Prologue She came to the end of herself— not in a chapel, not in the stained-glass sliver of someone else’s faith, but in the hollow silence after the storm had swallowed everything she thought she knew. She did not find God in a book but in the silence between words,...

Old man, look at my life — I’m a lot like you were. — Neil Young When I stepped offstage, still warm with words, still ringing with the music of the moment, he met me by the exit — curious, kind, a little cautious. “My wife loves your dangerous, old-woman stuff,”...

They tried to bury us. They didn’t know we were seeds. — Mexican proverb Once, we were born of the same trembling star — ash, wind, song, and seed — ancestors whispering one word: remember. But some forgot. They built walls out of fear and named them safety. Sharpened ignorance and called it...

For Will“Be who you were created to be, and you will set the world on fire.” — St. Catherine of Siena Today, I raise a glassto the good ones who lead with heart—teachers, artists, healers,dog-savers, everyday peacemakerswho pour light into dark placesand prove that kindnessis the most revolutionary art of...

She stopped eatingwhen they took her keys.The first betrayal.Not death.But being told where she could not goalone.Her car—treasure, freedom,her way of callingevery cautious driver—Fool.She refused a walkertill the last of her days—would not bow her back to wheels.And when she found her golf clubs gone—forty years of freedom in...

The poems I write often arrive in voices larger than my own—the archetypes that speak through all of us: Child, Lover, Mother, Healer. This one belongs to the Crone. E.K. They told me patience was a virtue— sit still, wait pretty, smile sweet, like some saint-in-training with a knot in...

Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings, when the dawn is still dark and the night lingers on. —Rabindranath Tagore I’m in a lab waiting room.White walls, vinyl chairs, antiseptic air.I share my journal with a stranger,a lovely older man, eyes soft, voice clear. I read:We can never...

With appreciation for Karen McKinney Cruz, who offered me a gift when I stopped believing I belonged in my own sentences. Wear your words. E.Z. She handed me this bag—a gift.Letters so bold they don’t whisper—they roar: SOY CABRONA…Lo Siento. The first word hitslike a shot of mezcal—no salt, no lime,just fire...

Once she turned to me and said, “The light has never left me.”Beside her chair lay a pad titled: Instructions for the Delivery Man.This is how she let me in. Knock onceThen wait.Not hesitation—anticipation.I savor the pausebefore the world enters.Bring nothing I can buy for myself.No chocolates.No flowers.No hollow words...

Be still—not as the world teaches stillness,but the stillness that silences time,that wraps you like a shawl of peace,that knows there is no distancebetween you and the Divine. Before the seed,before the word,before thought itself—there is a clearing, a letting go—like soil made ready for planting,a holy ground of silencewhere life...