I walk into Dr. Chris Foley’s office, and the air in the room is calm, as usual. I take in the calm, fluid energy…

I arrive out at my 93-year-old mother’s house for lunch. I’ve picked up some delicious sandwiches from the deli near my home, and I find my mom waiting…

I tossed and turned through the night. My mind kept reviewing the book chapters I’d finally finished and submitted to my editor…

In my first few classes in graduate theology school, professors asked, “What do you believe?” The emphasis was not on accepting a particular belief, understanding, or words…

As I was sitting in my home office, looking out the glass-framed window, a large egret swooped by, headed towards the nearby lake. My heart skipped a beat as I marveled at the sight of this bird…

“To be awake is to be alive.” Henry David Thoreau, Walden

As I write this blog post, I’ve spent a year living in a strict isolation setting in my home with my family. I’ve not gone out in public…

I look out my living room window and see Tim’s car in front of my house. I put on my ice cleats and grab my coat, winter hat, mittens, and mask as I walk out the door…

I call my 92-year-old mother on a Saturday afternoon to check in on her during these gray days of January in the middle of a pandemic. “Hello!” she answers…

“I feel hopeful and I feel discouraged all day long” a friend shared with me the other day. Her words summed up a sentiment I’ve been hearing regularly in my private client practice…

In this moment, we are fully alive. When we bring our minds back from ruminating on the past or the many what-ifs of the future, and come into just this moment, this breath, we can be here now.

Who are you becoming in this time of confusion, uncertainty, and upheaval?

Most of us have never lived through anything like what we’re living through now. We are all experiencing grief in some form.

We can’t control life, other people and things that may arise. We can control how we respond.

It takes courage to fully accept each moment instead of judging it or withdrawing from it. Each moment is an opportunity to accept, open, and expand or to reject, retract, and shrink.

Breathe, I told myself. My 22-year-old son, Owen, ran down the hospital corridor to find a nurse. My husband, Scott, was hooked up to heart monitors that had started beeping loudly. The monitors showed no heartbeat. He was flat-lining.

On our first visit, Joe talked about his highly successful corporate job, his travels, and his lucrative income. He worked nonstop and only occasionally enjoyed a beer with colleagues. He had been married for a few years and then divorced. His focus was on his career, money, and recognition. 

Sitting up in his bed, Bill gave me a faint smile as I entered. He had lost the ability to talk due to ALS. He communicated to people by looking into a computer screen that then spoke his words. As I came up to the side of his bed and offered greetings, he said via the automated voice, “I am alive.” Tears rolled down his face. 

Sitting on the couch, petting my cat Chaz, I felt the sun streaming in through the window. I felt Chaz’s silky fur run through my hands and the warmth of the sunlight shining on my face. In that moment, I was okay.

My mind wandered back to the last week and how sick I had been after my chemotherapy