https://awakin.org/read/ iJourney passages are a weekly email service that delivers a little bit of wisdom. It all started with couple folks getting together on Wednesdays in the Silicon Valley. en Sun, 26 Jul 2026 20:43:25 -0700 ServiceSpace iJourney passages are a weekly email service that delivers a little bit of wisdom. It all started with couple folks getting together on Wednesdays in the Silicon Valley. ServiceSpace tow@charityfocus.org no tow@charityfocus.org (ServiceSpace) https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2621 Having gone through too many airports and terminals on my way to destinations around the world, I recently began to think about my experiences: in particular, the ways these monumental facilities shape us, discipline us and use us. Think of the specific ways airports arrange human bodies; how the stanchions and the velvet queue line ropes make us walk in absurd zigzagging formations; how we are made to assume specific postures to convey that we can be trusted; how our bodies are bombarded, penetrated, scanned, detected, rendered intelligible, and modified by anxious x-rays, and then fed into screens that either green-light access or flag us as suspicious entities; and, how certain desires and needs are instigated by the luxury consumer section - gratuitously delayed until after the ordeal of immigration lines. [...] In a sense, one does not go 'through' the airport; one BECOMES the airport. Airports perform embodiment and manufacture the body - all kinds of bodies. We are part of its furniture - those of us that travel. We become 'aerodrome bodies', part of an ecosystem that racializes access and emphasizes security as a survival value. Part of the text of its more-than-human arrangement. We feel rewarded when we join the queue, and then guard the queue's integrity by politely reminding intrusive others that "there is a line, you know?" We know the signage and the symbols - the fonts and the stylized blunt edge arrows that point us to Gate 54B. Our senses are well trained by the smoothness of the concourse flooring, by the blinking lights announcing 'Boarding' in a different language. And when we pass through the gates, an unvoiced sigh often escapes our lips: the initiation is complete. We can claim our seats in the metal bird that bends time and space. We become the gut bacteria of the mighty eagle - cleaning its stomach, soiling the seats, performing flight. I wonder about the other ways airports - transient though they are to occasional travelers - shape, penetrate, re/modify and perform 'us'. Are certain modes of knowing possible for the 'aerodrome-human' body that are impossible for other kinds of bodies? Perhaps, more pressingly, what other systems are we already a part of? And how are we being performed as furniture in larger political, geological, hydrological assemblages? How do we answer the question ("who are you?") when identity is always queered, 'disorganized', postponed, relational and yet-to-come? tow-2621 Mon, 20 Jul 2026 00:00:00 -0700 Having gone through too many airports and terminals on my way to destinations around the world, I recently began to think about my experiences: in particular, the ways these monumental facilities shape us, discipline us and use us. Think of the specific ways airports arrange human bodies; how the stanchions and the velvet queue line ropes make us walk in absurd zigzagging formations; how we are made to assume specific postures to convey that we can be trusted; how our bodies are bombarded, penetrated, scanned, detected, rendered intelligible, and modified by anxious x-rays, and then fed into screens that either green-light access or flag us as suspicious entities; and, how certain desires and needs are instigated by the luxury consumer section - gratuitously delayed until after the ordeal of immigration lines. [...] In a sense, one does not go 'through' the airport; one BECOMES the airport. Airports perform embodiment and manufacture the body - all kinds of bodies. We are part of its furniture - those of us that travel. We become 'aerodrome bodies', part of an ecosystem that racializes access and emphasizes security as a survival value. Part of the text of its more-than-human arrangement. We feel rewarded when we join the queue, and then guard the queue's integrity by politely reminding intrusive others that "there is a line, you know?" We know the signage and the symbols - the fonts and the stylized blunt edge arrows that point us to Gate 54B. Our senses are well trained by the smoothness of the concourse flooring, by the blinking lights announcing 'Boarding' in a different language. And when we pass through the gates, an unvoiced sigh often escapes our lips: the initiation is complete. We can claim our seats in the metal bird that bends time and space. We become the gut bacteria of the mighty eagle - cleaning its stomach, soiling the seats, performing flight. I wonder about the other ways airports - transient though they are to occasional travelers - shape, penetrate, re/modify and perform 'us'. Are certain modes of knowing possible for the 'aerodrome-human' body that are impossible for other kinds of bodies? Perhaps, more pressingly, what other systems are we already a part of? And how are we being performed as furniture in larger political, geological, hydrological assemblages? How do we answer the question ("who are you?") when identity is always queered, 'disorganized', postponed, relational and yet-to-come? https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2800 Sooner or later, if you are on any classic “spiritual schedule,” some event, person, death, idea, or relationship will enter your life that you simply cannot deal with, using your present skill set, your acquired knowledge, or your strong willpower. Spiritually speaking, you will be, you must be, led to the edge of your own private resources. At that point you will stumble over a necessary stumbling stone, as Isaiah calls it; or to state it in our language here, you will and you must “lose” at something. This is the only way that Life-Fate-God-Grace-Mystery can get you to change, let go of your egocentric preoccupations, and go on the further and larger journey. I wish I could say this was not true, but it is darn near absolute in the spiritual literature of the world. Any attempt to engineer or plan your own enlightenment is doomed to failure because it will be ego driven. You will see only what you have already decided to look for, and you cannot see what you are not ready or told to look for. So failure and humiliation force you to look where you never would otherwise. What an enigma! Self-help courses of any type, including this one if it is one, will help you only if they teach you to pay attention to life itself. “God comes to you disguised as your life,” as my friend Paula D’Arcy so wisely says. In much of urban and Western civilization today, with no proper tragic sense of life, we try to believe that it is all upward and onward—and by ourselves. It works for so few, and it cannot serve us well in the long run—because it is not true. Japanese communities created a communal ritual whereby a soldier was publicly thanked and praised effusively for his service to the people. After this was done at great length, an elder would stand and announce with authority something to this effect: “The war is now over! The community needs you to let go of what has served you and served us well up to now. The community needs you to return as a man, a citizen, and something beyond a soldier.” In our men’s work, we call this process “discharging your loyal soldier.” Paradoxically, your loyal soldier gives you so much security and validation that you may confuse his voice with the very voice of God. If this inner and critical voice has kept you safe for many years as your inner voice of authority, you may end up not being able to hear the real voice of God. The loyal soldier cannot get you to the second half of life. He does not even understand it. He has not been there. He can help you “get through hell,” with the early decisions that demand black-and-white thinking; but then you have to say good-bye when you move into the subtlety of midlife and later life. The Japanese were correct, as were the Greeks. Odysseus is a loyal soldier for the entire Odyssey, rowing his boat as only a hero can—until the blind prophet tells him there is more, and to put down his oar. If you ever read the Divine Comedy, note that Dante lets go of Virgil, who had accompanied him through Hades and Purgatory, knowing now that only Beatrice can lead him into Paradise. The first battles solidify the ego and create a stalwart loyal soldier; the second battles defeat the ego because God always wins. No wonder so few want to let go of their loyal soldier; no wonder so few have the faith to grow up. The ego hates losing, even to God. tow-2800 Mon, 13 Jul 2026 00:00:00 -0700 Sooner or later, if you are on any classic “spiritual schedule,” some event, person, death, idea, or relationship will enter your life that you simply cannot deal with, using your present skill set, your acquired knowledge, or your strong willpower. Spiritually speaking, you will be, you must be, led to the edge of your own private resources. At that point you will stumble over a necessary stumbling stone, as Isaiah calls it; or to state it in our language here, you will and you must “lose” at something. This is the only way that Life-Fate-God-Grace-Mystery can get you to change, let go of your egocentric preoccupations, and go on the further and larger journey. I wish I could say this was not true, but it is darn near absolute in the spiritual literature of the world. Any attempt to engineer or plan your own enlightenment is doomed to failure because it will be ego driven. You will see only what you have already decided to look for, and you cannot see what you are not ready or told to look for. So failure and humiliation force you to look where you never would otherwise. What an enigma! Self-help courses of any type, including this one if it is one, will help you only if they teach you to pay attention to life itself. “God comes to you disguised as your life,” as my friend Paula D’Arcy so wisely says. In much of urban and Western civilization today, with no proper tragic sense of life, we try to believe that it is all upward and onward—and by ourselves. It works for so few, and it cannot serve us well in the long run—because it is not true. Japanese communities created a communal ritual whereby a soldier was publicly thanked and praised effusively for his service to the people. After this was done at great length, an elder would stand and announce with authority something to this effect: “The war is now over! The community needs you to let go of what has served you and served us well up to now. The community needs you to return as a man, a citizen, and something beyond a soldier.” In our men’s work, we call this process “discharging your loyal soldier.” Paradoxically, your loyal soldier gives you so much security and validation that you may confuse his voice with the very voice of God. If this inner and critical voice has kept you safe for many years as your inner voice of authority, you may end up not being able to hear the real voice of God. The loyal soldier cannot get you to the second half of life. He does not even understand it. He has not been there. He can help you “get through hell,” with the early decisions that demand black-and-white thinking; but then you have to say good-bye when you move into the subtlety of midlife and later life. The Japanese were correct, as were the Greeks. Odysseus is a loyal soldier for the entire Odyssey, rowing his boat as only a hero can—until the blind prophet tells him there is more, and to put down his oar. If you ever read the Divine Comedy, note that Dante lets go of Virgil, who had accompanied him through Hades and Purgatory, knowing now that only Beatrice can lead him into Paradise. The first battles solidify the ego and create a stalwart loyal soldier; the second battles defeat the ego because God always wins. No wonder so few want to let go of their loyal soldier; no wonder so few have the faith to grow up. The ego hates losing, even to God. https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2612 Let us pose a question.Do we truly comprehend all that we hold in our hands?We grasp to hold precious moments in time, captured instants of light and shadow.To hold them in snapshot memories of blessings we then easily forget.We tussle with the less easily forgotten cursings.We hold in respect the responsibilities. I reach for the same, far apart as we are, and having never met,when we compare family albums, you and I, we share more togetherthan we might have thought. We carry in our hands the unique but not dissimilar histories of our familiesand communities, towns and the landscapes under our feet and off our front porches.The places of our lives that we have made unique and that in turnhave shaped the contours of our sense of the good and the beautiful,places from our particular stories of what it means to be at home in the world. What we hold in our hands is the destiny of our children and grandchildren across the whole Earth,particularly the young who, by choice or by house rules, do not knowthe freedom of unstructured play in the rough margins of cities and suburbs.They are to their peril and ours no longer very interested in the dramaof living things that goes on some small distance from the electrical outlets. It is no less than the shape of tomorrow that we hold in unsure hands,uncertain of how to do what’s best, determined to do no less than thatfor those to whom we leave this earth. We hold infinity in the palm of our hand, eternity in an hour, William Blake tells us.You don’t have to go far to see the world.And in so doing hear a universal call for all of us to thinkmore deeply about what we know and care about.Our here, our now, our known riches of the senses, of memory, of relationship. To care for each other in profound and persistent ways.To celebrate and sustain the precious natural world we do not ownbut whose fate we hold in our hands and from which our livingand future ultimately derives. tow-2612 Mon, 06 Jul 2026 00:00:00 -0700 Let us pose a question.Do we truly comprehend all that we hold in our hands?We grasp to hold precious moments in time, captured instants of light and shadow.To hold them in snapshot memories of blessings we then easily forget.We tussle with the less easily forgotten cursings.We hold in respect the responsibilities. I reach for the same, far apart as we are, and having never met,when we compare family albums, you and I, we share more togetherthan we might have thought. We carry in our hands the unique but not dissimilar histories of our familiesand communities, towns and the landscapes under our feet and off our front porches.The places of our lives that we have made unique and that in turnhave shaped the contours of our sense of the good and the beautiful,places from our particular stories of what it means to be at home in the world. What we hold in our hands is the destiny of our children and grandchildren across the whole Earth,particularly the young who, by choice or by house rules, do not knowthe freedom of unstructured play in the rough margins of cities and suburbs.They are to their peril and ours no longer very interested in the dramaof living things that goes on some small distance from the electrical outlets. It is no less than the shape of tomorrow that we hold in unsure hands,uncertain of how to do what’s best, determined to do no less than thatfor those to whom we leave this earth. We hold infinity in the palm of our hand, eternity in an hour, William Blake tells us.You don’t have to go far to see the world.And in so doing hear a universal call for all of us to thinkmore deeply about what we know and care about.Our here, our now, our known riches of the senses, of memory, of relationship. To care for each other in profound and persistent ways.To celebrate and sustain the precious natural world we do not ownbut whose fate we hold in our hands and from which our livingand future ultimately derives. https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2789 When I get to the redwood forest, the trees welcome me with the ancient eloquence of their silence. I’ve been away so long I’ve almost forgotten this feeling. My heart fills with tears of love. Friday evening at the campsite, I silently prepare to answer them with the ancient eloquence of the ritual Shabbos (Sabbath) meal — candles, wine, challah, special foods, prayers and blessings. Then comes the noise. The insistent, dominating whine from the camper that’s just pulled into the next camp site. I try to ignore it, to still my mind, to return to the loving gratitude of the ritual. I can’t do it. The noise is now dominating my evening. What to do? A couple of years ago something similar happened. I felt upset and angry, walked over to the family in the camper, and asked them to have some consideration for other campers and please turn off their generator. The man had looked at my angry face, then at his wife and teenage sons, and shrugged. “The park rules say I can keep it on till 10:00,” he said. And he did. The noise drowned out my peace and serenity for the rest of the evening. So I sit there surrounded by the noise, contemplating lessons I’ve been learning all my life from friends and teachers. I get up and walk over to the camper. There’s a couple about my age, the woman sitting outside reading, the man inside preparing dinner. I take an instant to look at them, to imagine their lives, their struggles and their hopes. "Hi," I say. "I'm camping across from you. Beautiful evening, isn’t it?" We introduce ourselves. He does most of the talking. She looks frail. Turns out they’re from Southern California, on their way back from visiting their son in Oregon. I tell them about my daughter and granddaughter in Portland. "I’ve been wondering how long you’re planning to keep your generator on," I say. "The rules say we can keep it on till 10:00," he answers. I just nod, without saying anything. He looks around at the campgrounds, mostly tents. "It’s pretty quiet here, isn't it?" he says. I nod again. "I think that’s why a lot of us come here." "Well, I don’t know, I guess we can turn it off after dinner, in about an hour or so." He looks over at his wife. She nods. "Well thanks," I say. "I appreciate that. Enjoy your dinner!" "Thanks. And you enjoy yours too." Back at the campsite, I say the blessing and light the candles. The noise from the generator is still strong. But the noise in my mind has gone, and I'm able to be peacefully present in the silence. A few minutes later, I notice that the outer noise is gone too. I walk back over to the camper. "Are you guys okay?" I say. "Yeah," he says, "I just shut it off." "Well, thanks," I say. He stands there a moment, looking a little awkward. "I just decided, I don’t like the smell!" The three of us laugh, and then talk some more about our kids. tow-2789 Mon, 29 Jun 2026 00:00:00 -0700 When I get to the redwood forest, the trees welcome me with the ancient eloquence of their silence. I’ve been away so long I’ve almost forgotten this feeling. My heart fills with tears of love. Friday evening at the campsite, I silently prepare to answer them with the ancient eloquence of the ritual Shabbos (Sabbath) meal — candles, wine, challah, special foods, prayers and blessings. Then comes the noise. The insistent, dominating whine from the camper that’s just pulled into the next camp site. I try to ignore it, to still my mind, to return to the loving gratitude of the ritual. I can’t do it. The noise is now dominating my evening. What to do? A couple of years ago something similar happened. I felt upset and angry, walked over to the family in the camper, and asked them to have some consideration for other campers and please turn off their generator. The man had looked at my angry face, then at his wife and teenage sons, and shrugged. “The park rules say I can keep it on till 10:00,” he said. And he did. The noise drowned out my peace and serenity for the rest of the evening. So I sit there surrounded by the noise, contemplating lessons I’ve been learning all my life from friends and teachers. I get up and walk over to the camper. There’s a couple about my age, the woman sitting outside reading, the man inside preparing dinner. I take an instant to look at them, to imagine their lives, their struggles and their hopes. "Hi," I say. "I'm camping across from you. Beautiful evening, isn’t it?" We introduce ourselves. He does most of the talking. She looks frail. Turns out they’re from Southern California, on their way back from visiting their son in Oregon. I tell them about my daughter and granddaughter in Portland. "I’ve been wondering how long you’re planning to keep your generator on," I say. "The rules say we can keep it on till 10:00," he answers. I just nod, without saying anything. He looks around at the campgrounds, mostly tents. "It’s pretty quiet here, isn't it?" he says. I nod again. "I think that’s why a lot of us come here." "Well, I don’t know, I guess we can turn it off after dinner, in about an hour or so." He looks over at his wife. She nods. "Well thanks," I say. "I appreciate that. Enjoy your dinner!" "Thanks. And you enjoy yours too." Back at the campsite, I say the blessing and light the candles. The noise from the generator is still strong. But the noise in my mind has gone, and I'm able to be peacefully present in the silence. A few minutes later, I notice that the outer noise is gone too. I walk back over to the camper. "Are you guys okay?" I say. "Yeah," he says, "I just shut it off." "Well, thanks," I say. He stands there a moment, looking a little awkward. "I just decided, I don’t like the smell!" The three of us laugh, and then talk some more about our kids. https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2804 A friendly person is someone who can empathize with you. They can put themselves in your shoes and see things from your point of view. That is what the Buddha meant by “noble.” So I like to call the Four Noble Truths the Four Friendly Facts. And I say “facts” rather than “truths,” because truth can become a proposition you are supposed to believe whether it makes sense to you or not. But the Buddha was not giving us a dogma. He was offering a kind of medical diagnosis. He looked at human beings and saw that we carry a certain uneasiness. We are wired to think that our own drive for existence is absolute. We imagine ourselves as the fixed center of things, and then we suffer when the world does not confirm it. The first friendly fact is simply noticing the symptom: we suffer. And, strangely, this can be good news. One of the things that attracts people to the path is discovering, “I am not the only one suffering here.” It is normal. It is part of the human condition. And because it is understood, it can be worked with. But for the self-centered person, this does not feel like a friendly fact. Such a person keeps thinking, “I did not enjoy this enough, because it ended. And even while I had it, it was not as good as what I imagined I might have under different circumstances.” If only I were famous. If only I were wealthy. If only I had a different partner, a different body, a different life. A person wrapped tightly around the sense of “me” can never really enjoy anything, because whatever comes is immediately compared to what could have been. The second friendly fact is the diagnosis: we suffer because we mis-know. It is not merely that we do not know; it is that we know wrongly. We think, “I am the one. I am the absolute.” And then nobody agrees — not even our own body. The third is the prognosis: if we substitute wisdom for mis-knowing, suffering can cease. And the great misunderstanding is that we must leave life in order for this to happen. But the deeper possibility is that we can be free in the midst of life, fully engaged with others. The fourth friendly fact is the therapy: a path of education — ethics, meditation, and wisdom. It is fun to know what is causing our problem. It is fun to discover that the problem is normal. It is fun to realize that understanding can free us. And it is most joyful of all to discover that our freedom can deepen our love for others. tow-2804 Mon, 22 Jun 2026 00:00:00 -0700 A friendly person is someone who can empathize with you. They can put themselves in your shoes and see things from your point of view. That is what the Buddha meant by “noble.” So I like to call the Four Noble Truths the Four Friendly Facts. And I say “facts” rather than “truths,” because truth can become a proposition you are supposed to believe whether it makes sense to you or not. But the Buddha was not giving us a dogma. He was offering a kind of medical diagnosis. He looked at human beings and saw that we carry a certain uneasiness. We are wired to think that our own drive for existence is absolute. We imagine ourselves as the fixed center of things, and then we suffer when the world does not confirm it. The first friendly fact is simply noticing the symptom: we suffer. And, strangely, this can be good news. One of the things that attracts people to the path is discovering, “I am not the only one suffering here.” It is normal. It is part of the human condition. And because it is understood, it can be worked with. But for the self-centered person, this does not feel like a friendly fact. Such a person keeps thinking, “I did not enjoy this enough, because it ended. And even while I had it, it was not as good as what I imagined I might have under different circumstances.” If only I were famous. If only I were wealthy. If only I had a different partner, a different body, a different life. A person wrapped tightly around the sense of “me” can never really enjoy anything, because whatever comes is immediately compared to what could have been. The second friendly fact is the diagnosis: we suffer because we mis-know. It is not merely that we do not know; it is that we know wrongly. We think, “I am the one. I am the absolute.” And then nobody agrees — not even our own body. The third is the prognosis: if we substitute wisdom for mis-knowing, suffering can cease. And the great misunderstanding is that we must leave life in order for this to happen. But the deeper possibility is that we can be free in the midst of life, fully engaged with others. The fourth friendly fact is the therapy: a path of education — ethics, meditation, and wisdom. It is fun to know what is causing our problem. It is fun to discover that the problem is normal. It is fun to realize that understanding can free us. And it is most joyful of all to discover that our freedom can deepen our love for others. https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2617 The great leader never feels it is us versus them. He or she is for everybody. To be for one interest group is never to be against another. To be for those without power is surely not to be against those with power. Provincialism occurs frequently in personal situations of conflict We hear the tale of two of our friends. One seems to be the victim. One seems to be right, the other wrong, and we easily withdraw empathy from the "villain." Suppose our assessment of the situation is accurate, although this may be highly questionable. The villain of this moment is the victim of an earlier moment. Because I'm deeply for one, why should I be against the other? Why can't I be deeply for both? If I am absolutely unyielding in my attitude favoring one over the other, I am diminishing the freedom of attitude on the part of other people. In so doing I am limiting my capacity for leadership. I can find ultimate meaning in my call and in that of which I am a part—and at the same time enhance other facets of the whole to which I belong. I will never hurt the particular that I'm called to by being a part of the whole and enhancing the whole. What I need for my particular will always flow back to me if I am giving myself to the whole. We must do nothing that in any way diminishes another.  tow-2617 Mon, 15 Jun 2026 00:00:00 -0700 The great leader never feels it is us versus them. He or she is for everybody. To be for one interest group is never to be against another. To be for those without power is surely not to be against those with power. Provincialism occurs frequently in personal situations of conflict We hear the tale of two of our friends. One seems to be the victim. One seems to be right, the other wrong, and we easily withdraw empathy from the "villain." Suppose our assessment of the situation is accurate, although this may be highly questionable. The villain of this moment is the victim of an earlier moment. Because I'm deeply for one, why should I be against the other? Why can't I be deeply for both? If I am absolutely unyielding in my attitude favoring one over the other, I am diminishing the freedom of attitude on the part of other people. In so doing I am limiting my capacity for leadership. I can find ultimate meaning in my call and in that of which I am a part—and at the same time enhance other facets of the whole to which I belong. I will never hurt the particular that I'm called to by being a part of the whole and enhancing the whole. What I need for my particular will always flow back to me if I am giving myself to the whole. We must do nothing that in any way diminishes another.  https://awakin.org/read/view.php?tid=2616 Long, long before there were any written words, there were animals—and all the rest of the teeming natural world. Creation is the earliest sacred text given to us. Like Scripture, the natural world, too, opens up an infinite universe of meaning. Early wisdom seekers gave us a way of reading sacred texts called lectio divina. It’s a way that honors the richness of the text and the dignity of the reader. Reading or listening, we simply ask, What catches my attention?  No one gets caught in quite the same way. Then, if we give that attention-getting bit our best awareness, if we tell ourselves or each other what in the text stopped us in our tracks, and wonder about that, something mysterious happens. A door opens. We sense a path connecting the world of the text to the world of our own experience; we feel a nudge or hear a voice inviting us to explore that path. The sacred text of the natural world opens its doors—hidden in plain sight—to anyone who “reads” it with an attentive heart. Over and over it happens that one of our creature-kin comes with a word for our unsettled selves. Firefly, loon, chickadee, raccoon—any one of them might be the teacher we need. What catches my attention? Ask only that as you read the animals’ stories. In your own and others’ responses you may sense a door—often one you didn’t know you were looking for—opening. And through that door, a path, and down that path, the glimmer of a new beginning. tow-2616 Mon, 08 Jun 2026 00:00:00 -0700 Long, long before there were any written words, there were animals—and all the rest of the teeming natural world. Creation is the earliest sacred text given to us. Like Scripture, the natural world, too, opens up an infinite universe of meaning. Early wisdom seekers gave us a way of reading sacred texts called lectio divina. It’s a way that honors the richness of the text and the dignity of the reader. Reading or listening, we simply ask, What catches my attention?  No one gets caught in quite the same way. Then, if we give that attention-getting bit our best awareness, if we tell ourselves or each other what in the text stopped us in our tracks, and wonder about that, something mysterious happens. A door opens. We sense a path connecting the world of the text to the world of our own experience; we feel a nudge or hear a voice inviting us to explore that path. The sacred text of the natural world opens its doors—hidden in plain sight—to anyone who “reads” it with an attentive heart. Over and over it happens that one of our creature-kin comes with a word for our unsettled selves. Firefly, loon, chickadee, raccoon—any one of them might be the teacher we need. What catches my attention? Ask only that as you read the animals’ stories. In your own and others’ responses you may sense a door—often one you didn’t know you were looking for—opening. And through that door, a path, and down that path, the glimmer of a new beginning.