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a pocket of peace for your scroll-weary soul
A moment arrives—you know the one. You’re three hours deep in the luminous abyss, thumb dancing across glass, consuming fragments of other people’s lives like digital communion wafers. The blue light baptises your retinas while somewhere, buried beneath notifications and dopamine hits, your actual heartbeat whispers, “Remember me?” That’s the moment. The sacred interruption occurs…
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you can have peace now (but you won’t want to)
The book says, “Breathe! You Are Alive.” And for once, I didn’t argue. This morning, after feeding the kittens, I stepped barefoot into the back garden, coffee in hand, Kindle open to a quiet teaching. The sun was already waiting—warming the stone steps, drying last night’s dew. A soft breeze moved through the grass, and…
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the wandering way
Maybe you’re feeling behind. Like the path disappeared while you were making coffee or paying bills or just trying to keep your head above the static. Like everyone else got the memo about which direction to walk, and you were in the bathroom, missing the announcement that would have saved you from this wilderness of…
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the wisdom of wasting time
(A barefoot philosopher’s reflection) The kettle clicks off, and I let it sit. No rush. Let the steam linger. Let the silence finish its sentence. I used to panic in moments like this—these little gaps in usefulness, where no task was being completed, no goal moved closer. I’d reach for my phone, for a plan,…
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the doorway in the mist
a morning contemplation on Chapter 42 of the Tao Te Ching This morning, I found myself sipping not just coffee, but Chapter 42 of the Tao Te Ching—one of those deep wells you can drink from for a lifetime and still taste something new each time. It’s the kind of chapter that doesn’t hand you…
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where there is no map
i haven’t written a haibun in a while. I step into the weekend like a question. No itinerary. No certainty. Just the hush of morning and the feel of earth beneath my feet. I remember Antonio Machado’s words—“Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking.” And something in me exhales. There is…
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stop talking about the path and walk it
I’ve been sitting with Lao-Tzu’s opening lines from the Tao Te Ching. Not just reading them, but really feeling them: “The way that can be spoken of is not the true Way.” It hit me differently this morning—maybe because I’ve been spending so much time talking about the path, and thinking about life, instead of…
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the alchemy of the wandering soul: what happens when you mix a poet, a peasant, and a vagabond?
There are recipes hidden in the soul’s old cupboard.Not the kind passed down in family cookbooks, but ones whispered through dreams, carved into cave walls, and sung around ancestral fires.Today, I found one of those recipes—three spirits, three essences—and wondered what might emerge if I stirred them together in the crucible of the heart. The…
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before the world wakes
a morning conversation between me and something older than me… ME:It’s just past six.I’m in the back garden, coffee in hand, wrapped in that soft hush before the world remembers itself.The ravens are out already—calling overhead like they know something.And I’ve been sitting with this thought:There’s something about the way we move through life…Like, where…
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the world is speaking, this is my first attempt to listen back
Zine-making has been simmering on the edge of my creative altar for months—a quiet longing, half-formed but insistent. Since the start of the year, I’ve felt the pull to make something that feels like paper magic—pocket-sized, myth-infused, soul-forward. Not content.Not a product.But a digital relic.A ritual in downloadable form. I’ve finally answered that call with…
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The Imaginal as a Forgotten Sense: Seeing with the Soul’s Eye
“What if imagination isn’t something we use—but something we see through?” Long ago, before the world was hemmed in by spreadsheets and satellite maps, there was a way of seeing that didn’t require eyes. The old mystics called it the soul’s eye, or sometimes the mundus imaginalis—the imaginal world. Not imaginary. Not pretend. Imaginal, as…
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Living with Attention and Awe
Instructions for living a life: Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it. – Mary Oliver Mary Oliver, the quiet bard of the marshlands, slipping truths between cattails and crow calls. Her words aren’t just a poetic mantra; they’re a distilled philosophy, a three-beat rhythm for soul-led living. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it. It’s…
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Breaking the Identity Spell
There is a story you’ve been told since before you had words. Not in the cradle, but in the currents. It whispered from billboards and textbooks, from tired eyes and dinner table silences. A story about limits. About roles. About how far a soul like yours is allowed to roam. Most of us mistake this…
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Breath Noticing
Imagine you’re sitting at the edge of a sacred pool in a forgotten grove. The wind is still. The water mirrors everything exactly as it is—no distortion, no ripple.That’s what breath noticing is. Not swimming. Not controlling. Just watching. Breath noticing is the practice of simply witnessing the breath as it is—without trying to change…
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World Building as Self-Care
I’m reminded of the Gnostic myth of Sophia—the divine wisdom who fell from the pleroma into the chaos of matter. In her descent, she became fragmented, confused, alienated from the divine order. And yet, in that descent, something miraculous happened: the world as we know it began to take shape. In the act of falling…
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Re-tuning your spirit to the frequency of Being
📡 The Mythic Metaphor: The Forgotten Receiver Imagine yourself as an old shortwave radio. Not the shiny digital kind—but a dusty, analogue relic, humming in the corner of a forgotten workshop. You once picked up messages from distant stars, music from invisible worlds. But over time—through misuse, neglect, or the long slow calcification of adulthood—you…
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Tarot as Story Mirror
Let’s begin by dimming the lights and turning our minds to the flickering candle glow of antiquity. Imagine yourself seated across from a Renaissance mage—perhaps a wandering Neoplatonist in the alleys of Florence or a court astrologer whispering secrets to nobility under starlit balconies. Before you lies a strange deck of cards, rich in symbols:…
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Sunrise and Elephant Grass
Here’s a short reflection I had sipping coffee watching the sun rise through the elephant grass… We come from the Unknown,and we carry its dust in our bones.Born of stars and silence,we arrive trailing the breath of the void,a question wrapped in skin.No map. No manual. Only a pulse.And still—we move.We step forward, not because…
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What If Healing Isn’t What You Think It Is?
Let me tell you a different kind of healing story. In the Popol Vuh, the sacred text of the Maya, the hero twins don’t journey into the underworld because they’re broken. They go because that’s where meaning lives. They descend not as wounded beings seeking repair but as whole ones seeking transformation. They dance with…
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How We Lost the Mythic Eye
A soul-guided reflection on the exile from symbolic seeing—and what it means to remember the world as alive again. Prologue: A World Alive with Meaning There was a time—not just in myth, but in memory—when the world was not made of things but of signs. I remember standing in a field behind my childhood home,…
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