Have you ever looked up and realized you're there--in the place you spent your whole life searching for?
And maybe it isn't a place at all--maybe it's a person or a moment or a deep breath or a feeling of calm you never noticed before. These stumbles into presence--these glimpses into why we're here and what we're meant to do--they shock us out of the narratives so many of us run in our heads. The ones that tell us we've failed or we're not good enough or we don't deserve love. The ones we write late at night, after too much wine and too much hiding and without meeting our eyes in the mirror.
But these sacred places, these breathtaking moments, these beloved people--they disrupt those narratives. They dare us to trust our instincts, our hearts, our fall into the unknown. They teach us to revel in the space between heartbeats, in the thrilling, momentary weightlessness of the leap.
Last night, while meditating on the solstice, I saw a deer in my mind's eye. She watched me levelly from across a stream. I was trying to focus on plans, on next steps, on everything I want to manifest in the coming months. I was trying to force it--to get to the answers and come away with certainty. But that's not how it works, and that sweet deer stayed present, patiently waiting until I tired myself out and finally focused on what was really coming up for me: the deer, with her power of renewal and revision, with her deep connection to the heartspace, with her keen intuition.
We have no control. We don't know what's coming next. We have only this moment and this breath and this beating heart and the people who make us laugh and the moments that leave us breathless and the bone-deep hope for many, many more.
Feel the moments. Let them happen. Be so deeply aware of them that words fail you. Feel beyond your old narrative. Write a new one. We are here with you. We can't wait to read it.
