the rescue center.
We renamed him Triumph. You’ll see why.

Last Thursday, we drove out to the rescue center to receive him, still groggy from major surgery — a full amputation of his right leg, plus a complicated neutering procedure. He’s a big boy. Not overweight, but long and lean. Think Pyrenees Doodle mix. Solid black with a small white patch on his butt. It took two people to bring him out.

He was bleeding from the incision.
Whimpering whenever he was moved.

The volunteers were about to walk him straight to our car but I stopped them. I couldn’t ignore the steady streams of blood coming from the long line of staples. They laid him down right there in the doorway. People stepped around him, coming and going, as he lay on the floor between worlds. The atmosphere was frenetic and I was panicking.

They FaceTimed the surgeon.
Showed the incision.
We waited.

Finally, the go-ahead. A bag of pills. Blood cleaned up. Reassurances given.
”Everything will be okay,” they told us.“You guys are the right ones for Turbo.”

But I had my doubts.

I didn’t know if we were capable of caring for such a big dog who’d had such a big operation. The small paper bag they handed us was filled with several ziplock bags of pills, including detailed instructions for which one to administer. Three times a day for ten days.

I knew we had to stay ahead of the pain.
And we had to prevent infections.
I knew quite a bit about this from personal experiences.

The drive home felt endless — Nashville rush hour traffic, darkness, Turbo taking up the entire back seat, yelping whenever we hit a bump. Railroad tracks were the worst.

How would we get through the night?

He was wearing one of those horrible plastic cones, but we had a soft one waiting at home — left over from another foster’s surgery. We learned the amputation was due to a congenital club foot — a useless appendage, they said — something that would have caused arthritis and pain in the other legs over time. He had a head start for this losing this limb because he’d already been compensating for it with his other legs. I was relieved to know he hadn’t been abused. Or hit by a car. Or sick.

Seeing the long, jagged incision up close in our own living room as we laid him down on a bed of towels was shocking. Greg never showed and doubts; I was scared.

But we’d made the commitment. And we were going to keep it.

What we came to understand was that it was simple — not easy, but simple.

Lots of towels.
Lots of soft places to land.
Lots of patience.

Lots of saying, “This is our life right now. Someone has to be home at all times to care for this boy.”

And lots of gentle pets.
Lots of looking into those trusting eyes and saying,
”You’re such a good boy. You’re such a brave boy. You’re going to feel better soon.”

Our home became a doggie recovery center. On the first day after surgery, he looked at me through the plastic cone and struggled to stand up on his one front paw. Slowly, deliberately, he limped to the back door.

Getting him outside — through the inner door and the storm door — was a delicate procedure; the cone kept getting caught on corners of the stove or the kitchen island or even us. Greg carried him down the steps to the lawn. We held our breath, hoping he’d go potty.

On the second day, he was getting stronger. Outside at about fifteen feet away from me I said, “Come.” I didn’t expect anything.

But without hesitation he limped all the way to my outstretched hands and lifted his head for those scratches behind the ears that he loved. I couldn’t hold back the tears, rejoicing in his success and feeling so moved that I was a person he would come to, even if it hurt to do it.

By day two, he was already chasing birds at the feeders — three legs flying — while Greg tried, unsuccessfully, to keep up. They had a bond and a rhythm all their own.

Somewhere in those days, we entered a different time.

Not cosmic time. Not tied to astrological events or comets.
Dog Time.
Dog Days.

If their years are seven to our one — even more for big dogs like Triumph, I really don’t know — then that one week felt like a whole season.

That season ended for us last night, when his next foster picked him up in the middle of a fierce rainstorm, again in the dark.

I stayed up into the wee hours, laundering blood-stained towels, keeping busy. Maybe trying to avoid the sudden empty space he left behind.

This has been a season of falling in love with a brave, gentle, beautiful soul.

I miss him.

Maybe he’ll come back.
Maybe he’s our dog.

Or maybe we’re about to enter a new set of Dog Days and welcome another pup who needs us.

The stars are still there.
The comet is still passing.

But tonight, the doorway I’m standing in isn’t in the sky.

It’s right here in my Heart.

And the door is open.

For more information on adopting or fostering dogs in the Nashville area, these people are angels:
https://www.wagsandwalks.org/adopt-nashville

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copyright 2025 Brooke Maroldi