Upon waking up from my dream, I felt uplifted and energized. If I could do all that in my dream, I knew I was on my way back to health. I knew it because my dreams and real life had intersected before. I wasn’t sure for a second which world was real.

The monologues featured five distinct human portraits revealing deep and diverse slices of life. Recently on The View, Whoopi explained that she kept those characters in her head and drew inspiration from people she saw. There was something about the way she said it that caught my attention.

In so many ways, I was fortunate; I didn't die, and I knew there was something I needed to learn. My body was speaking loudly and clearly, showing me that my internal environment needed tending. At any minute, how are we feeling and thinking? How does our body feel? Does anything register within us? It should.

I spent the next ten years healing everything in me that might obstruct my mission to create a life I loved. Patterns, stories, life circumstances, family dynamics, relationships, and life, good and bad, all served as teachers of lessons I needed to hear and learn.

Others tend to distrust this type of healing work, and I don't blame them. There is nothing to see, no physical mending of body parts, no medical tests to be run that confirm healing has taken place. This is healing work made visible only by words and descriptions of souls disappearing into the light of their new destination. How do others know what I see and hear souls say is real? They don't.

To illustrate what I'm talking about, this post is about the transition I'm experiencing now. One of the key drivers of this transition was my inability to heal, get rid of, or understand destructive habits that impacted my physical body. Food choices were anything but healthy.

I could sense a question loitering just outside my consciousness that wouldn’t form into words. It was about my rapid loss of love and light, and energetic vibration. I dislike the words high and low vibration. It seems they are used to judge people and their lives. Being human is sometimes messy and chaotic, just as it is sometimes synchronistic and flowing.

What's it like to put words on the screen at half the speed I'm used to? Laborious is the word that comes to mind, although my brain also seems to be working at half speed as well. To write a blog, you need to plan your time around fatigue, pain management, doctor's visits, and reduced mobility for all the tasks involved, like getting dressed, unscrewing pill bottles, and the mayonnaise lid that's always screwed on too tightly.

It was January 2026. For six weeks, I suffered with icepick headaches, a sore jaw, fatigue, and a feeling that I was revisiting my autoimmune disease from 2017. It felt the same–lack of appetite, the feeling I was sick, rapid weight loss–but I couldn't account for a cough, my very sore neck, and those headaches that felt like ice picks were targeting my head in sharp jabs every few minutes.

Obviously, the resuscitation of beauty is not more money, status, the latest creams slathered on hopeful faces, or something we can force. It is very much a byproduct of our journeys toward a spiritual power that shines within.

When I think about whether I could be one of these super-helping people, I don't think I could. Multiple factors would affect my ability to do what they do, and I don't think I'm that courageous, but I could "cast a stone across the waters to create many ripples."

Despite many edits, I just didn't know how to write yet, so didn't avoid common pitfalls that befall first-time writers: wordiness, "telling" not "showing", character head hopping, misuse of dialogue tags, misplaced modifiers, forgetting the timeline (or bouncing around in time), and the dreaded passive voice. They let me know what I needed to do to get my book back on track. I am truly indebted to them for their time and expertise.

Funny how I look at time now and feel urgency as if I've wasted most of my life doing, rushing, accomplishing. Funny how learning, being, and living don't feel like wasted time. Is time a concept that stretches and shrinks depending on how we think of it?

Once upon a time, there was a young girl who dreamed of playing her flute so beautifully that those who listened to her would experience an emotional connection with the rising and falling melodies she played.

Diving timing can be confusing. I struggled with the concept for a long time until I asked a different question: What stops Divine Timing?

Sashka drills down and says Gen Xers are "reframing menopause as a life stage (not a medical condition)." If I may borrow the concept, like Gen Xers, some Boomers are going through a life stage instead of into a retirement home.

In the bright sunshine, I thought next of duality, or how life seemed to be constantly reminding me of two sides of a coin, the flip side of a decision, young and old, sunny and cold, and on and on, causing me to ask are the parts of us separate, even contradictory?

The first side is very familiar to me. I waffle and wait, letting my emotions cloud clear thinking. Sometimes the waiting decides for me. Change interrupts and forces us to explore options.

Love, laugh, cry, I heard in my head. Maybe it's sarcasm or maybe it's a little wisdom leaking into my head because I heard these words next: serve, don't take yourself too seriously, and release. How I arrived at that second set of words took years.

I had that kind of conversation with a good friend. It was amazing how we each interpreted events and snippets we'd heard from various sources differently, radically differently. But because we're good friends, we listened to each other, asked questions, challenged each other, and agreed to disagree on some things.