Communication, Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Leadership, Vulnerability

Coming Alive Is Questionable – Check With Yourself Before Entry

On a morning walk during our recent faculty weekend, I passed this small campground with a curious sign:

AREA QUESTIONABLE – See Supervisor Before Entry

It made me laugh—and then it made me think. Later in the day as we gathered as a faculty, I realized it was the perfect metaphor for our topic: The Haven’s Code of Ethics.

The intent of the code is good—to offer process and clarity, to provide a path for complaints, and to protect the Haven, its faculty, and participants. But here’s the challenge: our real purpose is to create a community where people can Come Alive and be fully themselves. And “protecting” that? I’m not sure it’s possible—or even helpful.

Which brings me back to that sign. Maybe, I thought, ours should read:

Coming Alive Is Questionable – Check With Yourself Before Entry

What if a code of ethics wasn’t a rigid set of right/wrong rules, but an invitation into dialogue? Legal language tends to close doors with absolutes. Coming alive is messier—it lives in the grey, the “questionable area.” And maybe that’s okay.

That campground, after all, was a beautiful, vibrant place for kids and adults. Yes, there were risks. But life—real, alive life—always carries risk.

I’ll admit, I’ve had a complicated history with codes of ethics. As a therapist, patient, healthcare provider, and business owner, I’ve mostly seen them as legal shields—documents crafted to prevent lawsuits rather than foster connection. So when I first heard The Haven was deep-diving into a new code, my walls went up. This place I love for its realness, mistakes, and growth suddenly sounded like it was drafting hospital paperwork.

But thanks to Jane K and the commitment of our faculty to wrestle with this, something shifted. I started to hear that this wasn’t about legal cover—it was about creating a shared path through conflict, a way to open dialogue before we ever head toward litigation.

It won’t be perfect. No document can guarantee safety or resolve every dispute. But if we keep it living, breathing, and grounded in relationship rather than bureaucracy, it can serve our purpose: to support people in the vulnerable, risky, beautiful work of Coming Alive.

The sign still says it best: safety not guaranteed—enter at your own risk. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point.

Connecting, Connection, Embracing Unknown, Life Experiences

Launching Camp Connection

I am moving into new territory. Not only with my mother’s passing and all the changes and shifts that brings, but also in my relationship to Haven.

Haven itself is evolving, finding its own way forward. I hadn’t fully considered how much that would influence my own life and choices. But as I’ve gone through this time of loss and reflection, I realized how intertwined Haven has been in my journey of becoming.

When I first came to the Haven, I arrived with my sister, Penny. I had cancer and was told I likely had only six months to live. It was a way for us to be together in the time I thought I had left. That first Come Alive changed the trajectory of my life.

In many ways, I grew up there. I trained there. I learned, healed, and received so much. And as best I could, I tried to give back. Without Haven, I don’t believe I would have repaired the fractures in my family or created the meaningful relationships—like the one I have with CrisMarie—that sustain me.

And yet, everything is shifting.

The funny thing about Haven is that, in many ways, it felt like re-living camp. I lived on an island. We were adults instead of children, gathered around charismatic leaders—brilliant, imperfect, and human. I loved them, and at times I wanted to knock them off their pedestals.

Now, so many of the people who shaped my experience are gone. I still find myself wrestling with how to keep the core of what I loved alive. But I’m beginning to see that this is no longer my role—or my desire.

I want to let those cords dissolve. I want to allow myself to be re-created and Haven as well.

So, I find myself called to launch something new:

✨ Camp Connection

For now, Camp Connection will be an online community. A space—not a place—where we can come together to connect, grow, and remember who we are beneath the stories and the armor.

Here is the vision I hold:

Vision Statement for Camp Connection
Camp Connection is not a place—it is a space we create together.

It is a space where we set aside the walls that keep us apart and step into the aliveness of authentic connection. Where the elements that shape us—our stories, our experiences, our differences, and our dreams—are honored and welcomed.

Camp Connection can arise anywhere: around a campfire, in a boardroom, or across a circle of chairs. Wherever we gather with courage and curiosity, we discover the possibility that lives within and between us.

Here, we are invited to listen deeply, to share openly, and to remember that belonging is not given to us—it is something we co-create.

Camp Connection is a call to come together in wonder, to awaken what is dormant, and to build community grounded in respect, empathy, and shared purpose.

It starts with a Mighty Network—already set up (complete with a few misspellings!). But ready to begin.

If you feel curious or called to join me, here’s an invitation: Camp Connection on Mighty Netorks.

Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Life Experiences, Uncategorized

Living Untethered After Good Bye

Me and my sisters Melissa and Penny

Home

My friend Paula kept gently telling me that at some point, I’d feel the shift.

Maybe it would come with exhaustion. Maybe with freedom.

But it would come.

I thought the riptide I felt in my mother’s final days was that shift.

Then came another wave — a vortex of emotion — as I worked on the memorial videos and prepared to travel to Seattle to celebrate her life.

Again, it was Paula who reminded me to stay present. To feel my way through the day.

And I did my best. It was a beautiful day — full of tears, joy, connection, and letting go.

Now I’m home. And the energy has shifted again.

I’m exhausted — and also floating a bit, untethered.

Some of the stories and memories I’ve always held so clearly… don’t quite hold the same meaning anymore.

Something’s rearranging.

As I tried to explain this new feeling — and wrestled with what I should do next — my friend Robin gently interrupted.

She said, “You keep talking about what you need to do. But what do you want to do?”

That stopped me.

I realize now: I need time.

I’m so wired to be productive. To get back on track, to plan, to accomplish.

But maybe that’s not what’s needed. Maybe it’s not what I need.

What do I want?

What if time isn’t meant to serve productivity, or safety, or even health?

What if it’s here to hold space for evolution?

We’re trained to use time to chase success — build strong bodies, stable careers, meaningful relationships, likes, money, recognition.

But what if that’s not the point?

What if the real invitation is to evolve out of separation?

Maybe that’s too much.

But maybe the purpose of this life is to learn to love. To collaborate. To connect. To live in peace.

I know — that sounds like “crazy talk.”

But every time my life has cracked open — during crisis, loss, or fear — that’s the truth that becomes crystal clear.

That really is what matters.

During COVID, people found extraordinary ways to connect.

When the floods hit Texas camps, strangers stepped in, walls came down, and people helped.

Same with wildfires, disasters — these moments break through the illusion of separateness. They stir something in us.

Then the crisis passes, and we try to go back to “normal.”

Why?

What if we didn’t?

What if we refused to return to the programming of separation, competition, and fear?

What if we chose something else?

I remember a moment — years ago — when I thought I was dying. I had just begun to drop some of my walls.

Someone said to me, “You might be better off dying.”

It sounds harsh. But I think I understood what they meant.

Living — really living — with an open heart, with love instead of fear — isn’t easy in this culture.

But I wanted to live. I still do.

Some days I’m not sure. Some days I fall back into blame and self-protection.

But I’m grateful. Because I keep getting another moment.

Another chance to be present.

To choose love.

My mother was someone, I believe, who chose that — again and again.

She lived it.

And now I get to ask myself:

What do I want, really?

And how can I live from that place?

Uncategorized

Weaving Love With The Pieces

Next week, we’ll gather to celebrate my mom’s life.

For me, I’ve been putting together some videos. It’s been a powerful way to process everything. I wouldn’t say I’m particularly skilled when it comes to editing or organizing the photos and clips — honestly, my desktop and files are a bit of a mess.

But it means something to me to throw my heart into creating something that speaks to the life my mother lived.

She was so much more than just my mom. In working on this, I’ve learned so much more about her — through stories from family, friends, and colleagues, all sharing the ways she impacted their lives.

Her thing was Healing Touch — an energy-based practice that some might call woo or weird. But it wasn’t the practice itself that made her special (though, based on the stories, she clearly had some skills). What made her remarkable was the way she welcomed people in — the way she invited people to the table, so to speak.

I remember one summer at camp when I was a kid. We ate all our meals on the side porch — there were two tables: the Camp Directors’ table, and ours — the nurses’ table. Our table was always full of energy — loud, with debates, discussions, philosophies tossed about like frisbees. The Camp Directors’ table always seemed quieter, more formal, with reverence paid to whatever the Director said.

Was it just the difference between formal and informal? Transactional or relational? More backbone or more heart?

I don’t know.

But it felt different — the energy weaving, shaping, and shifting around us.

Maybe over her years as a nurse, instructor, and professor, she learned to lead while following — to stretch doctrine and medicine into something more like music and movement, something people could integrate into their own lives.

We had a gap in our relationship for about a decade. There were some differences in our stories — irreconcilable, at the time. That was painful. Honestly, I didn’t think we’d ever find our way back — our rhythms felt too different to make music together again.

But she did her own growing and learning during that time. And we found a way back to the table.

I know the things I shared rocked her world — and her understanding of our story. I wanted one of us to be “right.” But she didn’t get stuck in that right/wrong fight. She listened. She didn’t waste heartbeats on the battle I was expecting.

I know her heart hurt in that fracture. Mine did too.

But we weaved on and found a new way to relate.

And somewhere in all that, I came to understand — she was as dyslexic and non-linear as I am.

Her energy work — though different from mine — was a spiritual practice we both shared.

We rose above the battleground.

And I love her for that.

(I love me for that too.)

When I wrote Crazy, Cracked, Warm and Deep, I was trying to make sense of the chaos from my past — trying to find some kind of wholeness in the crazy. That writing was for me.

Now, as I work on these videos, I feel like I’m weaving something for her.

Not to fix anything, not to undo what was — but to honor it all. To stitch love and joy into the memory of who she was and who we became.

Now she’s gone.

And in making these videos, I find myself in touch with the guilt and shame of those old stories — the ones that caused so much ache.

But I also know I’m still weaving the pieces forward — still telling the story in a new way.

And I hope, wherever she is, she can feel the love and joy this has given me.

Communication, Connection, Faith, Family, Vulnerability

Remembering Mom: Grief, Energy, and the Deeper Connection Beyond Form

Lately, I’ve been deep in the process of putting together a video for my mom’s memorial. It’s been emotional, tender, overwhelming — and surprisingly, expansive.

My sisters, Penny and Melissa, and I have each been weaving together pieces of the celebration for Bernie’s life. Alongside family, friends, and partners, we’re building something that’s both a tribute and a revelation.

As I move through photos, memories, and stories — I find myself feeling my mom’s presence more clearly than ever. Not as a body, not even just as my mother, but as energy. A field of love and impact still vibrating through all of us.

It reminds me how easy it is to forget that we are more than our bodies. We spend so much of life becoming “someone” — chasing meaning, purpose, and a sense of fulfillment — only to realize, eventually, that none of those identities matter as much as the connections we share, the presence we hold, and the love we carry.

This journey of grief is also a journey of remembering. Of feeling, more than ever, that we are not separate.

My mom is still here — not in form, but in frequency. In creativity, in laughter, in the light my sisters and I carry forward. In every connection that pulses with love.

We came from energy. We are energy. And in those moments of openness, when I stop trying to hold or define it, I feel her. I remember.

Mom — thank you for helping me re-member that we are not separate. That we never were.

Uncategorized

What’s Ready To be Released

My art inspired by some breathe and the wrtitng

What’s Ready to Be Released?

What truth is rising?
What would I say—or do—if I let it speak?

It’s time.
Time to release the anger, the hurt, the pain I still carry around men—the masculine.
Time to release the ache around women who shrink themselves, who shadow their own light for a partner.

I’m tired.
Tired of my mind’s default habit: making “them” wrong.
Without that habit—who am I?

I want to move through the world with innocence.
Not trying, not comparing, just… being.
Enjoying connection.
Finding joy in watching someone else bloom—without turning it into a story of how I don’t.

I don’t need to attack. I don’t need to prove.
But I still do, sometimes.
I see it.

What is our future without that old way?

Yes—I know I’m a good coach. A good facilitator.
I bring beauty and connection into spaces where conflict and old stories live.
And I love doing that.
But sometimes, making it happen feels hard.

I don’t have a long queue of clients.
The places where this work flows the easiest? They’re not here.
And that magical island I return to—the one that feels like Avalon—still lingers like mist.
I don’t know how to radiate that magic further into the world.

So… what now?

I can be grateful.
I can amplify what is working.
I can reach out. Create my Mighty Network. Share what’s true.

And maybe, just maybe, these small steps—these simple connections—
are part of a much bigger leap, toward a future I can’t yet see.

Connection, Embracing Unknown, Faith, Family

Finding The Fractals In The Fractures

In today’s world of division and polarization, it’s easy to see only what’s broken.

I get it.

But what if we’re not separate at all—what if we’re deeply, inherently connected?

What if the fractures we see are not wounds, but fractals—patterns that echo deeper truths?

Our senses show us only the visible strains, the surface tension of energy and vibration.

We miss the harmonics beneath, the subtle frequencies resonating between and within us.

So we attack, we defend—in the absence of a felt sense of the fractal rhythm always weaving us together.

But in the space of stillness, of nothingness, there is a rich, invisible pulse.

An infinite energy moves in fractals, silently connecting, endlessly creating a tapestry of possibility.

Our knowledge—our consciousness—is limited.

We crave story, structure, a sheet of music to follow.

And in seeking to understand, we often reduce the infinite into forms we can control:

Religion. Art. Science. Education.

None of these are wrong.

But each, when held too tightly, can become rigid.

Each can close the door to the fractal.

So how do we make space for what can’t be controlled?

How do we allow the fractal?

Breathe and trust.

Express and show up.

Listen and be curious.

When I do that, I tap into the infinite.

Just recently, I sat by my mother’s bedside, bearing witness to her transition—from form to energy, from Bernie to spirit.

In those final moments, something in the air shifted.

The barriers between us dissolved.

That’s why I needed to be there.

To sit beside her. To be with my sisters.

Somewhere in those quiet exchanges, I could feel the emerging fractal of our family—unfolding, rearranging, expanding.

Some might call this strange.

But it felt familiar to me—like the way I work with horses.

With horses, there’s no pretense.

No reliance on words, manners, or the learned rules of communication.

They feel everything.

They don’t dwell in stories. They live in the moment.

It’s all about the energy.

Beside my mother, it was the same.

Our past was absent.

Separation vanished.

It was a sweet, sacred space.

Her anxiety and agitation had eased.

Yes, she was still working to stay—but something else was also there.

Something softer, wiser.

I didn’t try to explain it. I just trusted it.

Music and words drifted through the room.

But more present to me was the soundless symphony from beyond.

Call it mist. Call it music. Call it the song of souls.

She was more tuned in than I was—already on her next adventure.

I was still unraveling the fabric of our shared life.

Soon, it would be just a fractal, dancing in the room.

It was a beautiful moment—beyond the veil.

That feeling has lasted.

It lingers, because it’s not energy bound by time.

It doesn’t need understanding.

It asks not to be named or narrated.

It simply is.

And in it, I remember:

We are fractals of interconnected energy.

I don’t need to fear or worry.

My work is to be creative. Curious. Open to the unknown and the infinite.

Not to conquer or control—but to live in the joy of our shared energy and our singular spirit.

We are dancers—

Not just humans—

When we remember the fractal that connects us all.

Connection, Family

May You Soar Mom

Bernie, my mom, passed away early this morning.

It’s been quite a journey these past few years—for us as sisters—to support and care for her. She was quite a woman.

In these last few days sitting beside her, I was struck by her sheer life force. Even near the end, that determination was so present. We always knew she didn’t want any life-extending measures, and yet, as her dementia progressed, it was sometimes hard to witness her body continuing on long after her mind had started to fade.

She lived in a care home in Seattle, which ended up being a much better fit for her than the assisted living apartment. It offered warmth and connection, and the staff there really held her with care. My older sister Penny carried much of the weight—getting her to and from appointments, making sure she always knew her family was close. As mom became less mobile and her memory slipped further, Penny worked closely with the team at Langford House to keep her safe and at home, especially as we worried about the risk of her being sent to urgent care or the hospital against her wishes.

Eventually, the moment came when we could call in hospice. The focus shifted to comfort—to helping her transition to her next adventure, to release this body that had served her so well for so long. I think as soon as she knew she was surrounded by people who were there to help her let go, she was ready.

But that didn’t make it easy.

The hospice team was incredible, working seamlessly with the home care team. My mother was surrounded by healing and compassionate hands. And for the first time in a long while, Penny didn’t have to carry the heavy load alone.

We were told it could be weeks, maybe months. But soon, without the pressure of constant medical intervention, she softened. She allowed herself to simply receive—music, massage, touch.

I got the call that it might be very soon and was able to come. We sat together for hours. My sisters and I talked and shared. One of us was on FaceTime, but it felt like we were all in the room. We laughed. We cried. We told our mother she could go—we were ready.

Still, she labored with her breath—each one seeming like it could be the last. Dying is hard. I could feel that she was mostly gone already, as if one foot were in Heaven and the other still here. To me, it seemed like she was already somewhere else—some other time or space—but felt she had to bring her body with her.

That body was complete. Fully used. Fully lived.

And finally, she let go.

I’m so grateful I could be there—with my sisters—as we said goodbye.

May you soar, Bernie.

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

Mothers and Lessons From Three Sisters

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

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.

with Susan Clarke