Before we begin, we thought it was important for you to get to know a little bit about who each of us are, where we came from and how we found ourselves where we are today. In this video, Melanie interviews Jen.

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“Aren’t you scared?”

My taxi driver asked as we made our way toward the airport in Monterrey, Mexico.

“Of what?” I asked.

“Of traveling like that. Alone. To places far and near. Don’t you have fear?”

The answer I gave him was no.

I told him that I was not scared of traveling to new places, alongside others or on my own. I did not have fear because the world had shown me that I am held and that there is so much beauty here.

The answer was true.

But it was not complete.

This morning, I am sitting at my kitchen table writing while the coffee pot brews behind me. I breathe in as its delightful scent slowly fills the room.

A yellow straw placemat and a vibrantly colored ceramic mug hold their places on the table beside me. My camera is connected to my computer, downloading photographs from the places my feet have recently touched. Papers filled with scribbled words are scattered across the surface. Pink, yellow, and blue post-it notes carry clarifying thoughts about my path.

Two journals rest beside them, their bindings full of words from the last several months I have walked through.

I opened one journal to a page near the back, the place where I jot down ideas, fragments, and thoughts as they come my way.

Three pages from the end, beside my scribbled hopes for my time in Guatemala, I reread a note written in the midst of a taxi ride. It held words from a conversation I wanted to remember, write through, and not let go.

I was in Monterrey, Mexico.

A series of unfoldings throughout the last few years had led me there. A dear friend welcomed me into her home, and we spent time in the mountains surrounding the city.

Oh, what a beautiful place.

I had been invited to attend a ceremonial gathering with a community in the area. It was an honor to be welcomed among their traditions and to learn from the rituals taking place.

On the day I left, a major FIFA game was being held in Monterrey, so my driver and I began the journey toward the airport early, just in case traffic created a problem along the way.

My eyes scanned the surroundings as he drove along the highway out of town.

For a moment, I sat in silence and cradled gratitude in my heart for the ways my experience had unfolded upon this land: for the mountains, the city, the Earth and the soil, and for God and all the angels who had led me there and allowed me the space to come to know this place.

I believe every encounter is an opportunity to come to know. To learn from our surroundings. To take people in. To grow.

Because of that, I am certainly the person who enters a taxi and sparks a conversation with the driver along the way.

In fact, many beautiful friendships in my life have begun through conversations that started just this way.

My driver and I began to talk.

The Spanish lessons I had taken in Guatemala, my time with Luisa, the shop owner I visit in San Miguel de Allende to practice, and my efforts to learn the language throughout the last year met me in that moment.

My Spanish was fractured, but we understood one another through the seams.

We talked about life.

His journey. His path.

He told me that he had grown up in Monterrey and had watched the city change exponentially since his childhood.

He asked about my life.

I told him that I had been visiting for a few days and was now on my way toward San Miguel de Allende.

He asked where I was from.

“Estados Unidos,” I said.

The United States.

“¿Qué parte?”

What part?

“El centro. Iowa,” I said.

Iowa is still often my answer.

It is where I grew up. My family still lives there, and I flow through the state throughout the year as I meander from place to place, following wherever life directs my feet to touch next.

His next question begged for knowledge of more.

What are you doing in Mexico?

How long will you be here?

When are you returning home?

I am aware that, for many people, home is a physical place.

A house or an apartment made up of walls and windows, plates and bowls, knives and spoons. A familiar bed or couch. Perhaps a television. Perhaps a favorite snack stashed away.

For me, home looks different.

I have lived in more temporary dwellings than I can count throughout the last several years.

I have drunk from different mugs and touched an array of plates. I have operated unfamiliar stovetops and a variety of coffee machines. I have sunk into couches of varying comfort as I paused within each dwelling that arose along my way.

I told him that I had been living nomadically for several years, with no physical home of my own. I told him about Guatemala, where I had recently spent a little over a month, about India, which had presented me with a newfound understanding about life, one that changed me to my core, and about how much I loved his own country, Mexico, and the parts of it he hadn’t yet come to know.

He looked at me the way many people do when I explain my path.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he asked a question that was not new.

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Of traveling like that. Alone. To places far and near. Don’t you have fear?”

I told him that traveling itself did not frighten me.

I knew the world could be dangerous. I knew that not every person carried intentions that were true. I told him that I keep my eyes open, listen to my body, and make decisions with care about when and where I find myself.

But I explained that I did not want the possibility of danger to determine the size of my life.

I explained that I choose to believe there is kindness, love, generosity, abundance, and welcome waiting to be encountered around each corner, within each neighborhood and place.

I told him that the things I have experienced and the developed beliefs I now know to be true override any fear I could hold about moving to a new place, together or alone.

I told him that I believe we are all so much more similar than we may think, regardless of where we reside on the map, what we look like, what language we speak or the type of food we choose to eat.

He seemed surprised that I loved India. That I had experienced so much beauty in Guatemala. That I loved both the rural places and cities of Mexico.

I receive this question about fear often.

People share their concerns about my path as they compare it with the world they know and the stories they read in newspapers, on screens, and throughout their apps.

I am aware that I could allow the possibility of danger to stop me.

I know that I am not immune to what happens in this world.

But while the news propagates danger, I have encountered, in sincerity, so much love, beauty, and kindness along my way.

So much generosity.

So many welcomes.

I have entered countries without a plan and left carrying friendships that feel like family.

I have sipped chai beside a fire in a rural village that, days before, I could not have pointed to on a map. I have gathered with newfound friends in Kerala’s backwaters and enjoyed coconuts as we watched the farmers harvest the rice.

I have sat alongside weavers, ironworkers, and dyers, watching their hands move through practices learned across generations. I have listened as they shared the stories, work, and daily lives that clothe their craft.

I have encountered writers and musicians, artists, journalists, and teachers.

I have listened intently and shared my voice.

I have learned, grown, and created understandings that were once new.

I explained to him that fear is not foreign to me. I then told him about my practice over the last several years. My practice of beginning my days by stating the same commitment aloud to myself:

I commit to living without fear and control, to recognizing them when they arise, seeing them for what they are, and choosing to continue despite their presence on the path.

Instead, I commit to surrendering.

Surrender, for me, does not mean abandoning discernment. It does not mean ignoring tension or walking blindly toward every open door.

It means keeping an open mind and heart.

It means engaging with the people who appear along my path.

It means tapping into the feeling in my gut that asks me to move in one direction or another.

It means listening when tension arises somewhere inside me, asking it questions, and becoming curious.

What is it trying to say?

What is alive beneath?

Surrender means leading with my breath. Listening from my heart. Engaging through prayer. Believing that things can unfold if I remain present in my now and engage with the moments the world shares.

To some, this may not make sense. It once did not make sense to me. We discussed that reality.

This question of: How do you live your days, your moments, your life if you surrender each one anew?

I did not have a perfect answer then, and I do not have one now. But I have continued to ponder his question since that day.

I have always taken brave steps in the visible parts of my life. I have crossed borders, entered unfamiliar communities, and trusted myself in places where I knew no one.

Fear has not always appeared to me as an unwillingness or hesitation to go.

Sometimes it appears as an unwillingness to speak.

It appears when I question my own knowing.

When I soften a truth until it nearly disappears.

When I make my voice smaller so that someone else can remain comfortable.

When I wait for permission to act upon what I already understand.

I used to lead with fear in ways that were unseen. In making decisions. In relationships. In the ways I allowed myself to show up within my own life, to be seen.

As I write this, I want to acknowledge that the path is not complete. I remain imperfect in many ways. I believe that perfect is not a thing.

I hold gratitude for the fact that growth is and will be a constant as my life continues to unfold before me.

As our conversation came to a close, I reflected on the path that had brought me there. Sitting here now, I can see more clearly each version of myself that has walked it: the one who let fear lead, the one who moved despite its presence, and the one still learning how to listen without becoming encaged by it.

Each day, I still wish to surrender more fully the pieces that encage me.

Perhaps that is why my driver’s question has stayed with me.

I was not afraid of the road before us. I was not afraid of arriving somewhere unknown.

But there were still places inside me where fear had built a home.

His question opened a space for an answer that was still taking shape, one about life, fear, and the meaning of home.

Since 2017, I have remained in fairly constant motion. I have explored neighboring communities and traveled far to experience something new within a different culture, ritual, or way of living.

I have become comfortable with movement.

I have grown to establish my own kind of home.

The kind that lives inside this vessel.

Inside this beating heart.

Inside this soul that allows me to experience the world and come to know.

My home is my neutral.

My grounding, sacred space.

The place I turn toward on the inside.

The place that communicates with me along my way.

My heart that flutters when something feels right.

My stomach that sends a message when alignment is not in sight.

The breath that flows so naturally each day, the breath that has become the way I return to my center, my grounded place.

If I have this home, this peace, this love, this Divinely-given light, then I do not have to fear where I am going.

For I know that I am led and held, whether my feet are near to the home I once knew or far away.

The coffee I poured now warms my vibrantly colored mug.

Photographs now appear one by one across my screen, little moments of magic captured through the camera I carry with me.

The pink, yellow, and blue post-it notes remain arranged beside me.

They hold words of reminder, remembrance, truth, and clarity:

I am enough.

When do I self-silence? Notice. I can allow myself to act anyway.

I trust my own authority. I believe in my voice. I allow myself to speak. There is no such thing as perfect. I am allowed to authentically be me.

My journals rest beside them, filled with words from the days I felt aligned and the days I felt astray.

They are a home for the process of becoming more and more of who I am along my way.

They remind me that courage is not only the decision to board the plane, enter the taxi, or arrive somewhere unknown.

Sometimes courage is allowing my own voice to be heard once I arrive, or while I am still en route to a place that will soon become known.

My driver asked me whether I was scared.

My answer is still no, in many ways.

I am not afraid of the unfamiliar road, of crossing into a place I do not yet know, or of allowing the world to surprise me along my way.

Fear is not always found in the places I expect.

Sometimes fear lives in self-silencing. In questioning my authority. In making myself smaller than the life asking to move through me.

Perhaps home is not the absence of fear.

Perhaps home is the place inside myself from which I can meet it.

The place from which I can listen, discern, speak, and take the next step.

And then another.

Trusting that I am led and held as the unknown becomes part of the life unfolding before me.

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I have been living it.

The route has begun.

I have walked the road less traveled

and clung to the rhythms

of the prescribed path’s sun.

I have smelled amazing scents,

poked myself on the cactus

I stopped to admire

alongside the street.

I have laughed until my belly hurt

and cried alongside humans

whose stories they told to me.

I have found joy in the losing.

I have found sorrow

along the grandiose hillsides

they said would enlighten my way.

I have sped up,

slowed down,

fled nations,

gotten my feet dirty

as I walked along dust-covered, rural streets.

I have been living it,

yet I am here.

I am here

and who is it that is me?

I have been living this path of surrender

where, along the way,

I buried my nose

into every nook and cranny within me.

Find your hardships.

Show up face to face with your pain.

Look in the mirror.

Hold it.

Embrace the discomfort.

Do not look away.

I am here.

I am doing it.

I let go of the things

that stood as lessons along my way.

I have walked through fire,

across grasslands,

toward places where I had no plan or defined place.

I am here.

I am doing it.

Yet who is it that is me?

I found her.

I love her.

Can you believe those words that I say?

I have come through all of the obstacles

that I choose to see as life’s amusement park

in which I am blessed to play.

I have come through all of the obstacles

to who I am,

today.

I am here.

I am her.

I love her, you see.

Yet I still ask this question

who is it that is me?

I have stood as the supporter,

the cheerleader,

the coach on the side of the stream.

Yet how do I find the courage

to open up this voice

that vies for a microphone

inside of me?

I am grateful for the obstacles

for the humans

that have helped

or inadvertently taught me along the way.

I do not want to speak of pain.

I want to open the wings,

the heart,

the cage,

to share these words

that desire the space.

I am here.

I am her.

Who is it that you are?

Dear teacher inside,

I ask you to give me the grace.

To help me find the words

to externally say.

I need not an audience,

a crowd,

or sought ears.

I need only to understand

more deeply,

more tenderly,

more authentically,

in a way that could, in this instant,

move me to tears,

who I am in here.

The internal direction.

The knowing.

The truth.

Share her.

Release her.

Let her full truth appear,

so I can know

and understand

who I am

in here.

Reflections from Varanasi, India · A morning on the Ganges River · November 2025

This photograph was taken on the Ganges at around 5AM as the city was waking up. One of those mornings that stays with you. Life, culture, and tradition moving all around me while I sat quietly and contemplated who it is that I am.

Who is it that you are, right now, in this season of your life?

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I heard something of a whisper

I heard something of a cry

I heard words that spoke to me

Deep in there,

To my insides.

As if they flowed through you

To then rest inside of me.

As if they flowed through you

And opened something in me.

Words that sting of resonance

Through my mind, body, spirit within.

Shook to the very core of the veins that flow life to me, in.

A taste in my mouth

A tickling in my chest

A trickle of sensation that tells me

I am expanding,

Beyond the lines of the self.

It hurts in a painless way

The feeling that tears will enter my ducts.

That taste resembles copper or metallic

at the very base of the tongue.

My nose begins to tickle

Right up there at the tip.

Will I sneeze or drop a tear?

The sensations are there

but the actions are a miss.

I feel as if I am grieving

Slowly dying to soon wake up.

Must I shed this whole existence I have known

In order to truly, authentically, look up?

I grapple in my body,

What does this mean for a human in the flesh?

The soul is desperate to lead me

My human shell is ill as it surrenders to the flesh.

My heart is deeply stirring

Like a sailor within, tugging at the ropes to unfurl the sail.

Like those inmates on Les Miserables

“Look down,” they sing,

and pull with all your might to draw that rope-tied item toward the rest.

I am breathing into that stop.

I am holding it within.

Expand me

Find me

Ignite me.

I am so desperate to live fully from within.

Your words sting of resonance

I want to break free from my cage with a view.

I have seen beauty and Grace all around me

Gentle nudges,

Loving taps.

The iron rods that surrounded subconsciously

Never again I want to grasp.

I close my eyes, ever gently

I imagine my radiant being sliding between.

The sun’s rays welcome me warmly

I proceed forward

Forevermore leaving that cage’s place.

Your words sting of resonance.

Might others have also felt this way?

I let the tears show up externally.

I am not alone.

You are not alone.

To our highest frequency

To that God-led place

To the most abundant life that could be possible,

My perpetual forward gaze.

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February passed by clothed in shades of red, clusters of pink, and heart-shaped candies enjoyed by me… and maybe you.

It was a month of beautiful unfolding in this new year we have now surely embraced. Perhaps we have collectively learned to change that number in the year section of the date.

A month that seems to quietly place love at the center of the room.

I received many questions about love.
About its meaning.
About where I find it in my life, in my world.

Is love a noun or a verb?
Something we hold, or something we practice?

It fascinates me how Valentine’s Day transcends throughout the world. Balloons, pillow cushions, sweet treats at bakeries, and tiny pieces of confetti all taking heart-shape whether I am here or there, across the world from you, or seated on your couch cushion as our conversation brews.

The last few years have made me question the definition of love. For a long time, I believed love was something external. Something I needed to acquire. Something that granted my validity as a human being. Something that came from others.

Not from self.
Not from me.

Love has certainly challenged me. Its definition, in my mind, has shifted abruptly. The pursuit of love external broke me down. The pursuit of love internal changed the rhythm of my life.

A few years ago, when I was fighting for what I thought was the love I was meant to hold in my life, I wrote a section of the piece that follows. A reflection on external love. Its pace. Its place. It’s rhythm in my life.

Today, I see love differently.

Today, I see love as something I cherish inside of me. A beautiful bud that is ever growing, ever shifting, ever changing within the unfolding of my life.

Today I know that loving myself is the most honorable thing I can do. If I do not love me, how could I ever expect love externally to come through?

Fragments of this piece were written in a moment of hardship, when external love felt incredibly difficult to face. Through my understanding of what love is, and what love is not, I have forever been changed.

Effort Without Asking

What I learned about love after searching for it outside of myself.

A gentle place of cushion

A desired summer breeze

After a long day, a cozy set of pjs and a warm bed to rest up in and sleep.

Not necessary, wanted

As it enlightens the essence of the.

A space where mirrors are not necessary

Where an echo is not in need

Where feeling seen is a sacred given

You feel safe as you are, as you be.

A grounds where there is a knowing that life is messy

That perfect is not a thing.

When hurdles show up along the way,

Through gentle touches,

A calm transition and walk towards the new reality is seen.

A friend on the vine

A calming presence on the path.

A second to the single

A link where love and respect propel the match.

An added pinch of joy

A sprinkled zest of respect

Built on trust

Honed by its safety net growing, being stretched.

A hand to hold when you are down

An arm of support when you need a boost

A neutral ground where the system

Can function in calmness, not distress.

Being strong in who you are

Growing through as you go

Finding yourself along your journey

A bonus of support as you go.

A space where souls can be themselves

Be free to function as they are

While being linked through mutual decision

That their union will be nurtured amongst the rest.

A place where sometimes I give on this

And sometimes you give on that.

The rope pulls back and forth

To balance the nature of the flow.

Safe.

Secure.

Not scary.

Not tense.

Known.

Understood.

Propelling towards depth.

Propelling further, rooted in respect.

The deepest depth of knowing

Then, with time, deeper even more.

Effort without asking.

Awareness and attunement rule the scene.

Where congruency is felt

Where peace is engrained in the seams.

All things are not to say it is easy

There is an active awareness of life’s challenges and mess.

Nothing in life is seamless.

Here, active awareness is chosen to be kept.

Soft and peaceful

Gentle and serene.

Blissful and abundant

Respectful, grounded in Belief.

On trust and camaraderie

On committed growth and pursuit.

On faith in each other

And the Source from which we followed suit.

A sense of belonging

That is kept because it feels good

A nurturing, sacred place

Where continued sprinkles of joy

Are added into our lives as our interchanging paths deploy.

When love is built with care,

rooted first within ourselves, somewhere deep,

it does not ask us to carry it.

It does not stir question or distress.

It rises with us,

like red balloons gathered in the sky,

a sea of floating hearts

held together by many threads,

Each one carrying intention

brewed from deep within.

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“Is that really art?”

I heard them whisper as they passed.

I broke my stare and began to wonder about the question that they asked.

When I look at art, I am often fascinated by the squiggles. The lines that hold rigidity in their brushstroke, but flow with no rhyme or reason. The kind that makes others pause and ask,

“Is that really art?”

My internal voice peeks out: Is it odd that I get it? That, to me, it feels like truth?

I shove it back down. Like that arcade game, sponge mallet to the gopher’s head.

Too much again, Mel. Too deep. Disguise into normalcy.

Today I went to the art museum.

There were many things I could not not see.

Not the pieces themselves, but the projections.

Those extensions of the art that stretched beyond their surfaces.

Cast by light, shaped by presence, blurred by those who passed through.

The shadows.

Do artists think about how their work will create an extension of itself, depending on where or how it is placed in the world?

What about the stories that will play in the minds of those who observe its presence?

Housed in the Iowa City Art Museum, the Karan-Wemba mask, tall and ornately decorated, flooded my mind with questions.

At the top, a poised and prominent figure stands.

Beneath, antlers stretch wide. Sharp, deliberate, powerful.

An oval face with hollowed eye cutouts anchors the center.

Its surface is clothed in intricate detail, painted in tones I imagine were made from plant dyes or soil.

The gallery’s green wall and careful lighting shape the experience.

The figure at the top stands like a fierce protector.

Behind her, a shadowed companion faces the opposite direction as if to say,

“I’ve got it back here.”

As I walked through the museum, the shadows held stock in my mind.

There is always more, I thought, beyond the projected lines.

I began to wonder about the stories that transcend, further from the objects that meet the eye.

The clay pots’ shadows made them appear bigger and bolder.

The male figure stands with his head slightly turned.

Positioned on the wall, his body casts a shadow.

No longer just one, three figures now stand side by side.

One literal, two figurative.

The points, curves, and accents of the sculptures and masks stretched and shifted, each taking on a personality of its own.

I saw a chorus of chatter and imagined their projected songs following me as I walked through the art museum today.

Are things what we make them?

What we imagine them to be?

Or what we are told they are?

How do we make sense of all that we feel, imagine, and see?

My mind catapults back, like that water balloon I once launched at the waterpark, to the words of those who never understood the squiggle.

I remember the feeling that arose:

A tug at the heartstrings.

A whisper from somewhere deep.

A part of me crying out for a place in this world.

That tug.

That whisper.

That cry.

Timidly raising its hand to say,

“I get it. To me, it is true.

It is real.

It makes sense.

It is profound.”

Making sense of the thoughts that rise in my mind can often feel like a scary, impossible feat.

My world.

My truth.

Heavy.

Maybe that is why the shadows spoke to me this afternoon.

Do we ever really know what is going on inside others?

The depths of their story? The dimension of their lives?

Unless we ask.

Hold space.

Try to know.

Do we even know the full extent of our own reality?

Life asks grandiose questions.

And I internalize the need for grandiose answers.

But what is meaning, what is sense, if not first rooted in the understanding of self?

Can we draw conclusions about the world if we do not first look inside?

Is Vermeer’s A Lady Writing not a mere whisper to its viewer:

It is you. In you. To you. For you. Through you.

The world tells us to make sense of what surrounds us.

But maybe art, maybe shadows, maybe language itself asks us first to make sense of what is inside.

Our presence.

Our consciousness.

And maybe, too, there is a story in the shadow we project into the world.

Just like the art hung on those gallery walls.

How others perceive, engage with, and internalize us.

My internal part peeks out again.

“We went there.

This time, we mean it.

This time, we will stand behind it.”

Life.

Art.

Words.

Meaning.

Is there ever only one way to make sense of it?

Or is it all a matter of perception that is always shifting?

As a fellow writer once told me,

“Everything is a squiggle, after all.”

A note from Melanie Jane

Hi there, thank you for being here.

In the summer of 2025, I had the honor of attending the Iowa Summer Writer’s Festival in Iowa City, Iowa. Under the guidance of Hope Edelman, we explored the theme Writing to Make Sense of the World. It was a deeply engaging week shaped by learning, conversation, and journals filled with pages of new work.

One afternoon, Hope took us to the Iowa City Art Museum where we were invited to sit with a piece of art that spoke to us and write from that place of attention.

The Squiggles emerged from that assignment.

Thank you, as always, for reading. I hope these words resonate, and I welcome your reflections if they do.

Note: The Karan-Wemba mask linked above is not the exact same as the one I saw in the museum and describe in this writing, but is the current one on display in their digital library. Thank you!

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To define is to limit, someone out there once said.
I raised my brow when they asked who I was.
About me, they wanted to know.

I can tell you my name. I can tell you where I came from and where I have been.
Is that what you seek, or is it of my dreams that you desire to know?

How does one encompass in words their full being, essence, pursuit?
Who I am is ever-changing, ever-shifting.
Perhaps even each day it becomes something new.

Is there even an I?
Are we not mere channels for Creation in this life?

My pursuit as of late has been to set the self to the side.
To be present where I am.
To allow myself to evolve into something that is new.
To allow pathways to come through me.
To understand this world through the act of daily surrender, connection with breath, and allowing space for anything that may come through.

The world presents buckets of who or how to be.
From those walls that appear, I desire to break free
as I gather information about who it is that is me.

My name is Melanie. I want to be an observer of life.
I need not descriptors to place expectations upon who I am in this life.
I desire to listen, to learn, to grow.
I hope only to become more of the me I am striving to know.

To create with my hands, to write with pencil in hand,
to listen with my ears, to observe this beautiful world
and the magic that so abundantly appears.

I know not the exact place I am going or the motions that will make it up.
I commit to moving with intention and taking the next aligned step as it shows up.

I have big, big plans for the things I will create.
I have big, big plans for which I work hard each day.

I want to meet the people of this world, hold my relationships tight, share stories,
provide platforms for art, crafts, tradition,
for stories to take a seat in the spotlight.

I care deeply for my people.
I love meeting incredible humans along my way.

I wander, yet I am grounded in my light, in my pursuit, in the way I curate my days.

The world has shown me again and again that I am held,
that I am protected by the Light,
by the Love, by the Divine power that abundantly shows up.

To define is to limit. I appreciate this line.
It is okay if I do not have all of the answers to externally define.

Authenticity is not knowing who I am,
but allowing myself to be known where I am.

I hope not to limit, nevermore, never again.
I hope to move with intention as I create this life that I live.

The person I am is many things all at once.
Yesterday, something shifted and transitioned the today me I have become.
Tomorrow is not promised, yet I vow to hold it dear,
to grasp every moment that so graciously appears.

To live, breathe, move, explore,
become who I am, whether she looks like the me I am today
or something brand new I will soon explore.

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I walk the steps of my life

I walk slowly along the way

I hold the grounded understanding that I can focus on myself today.

I teeter-totter my steps forward

As I reflect on the understandings that have come to be.

I will prioritize space to hold my blessings

I will remain grounded in the scene.

I will remember that I am

Right where I am meant to be.

I will toss aside the external fear and live in this moment in which I see.

Life has shown me not once

Not twice

Not even three

That the present moment

If I hold it

If I allow it to be

Will deliver me my sought answers

Will provide the guidance that I seek.

If I am open to the journey

If I observe and interact with the spaciousness that surrounds me.

Like a recent moment in the park

In San Miguel de Allende,

I was present in the moment, writing, then suddenly I was surrounded by a parade.

I closed my journal

Placed it into my bag

I stood up and walked closer.

What was this celebration?

So much joy witnessed, their faces glad.

A moment later, a conversation had sparked with a woman next to me.

We sat down on the wall and allowed our dialogue to flow freely.

Both interested in the parade, moments later, side by side

Swapping stories of studying textiles and of social enterprises that we cared for in our lives.

A beautiful moment where once strangers became fast acquaintances and then friends.

Life is magical,

If I allow it

If spaciousness I give.

My new friend left me with a quote

That in my system touched deep.

By a singer named Bonnie Raitt

She holds it close in her life as she walks along her journey.

“It took me forever, but I am right on time,” are the words she shared with me.

I have contemplated those words as the weeks have gone by.

How profound for her to share them

Without knowing much about the place that I am in my life.

Sometimes life projects expectations

Programming, if you will,

That defines how we should, ought to, or the recipe for how we will.

When the story that plays out

In so many ways, defies those lines

There is questioning that plays

How do I explain the pieces that have made up this life that is mine?

As I sat in that park

My written words in tow

I held an active understanding

Of the conditioning I am choosing to let go.

I had been walking down a highway

Straight line, forward step.

A depiction on the horizon

Of which I felt must be kept.

Connection and alignment

Felt imbalanced, afar.

That highway, no longer home

Those depictions stifled the heart.

The words

The understandings

The projections at play

Held little space for my needs

My safety

My autonomy

My space.

I slowly began to understand

To uncover

To see

As I deciphered the layers

Of the ways I had grown to think, believe and be.

Like a flower in bloom

Its process that we see

Once held inside the bud

Enclosed, tenderly.

Safe in its development

Secure in its scene.

What will happen when it opens up?

When its petals are seen?

What colors will it take on?

What shape will it be?

How will it navigate nature’s elements?

How will that transition be?

Unknown factors are present

Uncertainty, seen.

Will the bud proceed to bloom

Or will it remain within the known safety of its enclosed scene?

There came a moment in time

When the fear of remaining was surpassed

By the desire to understand how the bloom would emerge

Beyond its caged, known track.

If I remained in the known

On the highway, forward street

Versus allowing the space to turn left

To take a halt

To reverse for a moment and pick up that shelved piece of me.

In a moment of decision,

I allowed myself to turn left.

A detour from that highway,

A shift in my step.

The turn I took

Projected my system into the unknown

Allowed a moment for surrender

To be experienced, to flow.

What came next stemmed from the moments

Of saying yes,

Of allowing no.

Of breathing into my heart-space

Of finding alignment as I would go.

The bud is still blooming

Like autumn leaves, new colors take form.

Shapes are moving and shaking

Life’s elements are honing its essence as it is born.

I have learned that when I am open

When I allow,

Give space,

Be.

Abundance and divine beauty are all that encompasses me.

The world may have once led

To several beliefs in my mind

About time

About place

About expectations and prescribed shoulds with which I should stay in line.

I have never been more assured

In this notion within myself.

Like that quote my friend shared

In the park, amongst a parade,

“I am right on time,”

At this moment,

today.

I hold gratitude for my story

For all of its shapes, colors and forms.

For the people who have made it up.

From their presence,

So many lessons have been born.

The twists and the turns

The hills, valleys and caves

The darkness

The light

The rays

The shade.

They have all brought me to where I am

To who I am in this moment that plays.

I would not change it

I would not deter

For I am right on time,

today.

Just for today, I will wake up and move my body in a flow.

Just for today, I will smile at those I pass by. Their situations I do not know.

Just for today, I will shift my focus after breathing into that timid, internal shake.

Just for today, I will look for the magic that they say shows up along your way.

Just for today, I will say yes to those nudges that feel right.

Just for today, I will release the worries surrounding labels of what is wrong and what is right.

Just for today, I will strive to see beyond projected differences.

What if they actually bring us closer and are a cause for delight?

Just for today, I will ground the anger that sparks deep inside

When I think about injustices, manipulation, and the reality of lies.

Just for today, I will release the replay that sparks in my mind

When I think about cruel words, harsh tones, bullying and the lack of empathy in life.

Just for today, I will vow to see, even if only through a crack, the world as a whole.

Just for today, if I have questions, instead of assuming, I will simply ask.

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Just for today, I will breathe through the sorrow that shows up deep inside.

Just for today, I will set it to the side and allow myself to feel fully from within.

Just for today, I will accept the feeling of joy that may arise.

Just for today, I will allow it. Perhaps even a smile will show up as a surprise.

Just for today, I will say yes, even when fear says hello.

Just for today, I will look forward. I will believe in prosperity and hold onto hope.

Just for today, I will make the space to believe in myself.

Just for today, I will set aside any anxieties that are held.

Just for today, if I meet another’s gaze, I will let myself be seen.

Just for today, I will stay with the connection—I will remain, instead of fleeing.

Just for today, I will drop the fear. I will acknowledge it and then proceed.

Just for today, I will allow.

I can see you.

You can see me.

Just for today, I will hold hope that, in the world, there is good.

Just for today, I will see it

Abundant surroundings, abundant good.

Just for today, I will dance, especially if in the rain.

Just for today, I will see the glimpses of abundant beauty.

The world will never be the same.

Just for today, I will find belonging in the very space that I am in.

Just for today, I will feel it wholly, no second-guessing I will give.

Just for today, I will laugh from the core of this belly that is mine.

Just for today, my hips show my womanhood—no ill-thoughts or beliefs I will allow within my mind.

Just for today, I will allow sadness for a moment or two.

Just for today, I will feel my feelings, but I will not let them freeze or silence my voice that inside brews.

Just for today, I will say it. I will speak it. I will stay grounded, and I will not look back.

Just for today, I will see my growth.

When they say believe in yourself, no question I will ask.

Just for today, I will hold the belief that my dreams I can have.

Just for today, I will ground the worries, then allow my steps to be bold.

Just for today, I will take action toward each inkling and internal nudge.

Just for today, I will look in the mirror without a critic’s eye.

I will peer into my soul and allow all of my truths to be told.

Just for today, I will see my truth, not on a scale of good or bad.

Just for today, I will let it be and only hold space for the lessons, learnings, and understandings to be had.

Just for today, I will breathe, not that heavy or condensed breath.

Just for today, I will exhale fully.

Ease, peace and comfort, I will grasp.

Just for today, I will view this world, not as broken, shattered or run askew.

Just for today, I will see possibility—

in myself,

in you.

Just for today, I will allow it.

Just for today, for a moment or two.

Just for today… and maybe tomorrow.

Okay, perhaps the next day too.

Life is beauty mixed with chaos.

Sorrow that buds up with joy.

Just for today, I will hold my truths and let them unfold.

One day holds 86,400 seconds,

1,440 minutes,

Twenty-four hours to breathe and be.

If we are fortunate, we live many days—

Enough to begin again and again,

Enough to unveil what matters, and remember it in our hearts,

Enough to choose, with intention, how we live this life the world gives.

Just for today, anything is possible.

Just for today—because we never know what tomorrow may hold.

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The scoreboard reads, one to zero. Seconds later, one to one. A five-year-old thrusts his arms into the air and yells, "Woo!"

And just like that, we are no longer in the basement.

I observe as my niece and nephew kick a neon green stress ball—one of those that you acquire as an event freebie—from one side of the basement to the other. A soccer game has commenced.

My sister and I sit on the couch. Her hand waves a red, white, and blue popsicle-printed flag, the Fourth of July kind, and she serves as the energetic spokeswoman for the game.

She swiftly adjusts her tone of voice as the scores and subsequent energy in the room accelerate.

"Five to four! I repeat, five to four! Fight for it! Fight for it!"

My nephew's face resembles a red delicious apple plucked right off of the tree. His eyes draw in, focused only on the ball and his determination to win.

“Seven to five!” His eyes widen as he fights to close the gap.

My niece holds a grin on her face. I assume her lack of words represents her inner celebration and "Yesss, I am going to win," dialogue.

We transport to the Stade de France as my sister throws French into her spokeswoman mix, "Sept à cinq! Sept à cinq!"

Each toddler manning their wall, aggressively jumping up and down as the numbers on the scoreboard near.

My niece wears her pastel blue ballerina dress. Its tulle layers bounce as she jumps and runs with knees high. She giggles and lunges to the left to secure the block.

Before you know it, my nephew overtakes his sister and shoots for the winning goal.

"Victory!!!" my sister shouts as my nephew runs his celebratory lap.

There is no more calm. Champion energy instills.

I serve as a spectator and occasional dancing cheerleader on the sidelines.

I feel joy just looking at them.

A room of four walls transformed into a stadium full of fans in a matter of seconds. Lively, childlike energy like you have never seen before.

I love observing my niece and nephew.

It is so powerful, the way they walk through and experience life.

Their joy. Their anger. The way their emotions take form.

Earlier today my nephew came running to his mom yelling, "Something magic! Something magic!"

My sister's body jolted up from her lounged position on the couch as she embraced her son. Her eyes beamed with curiosity as she asked, "What is it, bubba?"

"Momma! If you breathe in through your nose and then breathe out through your mouth, you can see your breath in the sky!"

Winter's snow momentarily greeted us again on that lovely end-of-March afternoon. The air outside dropped to a temperature cold enough that he could see his personal cloud of exhaled breath.

"Something magic, Momma! Something magic!"

Children are gifts. To feel something spark in your soul and proclaim it without hesitation—now that is magic.

I sit with the vision of his pure joy in my mind and tuck it away into my brain's internal smile file—promising myself, this moment, I will never forget.

As the stress ball soccer game ends and bedtime draws near, the kiddos retreat to their routine as I to mine.

I begin to wonder about the last time I allowed the sight, feeling or occurrence of something magic to radiate my being.

I ponder how often I approach my days with a professional, serious tone versus allowing the space for play, joy and curiosity.

When was the last time I allowed my imagination to run wild?

My nephew is wise.

This world, our existence in it, the way our warm breath can form a cloud-like substance in the cold air—it is magical.

Through the motions of life, the understanding that I can see, create and explore the magical is often shelved; transitioned to the back-burner.

A basement is oftentimes just that—a room made of four walls for me to exist within.

Not a soccer field,

Not a gymnastics stage,

Not a veterinary clinic,

Not a beauty parlor,

Not a restaurant;

All things that my niece and nephew have used their imagination to transform it into.

As I reflect on these beautiful observations from the day,

I begin to notice how far I once drifted from that childlike state of imagination and attunement.

I remember the world telling me to color within the lines.

I remember the twisting sensation in my stomach as I realized that the ideals, objects, and paths projected around me did not mirror what I longed to find.

I remember the sideways glances when I created differently, and how I had a hard time not allowing them to impact me.

I remember the doubt that crept in when I dared to dream.

I remember questioning my imagination, then turning its volume low.

I remember the slow dwindling of my innocence.

I am coming to understand that who I am is not a fixed idea, but a choice. Who I allow myself to become is a matter of my willingness to face those internal doubts, and press onward, anyway.

To write, anyway.

To create, anyway.

To Believe, anyway.

Despite those waves of internal doubt.

Who I am is a choice that I get to make every single day.

As I have accelerated through my 20s almost as fast as my niece and nephew round out a game of stress ball soccer,

I uncover the understanding that noticing and holding space for those winks of something magic just may be the ticket to redefining who I am at my core.

To picking up those pieces of that internal, childlike, imagination-rich being that I slowly exiled along the way.

To developing the courage to believe that I do not have to fight inside to prove my worth anymore.

To ceasing to believe that the desires in my heart are anything but valid, welcomed and perhaps… something magic.

As I move through this next season of my life,

I peel back the understanding that seeing and naming the magic

—just like my nephew did with his breath in the sky—

is not childish. It is a sign of strength, of return, of courage.

My niece and nephew are now asleep.

I sit, holding that neon green stress ball in my mind,
and promise myself:

I will look for something magic, too.

Dorothy oiled the Tin Man's joints.

A homeowner mends their creaky door.

A gardener waters when the rain has ceased.

A woodworker sands when a splinter is seen.

The action of taking care, of stepping in

When a gap is seen, observed, or lived

Is a natural occurrence

You may see every day.

Today I ponder

How, inwardly, it displays.

My breath is my tool,

My oil, my sandpaper, my match

I tune into it, ever gently.

My focus it grasps.

I release any tension

Felt from within.

I breathe, ever gently.

My full awareness I give.

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Like that elbow of the Tin Man's,

He observes become squeaky and loud.

I lie on my mat in a pose.

I tune into the discomfort that is found.

I hold its awareness

In the eye of my mind.

I breathe with great focus,

Internally the air, there I now find.

In for one, two, three, four,

I hold and let it simmer.

Like that gardener's hose over the flower that droops,

The stirring of my breath

In that inner-felt place,

Slowly but surely

Allows tension to dissipate.

Those four I took in

I now slowly breathe out.

I repeat once more

Until relief there is found.

We are taught very young

How to care for our things,

To find resolutions,

To mend what is weak.

When I find myself in a pause,

In a moment or state

Where forward motion is stalled,

Where the odometer reads less than I wish it would display.

I urge myself to remember

Even humans need care.

Like those flowers in the bed

That began to wilt and hang low

When no rain had fallen

And the gardener had not yet grabbed the hose.

Like that Tin Man friend of Dorothy's

Who slowed his motion along their way

Who started to squeak

Before more oil Dorothy gave.

Be it ourselves or our supports,

Our rain or oil can,

Our breath or our movement,

We all, from time to time, need a hand.

In those moments of pause,

In those moments of grief,

In those moments of stalled motion,

How is life mending me?

The wood is now smooth,

No edges left to sting.

The flower stands tall,

Petals reaching, opening.

The door swings freely,

Its hinges no longer cry.

The Tin Man dances,

Ease returns to his stride.

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Thank you for being here. ✧

May we notice where care is needed — within and around us.

May we tune into our breath.

May we listen, mend, and move, ever gently.

I took these photos in a quiet workshop, that is now a museum, in Sicily. A dear friend that I met during my time in Modica introduced me to this hidden gem. It was a space filled with the slow beauty of repair. The museum stands to represent the artisanal sector of the area and remind locals and visitors alike of its craftsman history.

Museo Ibleo delle Arti e Tradizioni Popolari S. A. Guastella | Modica, Sicily

It is cloudy and grey.

A dreariness is felt.

I walk along my way.

Cold, crisp air enters my being and moves throughout.

My feet continue forward.

One step, then two.

The sun no longer shines.

Goodbye, brightness.

Internal mute.

I place my gloves on my hands.

I wrap my scarf around my neck.

I hear the zzz of my jacket as the prongs of its zipper's closed position is met.

The sky begins to drizzle.

Micro-drops now brace my eyeglass frames.

I will not succumb to the world's cry—my time in nature must be embraced.

My strides continue on.

Here I am, in solitude.

The damp, crisp air glides across my eyebrows and my top lip too.

I feel chilly, but I keep going.

The fresh air stretches—

A blessing wrapped in winter’s breath.

I have learned to find comfort in solitude.

My time to me—

My time to reflect.

I have never walked here before.

I pass railroad tracks and follow the edge of a stream.

Today, its surface holds many textures—

Ice, snow, and running water intertwine before me.

I pause and reflect on that fact.

Some particles are frozen in their tracks,

While others continue onward,

Persisting in their flow among the rest.

As this gloomy afternoon surrounds me,

As I rest in solitude beside the stream,

One truth becomes clearer than ever—

There are so many lessons that each stage brings.

Like the makeup of that stream—be it ice, snow, or liquid in flow—

We, too, walk through many stages,

Each season holding a reality of its own.

Today I feel ice-like—

Stopped in motion, forced to take rest,

Like a solid brick of my being, motionless,

Until warmth again slowly creeps.

Though life often suggests that pauses are a setback,

That stopping is a warning, a sign to inspect,

I find hope in knowing—like in nature—

This shift in reality may be the force for a new possibility to be met.

I think about the seasons—

The way nature shifts with time.

I wonder, if change never came,

How would the world endure?

In what type of state would it we find?

The snow feels fresh and exciting—

A stark contrast to the scene,

A quiet breath of newness that permeates all around me.

It sparkles; it is messy.

To bear it, we must bundle up.

It sends shivers through our beings,

Challenging realities with which we are in touch.

It gives way to ice,

Preparing us for a time of dimmed light and shorter days.

It paves the way toward rest.

Prepare your home,

Gather your strength—

An internal balance test.

I envision a bear preparing for hibernation—

Gathering food, building warmth, collecting sticks.

The ice is the pause;

A quiet solitude within.

Water is the motion,

The pathways that are ingrained.

The zone of life we can step into and effortlessly remain.

Though so many factors allow it to exist,

It flows, more often than not, without force or built-up courage.

Without it, we suffer—

An area without water is inhumane, unbearably hot.

Finding fluidity—a purpose, a rhythm, a balanced routine—

It keeps us grounded, upright, in motion throughout our day-to-day being.

Water teaches us how to sustain, how to be.

It feels like the heartbeat,

The pulse within our veins.

Its purpose is to guide us,

To lead us on our way.

This stream by which I stand

Reminds me—realities can coexist.

I can see that fact clearly,

As I observe running water, snow and ice intermixed.

Where there is running water, there may also be ice.

Where there is snow, rapids may surge through the night.

One does not exist only without the other—

Multiple truths can coexist.

Sometimes, life feels all-consuming.

If I am ice-like today,

Running water may seem out of reach.

Nature’s shifts remind me to hold perspective,

To zoom out from my mind's narrowed scene.

Nature carries many lessons—

Today, I felt this one deeply.

I take one more breath in through my nose,

Chilled again, I shift my gaze.

One foot forward, then the next—

Timber cracks beneath my feet as I step forward along my way.

I walked into the basement, a space I had called home for many years

I dusted off several totes, slid their lids open and browsed through their long-forgotten contents.

A Winnie the Pooh pillow pet, a blanket made by my Gran,

Handmade crafts speckled with dried glue, a shell from a beach day I once had.

A plastic tote filled with childhood photos, a soccer jersey from my days on the field.

So many treasures were hidden under those lids.

A blue folder stood out. "Published Writing," it said.

Writings from my childhood, dated from age seven to ten.

Short stories of fiction, about trees and my family’s old house.

Stories that told of my best friends, our memories and the dreams that I held.

I felt a tug at my heartstrings when I found one particular piece.

"If I Were in Charge of the World,"

Written by nine-year-old me.

If I Were In Charge of the World | By Melanie Jane, 2004

If I were in charge of the world

I'd cancel weekday bedtimes, school homework, things that can hurt you.

Another thing, food that I don’t like dinners, lunches and breakfasts.

If I were in charge of the world there'd be pet dolphins,

Happy and healthier lives,

And also more stories to write.

If I were in charge of the world

You wouldn't have littering.

You wouldn't have wars.

You wouldn't have hurting,

And also you wouldn't have tornadoes, earthquakes and storms.

If I were in charge of the world

Ice cream cookies would be a main meal.

All drugs would be eliminated.

There wouldn't be poor people,

All animals would be able to roam free.

And everybody in the whole world that wanted to be

Could be in charge of the world.”

There may be spelling errors and a silly line or two.

I may not believe that everyone should be able to be in charge of the world,

But nine-year-old me felt quite similar to how I now do.

As time moves forward, some things remain.

Realities shift, today the one with the pencil is an adult who is finding her way.

That young girl dreamt of a kinder world; I still hold those desires inside.

Though they are now tempered with an understanding of realities in this life.

As I reflect on the conflict, injustice, and escalating crises in the world today,

On those feelings of disappointment that tiptoe toward defeat,

I cling to this white paper, slightly transparent with red and blue lines.

I re-read the words and ponder the realities that rest inside.

I feel the question of what one should do linger in quiet moments, in the spaces where conversations pause,

In the weight of all that feels uncertain—

In the moments where people strive to define what is right and what is wrong.

The desire to do more exists alongside the fear of not knowing how.

Perhaps that is part of it—the not knowing, yet continuing to hold space for the questions to be spoken aloud.

I have often come back to the following quote from Thoreau,

"Could a greater miracle take place

Than for us to look through each other's eyes,

For an instant?"

A powerful question and call to action he brings.

To see through another's reality,

To practice empathy.

What if we tried for one second

To see the world through another’s eyes?

To visualize ourselves in another’s reality

To understand the things that bring them joy and the defeat that may be present in their lives?

It is human nature to get caught up in our own scene;

I have to be intentional about looking beyond me.

As defeat seems to loom and hope threatens to fade,

I do believe it would be a miracle if all would commit to pausing and seeing something from a different perspective today.

Perhaps we could change the world—take charge of it in our own way.

If only we paused. If only we observed. If only we practiced empathy today.

If only we allowed a child-like state of curiosity to lead the way.

I sat with those totes—tracing the edges of memories long stored away.

I grasped that folder in my hand, held it for a moment, then closed the lids and walked away.

"Everything is always better in the morning,"

A reminder that I often hear from a friend that I hold dear.

As lightness fell to dusk,

As I tucked myself in,

As I closed my eyes to drift to sleep,

I reflected on reminders of the hope that surrounds me.

I had an evening with a friend driving through the back streets of suburbia Des Moines.

We stopped to watch the sunset.

We observed the sky as colors deployed.

We shared meaningful conversation-

Of life, things that made us happy, and things that made us sad.

We discussed the cherished feeling of belonging-

In a place, atmosphere, or throughout a community that you have.

We laughed.

Tears welled up in our eyes.

We paused and we sang.

I cherished those moments

As I thought back on the day.

I am currently sitting in my car,

The new day is here.

I walked out of yoga and my jaw dropped as I noticed the awe-striking sunrise that the world displayed above.

Sometimes there are no words to describe the blessings that arise-

In those little moments, when they just might be needed the most.

The right place

A transcending moment-

A person, a conversation

A whisper of serendipity.

A message from a friend.

A moment of eye contact.

A painting served down from the sky.

They are radiations of love.

They are the enchantment of life.

I sidetracked my car's intended motion and chased down a spot for my engine to rest-

A spot where I could be and internalize the magic that surrounded me.

Sprinkles of emotion rush into my being as I sit here this morning.

It is moments like this that solidify the undeniable existence of grace, hope and love in this world.

Like our eyelids open as we begin a new day,

Like the sun creeps up over the horizon as the darkness begins to fade,

Like those pinks and purples, yellows, oranges, and blues

That lie above the scattered clouds that surround me and you.

Like that moment when a stranger smiles at you as you walk along your way,

Those little nudges of coincidence that begin to encompass the pace-

As you surrender to your control and allow the Source to lead the way.

A belief that there is something more.

A belief that it will all work out.

Allowing the tape to play and releasing the grip of directing where it turns out.

It is the promise held in the phrase from my friend shared above:

That all will be better in the morning,

When the sun again shines its love.

It is the essence of that loving sentiment, which radiates a sense of hope,

Which whispers in my ear,

Dear one, more is near.

It is the force that keeps us going as we meander through the blossoming or impending cessation of love.

It is the perseverance in the toddler who is learning to walk, who plops to the ground often yet is determined to not stop.

It is the clung-to mechanism that led my friend to continue forth

Toward a dream that they had, even when that dream meant the loss of a life they lived before.

It is the radiating belief in the promise of the results to come

If we follow those inklings-

That experienced universal nudge.

I have begun to wonder if the act of centering love-

Of holding it dear,

Of breathing through its echoes of development and pain,

Of allowing it space, of granting it weight-

Is the true act of how one cultivates hope.

For if we do not center the love that we feel within our being, throughout our path,

Those heart throbs as we unveil the depths of who we are,

Those sensations as we explore what love means as it projects from our being,

Are we ever able to fully experience the prosperity of all that is and will come to be?

Hope is love-

Cascading, tangible, energetic love.

A promise that we feel.

A promise that there is more.

A force that surrounds.

A promise that love is and will be-

Within us, around us,

Through all of the people, places and occurrences that we meet.

The things that bring you back up, even when you are broken and bruised from a fall.

The parts of yourself that are sure, you will rise again and stand tall.

Perhaps without hope, there is nothing-

There is no reason to continue on.

No gaze toward something greater

No belief to walk toward

No light in the night

No truth to cling to, which tells us the sun will again shine its light.

Hope is never fleeting,

This I have learned.

It is always there, throughout each day,

Instilling enchantment in this world.

No matter the occurrence-

No matter the moment, time or day-

The world shows up

If I simply look along my way.

The morning is here

The sun’s presence is anew.

Today the sky is speaking,

Will I listen to its nudge?

The world is inviting me on a journey,

Will I be accepting of its love?

An encouragement from Melanie Jane

I encourage you to take a moment out of your day to look up. To take in that sunrise or sunset. To observe the colors in the sky.

What do you notice? What do you see?

May we hold to the reminders that abundantly surround. May we experience those little inklings that radiate grace, hope and love throughout. ✴

A note from Melanie Jane

The painting shared above is the product of a painting activity my nephew and I did together. From time to time we sit down and paint our memories - because what better way to remember the beautiful things that we encounter in life than to paint, color, draw or write about them? We spent hours painting together, and it was magical. ✴

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"The hottest, driest and lowest national park,” in the United States.

Death Valley National Park.

Entering the park places you amongst jaw-dropping landscapes that reap stark contrasts. Mountains clothed with colorful vegetation are a backdrop to a dry, cracked terrain. Terrain which reminds me of dry hands that lack moisture as winter steps in for fall.

Dry. Sparse. Extreme.

Lush. Lively. Here and there, you may even see a snow-capped peak.

I visited Death Valley National Park last summer (2024) at the tail end of the park's hottest summer on record. The temperature reached well above 110 degrees Fahrenheit (43 degrees Celsius) each day of my visit. Park rangers, staff, and news sources spoke with heavy tones and cautionary words, each declaring the area and one's presence within a true matter of life and death if visitors did not exercise caution.

High heat warnings and precautionary notices were encountered around every corner.

The very nature of these realities added to the gloomy, fear-based mentality that seemed to encompass this place.

Dark. Dangerous. Hazardous.

On the other side of these truths stood the wonder of this phenomenal landscape. The enchanting, mystical, and thought-provoking reality that life forms could be sustained in a place such as this. Beauty was found around each corner.

Informative videos at the visitor center spoke of the mind-boggling reality of the types of vegetation, wildlife, and color that emerge within the park throughout the year. Stories were shared of how nature and life forms have adapted to survive in such a place.

In one of the hottest, lowest, and most extreme environments on the continent, life persists and is born anew.

Dry. Sparse. Extreme.

Lush. Lively. Surrounded by color and the occasional snow-capped peak.

Dark. Dangerous. Hazardous.

Enchanting. Expanding. Alive.

As I explored the park, lessons and truths seemed to shine through the seams of its stark contrasts.

Growing up in the Midwest in the United States, places like a desert were a mere picture in my mind. One that my imagination would run with.

A desert was a place where vegetation was non-existent. Where no water bodies were found. A place that was segregated from any type of life form. A place of quiet, where solitude would surround.

As I encountered the life that persisted throughout Death Valley National Park, a world of possibility encompassed my mind. One that challenged my younger self's imagined desert world.

One of hope and possibility.

One of sparked wonder and truth.

The idea that new, life-filled roots can emerge in an environmentally extreme, parched space is riveting to my mind.

This truth radiates its weight through the very core of my veins.

This message plants a seed of hope.

What if the trials and tribulations that we are dealt

Those which threaten to label us as broken or place a cautionary warning sign upon our existence

Do not have to define the full story of our beings?

What if there is and can be more to the story?

What if, through these things, there is still hope for life, expansion, and abundance?

What if the death of one path does not have to equate to the loss of life?

What if the fears and hurdles that arise along the way are not present as a means to knock us down,

But instead to veer us toward a more prosperous reality at which we will soon arrive?

My younger self imagined a desert as a place that lacked life. Where death was a grand possibility and warnings were abundant. I saw that reality in tangible form as I explored Death Valley National Park in 2024.

Today, I understand, through observing these marvelous truths,

That a lack of perceived life does not negate the possibility of the formation of new roots.

One of the highlights of Death Valley National Park is the Badwater Basin, the lowest point in elevation throughout the whole of North America. At 282 feet (86 meters) below sea level, it is covered in salt flats - table salt naturally formed on the Earth's floor!

A breath in as I stepped forth onto the topmost layer of the salt flat welcomed warm, sodium-filled air into my being. With each step, below my shoes, I felt a crunch. Even here, new plant life is found.

Life persists in a place that seems uninhabitable. Witnessing this reminds me of how, in our own lives, growth can emerge even in the harshest of conditions.

We may not always be polished

Perfection may not radiate from our beings.

We may, from time to time, lack moisture

And have hands that crack from dryness that has seeped.

That does not mean we are broken,

Perpetually in defeat.

That does not equate to our path being eternally faltered

Nor does it deter new possibilities from arising down the stream.

A beautiful picture now rests in my mind, as I contemplate these truths that I have seen with my eyes.

A parched, cracked landscape. Where little life is seen. Boasting a new root that has formed. A sprout of green now beams.

Its surroundings might challenge it. It may feel, at times, out of place. It may sway in the wind and catch a bruise from the coarse sand that glides across its space.

Despite its environment

Despite the reality of its surroundings

It too can mold and adapt

It too can persevere through this life

It too, in its unique way, can beam.

Reflections from Death Valley National Park (2024)

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What if we told our stories

Let them illuminate like light

Let them shine through the day

And have a voice in the night?

What if we told our stories

What if we let others see

What if we did not hold back

The realities that make up the?

What if we told our stories

What if we said what is true

What if we drowned out the noise of the latter

Refusing to cling to what does not align with me and you?

What if we told our stories

Allowed our authentic selves to be seen

Thought little about external perception

Instead, clung tight to being the truest form of the?

What if we told our stories

Let them flow as they may

Did not worry about the perfect words

Or how our depiction, to others, would portray?

Too often I want to have the right words

To form the most eloquent thing to say

To arrange the details so that you understand

And do not have questions or confusion along the way.

I once longed for a story free of chaotic twists and turns

One that made sense

One that you could follow and comprehend

One that would seem anything but intense.

That may not be the nature

Of the reality of life

That may not be possible

Does that make it wrong to say what is inside?

What if we told our stories

Even if we thought them a mess

Even if we perceived them as chaotic or radiating stress?

What if we told our stories

No matter what others may think

What if we told our stories

And remained grounded in the reality that we know of the?

What if we shone the light in

Allowed observations to be as they may

Released our grip of expectation

Spoke intentionally and lived for each day?

What if we told our stories

Not as a highlight, failure or success

What if we told them as they are

With no filter altering aspects?

Do you think the world would be a better place

If this reality would be

Do you think life would look different

If you knew the true story of all that surrounded the?

A Note From Melanie Jane:

Earlier this year I was lucky enough to meet a lovely couple in Modica, Sicily.

Once strangers, we became fast friends.

Together, they own an Italian restaurant called Ego Pizza (my top recommendation if you ever find yourself in Modica, by the way).

Located steps from where I was staying, I walked by their doors daily. As time went on, we got to know each other. We shared numerous “Ciao! Come stai?” (“Hi! How are you?”) interactions as I would pass by, an abundance of coffee, tea and chocolate breaks, loads of laughs and endless sparks of joy.

After dinner one evening, I sat and talked with them for over an hour. They told me more about their story.

All of the artwork that decorates the restaurant’s space was hand crafted by her.

He is the chef who puts his heart and soul into each and every dish.

Here, they express the truest and most authentic version of who they are, together.

They told me that Ego in Italian means to express one’s heart. Therefore, Ego Pizza, their restaurant, is each of their hearts expressed together.

They then walked me around the restaurant and shared stories of each of the photos and pieces of artwork that hung on the walls.

Creations that sparked joy.

Artwork that told stories.

Photos of them with each of their meticulously chosen vendors alongside whom they have learned about each of the products that they use and sell - so as to ensure that they only bring the best of the best to their customers.

Examples of how they have built relationships as they go, and more.

The beauty that I felt in that story, the way that each and every interaction with them warmed my heart and the welcoming atmosphere I felt inside of Ego’s walls is something that will stick with me forever.

I spent my first and last day in Modica, Sicily with my friends at Ego Pizza. ✦

This piece is my reflection of my interactions with them and my time spent in their special place, Ego Pizza. It is something that I wrote for them and gave them as a gift when my time in Modica came to a close. I hope you enjoy… and I certainly hope that one day you can visit Ego Pizza yourself. ✦

Ego (Pronounced Eh-Gow)

Right in the center

The source of the

Our soul and our heart

Reside and be.

Inside of us,

As is inside the world,

Life develops and blossoms

Found there, a pearl.

That pearl is our purpose

Our unique desires and strengths

Our loves in this world

Those things, at which, we would choose to look the other way.

A pearl is kept safe

Inside of its structured oyster shell

As such, our spark is precious

Tenderly, it is to be held.

To walk toward our spark

To allow it to be

To embrace its individuality

Is like a song to our soul’s scene.

An orchestra plays

Gentle rhythm

Loving tone

That shell opens up

The pearl glistens

Internal bliss is known.

Sometimes peculiar situations

Lead to the abandonment of holding our heart’s light

Sometimes peculiar situations

Lead to us taking steps away from our desired life.

Instead of open and glowing

That shell is now closed

Cold and colorless,

Less light there is now shown.

When there is a fork in the road

Strive to walk toward the light

When a decision is to be made

Strive to listen to what is beaming on the inside.

To my friends at Ego Pizza,

You once told me that Ego in Italian means to express one’s heart. You told me that Ego Pizza was a place where your two hearts came together to express themselves individually, in a safe and shared space. This poem is my reflection of that interaction, and all of our interactions since. It is such a blessing to witness you walking each day in your purpose and building your dream together.

Ego Pizza is a special place.

It is a testament to what happens when we live life aligned with our truest and most authentic self.

I felt your warm and welcoming energy the second I walked through your doors. Thank you for the coffee chats, the tea times, the “Ciao, come stai” each day as I would walk by, and more. I will never forget you! Until we meet again!

My love with you always,

Melanie Jane

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Sometimes I find little corners

Places where I feel I can belong safely in this world

Where my surroundings just get it

Where the noise is not so disruptive or loud.

I need quietness

Places of tender

To be.

To connect with my inners

To really find the.

I came across the Church of San Nicolò Inferiore several weeks ago

Located inside of a once-hidden grotto in Modica, Sicily

I entered and met a friend who was as infatuated with it there as me.

I spent hours immersed inside

Admiring

I could not get myself to leave.

It was magical

Mystic

It was a place that felt safe

Encompassed with serenity.

There is a calm presence here

One that is not often experienced by me

It is as if time stands still

Only the true pieces that matter are in the mind of the.

A safe place to worship,

The purpose for which it was built.

In the earthquake of 1693, it was forgotten, abandoned and crumbled like all else that surrounded it.

All thought it was gone

Out of sight, out of mind.

Until a young boy playing soccer found a fresco on a wall that was behind.

Slowly uncovered, behind where today stands a garage.

Frescos and an altar where worship would have gone on.

All these years later, after being hidden in the dust

The color looks new

Its impact is still in touch.

I find it quite special

To be in a place such as this

To sit here and ponder the life, thoughts and feelings

That once here would have lived.

It takes my breath away, in the most profound way

It urges me to pause and look inward today.

I feel so many things as I look to these walls

Safety and belief - for everything there is a Divine cause.

As this sacred space for years was hidden away,

Sometimes we have to lose ourselves in order to find the next direction that is straight.

In the times of quiet

In the times of grief

In the times of pause

We are still inside of the.

Preserved and growing,

Healing and taking time.

Coming to know and find answers

For the steps in our lives.

As I sit here in this church

This most sacred space

The steps up toward the altar remind me that there is a way forward each day.

Faith and persistence

Through being prudent in our hearts

Through the belief that we can

Assurance is found in our hands.

I imagine in my mind, how it went in those days

One step up then another

Now tilt upwards your gaze.

Immersed and surrounded

By Jesus Christ and the Saints.

I am here

They have got me

Now step forward into the light.

Reflections from Church of San Nicolò Inferiore.

Special thanks to my friend Luca.

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Green and blue

Browns are there too

Yellow and black

I see a sunflower and white specks in the back.

Spherical and glossy

A shadow or two

If I look deep into the center

I see small reflections of me staring back at you.

More than the colors, the shapes and the glares

I see stories and feelings and realities that live there.

Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror?

Not only for a second or two

Have you looked with great focus

Into the purest, most whole part of you?

Today I sat by the mirror

Criss-cross applesauce on the floor

George Winston playing in the background

Distractions away.

I sat and I looked

With intent

Keeping judgments at bay.

Glennon Doyle in her book Untamed (Doyle, 2020) says it is important to do this

To look and to see

To really check in with who and how we are

Is the reflection depicting the person we strive to be?

I used to avoid the mirror

Taking steps towards that reflective glass.

For I yearned to run from the discomfort that could arise from a peer into that surface where a depiction of me would look back.

There was a time before that

When the mirror was my obsession

My friend who was actually my foe.

I visited it religiously throughout the day

Of every nook and cranny, I took note.

A reminder of my flaws

My tool to measure my worth

My gut check on how I was doing

Was I in control or was I operating with a misstep?

My source for personal ridicule

My weapon to protect

My means to keep me safe

My means to inspect.

A selfie in the mirror meant a tangible checkpoint to measure whether or not I was fine

An album of those photos stowed on my device

Served as my assurance of whether or not I was in line.

As I have worked on myself

As I have worked to heal the body image relationship that was there

I become avoidant of mirrors

For I feared that the reality of my struggles were still there.

I used to cover them up

Sticky notes along that reflective surface space

Paper squares filled with affirmations and uplifting quotes

To serve as a reminder that, without it, I can stay safe.

If that did not work

I would take the mirror off of the wall

I would hide it behind the bed

Not allow space for those struggles to again take off.

Today, things are different

I can now look into the mirror

I can ground myself and hold space to manage the thoughts that may appear.

I like the idea of checking in with oneself

Of holding space to glance into that purest, most whole part of the

To gain an understanding of how I am doing

To hold space for the realities within me.

As I situated myself by the mirror

As I got comfortable on the floor

I vowed to look in a different way

Than I had ever looked before.

Straight into the eyes

Into the pupils of black and white

I felt apprehensive and curious

Parts of me felt worried and afraid

I felt a longing to know

How is she doing in there today?

I took time to observe

I took time to see

I took time to understand

What is coming up as I am looking into the eyes of the?

At first, I felt uncomfortable

Palms clammy, heart tense

My being wanted to numb as judgments came forward and were intense.

The next, emotions appeared

While I looked, I felt connected to the

Externally, I saw a tear

Internally, I saw me.

I saw myself for who I am

I saw myself for what I was

I saw myself in that moment

I saw myself in the moments that have gone.

I allowed my feelings to appear

I allowed my emotions to flow

My story is one I have been fearful of

For I worry that it has been encompassed with too much to show.

As I gazed toward my reflection

Staring into one eye, then the next

I saw the ups and the downs

The hills, the mountains and the valleys that I have been around.

I strove to hold space to tell myself

That I am worthy

That I am enough

That I am beautiful, even if I do not believe it

I am strong, even when I feel no muscle to the touch.

Sometimes I find it easier to avoid looking into the realities of my life

Sometimes I find it better to separate myself from the feelings that feel like too much.

Sometimes I wish I could see an ounce of strength and worth

In the moments when I am down and affirmations are not enough

Sometimes I wish I could be courageous enough to follow my dreams and not allow my fears to keep me stuck.

As I sat by that mirror

Staring deep into the eyes of the

Moments flashed from my memory

Moments reminding of the stories that have made up today’s version of me.

To glance toward our being

Can be scary and intense

To look deep into our own eyes and ask ourselves if we are representing the person we strive to be

Can be daunting and humbling

It is so hard to live while fully embracing our reality.

I have learned that life is messy

I know no roadmap for our steps

I understand that each person walks through hardship, whether it is known or hidden behind the fence.

I realize that the world is chaotic

With it, people often strive to keep up

I have come to understand that remaining authentic

Takes courage and constant check-ins to ensure that, with ourselves, we are in touch.

It is apparent to me that so many distractions are at play

It seems harder than ever to hold priority for our healing and growth today.

In a world full of shoulds

I strive to push them aside

In a world full of coulds

I strive to instead look deep into my own eyes.

To look there for discernment

To look there to keep in touch

To look there to check-in

To look there to ensure feelings, thoughts and desires are in touch.

At first, I was overwhelmed

It was as if a kaleidoscope had taken effect

Two eyes turned into hundreds

With myself, I could not connect.

I told myself to breathe.

Calm, Mel. Center yourself.

You are peering into the eyes of you

It is okay to take this step.

I saw green and blue

Browns were there too

Yellow and black

I saw a sunflower and white specks in the back.

Spherical and glossy

A shadow or two

If I looked deep into the center

I saw small reflections of me staring back at you.

More than the colors, the shapes and the glares

I saw stories and feelings and realities that lived there.

I looked into the mirror

Not only for a second or two

I looked with great focus

Into the purest, most whole part of me that was in view.

What I learned was profound

What I felt, at first, seemed like too much

What I took away was empowering

I am okay, I can do this

I am not too much.

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“What is your superpower?”

My college professor asked, her words cutting through a silent classroom.

I stared with glazed eyes as my mind scrambled to find coherent words to speak before the class.

Internal banter arose…

Focus, Melanie

Pick up a folder or two

Stall as long as you can

Slow your heart rate,

Breathe.

Oh no, it is time,

She called on you.

Stand up from your chair,

In front take your place.

My hands gripped the podium and I began as my voice shook,

My name is Melanie and my superpower is my ability to write.

I have never believed it to be a superpower,

But it is the only thing that has ever come easily to me.

It is how I understand myself and my interactions with the world around me

It is my safe space and my tool for discernment.

Done

Exhale

Breathe.

Writing has always come easily to me

My words flow from my soul onto the page,

Effortlessly and raw as if they have been waiting for me.

It is as if I experience the words and their corresponding meanings as and when I scribble them onto the page.

I love it.

It makes me feel alive.

Effortlessly effortless.

It is when I place expectations upon myself that the words seem to be far from reach.

Their flow is halted

Writing can start to seem like an impossible feat.

If these moments creep in,

The blank page stares at me

As if it were a mother's eyes gazing with anticipation toward what her child is going to do next.

Do not mess up.

White page

Pencil in hand

Glaring eyes from expectant minds

The writer is blank.

Many parts of my system long for greatness.

Do not be good, be great

Do not just pass, get straight A's

Do not hit the ball and run, smash and score

Whatever you do, do it better

Do it more.

When I was young, I came to believe that being great was the way to be recognized.

To be recognized was to be important

To be important was to belong

To belong was to be seen

To be seen was to be safe

To be safe was the only way to live with security.

If I felt that what I wanted or desired would challenge the status quo or cause disruption to the world around me,

My mind told me to hold back.

To cut off.

Having connection was important.

To be different was to risk losing those whom I was connected to.

I pushed the limits sometimes

Allowed myself to meander down the route that veered off and satisfied my creative soul

- but then I pulled back.

I found that so many parts of me were much more content hanging out in the background

Trying to ensure everyone else was safe and okay

Rather than taking the forward steps that I desired for my own life.

To challenge that narrative was anxiety-producing and caused conflict inside.

Like a see-saw on a playground,

I teeter-tottered back and forth between the functioning two.

I used to ride four-wheelers with my best friend around her parent's pasture.

We would rev our engines as we squirmed throughout the land.

Over time, our tire's consistent tracks formed a path.

As we sped from one corner of the pasture to the other, it became only natural to take the known and engrained route.

If we off-roaded our path, the go was bumpy.

I think about that from time to time.

When I was in treatment for my eating disorder, I learned about the neural pathways in our brain

The thought and feeling patterns that develop over time.

I learned about how, once a thought is present for long enough, a neural pathway is formed.

Said neural pathways are tied directly to our beliefs about ourselves and the world around us.

Just like those four-wheelers shook if we deterred our direction off of the engrained path,

It can be scary and anxiety-inducing to trudge toward a new possibility, thought or belief in our lives.

A friend of mine recently came to visit.

She had been to a conference for work and a woman she met dropped a profound piece of encouragement on her lap.

It went something like this,

"I encourage you to not allow greatness to hold back what is good enough.

Far too many people never start because they do not think they are great when, in reality, their vision as it stood likely would have been more than good enough.

We all start somewhere.”

My friend shared this little seed of knowledge with me and we spoke about it for hours while she was here.

Its impact continues to ricochet in my mind.

When I think about the need to cross all of my T's and dot all of my I's before I step foot into anything,

It is the need to ensure control and set up for greatness that propels that function's place.

Be great to ensure you are okay

Be great to ensure you do not hurt

Be great to ensure you do great and do not make any wrongs along the way

Great, great, great.

Do you know where this mentality has gotten me?

To a reality where I have totes upon totes of full journals and sketchbooks whose pages speak of the dreams that have wandered through my mind

And little to no action of said dreams taking sight.

Where there is a necessity for greatness, my inner paralysis is found.

Where the expectation is perfection, forward motion seems impossible throughout.

Years ago I met a woman at a Florentine supermarket.

I had just arrived in Florence, Italy for my semester-long study abroad.

I walked into the supermarket and was met by a beautiful Papillon named Monte

His tail wagged vigorously as he stood in the shopping trolley.

I approached the beautiful dog and spoke in my - doggie you are so cute - voice.

His owner said hello and thus our friendship began.

We spent every Thursday thereafter together.

Today, we see each other rarely but speak often.

I recently spent a week with her and her new Papillon, Lorenzo.

We spoke about dreams and possibilities.

Desires and mental blocks.

I told her about my vision of the reality that I would love to see

About how I often feel paralyzed inside as I think about how to start

How it oftentimes feels like my own personal Everest

To get to it - to find a way to summit to the top.

My mind tells me that I have to do it well, with precision and care

I have to complete with control and intention,

Hold steady,

Full stare.

I told her how I feel stuck

Like I cannot take even one forward step

Forget about reaching the top,

Even beginning is an impossible feat to be met.

She looked at me and smiled

Then a simple question she posed,

"Have you ever thought about walking around the mountain?"

I laughed and sat there, unable to have a thought composed.

My mind tells me…

It is a mountain, you have to pass

Go up and down, going around is not a possibility for this task.

After all, greatness demands that I take the hardest, most impressive route to the top.

To let go of the expectations

To go against the world's grain

To deter from the path that is learned, known and ingrained.

To function and be

Without expecting greatness or to be perfect

Can feel like a boulder that is now chasing me

Threatening to flatten my livelihood and remove my safety from being kept.

-

Some parts will be scared

Some parts will hold fear

Some parts will say no

Some parts will beg me to stay near.

Some parts may say yes

Formulate new desires and dreams

Some parts may urge change

Beg for flexibility and for my mind to allow less control of the scene.

My professor posed a silly question

That evoked memories of watching cartoons in my mind

Today I wonder if she was pointing toward the importance of speaking to our truths out loud,

Allowing them space outside of our minds.

Perhaps parts of us hold control

Attachment to old needs

While other parts of us foster desires

Lie the foundation for our dreams.

Like those four-wheelers shook if my friend and I deterred our direction off of the engrained path,

Perhaps it was always going to be scary to trudge toward a new possibility, belief or track.

Perhaps instead of living a life where we abide by the norm

We could ask ourselves questions and search for alternative realities that could be born.

As with that drop of encouragement that left a ricochet

Perhaps we could follow our inklings

Step foot into our desires

Instead of waiting for the greatness that we hope to achieve one day.

Be prudent in our responsibilities

While allowing for nuance to be met.

Question the narrative in our minds

Because what if it is good enough to take a step?

My writing flows from my soul

From inside to out

Be it a superpower or not

I have to allow space for it to flow throughout.

I have the power to stop it

If I do not allow the space for it to be

If I cling to those parts that demand greatness, control and rigidity.

They say that we all start somewhere,

I hope for the courage to push go.

We cannot know what is to come

We can only muster up the strength to begin the flow.

White page

Pencil in hand

I do not have to be great

I just have to begin.