A few weeks ago when we were in Chiavari, we walked the promenade there over and over. Drinks for aperitivo were advertised all over the place, and next to the usual Aperol Spritz I kept seeing something called a Hugo Spritz.
Last night I finally decided to look up what it was and make a non-alcoholic version at home. We happened to have the right ingredients, and Oh My Gosh, it was delicious – Light, refreshing, and perfect for sitting outside on a hot summer evening!
We were out on our back balcony enjoying the drinks and the view when I noticed my glass was halfway gone. My immediate thought was that I should go inside and make another.
But I caught myself. That thought felt very familiar. For a long time, I thought this was just part of my drinking problem. But I’ve come to realize it’s bigger than alcohol. The deeper issue is scarcity.
If I love the taste of something, the moment I notice it’s running out my mind shifts. Instead of enjoying what is still there, I start thinking about how it’s going to be gone and how I can replace it. If it’s replaceable, half full becomes a signal to refill.
What’s interesting is that this didn’t disappear when I stopped drinking alcohol. I noticed the same pattern with seltzer, soda, and other NA drinks. The object changes, but the thought pattern stays the same.
As I sat there looking at my glass, I thought about the saying: glass half full or glass half empty.
I’ve always kind of thought of myself as a glass-half-empty person, though that never fully made sense. People who know me often describe me as optimistic, sunny, and positive. So why have I always identified more with half empty? I think I finally understand.
This isn’t really about optimism or pessimism. It’s about how quickly my mind shifts from enjoyment to scarcity. The moment something reaches halfway, I stop experiencing what’s still there and start focusing on what’s disappearing. And that mindset can insidiously steal joy.
Way back in 1992, someone told me something that left a deep impression on me. Her grandfather always said to think of the gas tank as empty once it hits halfway. If you fill it before it drops below half, and you’ll never risk running out. That idea embedded itself in me.
I developed this strong need to prevent depletion. Refill early. Stay ahead. Don’t run out. In many ways, that mindset has served me well. I’m organized and prepared. I rarely get caught off guard. But it doesn’t work everywhere. Especially not with life.
When it comes to personal consumption—food, drink, time, energy, even joy—constantly trying to refill or stay topped off can actually rob me of the experience itself. Instead of enjoying what’s here, I’m focused on what’s going to be gone.
Turning 50 and moving to Italy has shown me how much my thought patterns are changing. I know I retired young. And if I live to be 100, I still have half of my life left. That feels very different from thinking half is gone.
I am seeing this now a lot in the recovery community or in conversations with younger people who feel like they’ve messed everything up. They get stuck in thoughts like: I wasted so much time. I’m behind. I ruined things. That’s half-empty thinking.
But the shift happens when you start looking at what remains instead of what’s gone. You still have time. You can still change direction. You can still create something meaningful with what is ahead of you, whether you are 30, 60, or 90. Why not live the remaining years with purpose and be proud of every minute of it?
I’ve spent much of my life focused on avoiding depletion—refilling before things run low, staying ahead, making sure nothing runs out. That mindset can be useful in some areas, but it has also robbed me of presence and joy because I was hyper-focused on what was disappearing instead of appreciating what remains.
The Hugo Spritz ended up being a reminder. Half empty doesn’t always mean lacking. It can also mean there is still plenty left.
Maybe the better question isn’t what’s gone. Maybe the better question is what remains, and whether we can appreciate it before reaching for more or mourning what was lost.
So I sat there and enjoyed the remainder of this Hugo Spritz slowly, savoring it and reminding myself that I still had half left. And when I reached the end, I didn’t want more. It was just right. It was enough.
This past week we spent three days in Florence. It is a gorgeous city steeped in art and history. The Medici, who ruled the city for 300 years, placed enormous value on art—particularly painting, architecture, and sculpture. They used their vast wealth to bring the greatest artists from around Italy to Florence, where they could create masterpieces and experiment with new techniques. It’s not an overstatement to say that the Medici were the founders—or perhaps the midwives—of the Renaissance.
Everything about Florence is big. The statue of David is 17 feet tall and weighs 12,000 pounds. The Duomo, Florence’s famed cathedral, can hold 30,000 people and is one of the largest in the world. Its dome, designed and built by Brunelleschi, remains the largest masonry dome ever constructed. And the crowds in Florence are enormous as well. We were there during the first week in April—not even high season—but the crowds were impressive.
I’d call this phenomenon “big crowds to see big things.” Everyone has heard about the great sights in Florence, and they come in droves to experience them. The line to get into the Duomo stretched halfway around the building (we took a pass). Crowds on the Ponte Vecchio were so dense it was hard to get across. We waited in line for 20–30 minutes to enter the Boboli Gardens. Despite the crowds, we thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated the beauty of this magnificent city—great works, great sights, great food, great city.
I’ve been reading about the life and teachings of St. Francis. Although I’m only at the beginning of what I hope will be an ongoing exploration, I’ve learned enough to know that he would not have thought much of these big, beautiful things. St. Francis found beauty in the small things and preached the importance of simplicity, nature, and faith through action. He didn’t like big churches, big titles, or showy deeds. He cautioned against the dangers of pursuing the “three P’s”: power, prestige, and persona.
I was thinking about him a few days ago while walking Koji first thing in the morning. In the past, I would have been in a bit of a rush. I always walked Koji early, right after getting up, which meant his walk was a chore to complete before breakfast, coffee, and getting to work. While I tried to use these walks to clear my mind and appreciate my surroundings, my thoughts were often elsewhere—focused on “big things” like an upcoming presentation, a meeting, or a deadline.
Big Sights & Scenes from Florence
My walks here in Italy have been different. There is no rush. There are few big things to worry about.
On this particular morning, Koji was very into sniffing. In the past this would have annoyed me. This time, I let him sniff to his heart’s content, which gave me time to appreciate the beautiful views from our hilltop property. This time of year there are wildflowers everywhere—yellow, orange, purple, and white. Whole fields are dotted with them, but they’re so small you miss them unless you stop and look closely.
Then, in the distance, I heard the faint tinkling of what sounded like cowbells. I would not have noticed them had I not paused in silence while Koji sniffed. As I searched for the source, I saw a flock of sheep grazing in the valley below. The bells were sheep bells, not cowbells. Mountains in the distance were snowcapped, and a layer of fog covered the valleys below. In the past, I would have missed this entire scene.
It was as much a masterpiece as any painting in a Florentine gallery. But unlike those in Florence, this one was mine to enjoy without the crowds. Its components were small, everyday things: flowers, fog, and sheep.
Scenes from Morning Walks with Koji
I loved Florence and will absolutely go back to see more. But there are two messages for me in these contrasting experiences. The first is that if we spend our time only seeking out the “big things”—great domes, statues, and famous paintings—we will miss the great works of art that exist everywhere in nature. They are not celebrated or recorded, but they are there for the taking if we only stop and look.
And therein lies the second message: these natural masterpieces are easily missed. We likely overlook hundreds of them every day when we are preoccupied with other things. Slowing down, even for a few moments, opens us up to appreciating the masterworks in our own backyard.
If you haven’t read The Alchemist (spoiler alert: skip to the next paragraph if you ever plan to and don’t want to know how it ends) and grasped the true meaning, it speaks to how you can travel the world, be rich, be poor, and experience everything life can possibly offer—but you will not find what you are looking for until you look right where you are. In essence, the treasure we seek is within.
Last night I came back from a 28-hour marathon trip from Westhampton Beach, NY, across the Long Island Sound via Port Jefferson to Connecticut, to Branford/Rhode Island/Branford/Rhode Island, and back across the Sound on the east end of Long Island via Orient Point to drive back to where I started from. I went in a large circle.
While having a quick takeout dinner I grabbed earlier in the day on the Cross Sound Ferry yesterday evening, I suddenly felt the urge to MOVE. I had been in the car or in a tight, cramped space for more than a day and felt like I had to break free.
But there was almost nowhere to go…
So I walked. And walked. And walked.
I walked around and around in circles on the ferry. The wind was warm—breezier in some parts than others. I breathed it all in deeply. The sun was setting.
I passed the same people many times. People mostly doing the same things—on their phones, with a handful engaged with one another. I walked past them over and over in my own reverie as the ship moved forward from one destination to the next.
Something about this felt symbolic. Many remain in one spot, or like I was doing, going around and around in circles as we are carried ahead by life via a man-made creation known as time.
Once the ferry arrived and I began the drive from the east end, it all felt so very familiar—the dark, the long winding roads, infrequently passing other cars as I skirted my eyes toward the right where the white line meets the edge of the road, as I was taught in Defensive Driving when I was 16.
I felt like I was that age again. Driving familiar roads. Some of the same roads I had driven then. The landscape of the road, the lining of the trees against the night sky, the warm summer air, the cicadas, and the crickets. All my senses were highly engaged. I was so present and aware of the moment—and the connection to the past.
The radio was on and connected to my iPhone. I was listening to Angels and Airwaves. I looked at the name of the album’s words that lit up on my car’s navigation display:
Stomping the Phantom Brake Pedal
I had only just noticed what those words mean.
Has my life just gone on until now while I went in circles?
I spent my entire adulthood on a path away from where I grew up.
The first 16 years or so were quite lovely. I put trauma behind and made a life for myself—one that I was proud of. But a divorce, and what should have been a happier ending, threw me into a tailspin. I was suddenly looking for something. And to make what could be a very long story short, I unearthed trauma that was still lingering, and the last 13 years have been about discovery and healing.
But I stayed away from home.
My current husband grew up a mere 7 miles, as the crow flies, from the place I attempted to escape and was driving toward last night. I’ve visited his hometown for years while skirting around my own. I never really went back—mentally or physically.
Then a few weeks ago, on a whim, I decided to stop in my own hometown on the way past it. I was alone. I had time. I suddenly wanted to see it.
To my wonder, I felt nostalgia—something I never imagined I would feel. The feeling came on quickly, without warning. It hurt because it felt unfamiliar. Yet it was very happy, and at the same time very sad. A mix of emotion that only nostalgia unearths.
A few days later I realized I could love and dislike the past equally. It’s not all or nothing.
The feeling of suddenly being open to seeing the good of the past felt so free. It was a band-aid that had been on for so long that when it came off, that part of me felt exposed and unfamiliar—yet amazing. In the same way skin under tape would feel when exposed once again to the sun. Cautious, but so warm and, dare I say, inviting.
I let that all marinate for a few weeks and carried on with this temporarily homeless existence my husband and I have been living in since our home has been under construction in June.
And here I was last night, coming back to where I started the prior day and literally close to where my adulthood journey began.
I suddenly wanted to break out—not so dissimilar to the feeling I had on the ferry earlier.
What I am looking for has always been with me, like in The Alchemist. I know this intellectually. However, it seems difficult to access most of the time.
Last night, that portal was wide open.
I wanted to be where I was—in the flow, in the perfect moment always, like the spiritual teachings of all shapes, sizes, and religions teach us. We are always where we are supposed to be.
If we let go of our imaginary steering wheel and embrace what God/Brahma/The Universe has in store for us, we will truly be able to enjoy the ride.
Maybe my purpose this morning is to write about this. To share that you can stomp on the phantom brake pedal—out of standstills or ruts you find yourself in—and break habits that stop you from being the fullest expression of yourself.
I feel it now at this very moment. I know I will forget it quite soon and carry on with my day and my life very much as I always have—but perhaps a smidgen more enlightened.
It’s all these little “smidges” of becoming more aware that lead to peace and flow. That is the only path forward.
Perhaps forward is really upward?
Perhaps we can stay where we are in that same physical place, the same rut, but use the brake to find true freedom in knowing that there is always a very special treasure within.
That treasure is inner freedom and peace.
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Most mornings and evenings I walk with my husband and our beloved black lab mix, Koji. In the morning, with limited time, we walk down the shore and back and observe the day awaken. In the evenings, we take a longer walk. Depending on the time of year, we are catching the height of the evening’s festivities, the daily wind-down, or the flat-out night in our neighborhood (summer to winter span).
This morning it is late September. The air is cool, and I wore my lightweight, dark blue raincoat I purchased in Maine a few years ago during an unexpected rainstorm while in Perkins Cove.
I already had my morning coffee. I wasn’t yet hungry. I was not stressing about what may be in my work inbox. My life felt content, and I was alive.
So very alive that my senses were more open.
I felt the crisp autumn air around me. I held my arms out and inhaled deep breaths. A few times in the past week or so, I was able to detect the smell of wood burning in a nearby fireplace.
I heard the dog sniffing. I heard the squirrels shuffling across the grass and their tiny feet crunching the dried fallen leaves. I heard water from the shore in the distance. I heard a lot of bird signals and whistles. Mingled into it all were the sounds of crickets and other unidentified woodland creatures. I closed my eyes to help my ears hear it all. What a song!
As we approached the shore, I noticed the early morning light dancing across the water. The sun hadn’t quite made its way above the horizon, but the light was creating a spectacular palette of color nonetheless.
I didn’t have my phone and asked my husband for his. I snapped a short video of the rippling water and rising sun. It looked beautiful through the camera, but more beautiful in real life. Nothing captures the moment like living, breathing, and appreciating the actual moment.
On the way back home, I contemplated nature with teeming life around me. I’ve been wanting to go back to being vegan. I do not need to eat so much. Some people have no healthy or good food options. Others have no food at all.
This got me thinking… How can you have an appreciation for life when you are hungry? When your body is so primed to keep itself alive, it is not thinking about other lives. It is telling you to feed it.
Sometimes I walk at lunch. Almost always after dinner. I thought about how I don’t always enjoy these walks so much. When I am not dressed right, when I am in a rush and worried about getting back to my computer, or when I am thirsty or hungry and fantasizing about what to eat or drink when I get back home is when I enjoy these walks the least.
I, like every other human, feel content when I have food, shelter, and clothing. Next up on Maslow’s pyramid is safety.
For years I did not feel psychologically “safe” with my husband. For reasons that belong to another blog, his perception of how to approach the issues in our lives brought a proverbial fire alarm in me. When I worry about work or the kids, or when I don’t feel psychologically safe, the ability to have my senses pick out subtle sounds and visual nuances is dulled. I don’t notice what the dog is doing if I am walking him, and then I’ll subsequently feel annoyed with him. I’m not present to those walks or my life when I don’t have the bottom of the pyramid covered.
As we continued home this morning, I contemplated how I felt safe—safe with my husband, who at that very moment of my quiet contemplation seemed to sense just that by reaching down to gently place my hand into his. I felt safe with him and in my neighborhood.
How can anyone feel safe living in the “hood” just a few miles down the road? How can you feel like the world is beautiful when outside your window is nothing more than buildings that block the sun? Where there might be a dangerous concrete jungle? Where the sound of birds and crickets is overtaken by honking horns, someone yelling, loud street signs, and overall chaos? If your walk to school or commute to work is fraught with fear and anxiety about being safe and what may greet you when you get there, how can you be comfortable and take a moment to appreciate life?
How can anyone thrive without life’s basics?
A flower cannot grow without a medium, sun, and water.
A human cannot flourish without food, shelter, clothing, and safety.
They just can’t.
Anyone who says we live in the land of the free and that anyone can make it is naïve.
I’d like to think that too, but people who don’t feel safe at home or anywhere in their surroundings during their day-to-day life are not free. They are prisoners of their own heightened senses that are keeping them alive. When a human is hungry, they cannot think of anything else but how to eat. When we are cold or too hot, our body turns other senses off to divert energy into keeping us alive. No shelter or an uncomfortable sleeping arrangement leads to sleep deprivation. No one thrives when their body is too tired to function.
I personally don’t know what to do other than what I already try to do. But I want to do more.
If you feel you have food, shelter, clothing, and psychological safety at the moment—perhaps just take a few seconds to stop and think about one thing you can do to lift the consciousness of others so they can be happier and more productive members of society too.
This morning I appreciated life. I wanted to be better, do better, go vegan. I felt that way because my needs were met and I was able to look past myself and help this beautiful world around me thrive. I wanted to protect nature. I wanted to bring other humans to a place where they could see and appreciate what I was able to at that moment.
Pay it forward. Forward this message. Activate and do something, anything… and give me some ideas back along the way…
Only we can help each other—our families, our neighbors, our communities. It starts with me. It starts with you.
If just one person does one thing to help raise us all as humans from reading this blog, then I consider that a success.
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A light breeze blew in from across the street when I opened my blinds and cracked my bedroom window while it was still dark this morning. The sound of the Long Island Sound filled my ears as the semi-salty air drifted into the space where I stood. A bell buoy chimed in the distance. A nearby bird sang. The cool, damp air felt refreshing against my skin in the otherwise still, sleepy room. I took a deep breath and let it all in, appreciating the quiet of that moment in the dark.
I moved through my morning routine and into meditation. Since the clocks changed last week, it is dark again in the early hours, and for a short time we get to watch the sunrise earlier along the horizon. It had rained overnight, and the world felt just a bit more crisp—renewed. I chose a different space to practice this morning, turning off the lights and opening the curtains to let the darkness slowly give way to light.
I stumbled around to find my meditation pillow while carrying a glass of lemon water. My animals moved around me, a little confused and curious about the change in routine. As I felt along the floor for the doorstop, I struggled to find it and eventually had to put everything down to search more carefully.
At some point, I knocked over the water. I heard it spill and felt the dog walk through it moments later. I sat down on the floor, slightly defeated, and then laughed as I felt wet paws and kisses on my face. My mood lifted almost immediately.
There was a lesson in it.
We can’t see well in the dark. We can move through familiar spaces by memory and touch, but our sense of sight is limited. We don’t fully know what is around us—we only know what we remember from when there was light.
Nature ensures that we spend half our time in darkness. Depending on where we are in the world, that balance shifts across the seasons, but the presence of darkness is constant. It’s part of the rhythm.
In many ways, our internal world operates similarly. There is so much we don’t know—about situations, about other people, even about ourselves. When we don’t know something, we are, in a sense, in the dark. Often, we don’t even realize what we don’t know.
There is something humbling in that. Accepting that we are not always seeing clearly can change how we move through the world. It can soften certainty and make room for curiosity.
This becomes especially relevant when we form strong opinions or beliefs. Whether the topic is something as large as politics or something as small as a personal interaction, it’s easy to assume we understand more than we actually do. We operate from our own experiences and perspectives, which feel complete to us, but are still limited.
When we stay open to the possibility that we are only seeing part of the picture, it changes how we listen and respond. It doesn’t mean abandoning our views, but it does mean holding them with a bit more flexibility.
There are countless sources of information, perspectives, and experiences that shape how people see the world. Not all of them reach us, and not all of them are easy to understand. Accepting that we may not have the full picture allows for a different kind of awareness—one that is less rigid and more receptive.
After cleaning up the spilled water as best I could in the dark, I made my way back to my practice. My cats and dog settled around me as I sat, the door slightly open, the cool air still moving through the space.
Without relying on sight, the other senses became more vivid. I noticed the sounds—the birds, the water, the buoy, the distant hum of a car, the steady rhythm of my dog’s breathing. The feel of the air on my skin was more pronounced. Things I might normally overlook became clearer.
As the rain began again, a new layer of sound filled the space. Gradually, the darkness gave way to light, and with it, my attention shifted back toward what I could see. It became easier to rely on sight and, in doing so, easier to overlook everything else.
There is something in that as well. Our strongest sense can sometimes become the one that limits us the most.
My animals seemed to take the whole morning in stride. The change in routine, the spilled water, the unfamiliar movements—it was all simply part of what was happening. They adapted without resistance.
There’s something to learn from that.
When we accept that we don’t—and can’t—know everything, it becomes easier to move through the world with a bit more ease. We make decisions with the information we have, understanding that it may not be complete. That awareness can feel less like a limitation and more like a kind of freedom.
It allows space for learning, for adjustment, and for seeing things we might otherwise miss.
And perhaps that’s part of the rhythm, too—moving between what we can see and what we can’t, knowing that both are always present.
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Last Sunday evening after dinner I was washing a pot. I was washing it very mindfully. I was noticing the feel of the warm, soapy water on my hands. I thought about how the pot was made and how I infused the homemade vegan chili in this large, heavy blue pot with love. Most importantly I was slowly and methodically removing the food that was stuck to the bottom of the pan. I thought back to a lesson I just cannot seem to always remember – “To go faster you must slow down”.
I led a fast-paced adult life until about 2 years ago. So fast that I hardly had time to think. Washing a pot with food stuck to the bottom has always reminded me of this paradox; thanks to a visit from my mother a few years before she passed away. When my children were young and I was first married, we had little money, but I kept a really good home. I felt very on top of things. But I was rushed back then too. I was so rushed that I never really had time to deal with pots that ended up with years’ worth of stains on them. In late 2001 my mother came to visit with her new husband Boris. I had only just met him, and I know he made my mother very happy. He was from Venezuela. My mom talked so much about how laid back he was and how he got her to slow down, grow out her hair, and stop fussing so much with makeup and keeping up the house. I made a big dinner when they came to visit, and afterward there were many pots and pans that needed cleaning. My mother and Boris came into the kitchen to help and stationed themselves at the sink; she on dish duty, he on drying duty. What seemed like only moments later, while I was putting the leftover food into containers, I noticed Boris drying off one of the pots. What caught my eye about a particular pot that usually had brown and black soot on the bottom was that it was so shiny and clean. Years’ worth of food and cooking buildup was gone! I asked my mother how she did that and so fast… she only smiled with a glint in her eye and said “Boris showed me how”. She never told me with words, but with her eyes she told me to slow down and go easy. The next time I had to clean a pot, and ever since, I’ve taken my time, used far less pressure than I ever would have, and they have always come clean. Working in a rush and with too much pressure used more time and never yielded the same results. I never understood how; it’s just the way it works. I learned this 17 years ago, but I still don’t always remember or practice this principle. Two years ago I slowed down immensely, truly savoring the small, day-to-day moments, and oddly enough I found myself to be happier, more at peace, and with more time than I ever had. It’s not only time, but also about “less”. Doing less, trying less, having less… all equal less stress and more joy. Last week I had the luxury of traveling with my husband and a group of amazing individuals from my yoga studio to a jungle sanctuary in Costa Rica. Getting to this sanctuary required two commercial flights, a puddle jumper plane, a 45-minute car ride, and then a 20-minute hike crossing a river four times. It was hot and humid; the type of humidity where you never dry off, even after a shower. The only way on and off the sanctuary is a 20-minute-plus hike. On the last full day of the trip, my husband Daren and I ventured off the property to the sanctuary’s closest neighbor, Nena, in pursuit of pure organic extra virgin coconut oil. It was a short walk over a bridge that overlooks the ocean to Nena’s house. For the previous two days, Daren & I opted to take some excursions off the property with our group. Both days were a little hectic and obscenely hot at times. I felt ambivalent all morning about whether or not we should take the walk down the hill to get this coconut oil, mainly because it was hot. For some reason I said I’d like to go, but I wanted to walk slowly. So off we went to Nena’s house for coconut oil.
Daren and I really took our time. We stopped and looked at monkeys. We watched little birds. We passed our friend, the white cow. When we left the property and crossed the street, we stopped on the bridge. Actually, Daren stopped on the bridge and called out to me, “Babe, look at this view!”. Slightly annoyed, I stopped to look. I was initially feeling rushed, looked at my watch, and started calculating how much time it would take to get to Nena’s, buy this coconut oil, trek back, “relax” at the pool, and then dash off to the next yoga class. However, when I turned my head to the left and saw the scene, my heart rate actually slowed down a bit. I couldn’t believe I was about to just walk by and miss this scene! I took it in. While standing there, I couldn’t help but notice this insane, harried American thought pattern, and I pushed it completely away. When I stopped and didn’t worry about the time, I was able to remember that I was here in this beautiful place, at this beautiful moment, with my beautiful husband and a group of beautiful, well-lit individuals. I stopped my physical, then mental body from the rush of insanity and fleeting thoughts to appreciate the view and the view of my husband appreciating the view.
We stood there a while in silence. I took a few pictures and resisted the urge to snap more. More is not better. More pictures, more talk, more activity… more, more, more… No, no, no… I know this, but I live in a world that tells me the opposite, so it’s easy to forget.
It was I who broke the silence after a long while. I had the profound realization that because we walked slowly, we weren’t as hot as we were the rest of the trip. I intellectually knew that before we walked and even made that suggestion, but it was even more profound to experience that it worked. It dawned on me that every time I go anywhere where the weather is warm all the time, the locals move slowly. I heard other Americans and Canadians joking about how the natives live on “Costa Rican time”. I’ve heard the same joke in other places. All these Americans and Europeans thinking it’s so funny to crack jokes about how slow everyone moves, when really the joke is on us. What is wrong with us? We are the dummies sweating in the sun because we are rushing around like lunatics. It’s our culture that is uptight, wound up, and stressed. What are we in a rush to do anyway? At that moment on the bridge, I decided to put my watch in my pocket and let the day pass as it may. Strangely, there seemed to be just the right amount of time for everything once I stopped worrying at all about it.
Daren with our friend the pretty white cow who was often on the path onto and off the sanctuary.
The view I nearly just didn’t notice
When we move too quickly, we often miss things that are right in front of us. This applies to work, our lives with our families and friends, and even how we move toward our goals. It’s not just about what we need to see, but what actually enriches our daily experience.
In the midst of this jungle last week, we were surrounded by wildlife. It was beautiful, simple, exotic, intoxicating, and natural. This was a yoga group at a yogic sanctuary. Yogis might be more aware than most about the beauty of being conscious, but are no less human and subject to falling prey to being unconscious in a world that keeps dangling shiny temptations all around. One of my teachers deliberately did not go on one of the daily excursions on a day that every other single person in the group did. She said she did not want to feel rushed, and she sat watching monkeys for several hours that day instead. The message she took away is that the monkeys were there all along, providing the same level of awe and entertainment, but had one not taken the time to stop and observe, it would have been missed.
The evening we returned to Connecticut from Costa Rica, Daren and I found ourselves in line at a McDonald’s drive-through on the way home from the airport at 11:45 at night. By that point in the day, we had been up and en route home since 5:15am. We had only one real meal. We were tired, dirty, and stressed. Hurry up and wait. We almost missed a connecting flight because Passport Control was a hot mess when we got back into the U.S. We were waiting in a very long car line at 11:45pm for an absolutely nutritionally poor meal (well, Daren was waiting, I was looking forward to some soup at home). We were stressed. Daren was tapping at the wheel. I was mentally trying hard not to fall into the trap of ordering something greasy or feeling upset over the slow-moving line, all while trying to stay cheerful so my husband could stay positive too. In my mind, I was doing math again about the number of things I needed to do the next day to get ready for the week, wondering how I could fit them in. How much mail was there? Who is taking the dog to the vet Thursday? What should I pull out for dinner tomorrow? Should I go shopping? I needed to inventory the food situation at home first, right? With every thought, I felt my blood pressure rising. And every time I noticed my breath becoming rapid and shallow or my heart racing, I made the conscious decision to breathe deeply and live in the moment. That only lasts a few moments out here in the “real world” until the thoughts and heart start to race again. How could you explain this feeling to someone in the third world?
We may have been in the middle of the jungle, but the concrete jungle creates artificial stressors that make living life to the fullest nearly impossible. It’s impossible because living life to the fullest was taught to me as fitting in as much “fun”, work, and activity as possible. This means learning as much as you can, moving quickly, multitasking, making lots of money to do these amazing things (because they aren’t free), and providing these experiences to our children. Making money means more rushing and more stress. For most, it means long commutes and doing work you rarely feel connected to. Then rushing home to activities and often hurried, unhealthy meals—if you are lucky, with loved ones. Weekends are spent putting your living space back together, cleaning, doing laundry, shopping, shuffling people around, and squeezing in “quality” time. Somewhere in between, you are supposed to exercise, meditate, perform self-care, attend appointments, cook healthy meals, and sleep enough—just so you don’t get stressed or exhausted. You know… so you can be happy and experience life to the fullest. It sounds insane when you really look at it.
I’ve also noticed that when we take the time to do things more carefully instead of rushing through them, we tend to get better results and feel less stressed in the process.
Physics teaches us that time is relative. Slowing down seems to expand our experience of time. I can’t explain why; it just is. Another interesting paradox is that it allows us to appreciate more. Life becomes less expensive, less material, and far less stressful.
The overall message for me is that slowing down equals living life more fully. I keep forgetting, but the time between which I do is growing larger and larger. I hope that others who haven’t given it a whirl do. There’s nothing to lose but old, tired ideas of what it means to live our lives to the fullest.
Sunrise one morning from the Tower at the SanctuarySunset one evening on the beach of Santa Theresa Costa Rica
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It’s Friday, December 30, 2016. I just walked 4 miles from my house to Cheshire Coffee. I’m sitting alone with a cup of green tea with honey and lemon. I’ve never been more content in my life.
I did a lot of thinking on the way up here and wanted to capture it. I don’t know if I’ll finish this or even blog it. For now, I’m just writing from my heart.
2016 was the best year of my life (so far).
I keep seeing posts about how terrible this year was and how people can’t wait for it to end. I don’t relate to that anymore. I might have in the past—but I’m a different person now.
A few weeks ago, Daren and I were driving up to Portland to see Thomas at college. We got caught in traffic, rerouted through a chaotic neighborhood—construction noise, bright sun in our eyes, the dog restless in the backseat, music playing, Siri interrupting with directions.
We were still trying to talk through it all when I suddenly realized—I couldn’t anymore.
I felt anxious. Overstimulated. Instead of pushing through or getting irritated like I would have before, I simply said we should pause the conversation and pick it up later. I turned off the music. We drove in silence.
And I thought about how new that was for me.
A few years ago, I wouldn’t have recognized what was happening in my body. I would have just felt irritated and probably complained. This time, I noticed it—and adjusted.
That shift felt big.
Later, Daren asked what I was thinking about. I told him I was reflecting on how different I am from a year ago.
He said something that stuck with me—he hadn’t really noticed a difference.
And he’s probably right.
These changes are subtle. Internal. The kind you don’t see day to day—like a child growing. You only notice when you look back.
So how do I explain it?
I’m becoming a “less is more” person.
Before speaking, I now run things through a filter: Is it true? Is it necessary? Is it kind?
I suddenly have a lot less to say—and I listen more.
Yoga taught me that. Sitting in circles, listening to others without responding. At first, it felt unnatural. But I started to carry that into my life.
I listen more deeply now—to people, to my body, to the world around me.
I’ve become more aware of my body, especially through anxiety. I didn’t even realize how much of it I carried all the time. Medication helped quiet the noise enough for me to actually hear what was going on inside.
With that awareness came acceptance. Of myself. Of my experiences. Of where I am.
I’ve learned what affects me—what fuels me and what drains me. Running long distances, too much coffee, certain foods. Things I never would have noticed before.
I have a better sense now of when to push and when to let go. I used to fight everything. Now I understand balance a little more. Not everything is worth the energy.
I move slower. When I catch myself rushing, I stop and ask why. There’s usually no good reason.
I became especially aware of this after knee surgery, when I had no choice but to slow down. It felt uncomfortable at first—like I was wasting time. But I realized… I wasn’t.
I was just present.
Yoga taught me how to breathe. Really breathe. The kind of breathing that changes how your body feels. I started practicing different techniques and using breath to move through my day more intentionally.
That awareness extended to my thoughts.
“Don’t water the weeds.”
I catch myself now when I’m feeding thoughts that don’t serve me. I used to beat myself up over it. Now I just begin again.
And I begin again more quickly.
The background noise in my mind has changed too. It used to be random songs or looping conversations. Now I’m more intentional about what I take in—music, messages, thoughts. I use mantra. I redirect.
I’ve even become more aware of what I consume physically—food, products, everything. I’ve simplified. Less makeup, less fuss. More natural. More ease.
I feel more like myself than I ever have.
And interestingly, I’ve become more aware of others too.
Not long ago, I saw a woman at work crying. I barely knew her, but I walked over and hugged her. I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t hold back. I just showed up.
I didn’t used to do things like that.
I tell people I love them more. I listen more. I’m present more often.
And I’ve learned to enjoy my own company.
That might be one of the biggest shifts.
I used to hate being alone. Now I need it. I value it. It’s where I hear myself.
Daren was right—these changes aren’t obvious from the outside.
But inside, everything feels different.
The world constantly tells us who we should be. It’s hard to know who you are underneath all of that.
Yoga didn’t change me overnight. It worked quietly, over time. Along with other experiences that led me there.
I feel incredibly lucky to have had the space to explore this part of myself. Not everyone does.
I’m far from perfect. I still fall off my path.
But I get back on.
And I fall less often now.
2016 was the year that shifted everything for me.
I only hope to keep going—and maybe help others find their own path along the way.
If you’re still reading—thank you. Truly.
Peace. 2016—out.
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We did chat about it that day in a coffee shop, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. One of the reasons rituals are so meaningful is because they trace something back to its roots and honor it in its entirety. But nothing really exists alone in its entirety. Anyone who is Facebook friends with me (and paying attention) has probably seen the quote I’ve had on my profile for years:
“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.” — John Muir
I love that quote. I’ve used it in conversations and presentations in many forms. We can trace almost everything—including ourselves—back to the stars. We and everything around us are made of star stuff (thank you, Carl Sagan, for that one). If we really sit with that idea, it can feel like either nothing at all or complete chaos. But when we narrow our focus too much—when we isolate one piece—we lose sight of the beauty of how it all ties together. And we feel alone.
Our brains need to draw lines to make sense of things. But those lines also need to stop somewhere manageable so we can understand what we’re looking at. What I think is happening now is that the lines we draw are becoming smaller and smaller.
Take a shoemaker 150 years ago. He had a small shop in the center of town. People came to him for their shoes. He knew his customers. Everyone in that town had a role, and they supported one another through trade, barter, or money. There was a sense of connection—of being part of something whole.
That shoemaker made each pair from start to finish. He knew where the materials came from and how they came together. Every stitch, every sole—his hands touched all of it. When he walked through town, he saw his work on people’s feet. There was pride, connection, and meaning. Making shoes was a ritual. The lines were drawn around the whole process, and that process was tied to community and to people.
Then machines came. Assembly lines broke the process apart—not just for shoes, but for nearly everything. The lines became smaller. Instead of making a shoe, someone made a sole. Or hammered the same piece over and over. The ritual was lost. The connection to the final product faded.
Supply chains expanded. We no longer see what we make or who it serves. Many people leave their towns, commute long distances, and spend their days doing work they feel little connection to. Ironically, as the world becomes more connected, we become more disconnected—from what we do, from where things come from, and from each other.
I love Daren’s example of the record player. Playing music used to be a ritual. There was anticipation in setting it up, in placing the needle, in waiting. That effort made the experience richer. Now, with every song available instantly, I don’t enjoy music the same way.
The same goes for coffee. There was something meaningful in grinding beans and making it by hand. The waiting was part of the enjoyment. Now we grab coffee from a drive-through or a machine, often without even thinking—sometimes multiple times a day. And somehow, it feels like less.
Our on-the-go lifestyle has started to strip the pleasure out of everyday life. We’re less connected to what we do, to what we consume, and to the people around us. We start to see ourselves as separate instead of part of a whole.
Unless you own your own business, many of us feel little connection to the mission of our work. We become parts in a machine, disconnected from the outcome—and sometimes from our own humanness.
I see it in myself. I walk through the VA facility where I work, passing patients in the hallway, and sometimes I experience them as obstacles—something in the way of where I need to go next. Already late. Moving quickly. It’s only when something interrupts my routine—like having to go to another floor—that I notice the waiting rooms, the check-ins, the people. It’s only then that I remember I work in a hospital.
That feels like a symptom of something that’s gone wrong.
I wasn’t around in the days of the shoemaker, but I’ve experienced enough of the “in-between” to feel the shift—record players, cassettes, CDs… even watching my mom grind coffee beans at the store and then make coffee at home. There was more presence in it. More enjoyment.
Now everything is faster, smaller, more efficient. But to what end?
We’re doing more and more, faster and faster. But are we actually enjoying it more? Are we happier?
I’m not.
And maybe I’m not alone.
I don’t think this means rejecting the world we live in—but maybe it means choosing, in small ways, to step out of the rush. To slow down where we can. To reconnect with process, with ritual, with the bigger picture.
I find myself wanting that more and more.
Less speed. More meaning. More connection.
A return—not backwards—but inward.
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I have a deeper appreciation for life and moving through my day than I’ve ever had before. Two things happened in the past few months that helped me come to this realization: I started taking an SSRI, and I had outpatient knee surgery. Two very different things for completely different reasons—but in all honesty, both were the result of moving through life too quickly and absentmindedly. Both have completely slowed me down (and fattened me up just a little!), and it’s not all a bad thing.
Back in March, I quite literally lost my marbles and, thankfully, became fully aware that fooling myself into sleeping more, doing more yoga, or meditating more often was not going to be my cure. Truthfully, I was no longer able to do any of those things in a way that felt meaningful. Yoga still felt good physically, but it didn’t slow my thoughts or help me “just be” like it used to. Meditation was a joke. I sat there diligently, but I couldn’t stop the racing in my head.
I did everything I could to keep up with my life. I was (and still am) one of the most organized people I know. Everything was as efficient as possible. No time management tip was going to help—I would read them and think I could write a better article myself. I was stretched thin. There was no room for error. One small miscommunication between family members and the entire chain of well-planned events and pickups would fall apart. No way to live.
A few days before the marble-losing, I went to a routine Thursday morning report-out for senior leadership. As usual, I prepared at the last minute—rushed, but still pulled together something polished and well-coordinated. I walked into the conference room, my employee pulled up the presentation, and I slid my chair under the large dark wooden table.
SLAM.
I hit my right knee hard on one of the table legs.
There were the usual reactions—“Oof,” “I heard that,” “You didn’t need that knee anyway!”—and I shrugged it off and kept going. About 24 hours later, during a meeting with my small team, I noticed my knee hurt. I wondered why as I pushed through the agenda, then remembered hitting it the day before and briefly questioned why it took so long to register. That night at dinner with friends, it hurt more.
The next day, Daren and I went into the city. We were so busy and stressed that I didn’t think about my knee at all. The following morning, seemingly out of nowhere, I had my first long-overdue panic attack. I cried the entire way home. I noticed my knee hurt, but it wasn’t until late the next night—around 9 p.m.—that I realized how swollen and red it had become.
Daren was at hockey practice. I wanted him to look at it, but I fell asleep before he got home.
Long story short, the next few weeks were filled with panic attacks and knee aspirations. The panic worsened quickly. I realized I had to start medication—I had nowhere left to cut back. And have you ever tried to “relax” while in a nonstop adrenaline rush? It doesn’t work.
Once I started the SSRI, I began to notice how often my body was in fight-or-flight, even as my mind started to calm. It was eye-opening. I had been living like this all the time.
I first went to urgent care five days after the injury and was told to rest and monitor it. It stopped hurting—but it didn’t stop swelling. So I ignored the advice. I ran on it, did yoga on it, and didn’t call an orthopedist for three weeks. Who has time for this?
Eventually, I was getting it drained every couple of weeks… then every week… then it started swelling again almost immediately after each visit. At one point, the doctor tried to drain it and nothing came out. A wall had formed. Surgery or live with it.
It’s funny—my knee felt like a physical version of what had been happening mentally for years. Rushing. Ignoring warning signs. Doing the bare minimum to manage something that was clearly deteriorating. Until I hit a wall—mentally first, then physically.
It wasn’t until I had no choice but to deal with it that I realized how much my lifestyle was harming me. My body is all I have—why wasn’t I taking care of it?
After medication adjustments and a few rough weeks, the panic attacks lessened. And then I had surgery.
I’m not claiming I’m a changed woman, but I’ve had some of the most relaxing weeks of my life.
Since March, I’ve rediscovered the library. I’ve been reading a book a week—fiction. Nothing intellectual. Nothing self-improvement related. Just stories.
I’ve started getting bi-weekly massages. Daren and I have been spending more time at home—making the outside of our house beautiful, sipping cocktails, watching fun TV (not documentaries—actual fun TV). I’ve been coloring mandalas. Visiting local shops. Sitting in coffee shops with a matcha latte and a book. Writing for fun.
I’ve even started going back to sleep in the mornings when I don’t have to rush.
That, in itself, feels like a revolution.
My whole life, I woke up ready to go. Even when I was exhausted. There was always something to do. Something waiting. Something urgent. My dad used to bang on our doors and tell us we were “sleeping our lives off.”
Now… I listen to my body. And sometimes it tells me to rest. And I do.
After surgery, I slowed down even more. I slept. I sat outside with my leg up and a book. I noticed things. I wasn’t rushing anywhere.
One morning, I walked slowly down my own street and realized I barely knew it. The houses, the details, the quiet beauty of it all. It had always been there—I just hadn’t.
Later, on the ferry, I looked at my legs—one swollen, one not—and felt grateful just to have them. In the shower, I noticed their strength, their design, how they carry me through life.
I ate breakfast and actually tasted it. I thought about how each raspberry grew—slowly, over time—until it was ready.
I want that.
Slow growth. Presence. Awareness.
We spent the day outside. I modified yoga to meet my body where it was. The trees were alive with spring. Food tasted better. Life felt softer.
Healing—mentally and physically—is happening in small increments. Just like those raspberries.
This morning, I woke up early when Daren left to drive Kieran to work. I started writing this… then stopped.
I opened the blinds. Listened to the birds. Laid back down. Let myself rest.
I want to live like this more.
I’ve already asked to cut back hours at work—and thankfully, the answer was yes.
I don’t want to need medication or injury to slow down. I want to choose it.
We all need to live a little more and “do” a little less. Be present more and absent less.
Every single moment matters.
And I’m finally ready to live in them.
Namaste.
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