In an effort to entertain my small, beloved progeny on a hot summer’s day, I devised a brilliant plan to take them to the Oregon Caves. The last time I’d been there, I was seven years old; in my childhood memory, it was fun. That was a long time ago.

My last return to Jacksonville closed the loop of a thirty-year meander that took me from Jacksonville to Chicago, San Francisco, back to Jacksonville, Ashland, Portland, San Francisco again until it siren-songed me back in 2002. By then l had accumulated a lot of stuff, most of which did not fit into a modest, circa 1889 house.

When I was a little girl, I loved searching for caterpillars on the milkweed plants that grew in abundance around our house. I would pluck one from the underside of a leaf and place it in my hand, stroking its smooth body with a tentative finger, carefully carrying it home in cupped hands to be re-homed in a mayonnaise jar, along with a stick and some leaves

On May the second, I drove through our little town early in the morning taking my son to school, and was greeted by a display of American flags along California Street. I wondered what holiday it was, but quickly realized it wasn’t a holiday; it was a celebration of Osama bin Laden’s death–or killing to be precise. And since that time I have been consumed by a deep and abiding consternation and a heavy heart.

We recently journeyed to San Francisco, an amazing place for any number of reasons, one of the more obvious and unique ones being its habit of providing a haven for those who do not always fit neatly into proscribed boxes.

Spring has officially arrived at our house, heralded by the arrival of yellow daffodils poking up under the walnut tree and six fuzzy, baby chicks peeping away in our bathtub-become-brooder. I am surrounded by Life, by the clamor of two children, eleven chickens, two rats, a Golden Retriever and a newly inherited, deaf, mostly toothless terrier named Henry, and I’m loving it.

A couple of years ago, I came across an idea that completely changed the way I view human evolution. What it said was basically this: that all spiritual growth and unfoldment comes from letting go. This simple little sentence was, for me, revelatory.

My husband and I were recently having dinner at a lovely, intimate restaurant. Seated next to us was a forty-something couple in the early stages of love. They were leaning in and smiling, holding hands the way you do in the early days of romance. Then I noticed the phone in his right hand.

What do monkeys, the new year, and spiritual growth have to do with one another? Amazingly, quite a lot.

It’s sad to think that we need guidance in how to grieve, how to be with someone who has gone through a loss when it’s as basic as The Golden Rule: treat others as you would be treated. Simple as that sounds, we don’t do it.

Melancholy is a temperament. It means mournful, soberly thoughtful, pensive. If it were a crayon, melancholy would be Cornflower Blue rather than Midnight or Pitch Black. Melancholy is the condition of being exquisitely sensitive.

Compromised adrenals are the result of stress. Now, it would appear to any on-looker that I have one of the most peaceful, stress-free lives going. But, as the old adage goes, appearances can be deceiving. To look only at external circumstances and not take into account the internal life — the life of the mind, the achings of the heart, the longings of the spirit — is to leave out most of the pieces of the puzzle.

“Remember who you are.” This is a great quote from The Lion King (a movie I’ve seen more times than I can count, thanks to little people who live with me). The son of the deceased king hears the deep, resonant voice of his father speak these words in a moment of discouragement and perceived impotency.

My stepfather, David, was a great man. He was also a Quaker. I’m not certain which came first: they seem to go together in most cases. His greatness was, above all else, his rare gift of truly, completely, living what he believed.

Remember “The Secret” craze a few years back?  It was all about manifesting your heart’s desires.  Unfortunately, its focus was all about manifesting material desires, which is no secret whatsoever; we all know how to get stuff: whine, cajole, marry well. (I’m kidding. Sort of.) But the REAL secret lies in this quote from the Gnostic Gospels.

It’s happened again. I’m at yet another crossroads, uncertain which direction to go. The genesis of my most recent ambivalence was the kind suggestion from an editor that I “put aside” my memoir and try my hand at fiction. Reading her letter, I felt all the energy ooze out of my body and onto the floor. Surprisingly, I wasn’t upset, but I was disappointed. Deflated. Now what?

The season of celebration is upon us; lots of Happy Hanukkahs, Merry Christmases, and Happy New Years flying about.  It sets me to wondering about this happiness business, and it IS a business, as I am sure you very well know.  Equally obvious is the fact that all the stuff being foisted upon us at every turn contributes not one iota to our happiness.

I recently wrote on the importance of being present in the unfolding moments and opportunities of Life.  As I wrote, it became very clear that it is almost impossible to discuss presence without also addressing awareness: they belong and resonate together

I was walking on the trails with my retriever, Tucker, the other day, happy to be out alone with him and to enjoy some tranquility. At one point on my walk, I realized that I had completely missed the last hundred yards of the trail, having become lost in my numerous thoughts, and I was struck, once again, by how very easily that happens; how we can blot out our current experience by drifting into busyness.

As I write this, thousands of people are gathering for Michael Jackson’s memorial.  Although I do not listen to or watch much news, I did not miss the deluge of commentary on the former pop star.