To make my bed: it’s become important for me to have a structured morning, a routine, performing a few rituals to begin my day in what feels like a proper order. Mostly, it’s still loose and relaxed, no demands made, and it’s all things that seem to benefit me in…

Lasting change: it’s few books that have such impact as to actually be a catalyst for lasting change, a deep inspiration that carries past a number of days and weeks and reaches into years. I’ve been blessed with some of these, books that have grabbed my attention and forced me…

Softly inspired: some mornings are more softly inspired than others, with words being slower on their arrival, a quiet mind lasting a little bit longer after sitting in meditation. There’s no doubt that words will come to me, that writing will happen at a certain time, but for now it’s…

My own best opinions: what’s gone is the incessant need to fill a space with my opinion, that others are allowed to be right or wrong without my thoughts weighing in on their most cherished matters of belief. This has been one of the greatest gifts brought to me from…

A small yoga of perfection: our practice itself becomes an awakening, not by means of achievement, but that we what do is seen in new light, more relaxed now with the grace of presence, and every action being perfect as it unfolds. This is yoga, all of it, from asana…

Determination of particles: that we are the determination of particles, a continuous effect of their vibration likened to a particular note in some eternal song. For me, it seems as if the universe has urged us to be alive, not an accident of evolution, nor a clever plot in the…

Just a few degrees: just a few degrees of warmth, barely significant by the measure of a season — and yet my skin delights in the touch of sunlight offered now, my spirit lighter through this subtle reach of spring. I am ready for these longer days, growing warmer, and…

It’s poetry: sometimes it’s poetry, that’s what defines my morning writing, that I only want to express beautiful lines in apt descriptions of the world. It’s a mood, really, not mine to control but one that sweeps down on me with an urge to give myself over to the flow…

That reaches me: and without even being exposed to its sweep, it’s the wind that reaches me now, speaking a language that’s rushed across the ground and heard in the sway of branches, a primordial force that sounds as a rattle to windows and the brace of my home against…