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We enter this New Year carrying more than resolutions. We carry grief that has not settled, anger that has not cooled, and a sense—shared across communities—that something in our common, decent lives feels increasingly fragile. Recent acts of violence by our government and by outisde infulences -- threats beyond our borders and too often even within them -- and the relentless churn of fear and outrage arriving in our daily news cycles, have left many of us tired before the

Most of us are not exhausted because we care too much. And most of us are not numb because we care too little. We are exhausted because our energy has nowhere to rest. And we are numb because it has nowhere to move. There are two common ways human life loses its vitality. One spills downward into exhaustion, while the other spills upward into conquest. They often masquerade as virtues. They are praised, rewarded, even spiritualized. But both are signs that something essential

I am larger, better than I thought, I did not know I held so much goodness. All seems beautiful to me . Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road Lately I’ve been circling a phrase that won’t quite let me go: uncontained goodness . It keeps showing up when I’m walking in the woods, when I’m tired in the evening, when I’m thinking about desire, faith, work, and the strange exhaustion that can follow even the best intentions. The trouble, I’m beginning to suspect, is not that we lac

Today we cross the threshold of the winter solstice —the longest night of the year, the deep hinge of the seasons, and the quiet turning back toward light. This is not merely a date on the calendar, but a bodily moment the earth remembers. In the Japanese forest therapy tradition of shinrin-yoku  (forest bathing), winter is not understood as an absence or a failure of growth, but as a necessary descent . The forest does not resist the dark. It enters it willingly, faithfully.

Most of us were taught—explicitly or implicitly—that people change when they are persuaded they are wrong. We inherit this assumption from classrooms, pulpits, politics, and platforms. If the argument is strong enough, the evidence clear enough, the logic tight enough, then surely hearts and lives will follow. But lived experience tells a different story. People rarely change because they are convinced. They change because something happens  to them. They change when their ne

There are moments in life when the surface of things simply isn’t enough. We sense a deeper current—something ancient, something tender, something alive—moving beneath the noise of our days. Deep Calls to Deep  was born from that current. It is both a personal offering and a community invitation: a place where the wisdom of nature, the slow work of healing, and the art of connection meet. For more than three decades, I’ve walked alongside people in moments of transformation—a