Mountain Weather

Mountain weather.

Few things have helped me more than mountain weather to find my way through the myriad seasons of life.

Why? Mountain weather viscerally reminds me of who and what I truly am: unchanging awareness in which the ever-changing flow of life arises…and falls away…and arises…and falls away.

Dark clouds. Sunlight. Fog. Mist. Rain. Wind. Calm. All in a 5-minute span.

Thoughts. Emotions. Beliefs. Physical sensations. All come. And all pass through us and away.

What is it that they pass through? How do we connect to what is unchanging and enduring and whole and full of hope, peace, joy, and love?

These are critical questions and ones we ask more often when we are in pain and going through hard and/or chronic circumstances that we can’t get out of or “escape”. __
Is there really something that is unchanging? Is there something immovable? Am I in the clouds, in distress, in pain…or are these transient elements in me, passing through what is unchanging?

Nurturing awareness (or whatever name/symbol/metaphor your belief system or faith tradition may use) allows us to grow muscles of resiliency. Muscles that are waiting to be stretched and exercised and used.

Own your recovery. Life wants to live you.

There is much about my life that fell out of my control 3 years ago, but I’m learning to nurture who I am. I am growing. I am healing. Perhaps not in ways that are easily quantifiable, but my muscles are growing stronger as I daily engage with the ever-changing flow of life and meet it from a place of wholeness, peace, hope, joy, love, and fullness.

May Life live you today. May you fall into grace. May the “bottom” you feared be the very foundation from which you grow.


A word about Chronic.

Post-concussion syndrome (or, whatever name they finally end up giving chronic concussion symptoms) is my first first-hand experience with chronic illness.

I’ve witnessed others go through chronic seasons, and as a marriage therapist I worked with a wonderful couple who had been in a relationship with chronic illness for at least 20 years.

I say “relationship” because they referred to the chronic illness as another member of their family.

They deeply loved each other and both longed for healing and for life to resume to the way it had been before Chronic joined their family.

I remember their deep sadness, grief, and anger over dreams deferred, trips cancelled, relationships broken, life dramatically altered.

In some ways, they had spent 20 years waiting for Chronic to move out.

They never intended to live that way, but it sort of crept up on them.

One of them had a health condition that could possibly change someday. Each day, there was still hope for healing, for a medical discovery, for things spontaneously to change. They read the success stories and hoped for the same.

For 20 years.

And they went through the ebbs and flows of hope and despair and everything in between.

For 20 years.

They asked and experientially answered questions like these:

Does embracing life as it is today mean that we have to give up our hopes, dreams, and expectations?

Wouldn’t it be easier to just give up hope and accept this as our lot in life?

Is it necessary to live in the tension that hope brings?

Is there a better way to live with Chronic?

I don’t have the “right” answers. Our family is only in Year 3 of our journey.

I will say that, at the end of each day, the decisions we face are actually quite similar to those you and everyone else does. Sure, the content might change a bit. But, in some ways, we’re the lucky ones.

We are facing our limitations, the frailty of life, and the challenge of living out the universal and paradoxical tension of Acceptance and Hope.

We’re learning how to live out the Serenity Prayer that was framed in my folks’ house…a message echoed in ten thousand other words and myriad messengers throughout the ages.

A message reminding us that, at our root, we are unchanging Awareness or whatever your belief system might call your unchanging state.

A message reminding us that the ever-changing flow of life moves through us and past us, just as the clouds move across the sky.

Yes, we can certainly attempt  to grab on to transient ideas, things, feelings, beliefs, and sensations. And some of us might even get to hold on longer than others. At some point, we fall into grace and realize that we already are and have what we’re looking for.

I’m not sure I really helped the couple I worked with. They expressed that they felt closer to one another, but they were still quite unsettled when they stopped working with me. They despised Chronic and insisted that he leave before they could enjoy life again. I don’t blame them a bit.

Chronic is not someone I would have invited into my home. But, Chronic is here, for now. And like every transient thing that arises in Life – in us – Chronic will pass away. Perhaps not until the body passes, but it will pass away…and it will leave that which is unchanging.

But what are we to while it stays? While the clouds of life hide the sun’s warmth from our skin and light from our eyes?


Consider this maxim: That which we welcome cannot bind us.

Another paradox.

If you doubt this maxim, do a quick check-in on those things that have you bitter, wound up, agitated, anxious, jealous, angry, possessive, envious, depressed, etc.

They are likely things you’re either trying to hold onto or get rid of: a feeling, an emotion, a relationship, a belief,  a reputation, a possession, a season of life.

Can we welcome the ever-changing flow of life to both come and go?

I am learning that an essential part of my growing and maturing in life is to welcome Chronic as I welcome all else that arises.

As I do, I can be guided by the wisdom that comes from this dual  “letting go” and “settling into” who and what I am and always will be.

Wisdom that shows up right here and right now.

Wisdom that leads to responsive action rather than resignation or fantisization.

Wisdom that leads to realization – a full awareness of what really is, not what we wish it to be or not to be.

This takes work. It takes discipline. It take openness. It takes practice. It takes community. And it takes practice in community.

My hope for us all is that, whatever our circumstances, we engage in the work to embrace life today, that we allow Life to live us as we learn to be fully present and fully alive.


All is well

Spinning. The latest round of vision therapy has sent my world swirling around and around and around.

This time, I don’t feel safe driving or biking. Constant nausea, dizziness, and headaches are making for some pretty tough days.

I admit that I am struggling. This is hard. I don’t like it. I want out. I want this two-year season to be over. I was so angry the other night that I chopped up our woodpile like a madman. I was splitting hardwood logs with knots as though they were dry pine. I was loosing a guttural, primal scream with each swing. I was so done with feeling so lousy.

And then I just stood, axe in hand, and wept. Not because I felt sad. Not because I felt helpless. But because I just knew and felt that it is all okay. All is well. Not that it is “going to be” well. But, all is well right now. And when you experience “all is well” in the midst of a personal hell, that is something that takes your breath from you and lays you bare and thankful and weeping like a child…axe in hand.

Live the life you can. My mantra this season. Well, one of them. I even practice it sometimes 😉. I now get to walk my kids to and from school. It has been amazing. Time off the bike has made me more thankful for the bike and the amazing community of cyclists I know.

Being in pain and changing my relationship with pain helps me relate to others who are in pain, or who will be. This season has connected me to healing practices that I get to share. I am experiencing wholeness in the midst of brokenness. At my core, I’m more full of life and love and joy and peace and hope than ever before.

And all really is well, even if it’s not going the way I planned.

So, let the spinning continue until it’s done. Looks like about three minutes left on the timer. But then that timer hasn’t ever been too accurate.


Rehab and Restoration: A Story of Wholeness

A practice called Integrative Restoration (also known as iRest) saved and transformed my life. I recorded this off-the-cuff almost a year ago for a group of friends, leaders, businessmen, athletes, and family who were interested in the practice. It is my deeply personal and highly practical account of rehabilitating from brain damage, a process that continues to this day.

If you are in rehab, struggling in life, dealing with anxiety, sleep deficient, unable to focus/concentrate, or just want to live a more full, whole, joyful, loving, and happy life, I think you will greatly benefit from this podcast and the practice.

If you’re an athlete, the practices of iRest are highly relative and they will improve your productivity, perseverance, endurance, pain management, mental game, and overall experience.

As with anything, discipline is key. iRest is no exception.

During the podcast, you will hear me reference a prototype of the practice in which my initial audience participated. While that prototype is now over, my next goal is to host classes in the Boise area as soon as I am able to be more consistent with my health. The target date is this fall. Feel free to DM me if you’re interested.

In terms of my background, I have completed both the Level 1 and Level 2 iRest intensive trainings with Richard Miller (pictured) and am currently going through the Certification process, which feels a little like getting another Masters. I’m also a licensed therapist, but that’s a story for another day :).



Be Real

Be real.

Lots of temptation for us all to pose. Social media ups the stakes even more. We can create an image that has little to do with reality. We become posers.

Nobody sets out to be a poser, but it’s easy to lose ourselves. To cease “being” and to find ourselves “acting”.

The Be Real Series is my attempt to counter this impulse in my own life and to encourage you to do the same.

So here I am. My daughter Sophia took this pic after turning on the lights during one of my Dark Room days. They’re not pretty. I told you. And, yes, those are children’s toys against the wall. And that is an unfinished ceiling. And I look like a hot mess. And that is my left eye all squirreled up because it doesn’t want to work part of the time.

And it is all real.

When we live in the here and now, we always have what it takes. We always know what to do. Fulness, wholeness, joy, peace, and love – they are always present. But when we’re posing, we miss them.

Take this invitation to be real and enjoy the feast of the moment.


Dark Room Days

Yesterday was a dark room day.

One of those days when the medicine, meditation, and mindfulness can’t seem to make a dent in the sound sensitivity, loud ringing, disorientation, and migraine that are too often part of this post-concussion syndrome (PCS) era of life.

I started out with high hopes, endured as much as I could, and finally listened to the wisdom of the body, mind, emotions, and spirit. That meant making my way to a dark, quiet room in our house where my brain could rest and continue its healing.

The best way I can describe the sensation in my brain is that it is boiling or close to boiling during these troughs in the waves of PCS. Whenever there are competing noises, too much light, stressful events, etc., my brain moves into a full and rapid boil. My body temp rises, my eyes squint, my head throbs, my palms sweat, and I become extremely agitated.

I am by nature a push-through-it guy. I have an extremely high pain tolerance and it was a source of pride on our farm to endure pain and continue working no matter what. There have been seasons where I have actually enjoyed pain and my ability to take more of it than others. But I don’t want people to see me in pain, so I became great at acting like things didn’t hurt until I was alone.

I have always been able to push through. That has sometimes meant doing even more damage to my body, but I’ve been able to do it. I’ve been proud of that.

But we all know what happens when you turn up the temperature on a boiling pot and walk away. The liquid becomes a gas and eventually we even destroy the pot.

Pushing through with this brain injury ironically means extending the timeline for recovery, both short- and long-term. Boiling over is destructive. Pushing through, in this case, is destructive.

I have tried to push through. I have used anger and even rage to try to beat it into submission. I have gone into our back yard and destroyed things in these fits. I have destroyed a door frame in our basement. When I decide to push through, I turn up the temperature to an already boiling pot and the effects are devastating to all involved.

I simply cannot make this go away by trying harder or pushing through.

The way through is in.

It’s the hardest lesson I have ever had to learn. And I don’t really want to be learning it.

A key to health and healing is to learn how to “be”. If there is a pushing through, it is pushing through the ego’s tight grip of control to get to a place of peace and wholeness. Pushing through the messages the ego broadcasts to get to a place of stillness. Putting the ego in its helpful place.

Pushing through to being.

This is life for our family right now.

Not very sexy. Not a parade of success. Not the life I thought I’d be living almost two years after the most recent brain injury.

But I am living the life I can.

Not the life I want. Not the life I imagined. Not even the life I imagine others imagine for me.

But the life I can.

To the hilt.

To the fullest.

It’s not very Hollywood. It’s not attractive. It’s not very becoming. It might not look like a full life from the outside. This part of the script loses readers and viewers. It is mundane and slow and difficult. I’m looking for the fast-forward button.

However, one of my goals during this period of my life is to share the process of living a whole life in the midst of these difficult circumstances.

If Hollywood won’t show us, then I will.

For my sake. And for your sake and others’.

We as humans love success stories. We love stories about overcoming obstacles. About grit. About perseverance. And we especially like to read books/articles and watch movies about people’s struggles AFTER they have been victorious over those struggles. After the end of the story has already been written.

In real life, though, we’d rather that the “strugglers” go away during the messiness. And then show back up to our show when they get their act together. At the very least, we like them to keep relatively quiet.

“Don’t ruin a perfectly great time for the rest of us. Surely you’re over that by now!”

Chronic illnesses are inconvenient for everyone.

They are like having an unwanted new member of the family. One that gets in the way. One that we all wish would just pack its bags and leave or at least be agreeable and stop messing with our plans.

There are many times that I have wanted to act like these dark days don’t exist. Most people outside of our immediate family don’t really have to feel their effects.

A select few friends have had the wherewithal and grace and patience to enter into the muck. To be by my side when it’s unpleasant. When I’m unpleasant. When I’m hard to be friends with. When I don’t know how to help them be helpful. They’re persistent in their pursuit of me, they are not easily offended, they hold no strings, they simply love me as I am. I cannot express how important they are.

I am the luckiest man in the world to even have one such friend. But I have numerous.

There are many who don’t know what to do or how to help. They stand on the edges. They want to help and they genuinely love and care for me and my family. I so appreciate this group. Their thoughts, prayers, and good wishes.

Other folks are waiting on the outside for this part of the story to be over. Waiting for a celebration. I greatly appreciate them, too. They’re holding a light up at the end of the tunnel.

I need them all. I need you all. And you need me.

You need me to show up when I can’t show off, especially when I’m bringing my mess to the table. When it’s difficult for me. And perhaps for you. To show up even when I’m in a dark room like today. Writing and sharing life in these moments – like this – is one way I can do so.

Grit. Perseverance. Courage. These are present-centered qualities. They are not lofty ideals that we can absorb during an ESPN 30for30 and a bowl of popcorn. They won’t grow in us, regardless of how many times we watch Rudy.

They develop as we live the life we can. Right here. Right now. Fully present. Fully alive. Awakened. Engaged.

You don’t have to be pretty to show up to life. You just have to be willing.

Willing to be. Willing to stop acting in the pretending sense of that word. Willing to stop trying to live the ideal life or someone else’s version of your life or what you think their ideal version of your life is.

Willing to be a human being who does. Being is never devoid of action. But it is action centered in wholeness, not action to achieve wholeness.

I think we sometimes have this idea that we’ll show back up when we overcome. That can be an inner voice, or it may be the real voices of folks who would like you to stop talking about your life until you’re better.

But overcoming isn’t a final product.

Overcoming is a moment to moment process.

I understand there is a fine line between complaining and showing up.

The former involves an external locus of control and the wishing for things to be different. It leads to misery and isolation.

The latter involves welcoming life, engaging with it, and living out the life you can as best you can. It leads to peace and wholeness and joy and love and gratitude, no matter what.

Yesterday, I overcame my fear of what others might think when I listened to my body and walked out of a setting where my leaving was obvious.

I really didn’t like doing that. I didn’t want to create a scene or offend anyone. I wanted to turn the boiling back into at least a simmer. But as I listened to my symptoms, as I meditated, as I breathed, as I used the practices of mindfulness, the message was, “It’s okay to leave. It’s time to leave.”

For me, taking care of myself before the symptoms were completely out of hand (and thus last for many more days) – that was a moment of overcoming.

On the outside, perhaps to others or out of context, leaving may have looked like a step backward, a failure. In reality, it was a moment of living the life I can, a moment of grit, courage, and withitness. A moment of listening and responding with right action.

So, today, don’t let others’ expectations or even your own keep you in a land of living some idealized fantasy life, which is not really living at all. It’s a show. It’s pretend.

Show up today even when you can’t show off.

Show up on social media when you don’t have it all together. Meet that fantasy head-on and let it fade out as reality comes into focus.

Let your actions rise up from being all here, all now.

Live the life you can, awakened and engaged.

It may not be pretty on the outside, but it will be real and authentic.

You will be filled with a sense of groundedness and well-being that have their roots in the integrity that awaits our attention and corresponding action.

And you will revel in the peace and wholeness that you will find right here, right now. No matter the circumstances.

May you have a wonder-filled day, fully present and fully alive.




Falling into Foundness

Life is only unbearable when we demand it change. In case you missed it, I blew out my knee last Thursday. A bad blowout. The kind where you tear ligaments and cartilage.

And now a harsh reality is setting in as it is becoming hard even to walk or stand without a lot of pain. Waves of disappointment and discouragement wash over me as I come to grips with the recovery road that is ahead and all the “life” I’m missing and am going to miss. Again. I’ve been down this road.

I start to get really angry and I push too hard and I ignore the pain and I make it worse.

I wonder how I’m going to ride 🚴🏾100 miles in #rebeccasprivateidaho in less than two weeks?? I begin to replay the accident and I agonize over what I could have done to prevent it. I imagine a different life.

I look forward. I look backward.

I tell myself a story that doesn’t really exist. I concentrate on the physical pain. I let it consume me for a bit by wishing it would just go away.

In short, I create a lot of suffering by resisting life.

And I miss out on the wholeness, fulness, peace, joy, love, and power of the moment.

Ever been there? Ever wish life were a little different? Ever get caught up in the stories (past and future) that keep you from the present?

There are a lot of things I wouldn’t have chosen over the past two years. Multiple concussions. This post-concussion syndrome ongoing nightmare. Broken arm. And now this knee.

I imagine you have (or will someday) your own list.

Can I be with life, though?

Can I engage fully in life even though it’s not going as planned?

Can I welcome the messengers of pain and respond out of wholeness?

Can I be thankful and grateful without disowning the reality of the struggle?

Can I be compassionate to myself?

Can I extend grace to myself?

Can I be here, now?

Can I welcome the peace, wholeness, fulness, joy, and love that are always present, no matter the circumstances?

With each breath, the answer to each question can be, “Yes.”

We can learn to be with life. There are practices that help us do so. And, not unexpectedly, these practices require focus and discipline.

As we learn to be with our breath, with our bodies, with our emotions, with our cognitions, we begin to be informed by them and not controlled by them.

We learn how to listen.

We learn to stop trying to control life or dictate the way that it goes.

We learn how to be.

We learn how to respond to life with right action.

We learn how to be human beings who do.

Life doesn’t have to change one iota in order for us to find what we are looking for.

We are already found.

Falling into our “foundness” is one of the profound lessons that pain, disappointment, and the hard knocks of life are ready to teach.

In our brokenness, we find ourselves resting on solid ground. We find wholeness and fulness.

We experience the unchanging awareness in which the ever-changing flow of our lives arises.

We enter love and become love to ourselves and others.

A great paradox? Yes.

A wonderful truth? Also, yes.

As Hafiz says,



Where we live

Is no place to lose your wings

So love, love,


With each breath today, may you awaken to life and engage with love.

Fully present. Fully alive.




Boxless Being

What if there’s no in or out? What if we did not allow our desire to separate, categorize, and control others to reign supreme?

What if the universal account and condition of every man, woman, and child was already settled and secure, no matter their skin color, background, religion, or belief system?

What if these Sawtooth mountains (pictured) really exist even if you’ve never spent a night beneath them or a day upon their ridges? What if the same gravity that moves this river downstream were a reality and condition of your life – even if you don’t much think about it or understand it?

What if it wasn’t your job to play other human beings as though they were puppets on a set of strings dangling from your hands?

What if you were free to love from an abundance and wholeness that is the birthright of all beings, no matter their race, creed, sexual orientation, or anything else for that matter?

What if there are no boxes – outside of your imagination? What if you lived and loved out of that “boxless” freedom? What if life isn’t about assenting to some cognitive “to-believe-list” to earn your peace? And trying to get others to agree to that same list?

What if peace, wholeness, joy, and love just are?

Like this river. Like these mountains.

What if you’re not the center of the universe but an irreplaceable part of the whole?

What if it is all that simple?

What if you just need to wake up to and engage in what already is?

Confessions of a Claustrophobe: The Real Story Behind My MRI

I don’t like tight spaces. Never have.

As a kid on the playground, I was one of those children who would absolutely, completely lose it if I was on the bottom of a dogpile. I’d access craziness in a way that would have landed me a leading role in Mad Max. I still stop breathing every time I see a dogpile.

In fact, a friend was recently asking me about going rafting. No thanks. I’m not a fan of water. Why? Being underwater has to be one of the biggest fears of a claustropobe. You’re completely and utterly surrounded. To my credit, I practice facing this fear in my in-laws’ swimming pool. It’s 3 feet deep.

All of this is why my response on my pre-screening call for my MRI was so odd.

After asking me 30-40 questions, the last question was, “Are you claustrophobic?”

Here I am on the phone. I know that I do not like tight spaces.

I said, “No.”

Now, why did I say that? I have no idea, but it planted a seed. “Why are they even asking me about being claustrophobic? What does an MRI have to do with claustrophobia?”

I decided not to even bother looking up the answer. I had to do it. I’ve been learning that I I can deal with anything that comes my way, but I can only do so in the present moment.

In hindsight, I’m glad that I didn’t do any research.

So, this past Wednesday (just two days ago), my wife and I made our way to the imaging center where they told me they were using their new, super duper machine that takes even better images. 3T or some business like that. I heard the word Tesla and thought of cars.

After changing into scrubs, taking a selfie with my wife, and throwing my stuff into a locker, I was led to a room by three exuberant helpers.

We got there and they proceeded to open a door that was at least 4 inches thick. A sealed chamber.

We went into this tightly insulated room and there it was.

The 3T.

With its ittle table I was to lie down on and a smaller tube I would be inserted into.


Not awesome, but I was still in a great state of mind.

They put me on the table and told me that it was going to take between 30-50 minutes.

Wait. What?

And that they needed to put in an IV to add some dye for special images that would make the process even longer.

Right before they put in the IV, I randomly said, “What if I have to go to the bathroom?”

“Do you mean, now? Or when you’re in the tube? We recommend going now.”

“Okay. I’ll go now.”

Back in the room, I lay down on the table, they jabbed me a couple times to get the IV right, and then they handed me some ear protection. Those little twisty buds you put in your ears.

“It’s going to be loud. Very loud.”

I put the twisty ear protection in and then they added some more. Some very tight fitting over-the-ear protection with headphones that they ratcheted so tight I thought my eyes were going to come out of my head.

Then, they put a device over my head and locked it down to the table so I couldn’t move.

I hadn’t expected that part.

But, I was still really doing quite well.

Until they put a little gadget on my chest and told me that it was the panic button. Just squeeze it and they’d get me out of there.


Why would I need a panic button?

Do people panic in MRIs?

Should I?

Could I?

I think I am starting to.

“Okay, you’re heading in. Good luck. Remember the panic button.”

The little table began to move.

Oh, how I wish I would have closed my eyes before going into the tube.

Instead, I saw that I was surrounded by a cream colored plastic very close to my face, completely enveloping me, with no sign of light or an exit.

I hit full-fledge panic mode.

I thought to myself, “I gotta squeeze the panic button. There is no way I can last 45 minutes in here. I just can’t.”

I started to drip sweat and I was shaking.

But my hands didn’t feel like they could even move to get to that panic button. They were stuck by my side. I was stuck.

I was trapped.

And now I couldn’t breathe.

Where is all the oxygen? Are they taking my oxygen? Why is my throat constricting? Did I eat walnuts today? Am I having an allergic reaction to the dye? Why can’t I get any air?

I’m stuck.

Dogpile! Mad Max time!!


I’m laughing now because I’ve been so stuck for the last 16 months.

I told my neighbors last night while we sat on their porch that this is the first time in my life that I haven’t been to outrun, outwit, outsmart, appeal, change, or get out of a situation.

My brain injuries have been a lot like a dogpile.

There is no getting out of this situation.

Right now, there is no cure. No solution.

No way out.

And, yet!

I have never been so fulfilled, so fully alive, so full of joy, so at ease with life as I am in this season.

Don’t get me wrong. I have really rough days. But in the roughest of days have come the deepest sensations of peace, joy, and wholeness.

Life is only unbearable when I demand it change.

I wrote those words to my friend Paul months ago. As they spilled out in a text, I realized that they were representative of the great lesson of this season of my life.

And in that tube on Wednesday, those words and their accompanying wisdom led me to right action.

We always have the appropriate response for every situation.


In that very stuck and paralyzed moment in the MRI, I had the right response within me.

It didn’t involve pressing the panic button.

It didn’t involve making the situation change.

It didn’t involve getting out.

That’s so good.

What if that’s true? What if we don’t have to get out of the situations we don’t like? What if we don’t have to make life do what we want it to do?

What if joy, peace, contentment, and wholeness are not conditional to our circumstances?

That would be some good news.

That is some good news!

In the tube, still sweating, still unable to move, still having trouble breathing, I welcomed the panic and the fear that were present.

Much of yoga nidra involves learning how to disidentify with our thoughts, emotions, body sensation, beliefs, and feelings. Not dissociate, which is a denying of reality. But disidentification by welcoming those thoughts, emotions, body sensations, beliefs, and feelings into a space of awareness. Realizing that we are not our thoughts or our beliefs or our emotions. They are part of us. They inform us. They have a role. But they are not us.

We are not our bodies. Our bodies are in us.

And all of these things move through natural and predictable cycles: birth, growth, stability, decay, and death.

Every thought, every sensation, every belief, every emotion, every feeling. They all move through this cycle. Through us.

Through our being.

We often want to hold on to the good feelings, emotions, and thoughts when they’re in the stability stage. We don’t want them to move on. We grasp at them and can make a mess of our lives in an effort to keep them.

And we just as often want to push away and repress what we think of as negative thoughts, emotions, etc.

In doing so, we end up grasping and identifying with these things as though they are us. Repressed thoughts, emotions, etc., want to continue through their natural cycle and will continue pressing for our attention until they can give us their messages and move on.

The practice of yoga nidra helps us disidentify from the parts of ourselves and live from our state of unchanging wholeness in which all of those parts have a wonderful part to play.

Now, I don’t like being afraid. I don’t like being in a panic state.

I have a history of trauma. From two seasons of PTSD and now brain trauma, I am well-acquainted with a life that feels anything but safe, predictable, or in control.

I have tried a lot of things to deal with trauma.

To get out. To get unstuck.

None of them worked for very long.

In the deepest darkness of my brain damage, I felt that I had to get out and when I couldn’t I thought I would have to take myself out.

Life was unbearable.

And then I met Barb who taught me the practices that saved my life, that showed me that I can live a full and whole life no matter what.

Rather, that a whole and full life was already alive within me.

That’s more like it.

In yoga nidra, we consider ourselves as unchanging awareness in which the ever-changing flow of life arises.


Through my experience, I have come to believe that these ideas are not localized to any one faith or religion.

They are as universal as our breath.

As Hafiz says in “The Same Suntan”
“The Same Suntan”

Every address for

Who has just one color of hair,
One gender, one race,

The same suntan all the time,
One rule book,

Trust me when I say,

That man is not even
Half a god

And will only
Cause you


And so, in that moment of panic and fear in the tube, I experientially welcomed the panic and fear as part of the ever-changing flow of my life arising within unchanging awareness.

“Hello, fear and panic. What is it that you need to say?”

“You gotta get out!! Now! You can’t move. You can’t breath.”

Fear and panic are present.

They are present within me.

They are not me.

I began to use a breathing technique I learned from Thich Nhat Hanh years ago in a book called Living Buddha, Living Christ.

“Breathing in, I calm myself. Breathing out, I smile.”

As I did this, I felt my body begin to loosen a bit. To slow its production of cortisol and begin to secrete soothing agents into my blood stream.

My heart rate slowed a little. My hands began to have the sensation that they could move but they didn’t have to.

A smile spread over my face.

I still felt like I couldn’t breathe.

I then went into body sensations.

We cannot, as humans, think about something and feel it at the same time.

My thinking mind was convinced that I had to get out of that tube or go Mad Max on it.

Intuitively, and as a result of living yoga nidra for the past year and a half, I went into the jaw, feeling sensation. Then to the inner ear on my left side. The outer ear. The cheekbone. The nose. The left eye. Then to the right side of my head. Then feeling the entire head.

I periodically jumped back into the thinking mind and began to panic again.

I welcomed the panic and allowed the messenger to speak.

Another voice would arise: “You’re really scared right now. That’s ok. It’s okay to feel scared. Fear is present right now. It’s okay that you drifted to your thinking mind. Come back to feeling sensation.”

I then moved through my left arm, right arm, both arms. The front of my body, the back. Both front and back.

Feeling the whole body.

By this time, I had relaxed a great deal.

Off and on, I would jump back into the thinking mind and graciously respond and move back into feeling sensations.

I was still struggling to breathe. They hadn’t given me the dye, yet, so no reaction there. I hadn’t eaten walnuts. 🙂

I then went into breathsensing.

I simply followed my breath through the body, without trying to change it. I noticed the breaths were fairly shallow and hurried. I let them be and just felt the sensations.

As I felt the sensation of my breath, I began to slow down the breathing and my exhalations increased, which activates the parasympathetic response system. More soothing agents. Less cortisol.

More relaxed state.

I then began to breathe in and out on my left side. Then the right. Then back and forth.

Then the whole body breathing.

Finally, I moved to breath counting.

At some point, I moved away from focusing on breathing and sensations and fell into gracious imagery.

I connected to what we call our Inner Resource: a place of safety and refuge that is unchanging, equanimitous, secure, and whole.

My inner resource has developed over the years and was recently greatly informed by an experience I had while on a five-day silent retreat in northern Idaho. If interested, you can find that account in the blog “So Good: When the Universe Tickles You.”

So there I physically was in the tube, but I was really back in the wildflower meadow, under the shade of the Pondersosa Pine, overlooking the rolling hills and forests that dipped down into the Salmon River. The Seven Devils mountain range rose in the distance, snow-covered and majestic.

The beautiful face showed back up.

Eyes aglow, face shining, smile lighting up the scene. Full of laughter, he moved into the meadow, caressing each wildflower, talking to it, laughing and looking over his shoulder at me with delight.

He took several steps toward the Seven Devils and gently manicured their snowy slopes. He looked back at me across the miles and let out peals of laughter. So deep and full of resonance that the entire scene moved with glorious delight. Greens became greener. Blues bluer. The trees danced. The flowers showed their faces, smiling brightly, singing a song. The hills undulated. The clouds embraced one another. The sun glowed.

I smiled uncontrollably and laughed with him. Deeply.

“Please hold still in there so the image isn’t blurry,” came a voice through the headphones on my head.

I continued to smile.

He then moved toward me. A giant. But not. In a step or two, so light-footed than no particle was disturbed, he was next to me.

He told me that he had a story to tell the world.

He moved his hands into my head and onto my brain.

He gently but firmly slipped his fingers between the tissue of the brain and a harder outer substance that was between the brain and the skull.

With some force, he began popping away the substance. I could feel it loosening, popping out, and eventually he dislocated it and lifted it away.

He then took my brain in his hands, looked at me with kind eyes, a bright smile, and laughed as he took several huge steps toward the Salmon River in the distance.

I could see him bend down to the river on one knee with my brain in his hands.

He rinsed the brain through the river, lifting it out of the river, running his fingers through its folds, rinsing again, running fingers through folds, over and over. I could somehow feel this while watching.

Satisfied with his work, he looked toward me, laughed deeply again – setting off joy throughout the natural scene – rose and was back with me.

He gently placed my brain back into its place, working it around with his fingers.

He then began to massage my head. I could feel his touch throughout my body.

Tears ran down my face.

“Does this mean I’m healed?” I asked.

“It means you don’t have to get out to be healed,” he laughed. “You’ve never really been stuck. I’ve always been right here with you. Nothing needs to change. You are already healed.”

I continued to breathe in this scene with tears of gratitude in my eyes, taking deep, sweet breaths and feeling as though I was in complete spaciousness.

They told me through the headphones that I had one final 2-minute image and then we would be finished.

A strong sense of love and peace moved within me throughout those two minutes. I almost didn’t want them to disturb me. It was just so good.

They hit their buttons to bring me out of the tube and by the look on their faces they didn’t know how to respond to the look on mine. We all just sort of smiled at one another. No words needed.

They walked me into the changing room where I met Emily.

“You look Iike you just got a massage” she said. “How are you so calm?”


I love it!!!

Nothing needs to change in order for us to live full and whole and complete lives.

Life is only unbearable when we demand it change.

Was I cured during the MRI? Did I have a brain tumor and have it removed during the MRI?

I have no clue.

That would be pretty cool.

Results came back yesterday that I have a “normal” brain.

Such good news.

All my symptoms are still here today, though. The dizziness, the headaches, the nausea, the sense that my left eye doesn’t see anything.

I’m typing this all with one eye.

And yet I am full of laughter, and delight, and joy.

I simply can’t help but think of Hafiz’ poem, “Two Giant Fat People”

“Two Giant Fat People”


And I have become

Like two giant fat people

Living in a

Tiny boat.



Bumping into each other and


I am whole. I am healed. I am a healer.

Nothing in life needs to change for that to be true.

I’ll let Hafiz finish this off. There are about 20 poems I’d like to use, but I’ll go with “Today”

Do not
Want to step so quickly
Over a beautiful line on God’s palm
As I move through the earth’s

I do not want to touch any object in this world
Without my eyes testifying to the truth
That everything is
My Beloved.

Something has happened
To my understanding of existence
That now makes my heart always full of wonder
And kindness.

I do not
Want to step so quickly
Over this sacred place on God’s body
That is right beneath your
Own foot

As I
Dance with
Precious life

May you have a wonder-filled day. Today. Fully present. Fully alive. Today.


So Good: To Build a Swing

So good. What’s so good? Some of you watched my laughter and response in a previous post. Here are a few reflections.

In the shade of a Ponderosa Pine, worry stopped and peace and laughter set in. Above the branches where the sun shone through, I saw a face of sorts. It was full of warmth, kindness, gentleness, delight, and absolute giddiness. It saw me and said, “You are good. So good.”

It said so not in words, but in absolute being. A sense of oneness as I have never felt it. One with the ground. With the Ponderosa. With the sun. With the wildflowers. With the meadow and the rolling hills. With the breeze and the birds calling out to one another. Distinct? Yes. But not separate. Connected. Inseparable. One.

It was that face – its radiance, its Being – that brought the laugher. And I am so thankful that I recorded a bit of my response because in my face I can see the reflection of that Being’s delight. Unending delight. Unending love. Limitless compassion. Infinite freedom. Bottomless joy. Gratuitous grace. Inexhaustible kindness. Unshakeable peace. Immovable courage. Unconditional acceptance.

All is well.

So good.

Who did I see? What did I see?

I do not know the name you would give it, but I know it as Love.

But even “Love” is not quite right.

It had no name. It laughed at my categories.

It delighted in my presence.

In Being.

Perhaps I should spend less of my time naming these experiences and categorizing them and putting them into my small box of understanding. And I’ll ask you not to try to name or categorize either unless you find it helpful for you and your journey, and then, by all means, do it.

I love Hafiz’s poem “Tiny Gods”

Tiny Gods

Some gods say, the tiny ones,
“I am not here in your vibrant, moist lips
That need to beach themselves upon
The golden shore of a
Naked body.”

Some gods say, “I am not
The scarred yearning in the unrequited soul;
I am not the blushing cheek
Of every star and
Planet —

I am not the applauding Chef
Of those precious secretions that can distill
The whole mind into a perfect wincing jewel, if only
For a moment;
Nor do I reside in every pile of sweet warm dung
Born of the earth’s

Some gods say, the ones we need to hang,
“Your mouth is not designed to know His,
Love was not born to consume
The luminous

Dear ones,
Beware of the tiny gods frightened men

To bring an anesthetic relief
To their sad

Beware of tiny gods frightened men create.

Children create no such gods.

Faith like a child is a marvelous, mysterious, wonder-filled delight, isn’t it?

We admire it when we see it. We have sweet memories of those days when such faith filled our existence and fueled our adventures. Many of us miss it when we see it.

And we often cannot get there as adults until we are at the end of ourselves.

The God Who Only Knows Four Words



Has known God,

Not the God of names,

Not the God of don’ts

Not the God who ever does

Anything weird,

But the God who only knows four words

And keeps repeating them, saying:

“Come dance with Me.”



Breath of air for me, right there.

Time to laugh and dance with life.

I’ve begun asking myself:

What would it look like and feel like and be like for me to live with the faith of a child today? To see the world as it is and not make it fit into a neatly constructed box? To be fully present. To stop trying to be right and prove my rightness to others? To stop trying to make life do what I want it to do? To be with reality on its own terms? To engage with this moment? To really look the next person I’m with in the eyes and be with them in a way that they feel known?

To learn how to quiet my mind so that my present moments aren’t spent fretting, worrying, ruminating, or scheming? To really notice what is right in front of me? To be more aware of what I’m thinking about? To be aware of the breath of wholeness within me with each breath. To notice and hear my body?

To welcome my emotions and be informed by them? To let go of that grudge? To give others a chance to respond to that grudge? To laugh deeply with my loved ones? To let go of thinking I have the right (or ability) to judge others or control them? To stop giving even one moment to attributing motives to another’s actions?

To cry when it is time to cry? To play on the ground with children? To sit next to the elderly and hold their hand in peaceful silence? To bask in the sun on my face with my eyes closed? To feel the gentle breeze on my skin? To taste and give thanks for each bite of food, each drink of water? To give thank for the people in my life, for this breath, for this heartbeat, for life? To notice the sounds around me? To let go of my sense of control? To let myself enjoy this moment?

What would that look like and feel like and be like?

One of the lessons of these last two years in my traumatic brain injuries saga is that life is only unbearable when I demand it be different.

To be fully present and fully alive is not some cute cliche.

It is my rightful dwelling place.

It is the joy-filled life that does not require right circumstances for abundant living.

It is always waiting for us.

The birds of the air and the flowers of the field in that meadow where I sat above St. Gertrude’s know that they are taken care of. They are my teachers.

Can you recall all of the things you worried about a week ago today, a month ago, or a year ago? Any of them? Maybe a big one or two? What about the rest?

Perhaps it is time for us to learn to let go.

It is a lifetime process and practice.

Worry steals the joy of this moment and leaves us depleted and unprepared for the next.

Living fully in the moment leaves me grounded, prepared, and ready for what will come.

Embrace the wholeness that is your birthright.

Warmth, kindness, gentleness, and delight are looking at you right now and saying, “You are good. So good.”

Unending delight. Unending love. Limitless compassion. Infinite freedom. Bottomless joy. Gratuitous grace. Inexhaustive kindness. Unshakeable peace. Immovable courage. Unconditional acceptance.

All is well.

So good.

To Build a Swing

You carry
All the ingredients
To turn your life into a nightmare —
Don’t mix them!

You have all the genius
To build a swing in your backyard
For God.

That sounds
Like a hell of a lot more fun.
Let’s start laughing, drawing blueprints,
Gathering our talented friends.

I will help you
With my divine lyre and drum.

Will sing a thousand words
You can take into your hands,
Like golden saws,
Silver hammers,

Polished teakwood,
Strong silk rope.

You carry all the ingredients
To turn your existence into joy,

Mix them, mix

Build that swing, my friends! Live. Laugh. Love.

May you have a wonder-filled day. Fully present. Fully alive.