I Honour the Women

(Originally published, with different edits, on elephant journal on October 26, 2015)

Photo by (the incredibly talented) Camilla Albano

I honour the women.

I honour the women who howl at the moon and the women who bow their heads in silent reverence, instead.

I honour the women who are loud with their words and the women who don’t feel they need to be loud in order to be heard—the ones who know that the wisest ones speak softly or do not speak at all.

I honour the women who call themselves fearless and the women who are full of fear but also full of courage; the ones who rise above fear; the ones who speak the truth even when their voice shakes.

I honour the women who understand that feminism is about choice—about choosing to be a mother or not to be a mother, to be a CEO or not to be a CEO, to have many lovers or one lover-for-life or no lover at all.

I honour the women who respect that there is nothing wrong with a white picket fence if that is what a woman chooses; the women who don’t consider other women to be inferior (less fun, less free, less fierce) simply because they have made different choices.

I honour the women who hold others accountable for their mistakes, but also hold themselves accountable when they are at fault; the women who understand that accountability is important, but that forgiveness (of self and of others) is infinitely more important.

I honour the women who realize that it’s not all about them; that the world is built on interconnection; that every action creates ripples in the fabric of life itself.

I honour the women who respect their perfect, precious vaginas (and treat them like the lifegivers they are) and I honour the women who don’t because they have been told, their entire lives, that being a woman means being second best and that to "play like a girl" is to play weak.

I honour the women who have explored their sexuality and accept themselves as glorious sexual beings and I honour the women who haven’t explored their sexuality because it has never been safe for them to do so.

I honour the women who value their own worth and those who aren’t sure they have any worth at all.

I honour the black women, the Muslim women, the indigenous women, the trans women, the poor women, the homeless women, the abused women, the women who have a voice but whose voice has been muffled for decades upon decades upon decades; the ones who are rarely represented in media and government; the ones who must ceaselessly fight against the marginalization imposed upon them.

I honour the women who don’t give up.

I honour the women who do give up; the ones whose spirits have been crushed; the ones who have been beaten down one time too many.

I honour the women who work tirelessly to protect Earth and her earthlings and those who don’t because they are too busy working two jobs to put enough food on the table to feed their families.

I honour the privileged women who not only acknowledge their privilege, but push back against the system that fosters it.

I honour the women who vote with their dollars; the women who know that change happens from the ground up and so who get down on their knees and dig in the mud; the ones who put their actions where their words are; the ones who understand that we are all doing the best we can with what we know and what we have and that that is enough.

I honour the women who don’t vote with their dollars because they simply can’t afford it.

I honour the women who, through their thoughts and words and deeds, revere the children (who will inherit the world) and the elders (upon whose shoulders they stand).

I honour the women who create—the ones who write and sing and dance and paint and knit and garden and mother—in brave and inspired ways.

I honour the women who recognize that it is their duty to give a fuck, that it is necessary to give a fuck, that there are too many people in this world who don’t give a fuck because they are too caught up in romanticizing the moment, the individual experience, and the ego.

I honour the women who understand that in order to create a better world—one where there is justice, equality, and freedom for all—we must exist in the present, but expand our awareness beyond the present (we must think of tomorrow); beyond the individual experience (we must consider others); beyond the ego (we must restore the heart to its rightful place as chief commander).

I honour the women who try to be perfect because they have never been taught that they are fabulous just as they are and the women who don’t try to be perfect, but aim to be purposeful.

I honour the women who build bridges between the gaps that separate women from women and women from men; the ones who know that, despite our vast differences, we belong to one another.

I honour the women who are real, who are raw, who are able to walk in the world with a heart full of scars that declares:

Here I am. I am a bit tender, a bit scared, a bit unsure. But here I am, taking another breath, greeting another morning, walking another step in the direction of wholeness, of healing, and of love.

I honour the women who love; the ones who keep on loving this broken world and its broken people because love is the force that fuels action.

I honour the women who, in time, learn to shamelessly own their stories and the women who never do because shame is so deeply embedded in their bones.

I honour the women who sacrifice, the women who give, the women who grieve.

I honour the women who stand tall and proud and those who keep crawling forward on their bruised and bloodied knees.

I honour the women.

***

(Note: In August 2014, a piece was published on elephant journal entitled, This Is For the Women Who Don't Give a Fuck. That piece—which both excited and angered me, at the exact same time—was the spark that inspired this piece and, for that, I am grateful.)

The Good Fire

Photo: Pinterest

The fire swells. Its initial spark, fuelled by dry bark and a strong gust of wind, becomes a flash, a flame, an inferno. It paints the world yellow and makes my baby boy’s big blue eyes grow even bigger.

It moves, tripping and twirling, seizing the breeze. It shape-shifts into memories, pirouettes into possibilities. I will take your most secret dream and set it alight, it says. 

It sings, whistling and crackling and hissing and hush. Its song is far removed from the racket of the city. There is no traffic here - no honking cars or screeching brakes, no streetcar bells or wailing sirens. Instead, there is deep silence interspersed with crooning crickets, lapping waves, and the sizzling orange light.

We are people connected by this growing, moving, singing fire. It has been burning, summer after summer, for a thousand years. The houses have changed and the scenery too. Parents have aged and children have grown. But around these flames, it's always home.

We sit in a circle of no beginning nor end, sharing stories and laughter and remember whens. We look up at the moon, admire the stars, and feel the knots in our muscles unravel.

We haven’t seen each other in months and our phone conversations have been brief.  We are busy, all of us. Busy with work, school, life.

Busy forgetting the simplicity of things. Like the joy that comes from waking up at 5am to the call of the loon on the lake. 

This fire brings us back. Back to the easy, uncomplicated way of life. Back to early morning swims and afternoon bike rides down long and winding roads. Back to afternoon naps under storytelling clouds. Back to roasting marshmallows for dessert and enjoying the sticky sweet mess of it all.   

It brings us back to the love that warms our insides and our outsides and lifts us up and out of the darkness we sometimes stumble into. The love that threads our individual stories into a tattered but spectacular rag quilt called "family." 

Every summer, the fire burns, the crickets croon, the shooting stars rouse our wildest wishes, and our hearts are set ablaze.

Answering the Call to Newness: Words Inspired by the New Moon/Supermoon, Solar Eclipse & Spring Equinox of March 20th, 2015

(Originally published, with a slightly different title, on elephant journal on March 20, 2015)

Image: tumblr

Today is a day for slowing down, way, way down. For taking deep breaths and deeper breaths still. For going outside and looking up at the sky. (Hello, sky.)

Today is a day for feeling your skin and how it wakes up when caressed by wind. For feeling your heart and how it wakes up when acknowledged, and accepted. (Hello, heart. I love you, all of you, always.)

Today is a day for repeating the words I am alive, I am alive, I am alive 108 times.

Today is a day for reflection and ever-so-gentle redirection. For asking the question, “How am I doing, really?” and being brave enough to answer honestly, even if the answer hurts, even if the answer is, “I have no idea, really.”

Today is a day for feeling connected to all that ever was, is, will be. 

The Universe lovingly cradles you in the nook of her left arm, while painting a new supermoon with her right hand, exhaling a solar eclipse, and dancing away the dark. 

You are a celestial event in human form. (Can you feel it? Today is a day for feeling it.) 

Today is a day for giving yourself a hug (because, friend, you deserve a hug), for giving yourself a high five (because, friend, you deserve a high five), for looking in a mirror and greeting your glowing eyes. (Hello, eyes. Oh, how you glow.)

Today is a day for trusting in the process of transition and transformation, for answering the call to newness with a resounding "yes."

Today is a day for rising from your six-month slumber, stretching your aching knees, and standing in your power, your truth, your renewed sense of purpose.

Today is a day for shedding your dry, dull, winter armour and revealing your shimmer. (Shimmer, friend, shimmer.)

Spring is here, and so are you.

Hello, light.

This Is What I Pray For You, Sweet Baby of Mine

(Originally published on Sacred Pregnancy on January 29, 2015)

Photo: Lakeside Baby Bump at 12 Weeks by Papa Yves

For all of the babies: May you be loved.

I pray that with your very first cry (that mighty hellooooo world that will shift atoms and alter planet Earth forever), you feel my arms around you, holding you close to my beating heart, and learn that you can cry in this world, that you are safe in this world, that my arms and my heart were built to hold you.

I pray that with your very first feeding, nestled against the warmth of my chest, you learn what it is to be nourished by your mama (me) and by your Mama (Earth) and that you grasp, deep inside your brand-new-ancient mind, that you belong here, that you were called here, that you are worthy of receiving the sustenance you need to thrive amongst the big and small creatures of this difficult world.

I pray that with your very first pee and your very first poo, you learn to enjoy the crucial act of letting go, of releasing what no longer serves you, of making space inside and out for the continually unfurling possibilities of life.

I pray that with your very first laugh, you learn to embrace the pleasure of pleasure, to find the funny in a sound, a thought, a sensation, and to let the ease of the moment fill you up and burst out of you like speckles of starlight. Never be scared of the silly, baby. The silly will keep you strong.

I pray that with your very first awareness of your thumb, your hand, your toes, you learn that to inhabit a body is a miraculous thing. That with your very first crawl, you learn to be excited by moving in this world, by touching, and climbing, and chasing the wind, and feeling it all. That with your very first tooth, you learn that pain happens, that it cuts and pierces and burns, but that it also passes, leaving precious gifts in its wake.

I pray that with your very first sleep through the night, you learn not to fear the darkness but to find solace in the Moon’s glow, to fall easily into that limp and heavy state where the active mind surrenders to the mystical truth buried in dreams. Listen to your dreams, baby. They will connect you to the angels.

I pray that with your very first word, you learn that words are power and I hope that you unflinchingly say no when you mean no, and yes when you mean yes, and courageously walk away when others don’t respect the sanctity of your words.

I pray that with your very first prayer, you learn to trust in the unseen forces of this world, to listen to the guidance of the Great Spirit who speaks to us in birdsong and sunbeams, and to find the answers you seek in the divine knowing of your own perfect heart.

I pray that with your very first ache for the pain of another, you learn not to dread the ache but to welcome the ache, for this is compassion gently knocking at your door. Let it in, little one. Let the ache travel deep inside and crack you open so that all the goodness you hold can rush out of you and into this beautiful, broken world.

I pray that with your very first brush against warm fur, you learn to cherish animals as the blessed beings they are, that you allow them into your space, and invite their soft bodies to curl up against yours. Become friends with the animals, baby. They will grow your heart, if you let them.

I pray all of this for you, sweet baby of mine, knowing all too well that you will struggle as we all do, and hurt as we all do, and feel very alone and very confused and very lost, as we all do.

But I pray that when you feel lost, you know to look up at the sky, the clouds, the stars, my eyes and remember who you are, remember where you come from, remember that I am your mother and that, for a short time, your tiny heart beat inside of my body, filling me up with the most radiant light, and we were magic together.

I pray–and I pray this most of all–that with your very first breath, and with every breath that follows, you feel the sacredness of my love and know that it will never falter or fade. It is a love that lasts forever and it is the fiercest force in the world.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I love you, baby.

***

“Listen to the musn’ts, child. Listen to the don’ts. Listen to the shouldn’ts, the impossibles, the won’ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me… Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.” ~ Shel Silverstein 

Ten Things I Learned (or, Remembered) From My Month Off Facebook

1.  It is a wonderful thing to wake up in the morning and not check your phone right away. The day glides onto you like silk – and it feels divine.

2.  Time not spent on FB can be spent reading, writing, making French toast (and other delicious food), cleaning bathroom cabinets, walking the dog, snuggling the cats, watching great movies, purging purging purging, having kitchen dance parties with your husband to Taylor Swift’s new CD (EVERYDAY), expanding your business (stay tuned for more on this), meditating (oh yes oh yes oh yes), taking pre-natal yoga classes, having brunch with friends, getting wrinkly in lukewarm bathwater, exfoliating your feet, budgeting for the new year, renewing your passport, putting together a crib, and rediscovering your love of mangoes.

3.  The beautiful moments that make up a full life happen even when they aren’t photographed, Instagrammed, or otherwise shared. They are still real – maybe even more real – because there is presence, without distraction, and there is appreciation. 

4.  It is really, really fun to bump into people you haven’t seen in awhile and ask, “What have you been up to?” without already knowing the answer. 

5.  Friends who want to keep in touch with you, keep in touch with you. There are ways.

6.  FB is not “good” or “bad” – it is neutral. The “good” or “bad” part of it comes from how and why it is used. (So ask yourself: How and why am I using this?)

7.  Social media does not give hugs. (Cats, dogs, and Moms, however, do.) Also, hashtags are #weird.

8.  Your FB world is a reflection of your real world so it is important to maintain a FB life that lifts you up, informs and inspires you, and makes you feel good. Delete/block those who suck your energy. De-clutter your page. Let FB be your ally in the creation of a better you and a better Earth.

9.  Disconnecting – completely disconnecting, for a week, a month, a year – is OK. It is better than OK. For the sensitive ones (like me), it is necessary.

10.  You will return to FB, not because you need it or even because you miss it that much, but because you choose it – mindfully and responsibly – as a tool for communication, outreach, and spreading goodness in this world. You will return to FB, but promise to (always always always) listen to your heartvoice and trust it when it says, “OK. Time to retreat now. Time to log off. Time to take a break from social media and go hunting for the best organic mangoes in town.” You will trust the truest part of you and you will disconnect from the machine (and reconnect to yourself) all over again (and again and again and again). Doing so, as often and for as long as you need to, will replenish your resources, honour your introverted spirit, and keep you well.

This Is What You Do the Night Before the Biggest Exam of Your Life

 (Last year, on the night before the biggest exam of my life, I wrote this. It was my way of turning off my exhausted TCM brain and finding refuge in words, at least for a little while. Today, I share it for my friends who will be writing the board exam (part 1) tomorrow. I love you, I believe in you, I am so grateful to know you.) 

You don’t freak out. First and foremost, you don’t freak out.

You have studied all day, all week, all month, reviewing patterns and points, and it is ok to stop now. It is ok. It is 8pm. It is time for a glass of red. There is a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon just waiting to be uncorked. Uncork it. Let it breathe. And as it breathes, breathe along with it. Deep, unhurried breaths, like suspension points.

Yes (…) like (…) this (…). Breathe like an ellipsis.

As you breathe, place your hand on your chest and feel your heart’s rhythm regulate, its pace become slower, less of a thump and more of a throb. A heart throb. Not the kind that makes you swoon, but the kind that keeps you soft and reminds you of the precious, painful gift of being alive.

Throb (…) throb (…) throb (…).

Stretch.

Before you pour your glass of wine, stretch (for stretching with a glass of wine may be messy). Extend your arms high above your head and feel your spine elongate. Elongate, what a beautiful word this is. Elongate: to grow longer. Grow longer. Grow long in four directions, six directions, eight. Become longer than you have ever been. Reach beyond the ceiling, beyond the sky, to the nothing and everything of outer space. Scoop a fistful of the milky way and suck it through a straw.

Elongate your legs. Let them sink through the linoleum floor, through the ground, to the molten rock at the center of the planet, and through the molten rock to the other side.  Your legs are most likely dangling in water now. Saltwater. There are jellyfish nipping at your toes.

Now come back. Contract. And pour that glass of wine already. Drink it mindfully, as though it is the first or last glass of your life. Notice its every nuance, its layers of fruit upon fruit (blackberry? blackcurrant?) and its overtones of spice and wood. Swish it around your mouth, against the inner lining of your cheeks, wake up your tongue.

Your tongue. When you think of the word tongue you inevitably think of diagnosis. Tongue diagnosis: the art of tongue reading. You know this art. You have learned it well. You have practiced it on friends, on family, on Miley. (Yes, that Miley.) This is the part of the exam you will ace.

Ace. Ace. Ace the exam.

Forget about it. 

Sip your wine. Watch your silly cats chase after the lid of your highlighter and laugh. Laugh more. Let your laugh explode out of your throat like an exclamation point shocking your cats into stillness (!!!) just (!!!) like (!!!) this (!!!)

HA!

Laugh as long and as hard as you need to, dissolving the tightness in your belly, the tension in your head. Then, pick up your cats, if they will let you. Hold them close, letting their soft bellies rest against your soft belly. Allow the power of the purr to calm your frazzled nerves. Bury your face into their squishy little bodies and feel your heart swell the way it always does when you hold your cats, when you hug your dog, when you look into the eyes of any living creature and notice the kindness that lives there.

Look into your own eyes (use a mirror, use your phone). Notice the kindness that lives there.

Be kind. Don’t exhaust yourself with thoughts of, “I will fail.  I can’t do this.” Be kind instead. Tell yourself you have absorbed this medicine through your flesh. You have sewn it into your bones.  You have poured it into your veins and imbedded it deep inside your muscles. All you must do, at the exam, is unfurl yourself onto the test sheet. Easy.

(No. Not easy. But breathe, keep breathing.)

Now, remember. Remember how scared you were when you left your job and went back to school on nothing but a wing, a bank loan, and a long-winded prayer. Remember how irrational it seemed to many, many people who thought they knew you. Remember all of the hours (thousands and thousands of hours) you’ve spent, leaning over books and charts and diagrams and living human bodies (and, once, dead human bodies). Remember how deeply you have healed.

Be grateful.

Be grateful you are writing this exam at all, for it means that you have listened to the guidance of your heart. Be grateful that, everyday, for the rest of your life, you will practice a medicine that you are madly, deliriously in love with. Be grateful that you can place three fingers on a person’s wrist and speak the language of the Lungs. Of the Kidneys.  Of the Heart. You understand Heart-speak.  How amazing is that?

As you get up to refill your glass of wine (or to pour a glass of water because, yes, maybe now is a good time for water), feel your feet firmly planted on the floor, your soles pressing against the surface that connects to ground underneath. Notice this feeling of being connected to Earth, and tomorrow, when the thick exam booklet is placed face-down in front of you, uncross your legs, and root your feet. Feel solid, supported, steady. As steady as an ancient maple tree. 

Tree. Tree. Tree is like Wood, which belongs to the Liver, which manifests in the Spring, which responds to the colour green, which reacts strongly to Wind, which houses the Ethereal Soul called Hun, which lives in your Blood.

(See? You know this.)

Now dance, if you want to. You’ve had some wine and you’re feeling loose, and the kitchen offers a decent dance space, so dance.

Or call your Mom, if you want to. Or read, if you want to. Or write. Maybe write a piece about what to do the night before the biggest exam of your life.  Maybe write the piece and then take your own advice.

Then rest. Definitely rest. Make some tea (chamomile or valerian or lavender or kava kava). Dim the lights. Settle.  Settle into your body, settle into your nest. Close your eyes.

And know, in the deepest part of you, that this exam does not determine your worth, as a person or as a practitioner. It is a man-made attempt to assess, in three hours, what you have learned in three years of full-time school. It represents nothing but a snapshot of your healing and learning journey. It is nothing close to the whole picture.

It cannot assess, for example, how aware your fingertips have become, how electric they feel when palpating down a person’s spine, and how accurate their knowing is. It cannot assess what a present listener you’ve become, how you are able to sit in stillness with another person and provide a safe and loving space for them to share their story. It cannot assess the goodness in your heart and the way you pray at night, for all of the people who have walked through your doors that day, and how you ask God to guide and protect them on their way.

(These are your gifts and this exam knows none of it.)

Now, give yourself a hug. Tell yourself you’ve done well and you will continue to do well, regardless of the outcome of this exam. Walk upstairs. Change into the most comfortable sleepwear you own (tonight is a good night for satin) and fall into the softness of your pillows. Say a prayer, if you want to. Greet the moon, if you want to. Invite the stars into your bed, into your head, with their messages buried in dreams, if you want to.

But only if you want to.

Because tonight is about you. It’s about honouring the work that has brought you to this place. It’s about honouring the inner strength that has carried you this far. It’s about honouring the heart that has continued beating through the exhaustion and the fear and the doubts and the grueling schedule. It’s about honouring all of the moments of the past three years and trusting the moments to come.

Trust. Then sleep. Then wake.

Then walk into that crowded room, find your seat, line up your pencils, place your analog watch directly in front of you and unfurl yourself onto the test sheet.

You can do it. You know this medicine. You live this medicine. You are this medicine.

Ready? (Breathe.) Set? (Breathe.)

Go.

Place Your Hand On Your Heart and Know

(Originally published on elephant journal on July 11, 2014)

Artwork: Light Spirit Touching Heart by Adam Perry

Know that you are loved.

You are madly loved, not just by the glowing hearts who share the journey with you, but by Mighty Mother Earth who carries you upon her shoulders and bears witness to your odyssey.

She has held you in her saltwater palm since before you were born, since you were but a secret twinkle in your other mother’s eye. As soon as your daredevil soul made the decision to return to Earth, to continue its karmic unraveling through the courageous act of breathing, she began to make space for you, to carve a little plot of land that you could call home.

When life overwhelms and knees buckle and stab-wounds bleed, she remains stable, unwavering under the weight of your hurt.

She holds you.

Day after perfect day, Earth holds your feet and rumbles, “Walk, little one. Kiss me with your toes. Rediscover your preciousness. Soak me with your woes. You can, you can, you can, you can because you are loved.”

Know that you are strong.

You are a living fortress, standing your ground in a world full of earthquakes and landslides and gaping mouths waiting to swallow you up and gnaw on your bones. You will not be gnawed on.

You live in a city that has forgotten about the holiness of trees, a city that desiccates parks to build more concrete towers to make more money to pay more fools who think that money means success.

You make little money, but you make other things: you make peace with your actions and love with your words. You make songs about Internet dating sites that soften the sharp, lonesome edges; you make art by the way you move and stand and curve in the world.

Through it all, you hold your head high, and your clenched fist—that enduring symbol of I-will-not-be-overcome-ness—even higher.

You grow babies in your own body and birth them in your own home and you are strong enough to know when to hold on and when to push push push and let it all go. You are the mess, the sweat, the growl, the howl, the busted-open hero.

Know that you are not alone.

You feel alone, a lot of the time. I feel alone, too. But loneliness (that cunning crone) is a gift, a guide, a way out of our own anxious heads and deep into our own loving hearts.

We must sit in silence with loneliness and peel off her fear-studded cloak, layer by prickly layer, until the spark of recognition ignites within us and we can clearly see the inter-connectedness and the sacredness of it all.

All things stem from a single sacred cell. All of your favorite nature miracles (like the forests of British Columbia and the Arizona desert) are entangled in your DNA; you are the forests of British Columbia, you are the Arizona desert. “All is one” is not just a thing people say to encourage action and reaction; it is fact. All is one and we are all in this together.

Know that your body is your friend.

Your body is the flesh-home you need to exist as a meandering, temporary earthling. It is neither too fat nor too thin nor too tall nor too small. It is exquisite. It is the mask you wear when you need a mask to wear and, when the mask comes off, it is your brazen Truth.

It conceals your secrets between the folds of its skin until your heart murmurs, “Speak me now. I am ready to be heard.” It bears the weight of a thousand daily heartaches without being crushed. It holds the throbbing in its muscles and the frazzled in its nerves.

It is your shield in a cruel world, keeping you safe, and it is your pleasure temple, keeping you moaning and groaning for more.

Your body wants nothing but to keep you well and its every pain, every strain, every break, every blemish is a message telling you to “pay attention to this” or “stop doing that” or “please oh please get some rest.” A body ignored is like a letter unopened, but a body acknowledged is the most enduring ally you will ever have. It is always on your side.

Know that you are enough.

You are enough pretty and enough kind and enough talented and enough smart. Everything you need is contained within you. There is nothing missing at all.

Know that you will know none of this.

That, some days, you will roll your eyes at words like “karmic unraveling” and “temporary earthling.”

That you will feel the grasp of your own impermanence pulling at your ankles and that you will sink deep and fast, into your quicksand bed sheets, and weep for weeks. Know that you will become lost, inside of your own maze-like mind, and that you will hate everything about your body and everything about this broken, brutal world.

Know that this is okay because it is what makes you so very, very human.

Know that you are brave. Know that you are worthy of all things good. Know that you are fierce, that you are gorgeous, that you are wise. Know that you are built to bend and bow and arch and flex, to deviate from the straight and create your own adventure. Know that you are the adventure, the belly-dancing Universe, the embodiment of light.

Know that the knowing that takes place in your head is not real knowing at all. Be wary of ego and its desire to know and its desire to win and its desire to be right. Forget about being right and just focus on being here. Be here, right now, awake in your awesome human life.

See! See the sun and the moon and the stars and how they beam when nobody’s watching, expecting nothing in return. See the long-legged spider and how tenderly she swaddles her prey. See the sparrows in the springtime, building nests, choosing to be neighbors. Love is everywhere and to notice is to know this.

To notice is to know this (so open wide your sparkly eyes and see).

Know that you will not be you forever.

Someday, you will gaze into a mirror and see an old lady gazing back, an old lady with paper-thin skin marked by a hundred different wrinkles and a dozen different spots. You will pause for a moment and think, “I thought this was a mirror…” and then you will look a little closer and recognize your eyes. You will be amazed at the life that has drawn itself all over your features.

You will know, then, that you are closer to the end than the beginning and you will know, too, that “end” is but another word for “beginning.” You will feel intimately connected to the God of your dreams and your angel wings will grow.

You will smile at the life you were gifted with, at how short it was and how long it seemed at times. You will not remember most of it, but you will remember some: the day you said “I do” under an eclipsing moon to a man you barely knew; the night you spent with Kerouac and an oil lamp, drinking wine from a Tetrapak and catching falling stars. You will hold your grandchildren close to your bosom to smell the newness in their hair. You will use words like “bosom” and you will not feel old at all.

Know that you are not old at all. That time is not running out. That dreams come true, in their own ways. That the miracle you seek is seeking you. That the miracle you seek is inside you.

Know that a hand gently placed on a thump-thumping heart is the only compass you will ever need. Know that my hand is placed on my thump-thumping heart, right now, and that I feel a flame burning there. Know that I am typing these words with one hand because my other hand is touching fire and my whole body is getting warm, as I move closer and closer to the real.

Place your hand on your thump-thumping heart. (Go on, join me.)

Place your hand on your thump-thumping heart and feel. (You’re getting warmer, warmer.)

Place your hand on your thump-thumping heart and trust. (Feel the flame, trust the flame.)

Place your hand on your thump-thumping heart and know. (You know all of it already.)