My alarm went off this morning, and I am sitting here, waiting for the sun to rise.

I'm sitting in the cold, the wind blows my hair around, and I wonder how, despite sitting this way yesterday, I forgot to tie my hair back again. No matter. I try and nestle into the experience, but my head is already trying to make meaning of the day, of the questions, of the expectations that are formed without me even giving them any thought. And then the first ray of light gently puts her hand on me. I can feel it as warm as a grandmother's hand. And in that moment, as the sky suddenly turns golden and a great big red orb rises I not only feel that the moment is sacred. But that I am sacred too…

I am soaking in the sun in the garden where the flowers tumble from their trellis, one over the other, with little effort and great glory. They flirt with me, confident in their radiance and their right of place.

There is one bloom that seems to be reaching for me, and I am struck by how bold it is. Not just in its colour and form but in conviction; to bloom and to be…

Picture this: I'm sitting across from a pair of eyes that stare at me with the intensity of a coach in Bisbee, Arizona - this wild little town that refuses to apologize for anything about itself. The street art doesn't just decorate walls; it tells raw, honest stories that make you stop and stare. Cafes spill their aromatic promises onto sidewalks where the scent of freshly ground coffee mingles with the desert air…

I can’t fully explain the experience.

Which, by some standards, might make it a poor choice for a blog. But here I am writing about it anyway — because it left me with something rare: a quiet, lasting sense of being a small part of a much greater design…

There are lists for everything — books to read, places to travel, quotes that moved me, retreats to imagine, and questions to ask. Even joy has been organized. My weekly walk with Sue and her dogs. A night at the theatre. Gardening. Journaling. Slow yoga flows.

Each beautiful thing, slotted into place. I thought it was peace.

Then the lights went out.

Literally…

It was the first day of a seven-day retreat. On the precipice of change, everyone arrives holding their breath…

Wag, wag, wag.
A reflection on shame, vulnerability, and one gloriously resilient rescue pup…

I Hear the World

I hear the world right now.

I hear the anguish and the pain.

The scarcity.

The fear.

The quiet panic tucked behind daily routines…

Today, I am nowhere near a Redwood. I am in the desert, surrounded by cacti—aloof, ancient, armored. They stand like silent elders, their wisdom carved into ridges, their defences sharp and unwavering. They do not beckon. They do not invite.

Still, I am drawn in…

The other night, I attended a fascinating AI discussion and was introduced to some incredible tools—things that spark creativity, streamline work, and expand possibilities in ways we’re just beginning to understand. But as much as I was excited by what I saw, I kept coming back to a single, pressing question: What responsibility do we hold in how we use these tools?

The other night, I attended a fascinating AI discussion and was introduced to some incredible tools—things that spark creativity, streamline work, and expand possibilities in ways we’re just beginning to understand. But as much as I was excited by what I saw, I kept coming back to a single, pressing question: What responsibility do we hold in how we use these tools?

…As the session continued, I felt an unexpected discomfort creeping in. Strangely, it wasn’t the AI itself that unsettled me—it was the way the facilitator was using it.

The Queen Anne is swallowed by a heavy Scottish fog. Thick and gray, it blurs the horizon and grounds the tenders that were supposed to take us ashore. Plans to celebrate Ann’s birthday over cobblestone streets and cafe terraces have been swept away, replaced by an endless stretch of “waiting for the weather to clear.”…

The Rose Bushes are Speaking - Are You Listening?

I expected the vintner to be watching the vines.

After all, they were the prize, weren’t they? The gnarled branches twisting in perfect rows, holding the weight of the future in clusters of green. I thought he’d be checking the leaves, the soil, maybe plucking a grape and rolling it between his fingers like some kind of ancient wisdom keeper.

Instead, he was looking at the roses…

We were comparing lifestyles—he is a homebody, and I am a nomad.

“Why do you travel so much?” he asked.

I paused.

I hadn’t reflected on that in a while. Travel has become my norm—months lived out of one bag, bouncing between cities, always packing, unpacking, leaving just as the familiar starts to take root.

But why do I do it?

Because I know of no better way to do what I love most: fall in love…

“At the brow of the hill, take the path to the left until you reach the gate at the far edge of the paddock.”

Simple, right? Or so I thought until I found myself standing on a hillside, squinting at a web of winding paths, none of which offered a clear invitation. I’d assumed the “brow” of a hill was obvious—a point near the top, naturally—but now, I wasn’t so sure.

I was sitting at my desk, staring down another New Year’s resolution. My journal was open, a pen in my hand, but I couldn’t figure out what to write. I kept thinking, What am I even trying to fix this time?

I reached for my coffee, thinking maybe another hit of caffeine would help, and as I stirred in more sugar, my hand froze.

The spoon I was holding—it was one of my favorites. I’d picked it up at an antique fair in England years ago. It used to shine so brightly, catching the light just so, but now… now it was dull, the once-ornate details blurred under a film of tarnish.

I decided to purchase a huge box of Santa chocolates. I was lost in my holiday planning lists, worrying about the forecast for freezing rain and the innumerable things that would need to align—three airport security lines, two connections, one passport control, and a midnight shuttle to the rental car agency—to get to my sister’s in California in the wee hours of Christmas morning…

The table was a mess. Not the kind of curated, artful mess you see on Instagram, but a chaotic jumble of half-used jars, crumpled paper towels, and a single onion rolling dangerously close to the edge. My plan for Christmas dinner had unravelled spectacularly—an ice storm had trapped me at home, and the intricate menu I’d spent hours crafting was suddenly irrelevant…

This summer, I found myself aboard the Queen Ann, and after dinner, I sought out the ship’s evening entertainment—a great ensemble playing old standards and new show tunes. I was a little out of my comfort zone on this ship—it is not my usual travel style—but I believe there is an adventure to be had in every experience, so I happily donned my gown and followed my friend Ann to the seats at the side of the dance floor…

I’m hanging in perfect stillness, caught between the point where I took off and wherever I’ll eventually land. There’s no rushing ahead. I’m at the mercy of the wind, the warmth of the sun, and the coolness of the air, realizing—again—that I’m not in control. My only job is to respond. To be present. To let myself be carried.

It feels shameful to confess I had been living in survival mode. It’s remarkable I didn’t notice, though I sensed something was off. The things I loved became scheduled impositions. I pushed to find ease in my relationship, never feeling it flow. I forgot the joy of reading every morning and replaced birdsong on my walks with Spotify. I was constantly hustling from one deadline to another…