I once hitchhiked to Florida and ended up in Upstate New York. I was sixteen and not well-versed in travel. For Christmas, my sister got me a sweatshirt that read, “Florida bound point me South.”

It’s a pretty well-documented fact that when you make plans, God laughs. Not a sadistic laugh, more like how your sister laughs as she watches you march confidently in the wrong direction. With a bit of pride in your moxie and a relish for getting front-row seats to your self, you will run riot.

Making plans can do more than just make God laugh, It can end you up so far from happy that your look like a crazy person.

Many years ago, when I was still preaching from a pulpit in the suburbs of Chicago, I decided to take my kids on the architectural boat tour. It was one of those bitter, bleak, grey days; traffic was terrible, and parking was crazy. But I had my eye on the prize, securing a spot, and with minutes on the clock, I hustled everyone down the street toward the dock.

My son Liam was seven years old at the time and hadn’t spent much time in downtown Chicago. As we made our way to the boat, he noticed a man standing on the sidewalk asking for help.

“Mom, we have to stop. We have to give that man some money.”

“We’ll help him when we get back,” I promised.

He wasn’t convinced, but he kept pace with the rest of us. And despite our efforts, we missed the boat. Like the losing team after a grand and noble effort, we solemnly made our way back to the car.

Everyone, that is, except Liam. Without warning, he took off running, began weaving around pedestrians, and waving his hands. I did my best to keep up and not lose sight of him, but the kid was on a mission.

And then through the crowd I watched him approach the man. And having no money to offer, he handed him the only thing he had. He took off his coat and handed it over to the man.

People on the sidewalk began turning toward them. And as they made their way past me, I could hear them saying, “Did you see that?”

“That little kid gave the homeless man his coat! ” The man lifted Liam into the air. The two of them eye to eye like a two-headed Lady Liberty. The man was a bit of a giant, towering over the crowd. His eyes sparkled with awe, admiration, and emotion as he held my son in the air.

“Is this your boy? The man called out as I made my way to him. “This is a good little man. This here is a good little man!” I arrived with a queer combination of pride and shame.

The real sermon that day was how dangerous it is to be destination-oriented. We miss the boat every time.

A few weeks ago, history repeated itself. Family was visiting me on Madeline Island. We had gone to the mainland for dinner; in the storytelling and connection, we lost track of time. And even though we attempted to hustle back to the dock, we missed the boat.

If you’ve ever been to Madeline Island, you know that the ferry isn’t just transportation. It’s basically the only way home. Many a stranded soul has had to find lodging till morning or sleep in their car. The options are thin.

Everyone in our little group had that familiar look. My cousin started apologizing. But the words that came out of my mouth surprised even me. I guess I still remembered the magic that can happen when you miss a boat.

“This is where we make memories,” I suggested.

The teenagers immediately began walking the docks, asking strangers if anyone might be heading toward the island. Eventually they met a man named Bronte, owner of All Hands on Deck.

Without hesitation, Bronte, who was kind of like a well-anchored lost boy who had grown up and learned how to steer the ship, said, “Hop in.” He didn’t quote a price; he didn’t seem put out- just a generous extension of helpfulness. As he ferried us across the water, he told stories, taught the teenagers a little about sailing, and made us all feel as though we’d known him for years.

Then he said something that quenched my soul.

“This is the law of the sea. If someone is in need, you help them.”

I found myself wondering...Why isn’t that also the law of the land? I wish I had met him before I tried to hustle my kids past a person in need all those years ago.

When we arrived safely on shore of Madeline, we thanked Brante with as fat a wad of cash as we could cobble. He did okay. But what we got was priceless. Memories of magic and a reminder that the world is filled with very kind people.

When I think back to that day in Chicago, I don’t remember the architectural boat tour we never took. I remember a little boy who couldn’t walk past someone who was cold.

When I think about missing the ferry, I don’t remember the inconvenience. I remember a sailor who lived by a simple law: If someone is in need, you help them.

And I have to say, it’s a beautiful way to live.

I’m beginning to suspect that the greatest miracles happen the moment we stop trying to get somewhere and become available to what is happening right here. When we loosen our grip on the itinerary and discover the invitation. When we discover that we have already arrived at the destination.

Which is really good, because in a few days, I leave for France to visit the land that Mary Magdalene called home.

I’m beginning to realize that I’m not going to France to find something. I’m going to honor something.

I’m not expecting Mary Magdalene to whisper some long-lost secret into my ear or unlock a mystery that has been hidden for centuries.

I am going to honor her as a lighthouse on my own path as a female spiritual leader. To honor her courage, her devotion, her willingness to stand near suffering when others fled, and her unwavering trust in Love.

I want to honor her as a woman who refused to be defined by the stories others told about her. A woman whose true voice endured, even when history tried to rewrite it.

When I return, we are kicking off the next round of the Maiden Voyage. A true pilgrimage—a holy journey to the Self. To remember, rewrite, and honor our own stories through the use of the Chakras and archetypal work.

If you’ve ever felt like you have missed the boat...
If life has laughed at your carefully laid plans...
If you are ready to experience the miracles of being in the present.

Come join us.

You just might discover that the place you thought you were trying to reach has been waiting for you all along.

Love, Maur

The Maiden Voyage is a journey through your own stories, secrets, triumphs, and truths. To awaken the patterns and power that can sometimes be trapped under old programming. This is where we move beyond myths, misogyny, and misinterpretations, celebrate what has been stigmatized, honor what has been ignored, and speak what has been silenced. Together, we voyage on a seven-month reclamation of the sacred cycles of womanhood: Maiden, Muse, Mogul, Mother, Minister, Mystic, and Monarch.

What Awaits You on This Voyage:
Weekly Zoom Gatherings—Connect with an extraordinary sisterhood of powerful women.
Optional-on-One Mentorship—Personalized guidance from Maureen and Bella Beth and deep partnership accountability.
Optional Annual Retreat on Madeline Island—Five sacred days immersed in the elements: walking the labyrinth, hiking, swimming in Mother Superior, nourishing meals, and transformational rituals.

Now is the time. Join us. Set sail on the Maiden Voyage.

Sign up here for the waitlist to speak with Maureen and embark on your journey. Don’t miss the boat! :-)

The Maiden Voyage

This Sunday, 10:30 am CT, join us at SpeakEasy for a conversation on Click the button for Zoom information.

We are not simply, or only, stressed because life is hard. Life has always been hard. We are also stressed because the rate of change, the uncertainty of the future, and the invasion of technology into the nervous system have exceeded our ability to maintain meaning.

The question is not: “Should we reject modern life?” The better question is: “How do we remain soulful, present, loving, and human inside a world that will not stop updating?” And maybe the task is not to become anti-modern. Maybe the task is to become pro-enchantment.

Sunday SpeakEasy

This is life. This is death. So intermingled that it is hard to tell them apart.

This past week we gathered to mourn. But what it looked like was not necessarily a celebration of death, but a carnival of life. We laughed, cried, told stories, broke bread, danced, hugged, swapped jewelry, and when all was said and done, we sat in silence and simply stared out at the ocean in a ridiculous attempt to make sense.

And then we slept, and then we woke. And then we did it all again.

We will lose our way, our minds, our luggage, and language.

But when life and death are welcomed as conjoined twins, they arrive with poetry and bagpipes, whispered confessions of remorse, howling harbors of anger, and funny little stories that make you laugh harder because of the pain it is pushing against.

The kind of laughter that makes your eyes water in a completely different way.

This is life and death in its perfect duet and full regalia. It is absurd, and tragic, and tender. How can it be so heartbreaking and hilarious, and human and holy all at once?

Because death does not end life, it amplifies it.

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Grief transforms us. Welcome it. Besides, there is no way to hold it back. It comes in sobbing, stillness, and song.

In the sobbing stage, it can feel like a dam has broken someplace deep within, and suddenly you are swept up in a river of tears. A sacred tsunami of sorts, boiling up out of the blue and threatening to drown you as you tread, choke, and gasp for air.

But there is no “ugly cry,” no need to banish it to an appropriate hour. Just let it come, jumpy and jagged and fully justified.

Our tears have been stigmatized, and yet they are the holiest of waters. Let them pour out until there is nothing left, until you have drained it all to the point of stillness.

Stillness stills us. Just like the tears, it will come unbidden. Settling on you like a weighted blanket. And lifting a fork or climbing the stairs can seem inconceivable.

With no recourse, we go still. Still enough to hear the subtle sound of distant chimes and still enough to become one with the landscape. Don’t fear this corpse pose. It too is warranted. And it too will pass.

Finally, from the caverns of your silence, song enters, rising like a humming. A faint flicker, a small warmth, a rattle, a soft rhythm. This can not be forced or seduced.

But there is also no holding it back. Soon, and unaided, the humming will rise and gather itself into melody and lyric. Let it meander across the keys of your heart and pluck at the strings of your soul.

Try not to make anything of it. Just let it do its thing, and soon it will sing its way through you.

When suffering is transformed to song, it can sing you all the way back home.

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But this is not a light switch. This alchemy of turning sobs to song takes time. Lifetimes.

Eventually we all return, but no one returns the same or alone. Grief goes with us. This is the truth we are afraid to tell. Grief never really leaves. She takes up residency in the basement and strolls through the house smoking, shaking, and mumbling incoherently while the rest of life goes on checking the recipe, taking in the mail, filling out the forms, and doing its best to ignore her.

Grief leaves a permanent tattoo. People may tell you that grief takes time, as if there will come a day when it is no longer felt. This is mostly a well-intentioned lie.

But for all who know, there is no expiration date on grief. It comes and goes as it pleases. Sometimes it stays silent for months or even years, and then an anniversary, a familiar song, a certain scent, or a difficult corner appears... and there she is.

Do not assume that something has gone wrong when you are revisited. That is just the way of grief.

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Is there a way to avoid the pain of grief? No. Nor should you want to.

Pain is the siren that screams at the threshold of transformation. She can be so loud that we may be tempted to kill her off. But the presence of pain is simply the announcement of an ordination.

You could attempt to numb yourself into unconsciousness through drugs, scrolling, shopping, staying busy, really there are an endless number of other ways to miss the whole show, it seems they only prolong the labor.

Remind yourself instead that you are capable of this journey.

And if the pain gets so intense that you lose the plot, if it comes at you with such ferocity that your stomach sinks and your eyes bulge like a small child standing before an ever-growing wave, if it startles you into such stillness that you are certain you will be taken under, if the memory of all the times you were grabbed by the ankles and pulled through the undercurrent returns, leaving you with no sense of direction and no compass for where your next breath lives...

Then just let it take you.

Just go under.

Those who paddle through grief may find their way to the new shore, soaked and shaken, but they arrive.

Those who go under are carried to where the music lives. And then the music carries them. Either way, we find ourselves in a new normal.

The music is anything that brings us closer to the truth of who we are. It might become a ministry, an awakening, a deeper understanding of purpose, or a way of seeing the world that was unavailable to us before.

It reminds us that even in the darkest hours, when we thought we were lost, something sacred was being formed.

One song birthed through the alchemy of pain carries the wisdom of a thousand libraries.

That is the way of grief. Sobbing. Stillness. Song.

Love, Maur

PS: You can find more events and invitations below and enjoy dessert.

This October at SpeakEasy, we will be hosting conversations on Good Grief.

Join us for the Conversation

More Miracles?

If you want a peek into what it would be like to wake up to Miracles every day, check out a Free Week of Morning Miracles at Miracles LIVE 365. Come wake up with us!

Miracles LIVE 365

Don’t Miss the Voyage!

The Maiden Voyage is a journey through your own stories, secrets, triumphs, and truths. Through the understanding of achetypal work we awaken to the patterns and power that can sometimes be trapped under old programming. This is where we move beyond myths, misogyny, and misinterpretations, celebrate what has been stigmatized, honor what has been ignored, and speak what has been silenced. Together, we voyage on a seven-month reclamation of the sacred cycles of womanhood: Maiden, Muse, Mogul, Mother, Minister, Mystic, and Monarch.

Join us. Set sail on the Maiden Voyage.

Sign up here for the waitlist, to speak with Maureen and embark on your journey. Don’t miss the boat! :-)

The Maiden Voyage

More Maur? Find me here.

Let’s Talk

Dessert

A song for our angels and the ones who still think of them.

Outside, life was loud. Car doors slammed. Children chased one another across the parking lot. Dogs barked, babies cried, and the whole world bustled with errands and expectations.

And then the thick wooden doors would slowly swing shut behind us with the softest sound of pa-ah, as though the church itself had just exhaled.

And suddenly, the bright, busy noise of ordinary life disappeared as though God Herself had somehow turned down the volume. The air grew cooler. Denser. And our noses filled with the warm scent of old wood, and incense and melting candle wax. Sunlight filtered through jewel-toned stained glass. As the ordinary quietly surrendered to the extraordinary.

We kids drew closer to each other as our mother mirrored for us how to enter church. The very first thing to do was to dip the tiny tips of your fingers into the basin of cold water and bless yourself.

We watched as she gently pressed her damp fingertips to her forehead, her heart, and then each of her shoulders as her lips moved in a silent incantation.

I can still see her in my mind’s eye, my mother transforming into the other woman. The Church made her show up differently. All her jagged edges, and searching, all her worry was left on the other side of the door.

Even her voice, which often felt directive and abrupt, melted into a soft, sacred whisper that somehow fill the sanctuary. We had to squint our eyes in the dim light just to make sure it was still really her.

Our mother, our rough-and-tumble pancake-flipping, hyena-laughing, table-slapping mother, touched this holy water to her head and suddenly transformed. And from this unorthodox, uncanonized saint radiated a tender reverence as she turned to her eight scrappy ducklings and invited us, "Bless yourself."

If that water had that power to change my mother, what could it mean for the rest of us?

Us? The rule breakers, the nose pickers? My older sisters who taught me curse words on the front stoop? My younger brother who got caught chewing gum off the sidewalk! And defended such hideous actions with the eye-bulging statement that we would repeat to this day.

“It was just sitting there, and nobody wanted it!”

We heathens, we harlots were welcomed to dip our dirty fingernails into this blessed elixir? Had our mother gone mad? To trust us with such sacred waters?

Lesson 187 of A Course in Miracles says: “I bless the world because I bless myself.”

One of the deepest pains we inflict on one another is spiritual superiority and exclusion.

One of the deepest pains we inflict on ourselves is believing that anyone has the authority to judge our spiritual viability.

I think the man said it best when He suggested that we should “put down our rocks and go home.”

A radical teaching with an unnerving equalizer embedded in it. Placing us not in the position to judge but in the position to offer Grace.

And as easy as it sounds. Grace is sometimes hard to give.

And yet it appears that giving is the only way out. The lesson goes on to say:

“Protect all things you value by giving them away.”

It doesn’t specify who to give them to. It simply says to give them away. Be like the sun, let your kindness extend to all things. It definitely does not suggest withholding them from anyone.

But it does say where to start with the blessing. Before you bless anyone, bless yourself. “For you cannot give what you do not have.”

So bless yourself and then let the fragrance of your soul spread throughout humanity. Let it touch everything you encounter. Don’t be stingy with your love. And for the love of God, do not assume you that you have the authority to judge another person’s worthiness.

The world, your family, friends, neighbors, your enemies/master teachers will constantly evaluate your spiritual worthiness. They’ll tell you what you should believe, how you should pray, and where you supposedly belong on some imaginary spiritual hierarchy.

Forget about it. Forgive it all and remember

A flower has its own gospel.

A bird has its own gospel.

A Buddhist has a gospel.

An atheist has a gospel.

Even an enemy has a gospel if you take the time to really listen.

We are not here to judge any of it.

You are here to know your own gospel.

Not the one that is in discord with another.

But the one that is in harmony with everything.

That’s what this lesson is saying. “I bless the world because I bless myself.”

Know your own truth. Bless that truth. Let it be anchored in your moral compass and expressed through love.

The ego wants us to verify our truth against the world.

But the world is fickle A.F.

There was a time when people believed smoking was good for you.

Black people were intellectually inferior to white people.

Indigenous peoples were “savages” who needed civilization.

Women were naturally less rational than men. There was a time when women could not be trusted with a credit card.

People with disabilities were less valuable or incapable of meaningful lives. This was a universally held belief.

Gay people were mentally ill. Mentally ill? Homosexuality was classified as a psychiatric disorder in the American diagnostic system until 1973. What the fresh hell?

We humans are prone to producing towers of Babel and fill them with the dogma of babble, pure, uncut nonsense that creates blocks where there could be bridges. And divided we fall.

The remedy is simple. Ask: What would love have me do? And then do that and only that. It is hard? Sure, but I believe in you. You can do it. I can do it. Alls it takes is a little willingness.

If God has called you good, and beautiful, and holy. Maybe we shouldn’t argue and maybe just attempt to live up to it.

Can you imagine that you’re that loved? Can you imagine that at your inception, God wept in awe? The same way She wept at the redwood trees and the rain and the peonies. The same way your own mother held you in her gaze with such awe that she left the phone ringing, and the toast burning and she forgot all about brushing her own teeth and gossiping with the neighbors. That is how cherished you are.

Our only task is to accept that love, and then let it guide you like a North star.

But first we must bless ourself. Because we can not give what we do not have. If we carry guilt, or shame, or blame for ourself or another. We won’t be able to do it. We have to leave all of that at the door.

Come into the sanctuary. Come into the sweet sanctuary of inclusion. If you don’t find it in a traditional church, go to the forest or the river or the mountains, but wherever you go, be it ashram, or synagogue, sea side or stable be sure the doors of your heart remain unlocked.

Because in the end you’re the church, you’re the steeple, your open heart can love all the people.

If you bless yourself.

And bless yourself.

And bless yourself.

And never chew gum off the sidewalk.

You deserve so much better than that.

Love, Maur

This is the beautiful old church that I had the honor of preach at for nearly a decade. I thought it was as good as it could get. And then after Covid, we moved to the elegant inclusive real estate of Zoom where all are welcomed. And somehow, it just got better.

Invitations

This Sunday, August 2nd, we are doing something a little different at Speakeasy. We will be covering the content of Lesson 214 of A Course in Miracles, I place the future in the Hands of God.

Together we will discuss, discover, apply and embody, in real time. If you are not familiar with the lesson, here is a video of my own mad ramble. But the idea is to hear what you have to say. That is what SpeakEasy is all about.

Join us on Zoom for the community conversation.

Sunday @ SpeakEasy

More Miracles?

If you want a peek into what it would be like to wake up to Miracles every day, check out a Free Week of Morning Miracles at Miracles LIVE 365. Come wake up with us!

Miracles LIVE 365

Don’t Miss the Voyage!

The Maiden Voyage is a journey through your own stories, secrets, triumphs, and truths. Through the understanding of achetypal work we awaken to the patterns and power that can sometimes be trapped under old programming. This is where we move beyond myths, misogyny, and misinterpretations, celebrate what has been stigmatized, honor what has been ignored, and speak what has been silenced. Together, we voyage on a seven-month reclamation of the sacred cycles of womanhood: Maiden, Muse, Mogul, Mother, Minister, Mystic, and Monarch.

What Awaits You on This Voyage:

Weekly Zoom Gatherings—Connect with an extraordinary sisterhood of powerful women.

Optional-on-One Mentorship—Personalized guidance from Maureen and Bella Beth and deep partnership accountability.

Optional Annual Retreat on Madeline Island—Five sacred days immersed in the elements: walking the labyrinth, hiking, swimming in Mother Superior, nourishing meals, and transformational rituals.

Now is the time.

Are you ready to reclaim your voice, wisdom, and divine power?

Join us. Set sail on the Maiden Voyage.

Sign up here for the waitlist, to speak with Maureen and embark on your journey. Don’t miss the boat! :-)

The Maiden Voyage

More Maur? Find me here.

Let's Talk

At the center of this swirl, a thousand hearts are breaking, and a million more are reaching in with Band-Aids in the form of food, flowers, and acts of kindness.

My sister’s neighbors gave up their homes so that every member of our family and every traveling guest, the count was north of fifty people, had a bed to land in. Then they filled the refrigerators with food, drinks, and libations so that, as my sister Maggie put it, “she didn’t need to so much as boil water.”

I might add that this neighborly love is a beautiful echo of all the love and care she has extended into the world. She has been my rock on more occasions than I would like to confess.

I have said many times that you can learn more about life from attending one funeral than can be gleaned from a thousand Tony Robbins seminars. Not to knock Tony, or anyone in his shoes, but grief is the master teacher when it comes to learning how to live a better life.

On that note, I wanted to share the eulogy penned by my nephew, JP Schaedel. I am not the only writer in the family. I hope it reminds you, as it has reminded me, how lucky we are to experience this terrible and beautiful thing called life.

LOVE, Maur

__________________________________________________________________

Thank you to everyone who came out to celebrate Tyler’s life with us yesterday. Many of you have reached out asking for a copy of the eulogy I gave for my best friend and cousin. As hard as this week has been, being able to honor his memory with the exact kind of humor, love, and dark jokes he appreciated meant everything to me. For anyone who couldn’t be there, or for those who just want to re-read some of our favorite memories of him I’m posting the full text below. Huge thank you to Megan Schaedel and Marc Weisi for help writing and editing.

Rest easy, Tyler.

__________________________________________________________________

An inconsiderate family member, an animal hater, and average athlete at best. Philanthropist, CEO, international playboy, speed boat enthusiast, WNBA season ticket-holder, and inventor. None of these words has anything remotely to do with my cousin Tyler. No but seriously, we’re here to celebrate the life of the one and only Tyler Gillispie.

When I was 4 years old, my parents drove my sister and I over to a neighborhood a few minutes from ours. As we pulled onto Sedgefield Terrace, my mom pointed at a house under construction and said, ‘this is where your cousins are moving!’. My life was changed forever.

Tyler and I grew up together. We were teammates, neighbors, roommates, and always best friends. People used to joke that we shared a brain, but we definitely didn’t share his athleticism. I found out Tyler was an exceptional athlete as kids when we decided to race! And I know what you’re thinking - “why would you do that, JP? He’s clearly better than you. It’s not even going to be close!” But it was! Neck and neck. He only beat me by a hair... which was incredibly humiliating considering he was running backwards and staring at me like “you know that I know this is pathetic, right?”

I was always in awe at how truly talented he was whether as the pitcher on the baseball team, quarterback on the football team, or at Indian guides where he excelled in riflery, archery, obstacle racing, and especially the canoe race where he and Todd (his dad) routinely placed among the best. One particular memory is when Tyler and Todd were making great time and took a sharp turn around an obstacle…too sharp. As the boat began to capsize, Todd jumped out to save Tyler from going in the water. Did Tyler check to see if his father was drowning? Absolutely not. He looked at his sinking father, looked at the finish line, and made a calculated decision… to start paddling with his bare hands toward the finish line like a possessed raccoon. Todd survived and they received the first and only Tippecanoe patch for his efforts.

Even though Tyler and I grew up like brothers, his relationship with his actual older brother Chris was truly something special. He looked up to Chris in so many ways, and he shaped much of his own life based on the path Chris led. From joining the National Guard to moving to Harrisonburg and then Charleston, Tyler wanted to be just like his older brother.

There were, of course, many times that he was not. Chris is diligent, measured, and responsible and Tyler was…well not always that. When he was a kid, he’d get so annoyed by chore reminders that he would vacuum the carpet without actually turning the vacuum on just pushing it back and forth so it left clean lines, even though it picked up zero dirt. Aunt Maggie picked up on this little ruse pretty quickly from the fact that the carpet was a well-manicured but still dirty mess. But as Tyler grew up, that mischievous kid turned into one of the most thoughtful people I knew.

Tyler cared deeply for his friends and family and was always looking for ways to show it. This year, he surprised me with a Giants jersey and hat which I know pained him as a Cowboys (vomit) Cowboys fan. He also made it a point to show up for Mimi’s surprise birthday in Texas last summer, sent my dad a very thoughtful Father’s Day gift, and for my brother’s birthday last Sunday, Tyler sent him a book called Poop and Learn. It arrived the exact day we found out Tyler had passed. Honestly, leaving us with a book about defecation as his final act on this earth is the most Tyler thing he could have possibly done. Somewhere, he is laughing his ass off that he got the last word.

In fact, one of the biggest ways Tyler showed his love was through his humor. If he pranked you, it meant that he really loved you…something he definitely inherited from his uncles. Those would be the two neanderthals right there (Uncle Jimmy and Uncle Andrew). Melanie learned this first-hand one Christmas when he took a car key from the counter, wrapped it up and gave it to her. When she opened it, he said ‘look outside.’...there was no car outside for Melanie.

Another example of Tyler’s knack for bringing laughter to others was his willingness to dress in drag at family events well into adulthood, mind you. In fact, photo evidence suggests that he made quite a beautiful younger sister to Chris. As he matured, the pranks only got more ridiculous. There were elaborate ring-and-run schemes, trapping gifts in ten layers of wrapping paper inside a box inside another box... and, most recently, proposing to random girls at Mimi’s birthday party… specifically targeting the girl on stilts. His logic? ‘How can you not?! She’s on stilts!’

Tyler always knew how to make us laugh in spite of the seriousness of life. It’s a unique gift that many in his family possess.

Just like his grandfather, James Pierson, what Tyler loved most was spending time with his family. Speaking of, some of my favorite memories are of course Nags Head with the Pierson family-launching water balloons at each other, unsuspecting lifeguards, and even innocent beach goers. On the Gillispie side, I remember spending several Easters with Tyler’s family and, Richard, I’m a little bummed to not see you in the Easter bunny suit to be honest.

Speaking of wild animals (and I’m not referring to the uncles again), Tyler loved his friends and family dearly but he shared an equal love and compassion for animals. I’ve never seen a dog and owner bond stronger than what he had with Oadie, his deaf pitbull. He loved that dog with every ounce he had and Oadie knew Tyler was his person. Tyler and Oadie both had their struggles and their relationship helped them mutually navigate them together.

But what helped Tyler the most when he was struggling was Aunt Maggie. She was his rock. Through every twist and turn, she stood by him with a kind of fierce, unwavering devotion that only a mother has. Despite his vacuuming prowess, she helped him navigate a move to Charleston where he pursued his passion for golf. Tyler loved the life he had as a caddie on Kiawah Island, and he was equally loved by his fellow caddies and clients... Aunt Maggie’s support was what enabled Tyler to have the life he loved on Kiawah. She never gave up on Tyler - especially when it mattered most, helping him save his own life during a tough time in late 2022. She gave him the gift of those extra years, and we are all forever grateful to her for that.

This past week has been among the toughest in my life, but being around an asylum of Piersons–which is a scientific term akin to a pack of wolves, a school of fish, or a murder of crows–has made the burden of this grief a bit easier to bear. Whilst we’ve shared tears and many stories, these past few days have also been full of laughs and games (mostly Pierson-invented ones). I’d like to think that we’ve all been channeling Tyler’s humor in the face of this tragedy.

There is so much I’m going to miss about Tyler, especially the small simple things. Tyler could make just lounging around and hanging out into a funny story. I’ll miss his cooking- little known fact that he was actually a phenomenal cook especially his “dank dank chicken chicken”. I’ll miss our secret handshakes. I’ll miss our horrific birthday texts. We sent things to each other that would probably warrant a jail sentence if anyone else read them. No situation was ever too heavy for a joke. If he were here right now, he’d probably be making fun of how red my eyes are or my sunburn or telling us pallbearers “Nice shirts, nerds. You look like a table cloth.”

In Indian guides we had a saying we would often close with. “How-pow” (pronounced heepow), which means pals forever. Tyler, Frank, Toast (I gave him a lot of weird nicknames)…heepow, pals forever, I’ll miss you dude

J.P. Schaedel

Dessert

When words fail us, which is rare, we hug. I hope you find and share a hug with someone you hold dear today.

In lieu of flowers, the family kindly requests that donations be made through Tyler’s GoFundMe, with all proceeds benefiting people and shelter animals in need. Thank You

There are days, weeks, even months when navigating a particularly horrible soundtrack, one that can’t be improved, with even my best drops, dips and gyrations. I find myself inventing new moves fresh choreography for the tougher turns. Especially when life insists on playing songs I never would have chosen.

Let’s face it, sometimes life’s playlist leaves much to be desired.

As much as I wish, it’s not all love songs. There are long stretches of silence, ambient noise, the sound of people chewing, and songs that grate against the soul. There are ballads of suffering, hour-long dirges of weeping, haunted sobbing that somehow swing into an anthem.

I am not sure if you noticed, but I am pretty sure that the DJ is drunk.

How does anyone dance to that?

And yet, this is the assignment, and sometimes, like the ugly cry, we just have do to the ugly dance. The ugly dance is the one nobody posts on Instagram. It is less Swan Lake and more cat-meets-bathtub. Clenched jaw. Trembling hands. Stomach in knots. It is flailing, negotiating, bargaining, and breaking and breathtaking, because of the willingness to surrender and be danced.

Sometimes the dance is ridiculous, painful, awkward, and holy all at once. Because although you know that you did not pick the music, you were chosen to be the dancer. And so you do.

This morning, one of my students shared the following poem with me. It arrived just as I was surrounded by a thousand echoes of Why? How come? Who can we blame? Will I survive? Will anyone survive? What is all this for?

The poem didn’t answer any of those questions. Instead, it reminded me of something deeper. We came to be danced.

Some days it looks like an exuberant celebration of high kicks and jazz hands.

Some days it looks like a deep and prolong genuflection with no irony in sight.

Some days it looks like a fluid extension and other days it looks as vacant and placid as breath.

Today, I needed the reminder… Despite the shitty sound track, I came to be danced.

Love, Maur

Check out the poem below and the invitations. Enjoy dessert and I hope to see you on the dance floor working you awesome moves.

We Have Come To Be Danced

By Jewel Mathieson

We have come to be danced.

Not the pretty dance .

Not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance .

But the claw our way back into the belly .

Of the sacred, sensual animal dance .

The unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance .

The holding the precious moment in the palms.

Of our hands and feet dance.

We have come to be danced .

Not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance.

But the wring the sadness from our skin dance .

The blow the chip off our shoulder dance.

The slap the apology from our posture dance.

We have come to be danced .

Not the monkey see, monkey do dance .

One two dance like you .

One two three, dance like me dance but the grave robber, tomb stalker.

Tearing scabs and scars open dance .

The rub the rhythm raw against our soul dance.

We have come to be danced.

Not the nice, invisible, self-conscious shuffle.

But the matted hair flying, voodoo mama .

Shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance .

The strip us from our casings, return our wings.

Sharpen our claws and tongues dance .

The shed dead cells and slip into.

The luminous skin of love dance.

We have come to be danced.

Not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance .

But the meeting of the trinity, the body breath and beat dance .

The shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance .

The mother may I? Yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance.

The olly olly oxen free free free dance.

The everyone can come to our heaven dance.

We have come to be danced .

Where the kingdom’s collide.

In the cathedral of flesh .

To burn back into the light .

To unravel, to play, to fly, to pray.

To root in skin sanctuary

We have come to be danced.

We have come.

by Jewel Mathieson

Dessert

Here is the Poet Jewel Mathieson performing the poem, We came to Be Danced.

This Sunday, 10:30 am CT, join us at SpeakEasy for a conversation on The Mystic. Click the button for Zoom information.

Sunday SpeakEasy

And if you want to see what it would be like to wake up to Miracles, check out a Free Week of Morning Miracles at Miracles LIVE 365. Come wake up with us!

Miracles LIVE 365

The Maiden Voyage is a journey through your own stories, secrets, triumphs, and truths. To awaken the patterns and power that can sometimes be trapped under old programming. This is where we move beyond myths, misogyny, and misinterpretations, celebrate what has been stigmatized, honor what has been ignored, and speak what has been silenced. Together, we voyage on a seven-month reclamation of the sacred cycles of womanhood: Maiden, Muse, Mogul, Mother, Minister, Mystic, and Monarch.

What Awaits You on This Voyage:
Weekly Zoom Gatherings—Connect with an extraordinary sisterhood of powerful women.
Optional-on-One Mentorship—Personalized guidance from Maureen and Bella Beth and deep partnership accountability.
Optional Annual Retreat on Madeline Island—Five sacred days immersed in the elements: walking the labyrinth, hiking, swimming in Mother Superior, nourishing meals, and transformational rituals.

Now is the time.

Are you ready to reclaim your voice, wisdom, and divine power?

Join us. Set sail on the Maiden Voyage.

Sign up here for the waitlist, to speak with Maureen and embark on your journey. Don’t miss the boat! :-)

The Maiden Voyage

It’s been a minute.

I’ve been a little off my game, and honestly, there was a stretch where I wasn’t even on the field.

In early April, someone I love found themselves in a situation that sent me on a crazy quest through a system I had no map for, no mentors for, and only a sliver of faith that I would find my way through. If this were the Hero’s Journey, this chapter would be the Supreme Ordeal, that moment in the story where things look so bleak that you would put your money on the hero not making it.

Day after day, I felt like I was wrestling with a sticky Rubik’s Cube, trying to find the one shift, the one turn, the one move that would help solve the problem.

I know that’s vague, but it isn’t entirely my story to tell, so bear with me.

What I can tell you is that there were tears, fears, and prayers. There were moments when my faith felt thin. There were days when the weight of it all threatened to pull me into the fetal position on the bathroom floor.

And yet, in the darkest moments, I discovered something beautiful. I had a community that carried me. Friends who checked in. People who prayed. People who showed up. People who reminded me that I wasn’t alone when I couldn’t always remember it for myself. And as insane as it might sound, I was still creating, still writing, still playing the piano and singing. The combination of all of that gave me a bit of solid ground.

I know I am not the only one struggling these days. Sometimes it feels like the hits just keep coming. Life can feel relentless.

So thank you for sticking with me during what turned into an unexpected Substack sabbatical. The issue that took me out was, strangely, suddenly, and miraculously resolved, and someday I may even write a book about it.

The ordeal happened while life was in full session: a trip to New York, Ireland with Billie, back to Chicago to produce a couple of shows, and now, after a season that felt like it contained three years’ worth of living, I am finally back home on Madeline Island.

Keeping things simple. Finding my footing again. Playing piano, feeding hummingbirds, taking long solo walks with my weighted vest, working in the community garden, and singing. I’ll be performing a handful of gigs this summer.

It’s funny that the idea of singing a solo show of my original music would have once seemed impossible, too scary to imagine. But I guess after you face some real lions, the things that once seemed frightening somehow become the easy stuff.

I welcome it.

One other celebration, on June 8th, I celebrated 10 years of sobriety. This is my second ten; here’s to seeing what is beyond this milestone one day at a time. I am extremely grateful to live between the two big blue books of AA and ACIM. I don’t even want to imagine what a hot mess I would be without them.

Tomorrow at SpeakEasy, we continue The Maiden Voyage as we venture into the realm of the Muse. We’ll explore creativity, courage, possibility, and what it means to run toward the roar rather than away from it. Yep, I will be speaking from experience.

But this is all universal and relatable because we are all brought to our knees. We will all be asked to face fears.

There is a saying: Run toward the roar.

It sounds like crazy advice, but sometimes there is no other choice.

The Muse is not born when life is easy. She arrives when life knocks you flat on your back and leaves you wondering how you’re going to make it through another day. She looks down at you and says, “Look at you. You’re still breathing. Cool. Let’s go create something.” And if you are wise, you will follow her.

As long as you have breath, you can create something beautiful. You might think there is another choice. Trust me, there isn’t. At least not one worthy of your last breath.

When life roars, it could be your cue to just roar back. Or if you can’t muster a roar, try singing.

Hope to see you tomorrow for the full conversation.

Love, Maur

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SpeakEasy Spiritual Community honors all paths and is anchored in the teachings of A Course in Miracles and the Divine Feminine. We meet virtually on Sunday at 10:30 am CT and feature a community conversation that invites us to speak easily about spiritual principles and practice. Please don’t leave your brains, beliefs, or background at the door. We don’t have all the answers, but we love the questions. Join us live at SpeakEasy Spiritual Community to add your voice to the conversation.

Join us on Zoom

Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. Subscribe and gain access to our weekly Live Virtual Story Salon for writing accountability and support.

If you have thoughts to share, I would love to hear from you.

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Headed there for my daughter Billie’s Maiden Voyage to the Motherland, this time I go with the passport of a native, the visa of one who has returned, clinging tight to the souvenir I have acquired from the adventure of chasing dual citizenship. This tiny booklet is a symbol that I have untangled the knots and restored the umbilical cord to my ancestors. I return with the shifty, shy gaze of a stepchild, or a long-lost relative, waving a notification from 23andMe, “I belong to you, and I’m hoping someone will retrieve me from the bus stop.”

But of course, it’s not all that desperate and dire; we’ve rented a car, so we should be fine.

It’s interesting to go away to come home. And stranger still to be homesick for a place you’ve never lived. Am I programmed for melancholy, or is this an echo of generational healing?

I think of Ireland as my spiritual home; it holds a sense of sacred magic, like entering an old church. I find a calm settling, both mysterious and yet certain, not easily identifiable, and yet I know it by heart. And my body agrees, responding in a way that feels like stepping into the ocean, “Oh yes, hello, it’s you again.” And then there comes a baptism, a swell of ancient rites, ritual, and reverence, and suddenly I am home.

Of course, this shift does not need to be sought through pilgrimage; it can be found in a cup of tea, a chance encounter, a labyrinth, or a lover. Not so much something we go to, but rather an awakening, an awareness of what we come from.

This is not some stumbling into Grace, not a happy accident; we encounter awareness because we have made the space to remember that we are precious, sacred beings in need of rest, respite, and soul food. This is the truth that gets silenced by the screaming world.

And so my invite, my friend, is to find your way home. We were not built for the firehouse of stimuli. We are designed to go at the pace of peace, to listen to the rain, take the slow path, shoot the breeze, and surrender to the plan of fate and favor that is not our own. It can sound passive, but it is not. In the surrender, there is bristle and brilliance. Fresh learning invites us to the awe and reverence that this life deserves. This moment is so palpable, so all-encompassing, so restorative, like being held safe in the mother’s lap or the lover’s arms.

Your breath catches and expands,

Your voice softens. Your eyes begin to see again.

Clarity comes, striving goes, and a trust in an intelligence that provides all and

asks nothing begins to seem strangely trustworthy.

And you are home

I have witnessed this type of arrival happen day after day in our community, MiraclesLIVE365, and no matter how many times I see it, it never gets old. It’s a constant loop of sunrises, each one more breathtaking than the last. Friends come carrying the weight of grief or grievance, struggling with an unseen splinter in their paws. And then we meet, tucking our chins, bowing our heads, and begin again to surrender the meaning and arrive at the moment.

It’s not always a sweet melting; sometimes it’s a street fight, to surrender to heal to forgive to return home. But we get there.

We cross the threshold, sometimes with just a breath, that takes us in, and the baggage, the burden, seems to be transformed, translated into something holy, or forgotten. It’s a miracle.

And like raindrops illuminate the spiderweb, we see the connection between us. The commonalities that help us to drop the facade and just be, another sacred drop on the web of life.

The soul returns, remembers, and responds to the radiant rhythm of breath and being. The body relaxes, and in the absence of proving and striving, we come home, again and again, to the journey without distance from the head to the heart.

What matters is not your place or position; what matters is your presence and your willingness to be present in the ever-flowing, shifting stream of life. I hope you find your way there, I hope you find you are here, I hope we all find our way home.

Love, Maur

EVENTS

Check out the talk in the header, and if you want more, click the link below to get the Zoom link and a reminder text. At SpeakEasy, easy is our last name.

I am thrilled about this Mother’s Day series and the awesome line-up of speakers! If you are looking to awaken your Voice, Value, and Visibility, this is for you.

SpeakEasy Spiritual Community honors all paths and is anchored in the teachings of A Course in Miracles and the Divine Feminine. We meet virtually on Sunday at 10:30 am CT and feature a community conversation that invites us to speak easily about spiritual principles and practice. Please don’t leave your brains, beliefs, or background at the door. We don’t have all the answers, but we love the questions. Join us live at SpeakEasy Spiritual Community to add your voice to the conversation.

Join us on Zoom

Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. Subscribe and gain access to our weekly Live Virtual Story Salon for writing accountability and support.

If you have thoughts to share, I would love to hear from you.

Leave a comment

Our current classrooms are calling us to this great belonging. The idea that “your vibe is your tribe” is not a pithy slogan, but a felt experience. The vibration of love/Christ consciousness is seeking to be expressed through you. And we do this by loving one another. We have always belonged to each other. No man is an island, and we are each navigating this thing called life using the oars of our ancestors and the ingenuity of our deckmates.

It may seem like loneliness is the great epidemic, but it is also the great illusion. It is impossible to be separate. There is a river running through our blood, ever connecting us. Ever informing, reminding and restoring us to the truth that the river knows the way home, and we cannot go alone.

When we judge a brother, we damn ourselves. This is why I love the story of Babel. It reminds us of the connection that dwells even in the differences.

Everything is connected, and the minute we surrender and remember, we are lifted by a mighty wind.

There is an Ojibwe saying made famous by the TV show, The Sopranos.

"Sometimes I go about in pity for myself,

and all the while, a great wind carries me across the sky."

We fight the wind, we fear the wind, but it would be wise to surrender to it and let it lift us. The one who is not in surrender is still attempting to direct the wind. This is not just a fool’s game; it is futile and keeps us “special and separate,” when so much more is gained by remembering there is nothing to fear or fight.

“Surrender, Dorothy.”

Fear makes us fight, where surrender makes us right. Surrendering the “me” for the “we”. Can sometimes feel like jumping the Grand Canyon, but it is actually quite simple. The bridge is built by a thousand small kindnesses.

These small kindnesses offered to another help heal the epidemic of loneliness that stems from the solo mindset, the self-centered soul. The awakening is in giving, connection.

Zhang Jigang, the choreographer, put it this way.

As long as you are kind and there is love in your heart
A thousand hands will naturally come to your aid
As long as you are kind and there is love in your heart
You will reach out with a thousand hands to help others

This is the opposite of the tug-of-war; this is the dance of peace. We see this in nature. A forest revealed something simple and profound: trees may appear to stand alone, but beneath the surface they are connected—root to root, life to life, sustained by an unseen network.

This is us. Underneath it all…we are already one.

LOVE, MAUR

EVENTS

Check out the talk in the header, and if you want more, click the link below to get the Zoom link and a reminder text. At SpeakEasy, easy is our last name.

I am thrilled about this Mother’s Day series and the awesome line-up of speakers! If you are looking to awaken your Voice, Value, and Visibility, this is for you.

SpeakEasy Spiritual Community honors all paths and is anchored in the teachings of A Course in Miracles and the Divine Feminine. We meet virtually on Sunday at 10:30 am CT and feature a community conversation that invites us to speak easily about spiritual principles and practice. Please don’t leave your brains, beliefs, or background at the door. We don’t have all the answers, but we love the questions. Join us live at SpeakEasy Spiritual Community to add your voice to the conversation.

Join us on Zoom

If you have thoughts to share, I would love to hear from you.

Leave a comment

First off, hope to see you at SpeakEasy this Sunday, and I am looking forward to delivering this one. You can find the Zoom info below. Plus, don’t miss dessert, a short film called “Tree Man, What’s Up?”

But before all that, I want to invite you to New York this April to celebrate the publishing of A Course in Miracles. For me, New York is truly a place of miracles.

My first encounter with the city that never sleeps felt like discovering a loud, magnetic circus in my own backyard. I grew up in Jersey, but the moment I realized the train wasn’t just for businessmen, I claimed my seat and headed in. The city quickly became my home away from home, a place that pulled me into the arts and gave me permission to break the rules, color outside the lines, and live as if the whole world were a stage.

After high school, I landed at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, and before the summer session was even over, I booked my first professional role, a national TV commercial for Slice, where I proudly announced to the world that it was “fantastic!”

Turns out acid-washed jeans and Jersey hair can sell a lot of soda.

Suddenly, storytelling stopped being something I did to get out of trouble and instead became a craft, a discipline, a thread of connection.

New York is an untapped fire hydrant of stories, bursting from every corner, every accidental eye contact on the subway, every tug from a lost tourist, every drifting scrap of conversation that washes over you as you move through the crowd. Like turning the dial on an old radio, pausing just long enough to catch a word, a sentence. A thousand ribbons of story streaming past, waiting to be woven. And at the risk of repeating myself… It’s all pretty fantastic, too.

Then last year, in an unplanned spiritual growth spurt, I found myself back in her lap. Rocked into a remembering of myself, my initiations, my roots. and like visiting an eccentric grandmother, I was restored.

I should also give credit to my daughter, Billie, who generously kept me supplied with her CBD gummies. Between the dizzy distraction of home and the kindness of friends and family, I found my footing.

So I’m happy to report that this April, I’ll be back in New York to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the publication of A Course in Miracles.

It’s a beautiful way to bookend this interesting year. It feels perfect. Both the book and the city have held me, healing me when I was shattered, steadying me when I was wild, and focusing me when I was lost. And as if that weren’t enough, New York is also the birthplace of ACIM, the book that has changed the trajectory of my life.

So I look forward to seeing all the usual suspects in the Big Apple. I hope to see you there, too. It would be fantastic! I am expecting miracles.

Love, Maur

INVITES

What if the connection you’ve been seeking has never been missing? This talk dives into the root of all grievances, the beautiful chaos of special relationships, and the quiet truth underneath it all: Oneness. Through stories of a tower, an egg, a fire, and one truly terrible, horrible choice… We’ll explore what it means to stop searching and finally just be.

But let’s be honest, when God shows up, it’s rarely neat or expected. From strange biblical encounters to moments that make you say “wait… what?”, the Divine doesn’t always follow the rules. We’ll look at the wild, head-scratching ways God has revealed itself, and why it can feel a little crazy.

I’ll share a personal encounter of my own, and together we’ll wonder: what if nothing is missing, and everything is already here? Come curious, skeptical, or exactly as you are. No seeking required, just show up. ✨

Zoom Info

New York Celebration

50+ Years of Miracles: Come for the Film, Stay for the Remembering

Road Trip! Calling all SpeakEasy members in the East Coast! Join Maureen, Mari & some SpeakEasy community members on April 9 in New York. The ACIM community will gather at Columbia University, where A Course in Miracles was first scribed, for an afternoon and evening of film, conversation, and community.

The event includes a screening of

The Forgotten Song

The Song Remembered

followed by a LIVE panel discussion with Course teachers, and an evening reception bringing students and friends of the Course together.

Whether you’re a longtime student or newly curious, you’re invited!

TICKETS

DESSERT

I found out where the man from the movie Up is now living.

This May, I am returning to Ireland, and in a way, to a self I didn’t remember exiling. I have recently been granted Irish citizenship. A celebration for sure, though the journey there was a bit of an ordeal.

The invitation to heal the family lineage existed more like static on the line of my life. A low, fuzzy humming that I couldn’t clear, no matter how many ways I adjusted the channel. And then one day, I realized it wasn’t seeking to be cleared, but to be acknowledged. And then I began to listen.

I called a distant cousin who had gone through the process. She informed me it would take a while, but more than a warning, she infused me with encouragement. “Maureen, you can do this, you have to do this, it is your right.” My right? I paused, staring at the phone.

It felt like a call to adventure, and for whatever reason, I was intrigued, ready, and somehow fired up by her words. You're right, cousin, I am the woman for the job.

As a kid, my mother tricked me into cleaning the bathrooms by telling me I did it better than anyone. So I guess encouragement is my Achilles heel.

Once the decision was made, I recruited my sister Barbara to help reconnect our severed bloodline. She was up for it.

The more I leaned in, the more mystical it felt. At first, it was just nudges and pokes. Basement spirits banging metal against the pipes, tapping a secret Morse code of skips and spurts. Earnestly attempting to get a message through. To keep my fire stoked. Invoking a faint and foreign feeling that, somehow, over the way, over the water, a song was calling to me, haunting, teasing, annoying because although I knew that I knew the song, I could not for the life of me remember the words. And I wanted to.

And so for the next three years, I had no choice but to listen as I traveled the slow road home.

It’s been less of a journey and more like an emergence, a soul crossing, a threshold, slowly approaching like a tired old train that had traveled so long and far that the once lively commuters were now piles of dust that filled the box cars with brittle bones.

And yet, because they were the bones of my ancestors, the skeletal scaffolding of my family tree, I kept fueling the fire. Checking the boxes that needed to be checked to establish myself, or was it to re-establish myself, as an Irish citizen? The gathering of documents, the navigation of notaries, the weighing of worth against the daily doings of the day. The constant doubting. “Why am I doing this again? Do I really have the time? Is this chasing of citizenship that important?” The questions barely took form before I heard the echo of my distant cousin's declaration, “Maureen, you can do this.” And then the stern and unforgiving undertow pulled me back into the paper chase. Instead of drowning, I attempted to grasp hold of some lifeline, an umbilical cord in this orphan’s sea of amniotic fluid.

And day turns to weeks, and months, and years, and despite my reluctance, I had to confess that I was, in fact, in a committed relationship.

It was a bit of a love/hate thing. With so many setbacks and dead ends, when the notice of acceptance finally arrived, it felt surreal, not to be truly trusted. And so with great trepidation, I approach, as a third-generation refugee returning home to a place I’ve never lived. Walking a labyrinth to the center of myself, though the twisted path is clear, even if it does not always make sense.

John O'Donohue says, “Your soul knows the geography of your destiny.”

Yes, John, thank you for putting words to the incoherent moaning of my soul. I suppose that it can sometimes take years for the body, the documents, and the world to catch up with what the soul already knows by heart.

Three years is not a small crossing. It’s been a pilgrimage of patience. Not a light switch, but a slow turning of ancestral soil, the unearthing of our stories, our grandmother’s story, why she left, what she left, and why she never returned. Exposing the old roots is tender, but, like uncorking wine, the exposure can help things breathe.

I will be returning in the season of Beltane, in this year of the Fire Horse, not as a visitor, but as a displaced granddaughter coming home and through the threshold of this sacred time, when the fires were lit across the hills to welcome summer, when cattle were walked between flames for blessing, when the earth herself reaches and rises in a bright green celebration.

I, too, will walk between the flames, and honor that which wishes to rise in me, a phoenix of sorts, a rebirth, a fire on my own horizon. Not just healing the past, but honoring the future. I make this Maiden voyage with my daughter, Billie, her first visit to the Motherland. I hope that she will feel the rush and reverence of Céad Míle Fáilte, a hundred thousand welcomes. That this, land and people will ignite an awareness in her, that she will carry the torch forward.

And so we go to celebrate the return of the sun, with the return of the daughters.

Winter melts and puddles in the corners of my eyes. Spring lives in the stirring of my heart. And like a tender crush, I try to shake it off and pretend that it doesn’t really matter, but it does.

And as we here in the states pour green dye into the rivers and honor St Patrick by bending an elbow and banishing snakes, I feel, like many, displaced in my own country. No longer a Catholic, a drinker, or afraid of snakes, the unconscious pageantry holds no allure.

Instead, I think about the land, the longer days, the life that lives tight in the buds, the wells, and the wisdom of the druids, the earth-honoring ways that listened to the wind in the hawthorn, the language of stones.

That is what has been calling me. I also aim to walk among the holy wells; Ireland is full of them. Springs rising quietly from limestone, places where people have prayed, tied ribbons, whispered griefs, and given thanks for centuries. But the wells are not only in the land. They are in the people, in the singers, the storytellers, the poets whose voices still carry the old music and medicine.

These are the wells that quench the thirst of my soul.

I go to honor my grandmother, May Muldoon, who left Ireland to make good on new shores.
I go to honor my mother, Joan Marie Pierson, who died on May 1st—the day of Beltane—when I was just a girl. Also, I suppose, to make good on new shores.

I go to celebrate the wisdom and wit of the Irish intellect, the incomparable warm embrace, and the uncompromised fiery conviction. I go into the sacred spirals of the liminal and mystical, I go to honor my mother tongue.

To speak a language that is currently just a shy stutter, a dim glimmer pausing on my lips. Still, even a few words of Irish carry centuries inside them. The language itself is a melody, a memory, a riddle, a salve, a holy incantation.

Love, Maur

I hope you enjoyed the piece. If so, please share, comment, and subscribe. This year ahead has many powerful events and offerings, both virtual and in person. More on that to come. For now, I hope this piece brings you closer to your own “fireplace.”

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Dessert

During these past three years, I finally heard and remembered the words to my Grandmother’s song. I thought I was writing a love letter to a woman I had never met. But it turned out she was writing it to me.

Lyrics: Mary Muldoon was as fierce as the wind

Wanting to live was her cardinal sin.

In the mid-winter of silence and snow

I feel a stirring from times long ago.

It’s strange to long for what I’ve never known

It’s in my breath and my blood and my bone.

And I hear her call in the cold winter wind.

“Please bring me back to my dear Ireland.”

I’ll pour a Guinness, and he shares a tale.

But I can not drown out the banshees that wail.

All her love letters got lost in the mail.

And were buried and burned in the end.

That she sent to her dear Ireland.

There’s no going back cause there’s no back to go.

Bridges still burn in the silence and snow.

And I’ll go on longing what I’ve never known.

For all that was lost to the famine and throne.

Something still lingering past all the pain.

Somethings still beckoning, something remains.

Then I hear her call in the cold winter

Please sing me back to my dear Ireland.

Please sing me back to my dear Ireland.

It in your breath and your blood and your bone.

Whenever you sing, you can carry me home

No matter the years, how far you roam

My dear, it’s the song in the end.

Sing me back to her dear Ireland.

Hi Friends,

I have taken up residence on Madeline Island. I’m not sure I ever officially made this announcement, since it all happened so quickly. The move wasn’t necessarily planned, but it felt too seamless not to have been The Plan. Five months in, I’m still getting settled, but it already feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever lived. This says a lot, as I have lived in many places.

It’s a place that makes my soul swell, and poetry spills over; it has always been this way. My most prolific writing has happened on Madeline Island. From Giant Love Song to The Spiritual Vixen to songs and sermons, those shared and the ones that are still unfolding.

And it’s hard to ignore the poetry of the land itself. Madeline Island, the largest of the Apostle Islands in Lake Superior, is named for Madeline Cadotte, the Ojibwe woman also known as Ikwesewe, daughter of Chief White Crane and a powerful leader in her own right. She married fur trader Michel Cadotte and was later baptized and given the name Marie Madeleine.

Over time, as control of the region shifted from French to British and eventually American governance, the spelling evolved from the French Madeleine to the more Anglicized Madeline, which became common usage by the late nineteenth century. The island ultimately bears the name of a woman, Mary Magdalene, who has influenced my spiritual journey and has acted as the Maiden Head of the spiritual community I serve.

Mary Magdalene, as well as Madeline Island, feels like a sacred magnet; it’s hard to pull away. This is the spiritual home of the Ojibwe people, and you can feel the sacred nod in every breeze and blade of grass.

The community on the island is small, and the lake is huge; this ratio is doing my heart good. And as I said, the poetry is palpable. What are the chances that I would end up here, in the embrace of all of this, and where there is still so much to be revealed in these deep waters?

One of the earliest messages that I received from the land, when I was in meditation.

So I have been in surrender and remembering.

Still, I’ve been finding meaningful ways to stay connected to the people and creative communities I love in the Chicago area.

It’s hard to pull up roots when they run so deep, so I’m always grateful for opportunities to return and gather in story and song.

One of those beloved touchstones is Voice Box: Stories and Serenade at FitzGerald’s every second Tuesday. This month, I’ll also be emceeing and sharing some fierce poetry at the powHERful Winter Torch event. An impactful gathering of female artists, singers, and storytellers.

It happens this Sunday afternoon (4:00–5:30 PM), at the stunning Epiphany Center for the Arts, hosted by Woman Made Gallery.

TICKET LINK

It might be the new residence and the turning of the season toward Easter. It might also be the awareness that so many girls and women have been shut down and silenced for far too long. And current events continue to echo the same old pattern, protecting the perpetrator while silencing the survivors.

Whatever the reason, I’ve been in deep devotion to Mary Magdalene. Maybe deeper than ever before.

Not as a weeping extra in someone else’s story, but as a fierce and faithful force, a woman of means, conviction, and courage. Mary Magdalene was not merely present; she was essential. The Gospels tell us that she and other women financed Jesus’s ministry out of their own resources, sustaining the work materially as well as spiritually.

She stood near the cross when others scattered. She went to the tomb while it was still dark. She did not retreat when events became dangerous, confusing, or politically charged. She remained, witnessing, supporting, and ultimately speaking truth to power. She refused to remain silent, even when she was silenced and slut shamed.

Early church father Hippolytus of Rome honored her with the title “Apostle to the Apostles.” Not just equal. But an example of how an optimal apostle would and should show up. And yet, her story has been so twisted and tainted. What would our world be like if we had the whole story, the one that includes the divine feminine? What would it be like if the Maiden Voyage were as honored as the Hero’s Journey?

In the new year of the Fire Horse, I feel the truth burning like a phoenix, and I have faith that it will rise.

We are all so tired of this same old imbalanced story. There is nothing new about women being silenced.

It’s the echo of Cassandra: truth spoken clearly and dismissed anyway. The cycle repeats itself.

But, I can’t help but feel, as optimistic as it may sound, that this time feels different.

Because we gather not just to sing, tell stories, and express art. We gather because we have reached a place in consciousness where we understand the power of joining. Like the battered and yet bold souls of Minneapolis. A boiling point has been reached. Too much horror has been revealed to allow us to look away. We will not go back, and we will not go silent. It’s not an option. The power is in our hands, and we know it.

Infact we were born for this moment. And the first step of reclaiming or maintaining our power is to show up.

So, whether at FitzGerald’s or Epiphany Center, it would fill my heart to see your faces and share space again.

And if you feel tempted to visit me on the island, I’ll be hosting a celebration for Mary Magdalene on July 22nd, her feast day. Will it be an intimate gathering or a full-on parade? Visioning has begun, and more will be revealed. For now, just mark your calendar.

Madeline/Magdalene may be calling you, too, so hold the date, and I hope to see you this Sunday and at future Voice Box events.

Love,
Maur

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They wondered mostly where she would put the piano, which was a fair question, given that the space was only 600 square feet. A jewel box of a house, she liked to say: a mousetrap, a confessional, a tissue box, an ice tray, depending on the weather and the current occupants. Anyhow, it was small. Walking from the front door to the farthest wall could be done in less than ten steps, everything within reach, a good home to grow old in. That had been something she’d been looking for her whole life: the home she would grow old in. Actually, it was the home she would die in that she was in earnest search of, but that seemed too morbid to confess out loud to anyone. With every move, and there were many, she would scan the walls and ceilings, study the views from the window, and inevitably ask, “Is this the home I die in?”

It’s not that she was morbid; perhaps it was pragmatic. Her first home was the one where she witnessed her mother slip through the veil, surrounded by friends and family, and in that moment, a thousand things changed for her, one of which was that a home now took on the responsibility not just of being a place to live, but eventually of being a place to die.

And for all the times she had asked this question of the myriad previous abodes, never had she felt as certain as she did with this 600 square feet of cabin. This! This was a place she could die.

But first, she would live, and so would the piano, the piano that made so many people scratch their heads. Are you sure? How are you doing to get a piano? And where will you put it? The question made her brow furrow; having to defend it, having to explain, felt like her sanity was being called into question. And maybe it was. But in her mind, in her heart and soul, the piano wasn’t a luxury. It was a vital organ, no pun intended. The heart of the home. And no one ever asks, Where are you going to put your heart?

She was put off by the interrogation. Kind of a strong word. But she was a drama queen. Of course, it was an honest question from people who genuinely loved her, but she didn’t like having to justify things. It made her feel defensive, which, by nature, she was.

She tried to wave it away, the confusion of her friends, reminding herself that they were simply seeing it differently, more concerned with the container than the content. And the redirection caused an honest swell of subtle compassion, which proved to be grace enough to forgive them their short-sightedness. Truthfully, they had every reason and right to question her choices. She was not known for her decision-making.

But despite their well-meaning prompts, the piano’s location was never a riddle; it had always been provided. The one solid wall in the home sat patiently in its purpose. It held itself open like the center of a Bundt cake, or the bare space just north of the second knuckle on a romantically minded single woman’s right ring finger. The space for the piano sat unadorned, uncluttered, uncommitted, knowing it would one day meet its most divine appointment: to hold and host a piano.

When Rosemary moved into the cabin, she didn’t own a piano, nor did she play. Still, the bare wall could not be persuaded to be anything else. And once Rosemary understood that this was, in fact, the only use that wall could be at peace with, well, she could not unsee it.

There was no budget for a piano, but that would not be an issue. When things are meant to be, it’s hard to prevent them from happening. With a single mention of her desire to acquire a piano, her singing teacher sent a text about an old man a few towns over who was giving his away for free. The message came with a photo of a dark-wood, upright, old-fashioned beauty, but Rosemary didn’t need the picture. She had known it and named it before she ever laid eyes on it.

Still, the image was a fine confirmation that the universe was conspiring in her musical endeavors.
“Sweet Caroline,” she whispered as she read the text.
And that was how the piano came to be named.

Sweet Caroline was also the name of her most eccentric aunt, who was not exactly sweet. In fact, that would be the last thing you’d call her. She was feisty and blunt and sharp as a whip, as were all the women in Rosemary’s family. Thinking of Sweet Caroline made Rose think of her father, and how he had taken care of Caroline, subsidizing her rent and groceries even when he himself had eight mouths to feed. That was how her mother put it.

“We can’t afford this or that,” she would explain. “Your father has eight mouths to feed.”

At first, the saying disturbed Rosemary; she hadn’t connected the mouths with her siblings. Instead, she imagined her father in his workroom, facing a wall full of hungry mouths as he diligently tried to feed. But once she did make the connection, Rose wondered why her mother hadn’t included her own mouth, or her father’s, let alone all the other mouths that found their way to the table at dinnertime. The widowed grandpas and latchkey kids of the neighborhood, who seemed to have gotten the message that her father was in the mouth-feeding business.

At any rate, it would have been a stronger argument to include them all when it came to not being able to afford the current request. Nevertheless, even with all those mouths to feed, he also fed and housed the mouths of his sister, for whom the piano was named. Because aside from the fact that she was feisty, blunt, and sharp as a whip, Aunt Caroline was also an artist, the only one Rosemary had known.

There was a rumor that Aunt Caroline had once worked as a secretary for a newspaper, or was it a magazine? It must have been a long time before Rose came along, as far as she could tell. Secretary was like the word sweet, not something you would naturally associate with Aunt Caroline.

For as long as Rose had known her, Aunt Caroline lived in a basement sanctuary in Nutley, New Jersey. Her walls were filled with framed art of all kinds. Her sewing machine was always out, along with a long wooden antique table piled with bottles of beads and buttons, bottle caps, thimbles, and an eclectic array of found-object costume jewelry and scraps of bits and bobs that, as a whole, looked like pirate booty. She used these items to create her masterpieces of miniature dollhouses, which made Rose and her seven siblings lean in awe, pointing out every tiny detail: the coffee cup on the kitchen counter, so small that even a mouse would find it dainty; the folded newspaper on the couch, as if some little person had just gotten up to gather the laundry. They could almost read the headlines, though the print was so small you needed a magnifying glass to get the full story. But make no mistake, it was there. Aunt Caroline was not one to phone it in with incoherent squiggles; there were words and sentences, carrying the current events. The big story of the day… for the little people of this world.

Aunt Caroline’s actual apartment was 400 square feet, but in her miniatures, she owned mansions. And so it was obvious to Rose that the piano should be christened Caroline for her ability to honor art even in cramped spaces, and that, in honoring that art, she could transform inches into an eternity. Giving Rose that conviction that not having a piano was never an option.

And when it was finally delivered to her doorstep*, and miraculously maneuvered into place, it of course fit right in, as if the piano itself knew where it belonged. And when it rested in its designated spot, the wall seemed to finally sigh and surrender the ache of waiting.

One good question: How are you making space for the muse and the music in your life? Leave a comment.

*see video in dessert section below for that magical moment.

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LOVE, Maur

Dessert!

This is how sweet Caroline was delivered by Bob Teisberg and his a lull, which is a powerful piece of machinery, but “lull” also means a soothing sound. Perfect poetry to my ears.

Let’s Hang Out

If you are on Madeline Island, join me at the yoga yurt for a sound healing this Sunday.

Join us at Voice Box Stories & Serenade this January 10th for our Valentine’s show.

Tickets for The Best Night of the Month

Winter Torch, a night of stories, songs, and art at the stunning Epiphany Center in Chicago.

Escape the cold and chaos outside and step into the warm embrace of Winter Torch! Presented by Woman Made Gallery, this gathering celebrating sisterhood blends the soulful acoustic guitar of Robinlee Garber, along with the powerful storytelling of Maureen Muldoon and Jae Green, illuminating voices too often left unheard. At the heart of the evening, the screening of Woman Made Gallery’s virtual exhibit - Quiet Piggy: We Cannot be Silenced, serves as a backdrop and a beacon—representing collective voices of resistance that will not be silenced. Together, the music, storytelling, and exhibit form a chorus of resilience, reminding us that creativity is a radiant torch against the darkness.

A Night of Power and Inspiration

Today, we are on lesson 16 of A Course in Miracles, it talks about what we are projecting on the world.

We’re all walking around like little Pandora’s boxes, pretending we’re fine. But when life cracks us open, grief, love, failure, awe spill out, and suddenly we see what we’ve been storing. Lesson 16 reminds us that there are no neutral thoughts. Every thought is either feeding love or feeding fear. Whatever is inside us is always broadcasting.

The Manual for Teachers says honesty is not about perfection; it’s about consistency. And consistency is not just thinking loving thoughts, or saying loving words, or doing loving things. It’s when your thoughts, words, and actions are all in alignment with love. That’s integrity. That’s the work. And that’s why you can’t skip self-love. You cannot give what you do not have. You cannot extend what you refuse to offer yourself.

So here’s the experiment:

One Good Question

When you were broken open, what was at the center?

Can you answer in one sentence?
Or a few words?

I’ll start: when I was broken open, what I first found was comparison. It was painful. Then I found curiosity, willingness, compassion, and then beauty. Finally, I found something that still delights me: a fierce fire of Self-advocacy. It was so fierce that it made me laugh thinking about it, and then I woke up.

Because once you free what is inside you, you are free.

Now it’s your turn. Who lives on the. inside?

Love, Maur

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Hi friends,

It’s kinda funky out there, and so I thought to kick off my series of “One Good Question.” To give us all another opportunity to recalibrate towards peace.

A Course in Miracles, lesson 15, suggests, My Thoughts Are Images That I Have Made.

We seem to walk around inside a horror movie that we wrote ourselves, then act surprised by the jump scares. Lesson 15 of A Course in Miracles gently suggests we question the script.

Fear will not question itself. It speaks first and loudest, pouring out a helpless stream of consciousness and projecting it onto everything. It’s the story that says: I am not enough. I do not have enough. There will never be enough. And this isn’t enough either.

This uncredited source seeks to hijack the moment with meaning. It’s a seductive song of the ego, whispering separation and calling it sanity. Its only goal is to pull you away from awareness.

Do not be convinced.

When light meets light, a vortex of love opens and blooms. This concept can be startling at first, but if we lean back from the stories and meanings, we will have something more beautiful than sight, we will have presence, and what I would call true holy communion.

Lesson 15 reminds us that we don’t actually see the world, we illustrate it. Our thoughts become images. Our images become “reality.” Then we forget we were the artist and start blaming the painting.

The mind is a Pixar studio for trauma. It renders every memory in high definition, adds dramatic lighting, and scores it with a soundtrack titled You’re Fucked.

And yet the Course says, slow your roll. Are you even actually seeing?

If you were seeing, you would notice the light that lands on things. The light that leaks from things.

Lesson 15 invites us to see again. And when we do, the chair stops being “my broken life in furniture form” or a memory of my mother-in-law, and instead, it is simply seen.

We use the same devotion we could offer awareness and aim it at pre-planning our apocalypse. We split ourselves in two before we ever arrive. Preplanning what we will expect to see. Preplanning our misery.

Yes, the world might end. The dog will die. Shit will absolutely hit the fan. But right now? You are breathing. You are reading. You are not on fire. You are not being chased by wolves. You are safe enough to question the movie you’re watching.

Will we keep telling God how big our fear is, or will we remember how great our God is?

If our thoughts are images we made, can we stop worshipping them and start observing them?

You don’t have to destroy the image. You just have to stop confusing it with reality.

So today, try this:

Look at something ordinary and say, This is an image I made.

Not to deny it. Not to dismiss it. Just to begin to see. Remember, you are the one holding the camera. And you are the one who installed all the filters.

And once you remember that, begin to notice. Just notice the light — where it falls, how it moves, as if you might be asked to paint it.

This is one way to touch the hem of presence. And presence is a first cousin of peace.

If you really want to pet the cat in the right direction, give it sixty seconds. We’ve donated hours and days to fear-scrolling. Sixty seconds is not too much to ask. And it might change everything.

So, here is my “One Good Question.” If my thoughts are images I made, can I stop worshipping them and start observing them?

Try it out. Pick one thing, a pen, a phone, a tree, and give it sixty seconds of real attention.

Then SEE what happens.

LOVE, Maur

Invites

We are on day 15 with A Course in Miracles. If you are ready to train your mind and live in love. It’s not too late to join us.

A Daily Course in Miracles 2026

If you are looking for support with your writing, subscribe here and join our weekly Story Salon for inspiration and accountability.

This Sunday.

Many mental health struggles come from how we relate to time. Depression pulls us into the past, replaying what happened. Anxiety pushes us into the future, worrying about what might happen. Both are ways the mind tries to protect us, but they become painful when we feel stuck inside them. What we call symptoms are often the mind’s attempt to regain balance. Healing happens when we remember we are more than one story about ourselves. Spirituality — not as belief, but as presence and connection — helps us feel less alone and more supported by something larger than our fear.

We gather for prayer, meditation, and conversation with Todd Fink, host of the Kind Mind podcast and licensed therapist, hosted by Jerome Imhoff. All are welcome.

Dessert

I will be singing at St. John’s this Sunday. Here is a clip from the last time I sang there. If you are on the Island, come join us.

Hi Friends,

Above is a picture of my five sisters and me trying our best to demonstrate our angelic nature to the man in red. Aside from the fact that it reminds me of Mad Magazine, thanks to my sister Joan’s overly earnest attempt at innocence, paired with our mother’s passion for bowl cuts. It also reminds me how much better Christmas is when shared.

So if Christmas feels tender this year, if you are alone, grieving, disappointed, or simply not where you hoped you’d be, you are not wrong, and you are not alone.

Here are a couple of ways to connect in community. Tonight, you are warmly invited to Speakeasy Zoom Christmas Eve Taizé Service, where we’ll gather in simple song, silence, and shared presence. If you have a song you’d like to share, join us. Or come to listen.

On Christmas Day, we are hosting a Blue Christmas Gathering with Kate Miller, a virtual space to welcome the Christmas that is, instead of forcing ourselves to perform the Christmas we imagined.

A Blue Christmas is offered especially for those hurting during the holidays. Some come because they are mourning the death of a loved one. Some are far from home. Some are due to illness, addiction, or estrangement. Some are lonely, struggling financially, or in conflict with another. Some hurt because of the great pain and violence in our nation and world. This is also a lovely opportunity to share a little Christmas with others. The reasons for coming are many.

A soft landing place. A candle-lit pause. A moment to breathe.

Duration: 1hr

Blue Christmas

Another way to beat the blues is through music and service. Here is a splash of both. Santa Claus Disguise was a song I penned back in the day, when I was broke as a joke, but found comfort in dressing up as Santa and gathering donations for the kids at Holly Grove orphanage. It turned out to be a real lesson in reminding me that giving and receiving are one and the same.

We will close the year with Ricki Comeaux! Ricki is a devoted teacher of God, a passionate singer/songwriter, and a demonstration that anyone can learn to access the Holy Spirit’s guidance through simple daily practices. Ricki explores practical steps for forgiving and accessing the Holy Instant by releasing patterns of fear and suffering in the mind. The result is healing and inevitable Peace and Joy!

Ricki Comeaux

As for me, I will be singing at St John’s on Madeline Island on the 28th and sharing an original story called The Candlestick Maker. If you are in the area, join us for a special service of Winter stories and songs. Or catch it on their live stream YouTube channel. LINK

If you have gotten this far in the Holiday Mad-Ramble. I’ve left the best for last, a nice slice of Christmas dessert with my exaggerated version of one of my favorite stories about a story, The Little Drummer Boy, a reminder that what we bring is enough, even when it feels small.

Thank you for supporting this Substack and SpeakEasy's wider offerings. Your presence here matters more than you know.

Wherever you are, however this season finds you, I wish you a Merry Christmas—one rooted in honesty, warmth, and grace.

LOVE, Maur

Enjoy Dessert!

I was once told by a Rabbi that when dealing with grief, there are three stages. First, you cry, second, you become very still, and third, you wait and witness as your grief is transformed into a song. This was my year.

It began in January, while hosting a Moon Mná Circle (Mná means Women in Irish), my old oven suddenly died. But first, it began to tick, then smoke, then flames, and then it died. The house was fine, everyone was fine, but it felt as though the energy of all those good women literally fired up the house, causing the stove to implode. Twelve months later, in December, I would lay waste to another oven.

Between the two expired ovens, the rest of my life imploded as well. Those ovens were just the bookends that held the real storm in place, like two parentheses, as I watched all that I knew as sure and solid slip into a fluid state and run downhill.

As a writer, there was an additional obstacle. The story is not all mine to tell, I had to navigate the landmine with stealth compassion for all the other players. But I could not, not write, and I could not pretend that my house was not in fire. And so I began walking the tightrope of truth and transparency.

Aside from writing, having my life implode left me untethered to everything but God. I have always trusted my strong intuition, which was only amplified by this current classroom. So I was comforted when my Higher Power, my inner Divine, assured me that I was actually entering “a time of a thousand kindnesses.”

So I entered mainly because there was no other choice.

And although the rug had been ripped from beneath my feet, before I could calculate my next step, God rolled out the red carpet as She is known to do. And I found myself hunkered down with my daughter in an old church in New York that had been converted into a condo. It was three weeks before Easter, and we would get to watch ourselves struggle with the cross, the crucifixion of our lives, and the very unlikely resurrection.

I returned to my roots and flew through a hundred tissue boxes in the 12-step meetings of Brooklyn. As I gulped back tears, I marveled at the miracles afforded me: that I could arrive in any corner of the world and find a willing room of friends I had never met before. I took the Rabbi’s direction and emptied myself. My tears rolled so hot and heavy that I felt like I was living in a different microclimate. Rain, rain, rain. I could not hold back the river. If you were one of the kind sober siblings who passed the box of tissues my way, please know that in the cloud of confusion, I remember. And I will never forget.

This underground railroad of the twelve-step program saved me. Again.

I was gently ushered into coffee shops, offered generous listening ears, and reminded that it would be okay. Despite all evidence to the contrary, these anonymous friends were right.

The next stop on the Rabbi’s map was stillness. This has never been easy for me. It’s hard to stay still when you no longer know where home is, and so I began to travel. I wasn’t sure if I was running from something or toward something. I had no map for this moment. All the road signs were in another language, and it felt like a frustrating maze.

I showed up on doorsteps from Philadelphia to Colorado, hopping from Hoboken to the Jersey Shore. Tucked into guest rooms with hot tea and counsel and compassionate eyes. I was offered sanctuary in Mexico and London, and I found myself getting on planes and flying solo to hole up in vacant apartments. And somehow, through all this motion, I found myself in stillness, staring at a bottle of Coke that told me what to do next.

Of course, I would go to Madeline Island, a place of great healing. And so, in June, I entered what the Rabbi suggested as the final stage of grief, where heartbreak would be alchemized into song. On Madeline Island, where music comes easy, I sang, and I sang, and I sang.

A pack of powerful, wise women joined me for a retreat. How was I able to host a retreat in the middle of this meltdown? I have no idea except to say that beautiful Brenda, who can flip a flapjack into a feast, nurtured us all with meals fit for queens, and between the women and the water, great healing and happiness washed in.

I want to say I found my footing, but the truth is that after all of that, there came another chapter that the Rabbi did not mention, the shedding.

In October, we sold our home, reallocated 80% of our belongings, and took up permanent residence in our little log cabin at the edge of the woods on an island.

And here again, God had my back. Moving is notoriously stressful, but somehow I had been prepared. In the early hours of the year when my first oven was blowing up, I was inspired to clean out the whole house and get it painted.

By the time I was inspired to let go of the house, it was ready to be handed over. And it sold within five days, thanks to our long-time friends, Carol and Dave. And then it was time to release the contents of the home we had lived in for 15 years. And here is the odd thing: overnight, my items, my cherished possessions, became strangers to me. It was harder to hold on to things than to let them go. I watched our things move like water through a sieve. I hosted a garage sale that was more like a game show, where I gave things away for free, as pleased pirates peered back at me in delight, having just won the lottery. After this year of generosity and kindness, it was honestly hard to haggle.

And so with a lighter load, we arrived at the Island in time for our final classroom of the year, a double whammy. A storm would come. A tree would fall, a wire would go down, and that second oven that would fry out, along with the refrigerator, water heater, coffee maker, and a handful of electronics. And just for good measure of humility, I would take a fall that would have me unable to raise my left arm without a serious stab of pain. Did someone have a voodoo doll with my face on it?

And so we would spend two weeks in a stranger's condo who opened their doors and said, "Come stay here.” The condo came with a jacuzzi tub that overlooked the water, and I spent hours rehabbing my shoulder in bubble baths and audiobooks.

I can honestly say that this year I slept in more strangers’ beds than a rom-com heroine in her ‘finding herself’ montage.

This was also the year that I committed to this Substack, and despite all odds, I stayed committed. I look back at my posts, which started with me convincing you to get your house in order in a post titled, This Is Your Home. And then in April, I attempt to tell you about The Thing. In July, I found some clarity in One Good Thing, and in September, I met myself at the edge of my own fears and leaped in a post titled "Are You On Edge."

I am proud of the writing I did this year, and I am so grateful for your support as I navigated what I hope will remain forever as the best worst year of my life. I am not the woman who entered this year; she went the way of the ovens.

But in a year where everything blew away, flew away, and fell away, there was still something that remained. When everything was stripped away, kindness had more room to spread out.

It seems like such a subtle spice that can get left lingering in the back of the pantry, but the smallest dash of kindness can transform hell into heaven. And although it has been a year of explosions and implosions, it has also truly been a year of a thousand kindnesses, and I am better for it all.

Love, Maur

Here are those previously mentioned posts.

May 2026 find us all a little more grounded in kindness. I wish you peace and goodwill, and a soft landing.

Love, Maur

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Events

Welcome to our New Year’s immersion for those ready to listen inward, share bravely, and transform their inner howlings into sacred clarity.

Where creativity meets courage & where your raw truth becomes your compass. During this restorative gathering, you will be guided through: Meditation, Contemplation, Writing prompts, and Conversation.

We will close with a restorative sound healing to seal our intentions and bless the beginning of 2026 and your Maiden Voyage into the peaceful, purposeful, and powerful year ahead. All are welcome.

TLC on New Years Day

Before the New Year rushes in, try out our spiritual wake-up call, where we discuss, discover, apply, and embody the principles of A Course in Miracles. It's free and freeing. Join us.

Wake Up with Us

Hi friends,
This story was inspired by a writing prompt I offered to our virtual Story Salon group. It was pretty simple: “Write a story about a disco ball.” If, after reading my confession, you feel inspired to pen your own mad ramble, please feel free to share it in the comments. One last warning: I added some images of my best dance moves. It’s like three servings of dessert. So please enjoy them mid-meal as you go.

The Magic of a Disco Ball

My sister Mary always told us that nothing good happens after midnight. It was not so much a superstition as a prescription. Our big Irish Catholic family was a veritable flock of night owls, and it seemed that if anything had the power to turn all the Doctor Jekylls into Mr. Hydes, it was the bewitching hour. We had to blame the clock, because we would never blame the alcohol.

“The bewitching hour,” Mary would warn, with a pointed finger and a knowing look.

To bewitch originally meant to be-wiccen or to be enchanted. And so we would come to accept that the night brought the moon and the moon brought the moonshine, and it was best to make peace with it all. We were smart enough to know we could never eradicate the moonshine.

We once had a brother-in-law who was trying to get sober; his wife, my sister, suggested to the family that we might spend a sober Christmas together. We all agreed earnestly, but, of course, we never actually followed through; how could we have?

We had no reference for this type of agreement. It was as if she suggested we all spend Christmas in Japan, and because we loved her, we agreed, “How fun! Yes, Japan sounds amazing!”

But when it came right down to it, no one actually knew how to get there.

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The best we could do was to beat the devil to bed, with my sister Mary’s well-placed warnings. “Nothing good happens after midnight.” It would become her haunting sign-off, spat over her shoulder as the minute and hour hands met at 11:55 and set a silent clap that ushered my sister to action. She rose and meandered up the stairs and was safely tucked in bed before the hands met again at midnight. Leaving the rest of us with fleeting memories of Cinderella and how a good thing could go so bad if you didn’t mind the time.

But then, of course, that was not the end of the story. There was the glass slipper, the kiss, and the happily ever after.

And so the moment of silence, as she ascended the staircase, would inevitably be followed by the crack of another beer and a flurry of cackles from my four other sisters and any other dirty stay-out, who enjoyed the bewitching hour and had already silently decided, and communally agreed, that “Nothing good happened after midnight” was a curse worth breaking.

For many years, her words would go unheeded as I pushed past midnight to close all the bars, pulled all the pranks, pushed all the buttons, burned all the bridges, kissed all the boys and girls, promised all the cops that we were definitely closing down the after-party, and finally ran the town naked while howling at the moon.

But of course, I did all of this only to ensure a strong argument that, in fact, many, many good things did actually happen after midnight.

The bewitching hour could be very good, a veritable vortex of transformation. What about those late-night confessions that can only be extracted when the person is completely inebriated, uninhibited, and the night offers a darkness so dark that it creates a catalytic cocoon?

And the sorry caterpillar of a person bellies in and bellies up, finally coughing up the hairball of truth so heavy that, once released, they give their untested wings a chance. And you, who stayed up, can now confidently affirm with admiration that the confessor is now destined to fly off in the morning with the monarchs. And you who bask in the glow of a hard truth told are made holy just for having witnessed. What about when that happens?

And what about the magic of all the romantic kisses, under disco balls with strangers, that literally do not count unless they happen after midnight? The timing is the whole reason they are romantic.

And how about the clever invention of all those dance moves, not to mention the liberation of wallflowers, who notoriously take till after midnight to free themselves from the wall and suddenly, without warning, grow like aggressive weeds and take over the dance floor with their frenetic freedom?

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Had my sister never witnessed these good things?

Surely she had ventured into New York on the late-night train with smuggled bottles of Boone’s Farm wine and seen the spell that a disco ball could cast after midnight. It was a rite of passage for all Catholic Jersey girls to make the pilgrimage to New York, where the city never slept and nightclubs moaned with the horny hum of Donna Summer, seducing us into suggestive swaying with promises of Oooh, love to love you, baby. Ooh, love to love you, baby. And we parched parochial kids were guilty of being babies who needed some love.

And so we danced under the disco balls to the pulsating music that vibrated the walls and floor, so that you felt you were in a rocket ship headed for the stars. You and all your new best friends had hit a vibe so hard that you were headed to the next level of consciousness.

The luxurious darkness of these smoky basements, barrooms, and clubs, lit by the single spinning glow of a disco ball, could inspire reckless commitment to the most awkward gyrations—full-on humping and bumping and twirling and twerking that would make Napoleon Dynamite look suave. But no one cared; everyone loved everyone under the disco ball. That was the unspoken rule.

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Sex and sweat, short skirts and teased hair, in seedy bars with our fake IDs, a half-dozen Dorothys who had descended in Oz navigating new ruby slippers and determined to meet the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of after-hours. After hours that bled into sunrise, and hangovers that hit like a hammer right to the head, clearly cracking the cranium, and yet the beating was worth it; these swinging hammers came decorated in rainbow streamers of stories that ribboned around us. Stories we shared, like confiscated goods, laying it all on the table as a way to piece the night back together, filling in the blackouts and blind spots, and exaggerating the details with every repetition.

We, the nobodies, the leftovers, the bus-and-tunnel kids, would be transformed into nocturnal kings and queens and jokers as we squeezed into small booths at some all-night diner, eyes burning and squinting from cigarette smoke, dehydration, and the realization that we definitely weren’t going to school that day.

It was never the clock, as my sister suggested. The credit belongs to the disco ball, those bedazzled orbs that simmered like cheap lip gloss, blurry, nauseating, and mesmerizing - the first link in a chain of events that would lead to crowded cab rides, or puking in the foyer before trying to get your friend’s cousin’s ex-girlfriend to buzz you in.

Come on, man, it’s cold out here!

And when that didn’t work, bumming a cigarette from the stunning trans woman on her way home from the night shift, her voice soft and wise, as she generously doled out advice and aspirin, or what you hoped were aspirin. In a sea of pain and regret, she arrived like a gentle, generous Glinda, reminding us that there’s no place like home.

But we were too young, too deaf, and too cocky to listen. Like my sister’s advice about midnight, these kind cautions flew right over our heads. Not when there were disco balls, the ever-spinning mirrored roulette wheels hanging from the ceiling, promising that we would get lucky as they cast a counterfeit constellation across the dance floor, filling us with false hopes and fleeting stardom.

In those forbidden rooms of erotica and escape, we were no longer Catholic school girls running from rigid rules; we were anyone, and no one, and somebody. Finding the edge of our comfort zones and stepping over, and instead of turning back into pumpkins and poor little rich girls, we were polished, branded, broken, and bettered, bearing a closer resemblance to our true selves for having faced the dark.

That’s the stuff that happened after midnight.

These days, I heed my sister’s advice, because I am a morning person. I don’t stay up till midnight. But I still sneak out in the wee dark hours, strip naked beneath the stars, and dive into Lake Superior. It’s a different intoxication, but I am delivered to the same sense of bravery that it took to navigate New York nightlife.

There I float on the surface beneath the moon, the OG of disco balls as she hangs, shining, showing herself, whole, half, a sliver, a neon eyelash in a velvet sky.

And I am, still ever and always, enchanted.

LOVE, MAUR

DESSSERT

Dec. 7th @ Hold the Date

Hold the date for our SpeakEasy 12th anniversary, where we will gather on Zoom with our favorite musicians, poets, and community storytellers. This is a sweet milestone that reminds us how far love, laughter, and a good conversation can carry a vision. We will also be sharing some exciting news for the future.

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STORY SALON

Join us every Monday at 3:30 pm CT. for our Story Salon Writers Group. We gather to generate ideas, work on technique, and workshop or pieces.

You can come to share or to listen.

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Here is the link to join our Zoom Meeting: https://us06web.zoom.us/j/87670880586

Meeting ID: 876 7088 0586

Love, Maur

Here, where blaring search lights and sirens are replaced with subtle starlight and silence. I watch in wonder, realizing that I can be comfortable in the dark, no longer afraid but oddly intrigued, and apparently prepared for it.

Earlier this year, I found myself reading book after book, such as Learning to Walk in the Dark by Barbara Brown Taylor and Waking Up to the Dark by Clark Strand. I had no idea why I was gobbling up these volumes designed to romance the dark. But I know that many of these books didn’t just ask us to make peace with the dark, but to enter it —walk in it, alone.

As I thumbed through the pages, I had no idea at the time that they were welcoming me into an initiation that I would have never chosen for myself.

I don’t think I need to confess my bias toward brilliance and brightness. I’ve been taught to fear the darkness. I have romanced, regaled, and relished the light. Fire it up, friends, court your brilliance, chase off the shadows, and shine, shine, shine, sis-star!

It seems that this overamplification of light’s value has blinded me to my own dualistic allegiances. And so it’s time that I forgive my fears and make peace with the full spectrum of humanity. To welcome darkness not as void, but as a fertile field of possibilities. A classroom, a teacher, and an opportunity to own and honor all aspects of myself, the waxing and waning.

In the cold, dark, stillness of these northern nights, I am discovering that I need darkness as much as I need dawn. My soul has been craving this. And as a sunny optimist, a seven on the enneagram, as a card-carrying rose-colored glasses, self-identified “silver lining factory,” I am honestly unerved by the depth of darkness and the rich love affair I have forsaken for sunnier sermons and high-vibe brilliance. I guess what I am saying is, I am ready to dance in the dark.

My sunrise spirituality and breezy barefoot blessings have been effectively honored and celebrated. But now the darkness calls, and it will not be denied. It whispers of richness: of warm mugs of spiced dark chocolate, red velvet and incense, warm, worn leather… candlelight. And even now, as I write, I see how I am attempting to romance the darkness, to wrap and rebrand the bare bones of winter —the chill of shadows — as some glorious cashmere-grey mist settling over the woods. It just may be, but I hope you can spot the Ever Ready Bunny of Sunshine, so determined to avoid the darkness.

Although these textures are sensual, and tangibly and decadent, do not be distracted, dear reader. Beneath the warmth of velvet, the richness of candlelight, they point to something deeper: the winter of the soul, the cold, dark, damp cave of hibernation, the solitude, the silence. And I, a people person through and through, find myself trying to convince myself that I am not afraid of the dark. I mean, I am not… I am really not. But then again, I am also not very fluent in it.

And so I watch as grey skies turn black and deliver a generous sprinkling of stars who brilliantly dance and delight this audience of one, and I make myself stand in the darkness. And I find that it’s not a hiding place, but is a womb. It is not just the absence of light, but a beautiful mystery. Some things can only be seen in the dark.

And so my task is to venture into the shorter days and solitude, not because the dark is comfortable, but because it offers me a sense of the sacred that I could not have secured for myself on sunny shores.

And although I still favor them, I am entertaining the sacred in me that has always known how to find its way through the dark.

The darker the night, the more brilliant the light appears.

I hope to find that, share it with you, and invite you into your own sacred darkness. So join me tomorrow at SpeakEasy Spiritual Community as we contemplate the full spectrum of darkness and light — the laser, the lantern, and the sun — and explore how we might navigate the continual waxing and waning of illumination within and around us.

May our love grow bolder in the darker days and darker times; may our love grow so bold that it outshines the sun.

LOVE, Maur

PS: Enjoy dessert.

EVENTS

SpeakEasy Spiritual Community honors all paths and is anchored in the teachings of A Course in Miracles and the Divine Feminine. We meet virtually on Sunday at 10:30 am CT and feature a community conversation that invites us to speak easily about spiritual principles and practice. Please don’t leave your brains, beliefs, or background at the door. We don’t have all the answers, but we love the questions.

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DESSERT

A little spoof on daylight savings. I mean saving. It’s not plural!

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I’ve been digging through the remnants of my past as we prepare for our move to Madeline Island. Closing up a home that has held my family and me for the past fifteen years is no small thing. I’m swimming through an ocean of emotions, gratefully anchored each day by what always seems like the perfect lessons from A Course in Miracles during this time.

Lesson 288, Let me forget my brother’s past today.

Lesson 289, The past is over. It can touch me not.

Lesson 290 My present happiness is all I see.

Oh, if this could be true, how gentle my path would be. But with every photo I pack, with every item and piece of artwork, I’m pulled into the stories of my past.

This has been a home of stories and self-expression, where I wrote and published three books, created a one-person play, started a church, and launched a program that teaches and coaches people from around the world to embody the spiritual principles of A Course in Miracles. This is the home that birthed a dozen retreats, where I led women to sacred spaces. It’s the home that helped host The Maiden Voyage, a program guiding women on their internal journey of self-realization.

So much has been stirred up and stored within the walls of this home, from the depths of addiction to the breathtaking betrayals, to the serenading of singers, sisters, and brothers, and the echoes of a trillion miracles upon miracles upon miracles. If you know, you know. This house has generously held it all, with barely a creak or a word of condemnation.

This has been the home of the Muse.

Finding the Muse is a bit like finding “a God of your own understanding,” but softer, more playful. Maybe she arrives as a fiery angel with paint on her wings, or a gentle grandmother tending a fire and humming you courage. Maybe she’s the boldest, brightest version of you, the part that sings out loud and speaks the truth without edit or apology. Maybe she’s the fearless, shameless, blameless, unedited, sexy, sacred siren who calls you to the sacred truth and to play, and shows you that these things are not mutually exclusive.

However she appears, remember this: she is fun. She is frivolous. And she absolutely has your back.

So, get to know her. This week, Jerome Imhoff, our fearless leader in The Artist’s Way group, invites us to take this connection a step further and create a piece of art inspired by your Muse. Paint her, sculpt her, collage her, write her a letter, use Canva or canvas, as I did in the image above. Let yourself have fun. How novel. And bring her essence into form.

As Course students and teachers, we know that God is the Creator, and we are created in Its likeness.

Child of God, you were created to create the good, the beautiful and the holy. - A Course in Miracles

In The Maiden Voyage, A Spiritual Odyssey Through the Archetypes of the Feminine Soul, we journey through the archetypes as a creative and spiritual awakening, celebrating the Maiden, Muse, Mogul, Mother, Minister, Mystic, Monarch.

Side Note: For those interested, The Maiden Voyage officially launches this January with a virtual and in-person monthly gathering for coaching, creativity, and soul care, culminating in an in-person celebration on July 22nd. Mark your calendars! More info. to follow.

As for me, I have been so devoted to the Muse that I have often been mistaken for one. This has never been my goal. I am not a genie in a bottle, and I try not to be a shadow artist, a term coined by Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way. No, dear reader, I am not interested in being the choreographer of your best moves; I am just a dancer, devoted to being led by my Divine, my own internal Muse, this lifelong companion who has swept me into adventures and sweetly seduced from me products, programs, and prayers beyond my own authorship.

This internal guide makes it easy for me to step from the knowing and lean into the mystery, the trusted compass that gives me the gumption to pull the thread on all the tapestries I have woven, so that I can begin again, in a new chapter, in a new home, in a new way that will surely be an even more blessed and beautiful version of all the stories I once held so dear. Because God never steps backward.

And so it is into the Mystery we go, when we go with the Muse, the miracle worker. She only asks us to give up two things: forget the past and forget the future. Stay here, in this present moment of conception, so that you can be guided and beguiled by her magnificent brilliance and beauty. Come, empty yourself, and surrender to inspiration, the Spirit that dwells within.

Now is the time, dear reader, to reacquaint yourself with your own innate power. Now is the time to entertain your Muse. She does not come to the fearful or the controlling. She lives in the present and arrives to the one who celebrates the light on leaves, the wind in branches, and dreams in the desert, where all seems lost, and yet, and yet, look about you, look up, be willing, and you will not be able to ignore the single star that still shines for you. And when you lay your thirsty eyes upon this light, let it seduce from you a wish, a foolish, frivolous, childlike wish. Then wait, and watch with willingness.

If I know anything about the Muse, and I do, I know that she comes to those who smile at the fire, for they know about the phoenix. The ones who gather bones from the graveyard and build themselves a throne. The ones willing to hear the rhythm of a new song, and the courageous ones who decide to sing along, even if they don’t yet know all the words.

Whether you’re walking this path with our Artist’s Way group or simply following along from afar, I invite you to pause this week. Consider your Muse and create something, anything, that honors your God-given creative nature.

The Muse is always waiting, ready to play, to guide, to remind you that art is sacred, joyful, and human.

One final note: my place of home is shifting, but my love remains the same. I am always easy to connect with via the aforementioned Creative Virtual classes and conversations. The Muse in me is percolating with exciting ways to connect and collaborate in the future, and I can’t wait to share it all with you.

And remember, if you want to meet up in person every week, swap stories, and work on your writing, subscribe to the Substack, and you’ll receive the Zoom information. It’s a great place to dance with the Muse.

Thank you to all who have come to this home, and to those who took up residence here. We have had the privilege of hosting many friends in transition. Thank you to all who brought your music and musings to our table over the years, who planted our gardens, and broke bread with us.

As I close up this home, this chapter, I look forward to connecting with you wherever and whenever that may happen. Because home is not a location.

I think my kids sang it best: Home is wherever I am with you. You can find their wonderful rendition of the song in the dessert section.

In the meantime…

Love,
Maur

Love, Maur

And now, enjoy DESSERT!

I would love to hear from you!

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And if you'd like to connect, pitch a story for Voice Box, have me on your podcast, just have a chat, reach out here.

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Years ago, I was invited to attend the final filming of the Oprah Show. With visions of finding a car under my seat, I headed off to the show with my friend America, and that is where I was gifted something even more valuable.

The episode was “Oprah’s top guests.” That’s where I heard the story of a girl from rural Zimbabwe who dreamed of coming to America, going to school, becoming a doctor, and returning home to serve her community.

Because she was not allowed to attend school, she secretly taught herself to read and write by doing her brothers’ homework. The local teacher pleaded with her father to let her attend school, but to no avail.

By eighteen, she was married with three children and trapped in an abusive relationship, until she met Jo Luck (a perfect name for the moment). Jo, then president of Heifer International, had come to Zimbabwe to stir hope and healing. After hearing the girl's dreams, she leaned in and assured the young woman that it was all possible.

That small vote of encouragement became the fuel for the young woman, who would become Dr. Tererai Trent, to reach every last seemingly impossible dream. She would go on to share with the world the idea of Tinnogana, which means it is achievable.

Side note, I did not get a car, but Oprah did gift us all a free Tinogona T-shirts, modeled here by my son.

But I actually got so much more than a T-shirt. After the show, I took an action. I reached out to Dr. Tereria, and to my surprise, she wrote back. We became friends, and eventually, she joined me as an honored guest speaker at SpeakEasy. Later, she would also write the foreword to my first book, Giant Love Song.

Foreward To Giant Love Song by Dr. Tererai Trent

I met Maureen Muldoon while on my book tour with The Awakened Woman. She made it known that we would be friends. Thankfully, I felt the same way or I may have needed a restraining order. It’s interesting when you cross paths with a soul sister from across the globe and discover how similar our journeys, how universal our struggles, and how kindred our spirits. It’s beautiful to see that when we walk the good walk, life carves for us a path that is not meant to break us, but to wake us, and it peoples that path with helpful hands.

We rise and awaken not just for ourselves but we do this for the betterment of all. This does not mean that the journey will be easy, but we will be guaranteed that our willingness will leave a legacy for those who still struggle. This has been my own life’s work, and it is also the theme woven so beautifully into Giant Love Song.

Beneath every brokenhearted story is a love song, a lesson, or a blessing. These experiences are an invitation to find our most authentic and helpful voices. We are each responsible for delivering our stories and finding our own truths. My grandmther used to remind me of the importance of owning a voice that matches our dreams: “Until the female lion becomes the historian of her OWN story, the tale of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.”

In Giant Love Song, Maureen Muldoon has become her own historian. She has found and honors the voice of resistance, the voice of fear, the voice of willingness, and finally, the voice of resurrection. No matter what our stories are, we must all learn to rise.

Enjoy the journey through this giant love song and allow it to crack you open. Find that place, that open wound. Travel to your tender spots and let them inform you. Be willing to wait and listen. It is in these universal classrooms of love and losses that we will find our redemption and healing. We become more awakened.

The deeper truth of our universal potential lies within the heart of the individual. However, it does not hurt to have some mighty companions along the journey. If you are looking to be reminded that we are each an essential and Divine thread in love’s tapestry, this book is for you.

May it help you hear and honor your own giant love songs.

—Dr. Tererai Trent

Dr. Tereria and I had our dreams supported by both consistency and community.

Community and consistency are love and law. Or what I call Deep River and Big Ocean. You can’t get to the Big Ocean without going through the Deep River.

Deep river means consistency. It is the daily recommitment, the willingness to stay the course, to work the scales over and over, to hold to the dream, and to keep fresh your high resolve.

Our daily thought patterns dictate our outcomes. Malcolm Gladwell popularized the idea that it takes 10,000 hours to go from ordinary to mastery. He pointed to the Beatles and Bill Gates, not as flukes of luck, but as masters of consistency.

The difference between those who dream and those who deliver is often determined by how well you stay steady through the storms. Because life will get distracting, the river of our consistency will splinter into puddles. We’ll lose focus, gumption, courage, and faith.

And that is when community plays a part. Community is one of the most significant predictors of resilience, focus, and long-term fulfillment. Birds of a feather flock together. The idea of social contagion in behavioral science shows that habits, good or bad, spread through communities. When your “flock” is committed to dreaming big, it’s easier to stay awake to your own calling.

Community is the fertile ground where our callings take root and become more than just private dreams. Viktor Frankl, in Man’s Search for Meaning, taught that meaning is not found in isolation but in how we relate to others and to something bigger than ourselves. Or as my friend Barb said on our morning call, “When it comes to recovery, the people are the healing.”

Alcoholics Anonymous rests on both these pillars: the people are the love, and the program is the law. And the people can make all the difference.

It’s so affirming to see another artist sell a painting, a fellow life coach raise their session rate, or a sister musician take the mic and crush a song. In the same way, it’s devastating to see a fellow alcoholic go out or another writer receive a rejection letter. But doing it together is always better than going it alone.

A Course in Miracles honors these pillars, too. The workbook holds 365 meditative lessons, one for each day. The lessons ask us to work with the specifics of our special relationships. Theory gives us the truth, and application brings that truth to life.

For the past thirteen years, I’ve woken up to miracles thanks to Miracles LIVE 365, our daily A Course in Miracles calls. It’s not just a deep river, it’s a love-fest of friends. And honestly, when I attempted to go it alone, I did not get too far. They say, “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” Personally, I prefer the long, slow path in the company of friends.

This is also why The Artist’s Way works. The three handwritten pages each morning are the law, paired with the artist date, the love that fills the well and replenishes the soul. Honor these two pillars, and nothing can keep you from reaching the Big Ocean. If consistency is king, community is queen.

That’s why we created SpeakEasy, a spiritual community where dreamers, seekers, and believers gather to go deeper together. Whether it’s through Miracles LIVE 365, The Artist’s Way groups, our weekly 12-step gatherings, or the other cool conversations and events that fill our calendar. SpeakEasy is designed to help people stay the course, hold to the vision, and keep rowing down the river that flows toward your ocean.

So here’s your next step: Jump in the water.

Pick one practice. Join one circle. Take one step toward consistency and community, one step toward your Big Ocean.

• Join us for a free week of Miracles LIVE 365

• Sit in on our weekly 12-Step to Miracles meeting

• Or walk with us through The Artist’s Way this October on Zoom

And for writers, when you subscribe to this newsletter, you get access to our weekly online writers’ group, Story Salon. A simple but powerful way to stay consistent, keep your words flowing, and feel supported by a community that believes in your voice.

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Because the truth is: you don’t need to wait for someday. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to show up.

I could say that I went to the Oprah show and all I got was a losey T-shirt, but the truth is I got so much more, because I took one step. I reached out to that little girl with the big dream, I held tight to her example, and I got to the big ocean, and I want to take you there, too. Tinogona! It is achievable.

Love, Maur

BOOK LINKS:

LINK for Giant Love Song by Maureen Muldoon

LINK for The Awakened Women by Dr. Tereria Trent

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✨ Thank you for walking this path with me. If you feel called, share this with someone who needs a reminder that their dreams are still alive.

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EVENTS

Remember the words of Saint Francis of Assisi: where there is hatred, let me bring love. Contemplating this can reveal deeper insights to assist in reprogramming our psychological reflexes.  A person is never only their opinion, and every opinion has a half-life. Opinions are like clouds - only appearing to be permanent at a glance. Pay more attention and one can perceive the numerous forces continuously reshaping it.  Every profile picture is a doorway to an infinite interior, even for that individual. I go on uncovering and peeling layers around myself in pursuit of self-knowledge.  Our task—especially in seasons of heat—is to refuse the fixation of the single facet. To meet any neighbor as more than a position is moral hygiene. When we restore dimensions, we restore possibility: the chance that a disagreement can be a bridge, that truth can travel without cruelty, that our commonality can be a place for transformation.

This Sunday, SpeakEasy welcomes Todd Fink* as our speaker, leading the conversation - hosted by Maureen Muldoon

*Todd Fink is the host of the Kind Mind podcast and co-founder of The Giving Tree Band.  As a licensed therapist, he also holds certifications in addiction counseling and mindfulness meditation teaching. He is a graduate of Georgetown and Columbia University with degrees in psychology and advanced clinical social work.  His contemplative songs, talks, and writings have inspired many around the world. Learn more & connect at https://michaeltoddfink.com

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Enjoy Dessert:

Dr. Tererai's story on the Oprah Show. “You, too, are creating your own reality show every day. "You can have nothing, come from nothing, and still have everything you dream.”

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