Welcome to my Inner Sanctuary
There was a time when writing felt like conversation — unhurried, intimate, real. Before the algorithm. Before the broadcast. Before everything became content. This is a return to that.
Labyrinth of the Heart is where I write from the inside out. Not polished essays. Not strategy. The unfinished thoughts that are too alive and too personal for anywhere else — the musings, the questions, the slow unfolding of a book called Selah and everything it's asking of me in the making. The intimacy is the offering.
Dragonfly at the Center
Coffee in hand, I stand in my garden and beam Reiki to every flower and plant in my presence. The doves coo continuously in the tree overhead.
I walk the inward spiral of the mini stone labyrinth my husband is in the process of making me. My heart warms at the thought of that. At each stone, I take a breath in, then out. Slow and steady.
At the center, I pause and turn to face the porch.
I observe all the plants I have tended and reclaimed — from others, from death, from seed. I am proud of the nurturing I have cultivated with and for the plant allies. As I bring them to life, they too bring me back to mine.
Moonbow Blessings
A rare and quiet phenomenon meets us at the threshold, crossing over into a new year.
She sees it first, mere steps from the door.
“Mom, look!”
Its arc is so obvious—a perfect circle, haloed around the moon. I hold up my camera to catch its mystical rays, and the light comes close. Two shooting swords from the center, and a third, randomly, off to the side. Was this symbolic of us? Me, her, and him?
Blessing the Intensity
I honor the part of me that learned to be intense
because intensity once kept me safe.
The part that stayed sharp, alert, powerful,
that knew how to move forward when softness felt dangerous.
I bless the part of me that carried pressure,
that believed strength meant holding it all together,
that thought love demanded effort, insight, and endurance.
I see you now.
You were trying to protect my life, my dignity, my becoming.
The time has come to release you from the job of constant vigilance.
Loosing my identity
Slowly, I feel myself letting go —
losing the identity I’ve always known:
the caretaker, the responsible one, the considerate one,
the kind one, the homeschooling mom,
the partner and business wife,
the teacher at the local studio,
the morning practitioner held by ritual,
the online community member shaped by shared daily depth.
So many roles I’m being asked to release.
Not because it’s been too long,
and not because they stopped working.
If anything, they worked too well, for too long—
well enough to keep me stuck.