​We had a peaceful day yesterday. The day after the day that we got back home after a two week away trip back east with our kids and grandkids.  
 
We got back home and then on this day, yesterday, we slept in just a bit and then went and got our dog. God, I love our dog.  
 
I am sure you all know about him. I write about him. I don’t believe I write about him as much as I did about Nava.  A constantly wrote about Nava.  I also constantly wrote. Every week. For four years. And constantly wrote about Nava.
 
With Moose, I don’t write about him as much and I also don’t write as much, so perhaps the % of the time that I write about him is about the same % that I wrote about her.
 
I’m not sure.
 
And don’t have the attention span at just this moment to go back and take stock and calculate whether this is true or not. But perhaps it is.  Suffice it to say that it’s possible enough that I will change what I wrote above and not say that I don’t write about him as much to that I may write about him as much.
 
Regardless, this writing is not about him. Though God, I love our dog.
 
This writing is about the moon. I mean, look at this moon. It looks like the sun. It’s the moon being the sun. At least in this picture. In real life, when my eye looked without the lens of an i(eye)phone camera, the moon was the moon. In this photo it could be the sun. But not.
 
I have this theory that this is kinda what the moon is all about.
​
We were talking about our astrological signs on this trip we were on.  Did I say that we were away on a trip with our kids and grandkids. To Maine. On a lake. God, I love my kids and grandkids.
 
And we were away on this trip and were talking about our signs. Our sun signs. Those rising signs. And that moon sign.
 
The moon sign represents our essence. Our ego, that’s the sun. Makes sense, since the sun is surely egoic knowing that without her, the moon would have no light at all.
 
And our rising sign, let’s just say this is the energy we put into the world.
 
But back to the moon. So the moon was rising last night. Slowly up from behind the mountain that sits behind my house. And we caught in on (film) digital with our i(eye)phone camera. And it was so bright. Like the sun.
 
Except it is the moon.
 
The moon is our essence. It governs our emotional nature. It ebbs and flows our selves like the tide. 
 
It accepts the gift of light from the sun and uses this glow to illuminate the darkness of our nights and light up the sky when it reaches its full potential full moon shape each month and also when it is just a sliver surrounded by stars.
 
We dance to the light of the moon.

Mayflower Beach, Dennis, Cape Cod, Massachusetts

I was on the Cape Cod Playa Saturday night. 
 
But first, Burning Man, 2019 with my daughter, Teagan.  I remember getting there and lying on the sand. This was the rite of passage moment for the first burn experience. To lie on the sand before entering the playa. I lay down and I dropped in.
 
This was exactly where I was and where I was, was exactly where I was supposed to be in that moment in that week with my daughter. 
 
It was amazing.  
 
So Cape Cod.
 
Yesterday, we were on Mayflower Beach, in Dennis, Cape Cod. This was the end of the day, of a day that was quite beautiful. 
 
We were on Mayflower Beach to catch the sunset. The clouds were in, in that way that diffuses the light so the rays of pink that mark the end of the beach day were nowhere to be seen. But still.
 
We walk the sand flats. The tidal markings hold ridges beneath our feet as we head to a distant point out in what is the ocean during the hide tide, to a party of sorts with the sound of music steeped in bass.
 
It feels like I am on the Playa. A Cape Cod Playa with music in the distant, a party of sorts, and sand as far as we can see. 
 
When you are on the Burning Man Playa, in the distant, with the heat the way it is and the light the way it is, there is this twinkling that looks like water. The mirage of the desert in the distance that is really just the dance of heat and light against the white of sand.
 
On this, the low tide, Cape Cod Playa, the water though real, is far enough out that sand is what we first see.
 
We walked, more than half an hour, to this distant party. At one point, because the tide, now turned, is heading back in from the sea, the ocean reaches up our legs. I hold my skirt high in my hand.
 
We reach this party of sorts that is a reunion.  A Russian Reunion. How cool is this.  A 25-year Russian reunion. Turns out that this group of people, now 25 years later so with kids in tow and new partners and spouses and friends pulled along, have been coming here to meet. Every year. At Mayflower Beach. At sunset. For 25 years. A Cape Cod Burning Man Playa Russian reunion. 
 
There is music and one woman plays an electric violin. And the sun, hidden behind those clouds, sets without the pink of dusk we hope to see on our excursion to this beach.
 
The sun sets and the tide rises and, in mass, this Russian Playa Party Reunion turns their back to the incoming water and we all make our way back to the beach that stands above the high tide mark.
 
This is the end of our day.
 
The beginning of our day is in Yarmouth. At Dave’s home. Our Chief Marketing Officer for GenRocket, my husband’s company. 
 
We are here for the day, to spend the day at this lovely home that lives along a salt marsh sky. The day is warm, the air moist with that summer humidity as we sit on the deck and eat fruit and shrimp.
 
Then a long kayak excursion through the salt march streams, in boats with battery charged motors that push us along though the tide has turned and the current often pushes us against the mud and reeds that frame the waterways along the way. This makes us laugh. 
 
The depth is not deep and we look for the surface chaos that warns us of the bars of sand that hoped to snag our motors for just a moment. 
 
And, once back on land and because the tide is now low, we walk across the deeper ocean floor, now shallow, to the sand bar before heading back home for a take-out seafood dinner from The Marshside. Swordfish and Haddock and a Lobster Risotto. And Pepper Potatoes, Calamari, and a Beet Salad with Blue Cheese.
 
I eat a ton of Tootsie Rolls that Dave has on the kitchen counter because, how can I not, and we talk about souls and spirits and loss and grief. And we talk about guilt and love. And how do we understand the purpose of it all if there is no one way to understand the purpose of it all.
 
It is a sweet night after a sweet day. Steeped in gratitude. Anchored by appreciation. Easeful and love filled. Oh, and I ate one orange Starburst, too. I love the orange ones best.

Scenes from the Mayflower Playa

Me and Dave on the Mayflower Playa

View from Dave's porch, the sand bar, the Salt Marsh

​A couple of weeks ago I met up with Shame.  I was in a therapy session and remembering something that I don’t really remember and “what emotion lives here” and it was Shame.  I knew she was around. But wow, like she’s big.
 
I met Shame the other day. Her arms are like tentacles.  She sits on a throne. She’s been running the kingdom since, oh God, when has she not been running the kingdom.
 
She is soul eating. (Shame is a soul eating emotion says Carl Jung).
 
This is disjointed.  I’ve been disjointed.
 
I have parts.  We all do. Different parts of ourselves that show up when we need them. Archetypes maybe. Some of them anyway. 
 
So these parts—we all have them in this, we hope, seamless flow of ourselves. The parts that make up the whole. But the question begs (I do love this phrase, who coined this phrase?) the question begs, who’s running the show?
 
Shame is a soul eating emotion. (Says Carl Jung).
 
So these parts, there are a lot of them. And they show up during all the different parts of my life. Each one when I need her. We all have them.  The different parts that serve the whole and serve each moment we are in.
 
It’s the Internal Family Systems model. Do you know about Internal Family Systems? IFS assumes that we all carry multiple parts playing multiple roles. These parts often emulate sub-personalities, and they drive you to act in certain ways.
 
One of the goals, in IFS, is to unfuse our parts from our core self. So that we’re in control. Our parts, they serve a purpose. We just want to choose them. They don’t get to be the leader. They don’t get to run the show.
 
So Shame.  She’s been running the show.  Been. She’s not anymore. 
 
I met up with her. A few weeks ago when I was in a therapy session and remembering something that I don’t really remember and “what emotion lives here” and there she was.  
 
It is interesting to me (curiosity) that she’s been running the show all these years, and never told me. All these years. Like 62 years! I thought it was me running the show. But it was her. All these years.
 
Now don’t get me wrong, I knew she was around a little bit. Well maybe more than a bit but running the show?  No fucking way.  But then, wow, here she is.
 
On her throne with her tentacle arms. 
 
Here she is. So where was I?
 
This is the curiosity part.  (Did you know that moving from shame quickly into curiosity takes you out of the self-shaming of shame?)
 
So this curiosity part. Like where was I if she’s been running the show?
 
This is weird. I know. But not really. 
 
Because when I ran into Shame these few weeks ago, in that instant—it was truly an instant—she was gone and there I was. Well not gone, she’s here, but I’m on the throne now. In an instant.
 
Shine the light on Shame and, man, she bolts from that seat. And I’m on the throne now. In an instant. 
 
When we find ourselves, we know ourselves.
 
And we say “I am so glad I found you.”

So I’m driving home from this play that I had gone to see yesterday. 
 
And I’m having a conversation with God. I always know it’s Him talking because He answers me before each thought is clear because He knows what it is I am going to say. When I’m talking to myself, I have to get my words out before I can answer them. It’s a timing thing. I know I’ve mentioned this before.
 
So anyway, I’m talking to God. God He’s smart.  
 
And I’m working through this piece of this puzzle that I’ve been putting together for like, God (yes, He says), almost two years now. It’s tricky. This piece.  Because it’s highly focused in but it’s big. Like it’s the missing link piece.  It’s the big shebang. It’s the thing. Like I get this, and I’ve got this.
 
And I’m thinking “I’ve just gotta trust this.” 
And He’s saying “you can trust this.” 
And I’m thinking “I’ve just gotta let go.” 
And He’s saying “you can let go.” 
And “I’m scared.” 
And He’s “I’ve got you.” 
And He’s “I am You.”
 
So anyway, I’m talking to God. God He’s smart. And then this song comes on.
 
I feel compelled to share this song. I mean seriously. This song. Sent to me from God. On my drive home. During a conversation that I know He’s answering. Because He answers before I form my words. That timing thing. 
 
Like this song. Timed just right. Perfectly dropped in. Right in this moment. 
 
My God, it’s a beautiful song.
 
Without A Map, by Markéta Irglová— https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dFp4SIMlbs

—Lyrics--
God, I've been sent here blind to learn to see
Remembering you were always there with me
But do you know just how hard that's been?
Could all of this have really been foreseen?
I'd like to say a prayer, how does it go?
I'm tired. Tell me, God, does it show?
What could have called for such a handicap?
I was sent out here without a map
All this time I've had to guess the way
To keep moving when I wished to stay
I've been wrong as much as I've been right
You tell me: 'Walk by faith and not by sight, and
Keep your heavy heart afloat
You are a timber carved by knife, but
Someday you may serve as a boat.'

What I lose here on earth…
…Is lost in heaven
If I ask you for help…
…it will be given
But you've waited this long…
…you weren't ready
My devotion was strong…
…it wasn't steady
I have one more question…
…you have the answer too
But what does that mean?
You're I, and I am you
Why speak in riddles?
Then let me show the way
That's all I've wanted
That's all you've had to say
 
Well come on then, God, show me
Which way you would like me to go, and
I won't resume to question
How I was ever supposed to know
There have been signs along the way, but
They've been so very obscure
At times I thought I knew their meaning, but
How could I've ever been sure?

God, I was sent here deaf to learn to hear
To have faith in you and never fear
Life is an ocean, you its every wave
Your arms would cradle me, and keep me safe
You're right, all this, and more I need to learn
All this unease just makes my stomach churn
It was I not you who set this trap, but
You did leave me here without a map
All this time I've had to guess the way
To keep moving when I wished to stay
I've been right as much as I've been wrong, so
All I hear from you is: 'You are strong enough
For all you'll ever have to face
The only map you need is Love
To guide you through this illusion of a maze.'

Our Father, who art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done
On earth, as it is in heaven
Give us today our daily bread
Forgive us, Father, all our sins
As we forgive those who sin against us, and
Lead us not into temptation, but
Deliver us from evil, for thy is the kingdom, and
The power, and the glory
Now and forever more
Amen
 
~

Did I ever tell you about this time that Phoenix brought me a bunny. It was a gift. Not the most attractive gift because it was dead and bloody on my closet floor.  But a gift just the same.
 
We had gone away overnight and Phoenix got locked in a closet by mistake. When we got home I heard him meowing and let him out. And not ten minutes later, he brought me a bunny.  He placed it on the floor of my closet—my safe and most sacred place as we all know—he placed it there as a gift to me for letting him out. This is how kind and thoughtful he is.
 
First he was Fenix. F-E-N-I-X. This is how this went down. My son had a friend and they played StarCraft together.  All the time. And this friend had a cat. And this cat had kittens. And this kitten, this was this friend’s favorite kitten of the litter. And he named him Fenix—after a character from StarCraft. But he couldn’t keep him. And gifted this now named Fenix kitten to my son.
 
Fenix, the Protoss zealot and praetor (a Protoss rank of the highest standard and prestige) of the Protoss Defense Forces who personally led his fellow warriors into battle against those who called themselves the enemies of the Protoss Empire. Fenix, revered by his warrior-brethren. Fenix, dubbed the Steward of the Templar and one of the most celebrated heroes in Protoss history. Fenix, legendary for his deeds on the battlefield.
 
This is so him.  
 
There was this one time he came into the house with this cut on his head. He was an outdoor/indoor cat. He loved being outside. He used the dog door and went out and in when he wanted. And he once came in with this cut on his head. It was deep. I can imagine what the coyote bobcat bear lion looked like!  This cat, he hunted wild boar. I know it.
 
Did I ever tell you about how he would lie in the middle of the hallway floor while tons of kids would run through our house. He would lie on the cool onyx floor, not a care nor a worry that anyone would step on him. Or that he was in the way. He was never in the way.
 
When he lost his hearing he still heard us. I know this because my son and daughter in law and grandkids came to visit and my son, he sat on our lawn, and asked where Phoenix was. He asked about his cat. And Phoenix, the now non-hearing cat, came running from upstairs and to his boy, who he heard with his heart.
 
While his name was Fenix, I heard Phoenix because I didn’t play StarCraft so didn’t know the other spelling/that that other spelling existed/that that other spelling was his name until it was too late and he was Phoenix to me even though he is still Fenix to my son. Fenix is so a Phoenix. 
 
The Phoenix is a symbol of endurance. The immortal Phoenix never truly dies. He continually rises from the ashes.  Reborn again and again, each time with a deeper and a more profound spiritual awareness.
 
He almost died a ton of times. He has thousands of lives. I know this. He could likely have more. He has grit. Rose grit, my youngest daughter calls it. We all have it.  Phoenix is a Rose. He has this grit, too.
 
But his paws are sore. And his teeth are gone. His hips are weak and he walks tenderly. He is tired. 
 
He told me this the other morning. He, of the still clear eyes and the ability to jump up on the dining table despite his failing body—God his grit is impressive—told me. 
 
I walked into his bedroom—the guest room is his bedroom. It smells like kitty litter and shit. I walked in, and he looked up at me from the drinking fountain that I bought him because he prefers running water, he looked up at me and “I’m tired” dropped into my brain. 
 
I have been waiting for this. For him to tell me he is ready. It’s hard because he is fearless. He says he has mountain lion energy. Sometimes. 
 
And this morning a few mornings ago, he said, “I’m tired.” 
 
Thank you for letting me know, Phoenix.
 
On Friday, we held ceremony. We burnt Sage and Palo Santo. And shared stories that filled us with smiles and remembering. 
 
And we passed him thru the portal with love and intention. He traveled fast. He was tired. His face, old and weathered, became young again and his eyes shone vibrant and clear for just a few moments until opaque and cloudy as he left his body yet lingered still in the room around us.
 
This is the end of an era. We all feel this. This is twenty years of life together. 
 
Thank you for loving us so much and staying with us for so long. You are a light in the life of our family. Rest in Peace, Phoenix Pussycat. We love you so much. 

​Headshots--
 
When I had my headshot done recently, she took a bunch of pics. Like a ton. You need to take a ton to get a few. These are the few. I like the laughing one.
 
A film of Joy--
 
I found this quote a bit ago. “You’re not healing to be able to handles trauma, pain, anxiety, depression. You’re used to those. You’re healing to be able to handle joy.”
 
I found this quote and I was like…. ohhhhhhh…. um.  Yeah. Oh yeah.  This.
 
Because this is interesting.  
 
I wrote a piece way back a long while back, about being a shadow dweller. And being addictive to grief. I wrote—my grief is a marker. And also my lover. And it’s hard to step away.
 
I am working with this, lately. With this addiction to the moistness, and darkness, the inviting-ness, of these shadows of grief and despair. I like it in here. I liked it in here. And I am addicted to it.
 
And so I am working with this lately, with this addiction to this.  Because, like other addictions, it pulls me in as familiar and safe even when it’s not.  It pulls me and it feels good. Until it doesn’t.

And it doesn’t serve me anymore.
 
But it is a habit. 
 
I wrote, a while back, about emotional coupling. I wrote about the tractor and the cart. And wherever the tractor goes, the cart is attached and it goes, too. And the tractor is Joy. And the cart, it is grief. And so Joy and then Grief. Joy. Grief.  This is part of this habit. The habit of keeping the cart attached.
 
So I am working with this. (With this. Not on this. With). I am working with this. With feeling the Joy and when I feel the pull to pull the cart and to fall into my addiction of not Joy, I pause. Joy. It feels like grief because it became grief quickly but now…
 
Now I sit in the Joy and when I feel the pull to pull the cart, I pause. And stay in Joy. It’s lighter. And sweet.  Who knew.
 
So, I filmed a film this weekend. A film about a woman in her sobriety seeing the world through new eyes. Eyes of Joy. Not clouded by addiction.  Eyes that laugh. That twirl. That see color and don’t then see despair. 
 
And this sobriety. It is mine, too. To see the world without the addiction of despair that is a habit. That is my cart pulled behind me for a long, long time.
 
And so this film. 
 
I did this film. It was a beautiful day.
 
A bunch of quotes and bits of thought--
 
You must replace shame with curiosity as quickly as possible. Move away from the spiral and begin to explore what your behavior is trying to protect you from.
 
Mastering detachment while craving connection is genuinely one of the hardest things to do.
 
Where your fear is, there your task is.
 
Too many people think the grass is greener somewhere else but the grass is green where you water it.  
 
The detour I sent you was actually an upgrade. ~The Universe
 
I think it’s important to realize you can miss something, but not want it back.
 
If it breaks your heart but opens your eyes, take that as a win.
 
The portal to every next level is through the parts of yourself that you avoid.
 
The Universe will never give you peace in something you were never meant to settle in.
 
You will be free when you understand that the cage where you live is made of thoughts.
 
The thing that didn’t work out will turn out to be the thing that did.
 
You will know that you are completely done with something when you give it up and you feel freedom instead of loss.
 
You will be ok. Or you won’t. One of those.
 
Thank you for reading my writing today.

I read this really good quote about the loss of a soul mate, whether for now or for ever. I read this really good quote—"we must somehow come to understand that our separation is just as significant as our coming together.” (Satya Colombo)
 
And this reminds me of this importance of bringing ourselves back to ourselves. Of grounding in to our selves. Of trusting our selves. This is often hard to do. Especially when we have others in our life who fill that need to feel grounded. Or safe. To feel loved. 
 
Now don’t get me wrong. These connections with others, they are this beautiful thing. We are community beings and these deep dives with those of our tribe… well you know. 
 
But sometimes (often) they become a need not a gift. We seek them out for outside input. And we forget that our soul mates are our mirrors. We think they are our maker. Our other half. The one that completes us. The place we find love. 
 
And often it feels like a sacred contract. This soul connection, it feels like an agreement was made and this contract, it is binding. And here’s the thing.  It is. This sacred contract, it is binding, but not to who we think it is. 
 
We think it is a soul contract with another when this contract, it is really a sacred contract with ourselves. 
 
This is the life dance with the Creator. With the Universe. With the oneness of us with each other. With the oneness of us with ourselves.
 
And so our soul friends. Maybe we do get to dance this dance throughout this lifetime of humanness. Because it is healthy and wise and full of grace and love. Or maybe we now must separate, because the connection enables that other bucket of need and validation. Of good enough and not enough. And maybe we now must separate. And then we are reminded. Because the pain is deep. The loss is great. The void is big. Like really big. Like huge. And so the only choice is to turn internal.
 
To take the separation and the loss of that love that this other soul gave us and find it in the only place that it truly exists really anyway. Inside us. 
 
This is the great lesson. The cosmic teaching. The home we seek and the space we can really only ever truly ground into.

​So I’m in this play. That I wrote about a few weeks ago.  A play about a house that is a home that I am in.
 
And it’s amazing. Like truly.  Not just the play and this role of Maddy Van Allen, this woman that I get to be that is now me. It’s not just that. It’s that these other actors are this incredible collection of souls that keep showing up in this deep and open-hearted way that truly is just beautiful.
 
And so this play. I am loving this.  And I am good at this. And this feels, God, so good.

And as this past weekend started—this past weekend, second weekend of this four-week run—as this weekend’s first Friday night and then Saturday night runs ran, I felt…oh, here is Maddy and I am along for this ride.
 
It’s a sweet juxtaposition that happens with my acting. Once I know my characters, and they know me, we get to integrate, where they are me. And then it is a channeling. 
 
It happens with my coaching, too. Where this higher self, wise wisdom weaver shows up and I just sit back and watch from this small place in my brain that makes a point to make note when the words are worth remembering for another time.  
 
I get to watch and trust, and in turn, these spirits from above that drop in to share their knowledge and creativity and intuition, they know that I’ve got them. I am a safe place to land. And can, when the moment calls for a recalibration of the vibrations that arise, shift from within and align back to balance.
 
With acting, it’s like this, too. 
 
Maddy gets to show up on stage each night and I get to ride along with her. I get to see where she’s at, what she does, how she moves. Always a bit surprised when she does something new. And always keeping gentle watch.
 
There is a trust in this. In the me that is me. A trust that it is safe for Maddy to show up.  Because I’ve got this. If she strays to far afar, I can move her back in place.
 
But yesterday, Maddy lost her way and I was nowhere to be found.
 
When I first got off stage, I thought I was upset that I fucked up my lines. Like so deeply upset. I seldom am this upset when I fuck up my lines. I may not like it but it doesn’t upset me this deeply because I always recover. I always find a way to make it work. I trust this. And my character—in this moment, Maddy—trusts this, too. She knows I’ve got this and she can be. 
 
But tonight.
 
“Why was I so deeply upset that I fucked up my lines?” I asked my inner self through my tears.  And then quickly moved through the “I fucked up my lines” to land squarely in the “I’m upset because I fucked up my lines. I’m upset because I couldn’t recover from fucking up my lines.” I lost the stability that is necessary. 
 
I was nowhere around to save me.
 
This is not surprising to me now. That this happened. As I reflect today on what this is really about.
 
It was surprising when it happened yesterday because this doesn’t happen. One of the things that I trust that is true is that I can land on myself in those times where things are out of balance, when things go astray, when conversations pivot into a new direction, when lines are lost on stage. When action is required, my ability to respond is always right there. 
 
Except yesterday, it wasn’t.
 
This is not surprising to me as I reflect on this today because this is exactly what I am exploring in the work that I am doing these days. It’s somatic work. And deeply moving as I move through those hidden traumas that my body has held for quite some time. And what I am exploring in this work these days is the idea of internal safety. 
 
The Universe picked yesterday, during this show that I value so deeply, to tell me something important. In this moment of instability, where I was nowhere to be found, in just this moment where I needed me the most, the Universe, she picked this moment to show me something.
​
By the end of the scene, Maddy was back. And so was I. And it was probably the best performance ending that I’ve given so far in this run. Like what the fuck…
 
Because I am a bit pissed, like very pissed. The Universe, she picked a performance as her time to drop in this lesson for me to explore. And I am pissed. And she is smart. This wasn’t an accident. The Universe, she always knows exactly what she is doing. 
 
I don’t have an answer to why she picked this moment. This moment that is important. This moment where I am doing something I love. This moment where my creativity is full and rich and vulnerable. This moment where my trust in me is essential to who I am. To who Maddy is. To my fellow actors. To this audience that I strive to show up for in the best way. I don’t have an answer why the Universe picked this moment. Oh, the answer is there. I just can’t see it yet. 
 
I will sit in this a while. 

​My first play I ever did was in sixth grade. I was Hodel in Fiddler on the Roof. I loved it. I caught that acting bug big time. And while over these last many years I have not dipped my toe into this pond that is the theater, I never quite recovered from that bug. 
 
I’ve had a relapse recently. And I am in The Elite Theater Company production of SHE. 
 
SHE is about a Victorian house. That is a home to these four extraordinary women who don’t know each other except that they do. Because of this house that they all live in, at different times over the span of 60+ years. 

I play Madeline Van Allen, a recent widow who’s lovely husband Jimmy has just passed after 56 years of marriage and a life filled with adventure.
 
SHE opens this coming Friday, May 24th. I hope that if you are in this area, that you can plan to come. 
 
It is good to be back in the theater again. The smell, the darkness, the sound of my footsteps on the stage. And behind it, too. And these other actors and crew that I get to to play with. This feeling of creativity that is a mixture of preparation with spontaneity with love.  There is nothing like this. This is home.
 
It is not lost on me, not surprising to me, not a coincidence in any sense, that I stepped back into my home that is the theater and into a play about this home, that is my home. It is intentionally perfect. Just like SHE.

I love this.

~ If you’re in the area, please come see SHE, at The Elite Theater Company, Oxnard. You can purchase tickets here: Elite Theatre Company Presents: She ~

​I was talking with my youngest daughter last week. We were talking about friendships. But not just that. It started with a conversation about friendships and moved into a reflection on the impact that is left by all the people in our lives. Whether an instant/just this moment/a one off, or a lifetime of friendship and deep connection, it is those markings—my daughter calls them footprints—that stay imprinted on our souls.
 
Picture a beach. And as you walk along your foot, it prints itself into the sand. Sometimes the beach is soft and easily impressioned and deep indentations sink below the surface. Other times, barely a mark is made, despite the weight against the ground. 
 
And then the sea. It washes these barely left marks away in just one rhythm of its tide, while those other, deep imprints last over numerous ebbs and flows of waves.
 
This is us. This is us in relationship with others. 
 
And it’s not merely length of time that we play along the shore. Oh no, it’s not just that. Sometimes maybe, but that is not the only requisite. How deep the imprint goes until it finds our soul is also of other calculations. 
 
Sometimes we walk the miles of beach with this one other being, and not one dent is made in the grains beneath us.
 
And other times, it is an instant, a one step, that forces such a deep groove into a soft sand. And stays with us, maybe for a lifetime. Maybe more.
 
And then, oh then, there are those that visit many beaches with us. Soft sand, and hard, lay beneath us as we walk. The water’s edge may wash away some moments that we leave those tracks that track our path. But these footprints, they linger longer, and we can see them, many steps behind. And we can feel them forever.  
 
These are those soul friends. They make deep, deep hollows that, while softened by the salty sea, never quite balance back to the level of the surrounding sand. 
 
The beach has been transformed. We have been transformed.