Category Archives: Connecting

Connecting, Connection, Embracing Unknown, Family, Vulnerability, Women

Mothers and Lessons From Three Sisters

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My mom Shining

I wrote most of this on Mother’s Day.  My mother is mostly in the spirit world, though her heart still beats and body carries on.  Her memories are gone and the woman now seems anxious and uncertain where she is.  So, it seemed more like a burden to call as her daughter.  I know her care team and those around her are honoring her as mother, woman, and human being. That’s the blessing I wanted for her on this Mother’s Day.

One of the stories I tell in Crazy, Cracked, Warm and Deep is about the Three Sisters—a Native American planting tradition—and how it beautifully reflects the relationship I have with my own sisters. I’m the youngest of three. As we navigate my mother’s later years together, I see this story playing out again and again.

But I also believe this story has something powerful to offer all of us—right now.

Here’s the plant version, if you haven’t heard it:

Three very different crops—corn, beans, and squash—are planted together. And each plays a unique role:

  • Corn, like a strong older sister, grows tall and gives the beans something to climb.
  • Pole beans, generous and grounding, pull nitrogen from the air and feed the soil for all three.
  • Squash, with its sprawling leaves, protects the ground, shades the soil, and keeps pests away with its prickly vines.

Together, they create a self-sustaining, living community—each one offering what the others need.

I love this way of thinking. That three different beings—plants, sisters, people—can grow together by weaving their strengths, instead of competing. And that this nurturing, collaborative way of being is deeply feminine.

It’s no accident they’re called the Three Sisters. This collective, collaborative, and nurturing process of growing with the land feels deeply feminine to me—more so than masculine.

And I struggle with how often our Western culture misses the value, the depth, the heart of the feminine. 

I don’t want to just say “women,” because I know women who don’t honor or value their feminine side. I’ve been one of those women. 

I spent years trying to kiss my elbow because someone told me that would magically turn me into a boy. 

Not because I wanted to *be* a boy—but because I wanted to be dominant. 

I didn’t want to be the one who could be crushed like a bug, raped, or terrified by arms stronger than mine, forcing me to do something against my will. 

If that’s what relationships were—one dominating, one surrendering—then I wanted to be the one dominating. 

And for a while, I tried. But I wasn’t particularly good at it. 

I didn’t like dominating or powering over anyone. 

And I had this deeper, quieter knowing that even when I armed my rage and delivered it, it only left me with more shame, pain, and isolation than when I bled on the ground from being on the receiving end. 

Somewhere along the way, I began to understand: the feminine isn’t a weakness. 

Maybe it was learning that childbirth—one of the most painful experiences a body can endure—is something women do all the time, to bring a child into the world. No glory. No fanfare. Just a newborn. 

Maybe it was through poetry and songwriting—how music can deliver truth without destroying. 

Maybe it was watching women leaders who build teams rather than just climbing ladders. 

Or maybe it was from the men who’ve whispered their longing to let go of the fight and the might, and to share their tender sides.

Maybe it was my own mother’s way of being in a medical world and bringing Healing Touch into a world that wasn’t particularly receptive. Yet, she wove her beliefs into energy work, spirituality, and science.  Just last weekend, three practitioners spoke of her mentoring them at various universities.

I get now—it’s not really about gender.  It’s not even about birthing a baby.

We all have masculine and feminine in us. 

But the dualities make it harder sometimes. 

It’s easier to grow like the Three Sisters—interwoven, interdependent—than to live trapped in polarities. 

I see that with my sisters. When one of us is at odds with the other, the third—if she’s not too entangled—starts dancing, loosening the knotty vines so we can work together again.

We need to do that. 

Weaving together the seeds from our different beliefs, not getting stuck in the right path or the wrong path but allowing the beauty of the sun to shine through and help each of us become a brighter light.

Ultimately, I believe that is the lessons of The Three Sisters and one of the gifts from my mother.

Connecting, Connection, Embracing Unknown, Faith, Life Experiences, Valuing Differences

Walking Through Duality: My Journey with A Course in Miracles

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Years ago, I was introduced to A Course in Miracles (ACIM). What brought the course to my attention back then was hearing people—some of whom had played painful roles in my past—talk about how ACIM had helped them find forgiveness.

To be honest, I wasn’t impressed. It felt like a way for them to feel better about themselves without truly acknowledging their impact. Once again, I saw Jesus and God being used to justify or excuse behavior rather than transform it.

So when CrisMarie told me she wanted to do the full year-long workbook for A Course in Miracles, I wasn’t thrilled. But I chose to do it with her—all 365 days. And here I am now, engaged in a 28-day Forgiveness Challenge.

You might think this is the part where I say I’ve become a devout ACIM evangelist. But no—that’s not what happened.

What did happen was that I found myself looking deeper at how I construct my reality—how I interpret conflict, identity, and the stories I tell myself. ACIM became a surprising catalyst for learning and growth.

A Strange and Surprising Origin

The course was channeled through two psychologists who were struggling with conflict in their academic department. They claimed the source of the material was Jesus, offering a perspective radically different from traditional Christianity. That origin story alone fascinated me enough to keep going.

Still, I had my resistance. I struggled with the language: “Father/Son,” the heavy masculine tone, the King James-style writing. It was difficult at first to separate my reaction to the language from the deeper meaning beneath it.

But once I did, I found something remarkable.

Forgiveness as a Path Forward

The course teaches that forgiveness is the path to salvation—not as a lofty religious concept, but as a real, daily practice. It also presents a foundational choice we all face: to live in ego and survival mode, or to choose love and creation. That idea struck me as simple, profound, and incredibly relevant.

I’ve always wrestled with the idea that “love is everything.” The word gets thrown around in ways that feel vague or even misleading. But through this study— building on the many years of work I have done to heal at Haven, and also through the work of Dr. Joe Dispenza—I’ve come to understand that we are energy. Eternal. Connected.

This human experience is one of duality and separation. But somewhere beyond our comprehension, there is a space where everything is connected—where frequency, potential, and intelligent love live. I like to call that space God, or all potential.

Re-membering Who We Are

So here I am, walking through this experience of separation with one mission: to re-member. To remember that we are not isolated beings, but threads of the divine—all of us.

But I can’t see that unless I believe it’s possible.

It’s not about convincing others that my version of God or consciousness is right. That’s not the point. I have my own inner work. And when I attack, hate, or judge, I only make more work for myself.

It’s like I am firing a gun that only backfires. You’d think I would put that gun away. But I don’t – not when I think I am right or someone is doing something horribly wrong.

If I’m reacting from a survival state, that’s my own call for help. So why can’t I assume the same is true for someone else doing that.

For me forgiveness means dropping MY gun – not firing back in rightousness but considering that misbehavior is a call for help or healing.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean being a doormat. I can have boundaries, opinions, and walk away when needed. But the hardest—and most powerful—choice is to drop the sword. To step out of righteousness. To let go of the need for revenge or retribution.

That’s the real learning for me.

Living the Practice, One Moment at a Time

It can be incredibly hard in today’s world. The headlines, the suffering, the division. But it’s not that hard when I’m face-to-face with someone, listening deeply. In those moments, I can see past the veil of separation and glimpse the possibility that lives there.

It’s hard to hold that perspective globally. But day by day, moment to moment, I am making progress. And I believe I’m not alone.

Many of us are on a healing journey. It may look different—different paths, different language—but the intention is the same: to move beyond separation and into connection. Into the sacred. Into those shimmering moments of music, art, and soul where we remember who we really are.

Divine. Connected. Eternal.

I’m a attaching a playlist of a few songs currently inspiring me on my walking through duality path.

Connecting, Connection, Embracing Unknown, Life Experiences, writing

From Fracture to Fractal

Us at The Haven

For me, Haven is where I learned how to be relational—and real. I was fractured.

It brought me back to love. To loving. To creating, exploring, playing, and growing.

Before Haven, I was conforming, restricting, editing myself. Judging, separating. 

I often felt like I didn’t fit in. 

At times, I thought I was better than others—at other times, worse. 

I believed I had to be right, professional, smart, thin, flashy—wise or brilliant. Either profound or spiritual. 

But I didn’t know love back then.

Haven gave me a path to show up as I truly am.

Through breathing, and sharing what was happening inside me—how I was putting my world together, mostly based on past experiences and survival. 

Old stories that scared me or made me angry. 

And slowly, I began to realize: those stories weren’t true. Maybe they were once—but who could say?

Truth became important, but I also discovered something else: 

If I didn’t have to be right or wrong, I could share my story like an artist shares a painting—expressing how I felt in relationship to the world around me. 

And in doing so, I’d often discover that others had similar stories, or their art could support mine.

That made the moment freer. 

It wasn’t about facts—it was about creating.

Through my inner world, I could choose what helped me grow—or what kept me defended—and share that too.

I learned that when I spoke from a defended place, I blocked out new information. 

Or if something did sneak through, I’d just file it into an old, familiar box. 

But when I was in a growth state, new ideas would shift my perspective. 

My inner world would weave and evolve—like mixing paints. 

And that was fun. It was play. It sparked new activity and possibility.

I also realized I needed to face my old stories, scars, and stuck emotions. 

Without attention, they festered—like emotional cancers—messy, painful, and toxic to relationships. 

So I kept going. The process is ongoing.

I’ve learned the best way to live is by developing my capacity to relate— 

To my inner world, 

To the present moment, 

To the people and the energy around me.

It starts with understanding how I construct my reality— 

How to loosen the rigid beliefs I cling to— 

How to stay open to new possibilities, beyond what my senses perceive.

It’s about making space for difference—for people who are different—for a world that is complex and ever-changing.

And the foundation of Haven is opening to that possibility.

As my Haven journey has unfolded, I’ve come to see that everyone takes their own path. 

At times, that’s been hard. 

I wanted to intern “right,” assist “right,” lead “right.” 

But, like life, it’s not that simple.

There is some structure. 

There are core values. 

But ultimately, it comes down to three things:

Being present. Being relational. Being self-responding.

Never fractured just living as fractals.

Connecting, Connection, Embracing Unknown, Faith

Maybe That’s God

Religion is a fascinating thing.

There are over 10,000 religions in the world. Still, 77% of people align with one of the “big four”—Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, or Buddhism. Each of them offers something similar at the core: a belief in something greater, a sense of belonging, and a guide for how to live.

And yet, so many of the smaller, less visible religions—indigenous, tribal, local—carry just as much weight for the people who practice them. In those spaces, the divine may not be far away or up high, but instead right here—immanent, present in nature, in people, in the universe itself.

Religion is hard to define because it isn’t just about rituals or buildings or sacred texts. It’s about our relationship to what we call holy, sacred, divine. And that relationship has taken countless forms.

In the West, we’ve seen long periods where society shifted away from religion and spirituality altogether. Some believe that turn has left us more isolated, more self-centered, and more disconnected.

Then came the pandemic.

After COVID—after all the fear, separation, grief, and silence—it’s no surprise that people started returning to churches, fellowships, and spiritual communities. When the ground beneath you crumbles, you reach for something steady. Something ancient. Something you can believe in.

But here’s where I get stuck.

After COVID, I didn’t want “normal” back. I felt like the disruption was a call to change—deep, necessary change. But when I spoke with leaders, teams, and friends, I saw something else: a collective relief that we were returning to business as usual.

That crushed me.

It felt like all the grief we carried—individually and collectively—just got swept under the rug. We didn’t process it. We didn’t even really name it.

And then the world kept turning: 

The war in Ukraine. 

Gaza and Israel. 

Another U.S. election cycle that tore into what little unity we had left.

I don’t know how to fix any of this. 

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe we’re not meant to be “fixed.” 

Maybe we’re not broken—we’re just deeply divided, emotionally exhausted, and stuck in a culture of right/wrong, us/them, saved/damned.

We keep waiting for someone to save us. 

But no one is coming.

It’s not Trump’s fault. It’s not Biden’s. Not Musk’s. Not the GOP or the Democrats. 

It’s us. *We the people.*

Right now, people are turning back to religion as an answer. I understand that impulse. 

It can be a path out of separation. Out of loneliness. Out of despair.

But maybe we don’t need to return to an old religion. 

Maybe it’s time to create something new.

Something rooted in curiosity. 

In shared humanity. 

In a willingness to listen, rather than litigate.

What if we could ask each other: *What matters most to you?* 

And instead of debating or defending, we simply held space for each other’s answers?

What if we could agree—not on beliefs, but on behaviors that help us live together with dignity, empathy, and care?

Maybe we’ve been smart for a long time. 

But we’ve lost resilience. 

We’ve forgotten how to bend without breaking.

Maybe the path forward isn’t through politics or policy alone—but through people. 

Children could guide us. 

Nature could heal us. 

Elders could ground us.

What if we built something around that?

Something that didn’t require one definition of God—but honored the divine in many forms.

Maybe that’s what God is.

Communication, Connecting, Uncategorized, Voice, writing

What Makes A Life

The Hands That Touch Our Hearts

There are so many ways to gather input about a life.
Pictures, stories, social media, music, movement, art—these days, you could probably even feed it all into a prompt and ask AI.

And maybe that becomes the sum of a life.

But is it?

There’s so much about living that stretches beyond our sensory space and time.
Yes, I can gather loads of data and information about a business—and in many ways, that’s enough to create a strategy, a game plan that can determine success or failure, worth or value.

Maybe you can evaluate a company, or even a country’s government, that way.

But not a relationship.
Not a family.
Not a community.

Because of hearts. Emotions. Conflicts. Hidden agendas.
Constructed personalities that only slightly conceal our raw vulnerability.

All that messy middle—that’s definitely missing from a Facebook post or a LinkedIn update. Missing from business strategies and financial results.

A life—
A real relationship—
Is dynamic. Moment to moment. Always changing.

And we are so uncomfortable with that.
We want to control the narrative.
To limit the unlimited.

But that’s only possible when we finally surrender—
To the unknown.
To our ego.

And we don’t do that well.

Because surrender requires trust. Faith. And that is…

LOVE.

We want love to be different.
To be neat. Predictable. Manageable.

But what love is—
Is simply pure consciousness.
Which just is.
Everything.

That’s way beyond our sensory, dimensional selves to grasp.
And our intelligence?
It keeps us from letting go and trusting—energy, God, purity.

We keep thinking we can know it. Capture it. Control it.

But we can’t.

The closest we come is when we surrender.
When we drop to our knees and cry because we don’t know what else to do.
When we sit beside another and simply be—
As they shake, or rage, or cry. Or just be.

When, in a flash, we let go of our righteousness and allow the light—or new information—
In.

Those are the moments I think we come closest to knowing ourselves.
And each other.

Those moments, I believe, are what truly make a life.

The rest—
Is dust.

Communication, Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Voice, writing

Helpless and Held: Parasails, Politics & Paws: Day Three

A swirl of moments—captured through free writes and Feldenkrais. This piece began with a reflection on the year: three events and some sensory explorations. I followed, unsure where it would lead.

Forty minutes later, I found a path—one that offered comfort and clarity in a time of deep chaos and pain.

The events: parasailing, Couples Alive II, and a crisis at home—threaded together by a political landscape spanning three countries. Two I call home. One I visit often.

It begins here:

I didn’t know if I’d be alone or with others. Just two Spanish-speaking men on a boat, a parasail, and me. No conversation—just gestures. A few motions to get me buckled and set. Sunscreen. Sunglasses. A nod. And then—release.

The rope pulled taut. The wind lifted me slowly, then all at once. Up. Up. Away. The boat shrank. The shore disappeared. The air held me like nothing else ever had.

I could sing up there. I could scream.
I did sing. I did scream.
Arms wide open. The wind caught me—tossed me, popped me forward and back.

In a plane, that would’ve terrified me.
But here, dangling from a sail—I felt free.

More than free. I felt possible.

There was a moment—I touched the clip. Thought about unhooking. Not out of fear, but out of desire.
A strange call to fly solo.
And also… a pull to stay.

Not for safety. But for the two men below.
I didn’t want to cause them trouble. That mattered.

That same push and pull—between rising and staying—echoes now.
Just weeks ago. Days before the election.
Up north with Couples.

The Haven. Safe. Then the call—ZuZu was hurt.
Far from home. But wrapped in something solid.
A circle of friends.
Steady eyes. Open arms.

My heart raced. My jaw clenched.
I tasted metal—but I wasn’t alone.
I felt helpless. But also held.

I watched CrisMarie pace the floor, phone to her ear.
The possibility of ZuZu gone.
Or our dogs separated.
The surgeon’s certainty: if she survives, they can’t be together.

Others spoke. Stories of dogs. Of grief. Of connection.
Pain, yes. But it was shared.
Held.

Helpless. And held.

While back home, ZuZu recovered.
Friends gathered. Held the fort.
Until we could return.

Now, I’m back in the U.S.
ZuZu curls in my lap. Rosie snug at my feet.
Everything back to normal.
Close. Safe. Cozy.

And yet—helplessness stirs again.

Not about the dogs this time.
It’s my country.
The headlines. The rage. The noise.

That same bitter taste in my mouth.
That same rising panic.

But no circle of friends here.
The Haven still exists—but distant now.
What surrounds me is the cluttered, chaotic hum of a nation at war with itself.

Still—I remember the parasail.
Mexico. The beach.

I remember the moment of lift.
Rising above the mess. Not to escape—but to see.

There is a way to be with terror without becoming it.
A way to hold chaos and not unclip.

I can scream. I can sing.
I can let go without falling.
I can remember the air. The sky.
The clarity that comes when I stop gripping so tight.

I don’t have to drown in the headlines.
Or disappear into helplessness.

There’s a space between it all.
A pause between breaths.
A widening above the noise.

I can carry that space with me.
Back down.

Because this is still home.
The weight of ZuZu. Rosie curled at my feet.

The dogs are here. My heart is here.
And maybe—if I remember the wind—
I don’t have to leave to feel free.

Connecting, Connection, Voice, Vulnerability, writing

Felt, Not Held: Day Two

I fear I won’t get my piece out for today and yet I have particpated more fully, taking a couples classes – one live and two of recorded through that all access. pass

One piece seems too personal to share as a blog post so I am holding on to it. Instead I’ll share this other piece – written and then crafted into a poem. The class was Writing Self-Intimacy – very intriguing to me. Here’s the poem:

Such an interesting question—
how does intimacy ripple?
Something in me doesn’t quite grasp it—
and yet, as I write,
a hush moves through my chest,
a soft bloom of sensation—
could this be the ripple itself?

Inside, it’s all motion:
breath as messenger,
bringing in the new,
carrying out the dissonance—
a surrender to the stirrings
that chaos brings.

When I imagine this inward pulse
moving outward—
it feels like waves,
sometimes gentle, like a whisper across skin,
sometimes wild, like wind tearing through still water.

My relationships feel this—
my dogs know the rhythm.
My wife feels the shifts too,
though fear sometimes stirs in her—
then, I feel the quiet plea
for control, or help,
as if my wave might wash too far.

Community…
That’s more elusive.
Sometimes I skip the people close by,
and instead, let the wave
spill into music, into words, activity
into distant spaces in Zoom windows
where I may be felt,
but not held too tightly.

And maybe that’s why
intimacy in community
can feel like a shore I can see
but haven’t quite reached.

Communication, Connecting, Leadership

Reviving Lighthouse Coaching

I am reviving my Lighthouse Coaching. More than ever, this feels like a time when we need to find our way and connect.

I like the idea of being a lighthouse. Someone who is willing to locate themselves by self-defining and shining their light out into the world. Inviting those who may be unmoored a way to navigate and find their way.

I know that I can be a lighthouse and I appreciate those who are and have been lighthouses for me.

Change can be seen as the next new adventure or it can see as the next crisis. How I interpret my travel is fully up to me. Sometimes I do feel tossed and turned. I believe I am a victim to the storm upon my path. But when I can breath and invite connection – grace – and know I am not alone – I realize I have agency and resource.

It’s not always comfortable or easy. Sometimes the best navigation I’ve been offered is when someone as shared their distance in defining themselves in relation to me. In those moments I’ve been given a gift that can help me locate and move out of just reaction and into clarity and curiosity.

Of course I like that best when delivered with kindness and care and I also know that I have choice even when it is not.

As a Lighthouse, I do my best to be straight and clear. When I am clear, I can be present and curious for whatever comes back.

My promise as a lighthouse coach is to hold you as able because that is what I want in relationship and life.

I return to those lighthouses who hold me as able because I know they will be clear and defined and in that I can find ME.

It is with this intent that I want to recreate Lighthouse Coaching. We’ll see what happens.

If you want to have a conversation and see if Lighthouse Coaching is for you – reach out.

Communication, Connecting, Connection, Life Experiences

Returning Home: Heart Full, Eyes Open, and Embracing the Unknown

Come Alive Team

Just returned from an incredible and deeply fulfilling time at The Haven. First, Couples Alive, then Come Alive—both filled with meaningful moments shared with dear friends and new connections. My heart is full.

Now, I’m settling back into life in Montana. Fresh snowfall made for some exhilarating powder skiing on the mountain, which helped ease the transition.

A special milestone—my mom turned 97! We celebrated with her siblings via FaceTime, sharing a brief but precious moment.

Tomorrow, I’m setting up a fun celebration for my love, CrisMarie—incorporating art, community, and joy.

In the midst of it all, I’m juggling work commitments, confirming dates, wrapping up our annual report, and ensuring all the tax details are in order.

I find myself moving between joy and uncertainty—holding both the beauty of life and the challenges of being an American in a time that feels so disruptive. Thankfully, music helps keep me grounded, open, and clear.

A few standout moments from Haven:

  • Couples Alive was incredible, with Bob, Ruth, Susa, and Bryan creating an amazing support team for 10 fully engaged couples—truly inspiring.
  • Come Alive had more men than women, a unique and powerful dynamic.
  • Several participants returned after working with CrisMarie and me, eager for more growth.
  • My dear friend Leona (86) was there as support, offering so much more than just her presence.
  • Singing and chanting together as a group moved me deeply.
  • Important clearings reminded me that connection often comes when we truly locate ourselves—even if that means acknowledging distance.

I know more will unfold if I stay present and allow the unknown to flow in. I have resources to help, and for that, I’m grateful.

Breathe. Listen. Locate myself. Stay curious.

This approach works for skiing, for relationships, and for life.

Loving it all.

Communication, Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Leadership, Voice

Refusing To Hide: Finding Strength in MLK

How can I move forward and not hide.

I can—hide – because my life and liberty aren’t immediately threatened by today’s seizure of power.

But that doesn’t comfort me. It doesn’t erase the fear and pain my brothers and sisters are feeling.

I feel bile rising in my throat as I read the news from DC —I can’t even imagine hearing it spoken aloud.

What have we done?

I’ve been meditating daily, working through A Course in Miracles and following Dr. Joe’s teachings. But none of it feels like enough to carry me through this moment.

I want to move. I want to run. But not to hide.

I could hide. I could pretend that the deportations and disenfranchisement happening now are for the “greater good.” I could lie to myself, imagining that God sides with power and privilege—that Christ would support this madness.

But that’s not the truth. That’s not who we are, and I can’t betray what I know to be right. I can’t hide because I care.

I care about my brother, born to parents who crossed borders to give him a chance at life but are now being told they don’t belong.

I care about my sister, who might one day need an abortion to save her life—and the laws won’t protect her.

I care about this fragile planet that needs us to unite to save it.

I understand we have problems. I know the concerns of people in middle America are often overlooked or dismissed.

But Trump isn’t fighting for us. Maybe for himself and his allies—but not for us.

I’ve listened to his words today. There’s no humility. No heart. Just fear and division.

I hope I’m wrong—I’ve hoped that many times before. But time and again, he’s proven me right.

Tearing families apart and throwing people into detention camps isn’t justice. It’s cruelty. Ignoring the Constitution and appointing cronies to positions of power isn’t leadership—it’s dangerous.

And yet, here I am, unsure how to respond. That’s his greatest weapon—forcing us to react, to lash out in anger and fear.

But I won’t give in. Today, on Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I will remember his legacy.

I’ll stay nonviolent. I’ll hold my anguish close but let it drive me to action where I can have an impact and touch hearts.

I know I can not change minds with fury and force. But I hope I can reach hearts and that we can find strength again together.

I’ll refuse to hide.