That was one long cold wet winter and, like many of you, I suffered through that lingering cold bug. It came on so slowly and then turned into the cough that never went away. After a month it took a definite turn for the worse: fever, chills, hacking. I had to forgo Wednesday Waves which literally never happens. It takes a lot for me to go to the doctor, but I did. She declared sinus and ear infection and prescribed the big meds. I came home and cancelled a busy two day schedule and did nothing but sleep.

Totally remember 1984. My mom had been gone one tender year and somehow I was finding my way raising two precious little ones, working three days a week in a profession I loved and doing whatever I could to keep the flame alive with the man who was doing all this beside me. What a whirlwind. It is hard for me to remember how moving through that chapter was even possible. And I have so much respect and awe for young families making it happen in this ever more challenging world.

Up top? Journal snapshot from Vancouver’s Leap with Kate Shela in January. This little being has been on my desk since then and I’ve been recognizing her early wisdom, tenacity, courage. Only now do I realize she’s been patiently informing me about destiny. Got it when a library angel landed a few weeks ago: James Hillman’s The Soul’s Code: in Search of Character and Calling. Quotes are from this book.

What is power and why would I choose this term in naming the Fluidity, Power and Release trilogy? I love the dictionary. Remember those big old well-used ones on the library lectern? Well, though Merriam Webster on-line lacks the intrigue and veracity, the definition is clear enough: the ability to do something or act in a particular way, especially as a faculty or quality. And I love this piece: the ability to act or produce an effect. It doesn’t include brawny or tough or struggle. Nope. Just clarity in action. I had a moment like that Sunday.

Our personal growth can be capricious, transformative moments that blindside us, consciousness leaps shrouded in mystique. We land in expanded zones with a thunk, not sure how we arrived, just gratefully amazed. I’ve been calling this the mystery and it has held my fascination this past year. This is one fertile state and the words I just wrote--- capricious and blindside and mystique---I’m challenging them. What is mystery exactly? And can we practice in a way that fosters it’s metamorphosing potential?

Ambushed two weeks ago while teaching. Blindsided by the jackal. The inner critic. The dude in charge of corralling me safely into my comfort zone. So I never go belly up or feel uptight or (heaven’s no!) do something fraught with risk. He’s a panicky beast and though I know he has my interest at heart, he’s also a bit mean-spirited. Surely you have your own version?

Here’s something I’ve noticed of late. When it comes to showing up for practice, we’re so willing to come with our heartache, knowing from past experience we’ll be able to feel in, be soothed or have resolution or some degree of definition. We’re grateful for a place to explore our mental confusion since sometimes a gift of insight or clarity opens for us. When our souls thirst, when our spirits flag---the mat, the dance floor---it’s where we seek sanctuary.

I woke frightened by a crazy dream last night, eyes wide, letting go, breathing. The work shift of our sub-conscious begins in earnest the moment we fall sleep.

I’ve been reflecting how ironic it is that in this last decade I’ve been so deeply called to explore all things pelvic bowl. What’s up with that? It’s like God said “Honey, you’re gonna have some big trouble in this bowl coming up so you better get in there and learn all you can.”

Tis the season of opportunity to turn outward, celebrate, connect, share the bounty. And also, ironically, tis the season to turn inward, take instruction from the darkness, hibernate, reflect. In this pause, feeling both possibilities and how this newsletter, ending fourteen years of offerings, is a weave of the two, the internal and external. Before 2005, I was an avid journal-keeper, writing for personal edification from my early twenties onward until this chapter of public writing began.

Tis the season of opportunity to turn outward, celebrate, connect, share the bounty. And also, ironically, tis the season to turn inward, take instruction from the darkness, hibernate, reflect. In this pause, feeling both possibilities and how this newsletter, ending fourteen years of offerings, is a weave of the two, the internal and external. Before 2005, I was an avid journal-keeper, writing for personal edification from my early twenties onward until this chapter of public writing began.

On Thanksgiving night I laid out fire-front, warm flames soothing this recovering belly and I thought about the nine lives mythology of cats. I reclined and re-lived six of my own mega-close calls over a lifetime and then added one more. Because on this day, of all days, the surgeon called to tell me the pathology report of the surrounding region was clear.

Surgery was Friday. On Saturday the leaves out my window called in their last throes of delight, undimmed by the smoke clouding their show. I joined them as I ached around the block four separate times, each step a victory. The couch never looked so good.

I call it my Buddhist rag, Lion’s Roar magazine, their tag line “accessible Buddhist wisdom for life today”. And I find that to be true. Once a month it lands in my steel grey mailbox and invariably therein shines some sparkling jewels. Words that inspire, motivate, clarify.

On just this last Friday I was hiking nine unforgiveable miles out of the canyon, and with each hard-earned step, totally appreciating my body. Feeling it’s power and strength and resilience, at the same time knowing deep inside the difficult work of healing each cell is doing.

In 1990 our young family weathered an extraordinary crisis. My son Ross---yes, man of sushi fame and current Recess owner, where soup creation magic happens for me---developed a small neck lump that rapidly began to grow. Within a few days we were at Stanford Children’s Hospital, moving with the medical diagnosis machine---bone scan, MRI, bone marrow excision.

You know when you’re with someone and the “with” feels so alive? You can taste it, grateful it’s not a surface thing. There’s a difference between nourishing conversation and chit chat, just like there’s a difference between goat cheese and Velveeta or The Great Gatsby and Fifty Shades of Grey.   When we’re in touch with our essential nature and the way it soulfully meets another, we’re connecting in the mystery.

Sometimes a piece of writing sparks my field, shines like a distant planet. One you know exists but just don’t have access to the right focal lens. Such a moment came yesterday, lines dropped to my inbox, relayed by another teacher (thank you Marcia in Vancouver). She knew they would rock me…bless her. Illuminating words from Bonnie Bainbridge Cohen’s new book Basic Neurocellular Pathways. I spent a week with this grand dame of movement a couple summers ago. She’s been at it a long time, you might enjoy clicking on her YouTube videos on that home page link.

Apparently I’m obsessed. Finished the 400 page Michael Pollan book Change Your Mind in about a week, so unless you’re ready to tolerate a bit of nerdy geekdom, you may want to hit delete.

Krista Tippet, in her podcast On Being, starts each interview with the same intriguing question. “What are your early memories about spirituality in childhood?” Here at the close of seven decades, this query set me to wondering. My challenging childhood surely had its share of blessings: my parents cultivated an incredible appreciation for the natural world. We spent many days at beach, on lakes, in woods. Much of it camping before camping was even a thing. I have a poem about God and the ocean written when I was nine.