#lettinggo — Public Fediverse posts

QUIETLY, KEEP WALKING 💎

At seventy, I sometimes wonder what I would want an elder to have told me when I was young.

Probably this:

Don’t take anything too seriously. You will not solve every dilemma you encounter anyway. Try new things. Try new ideas. Try different ways of living. Meet lots of different people. Travel and have different experiences in unknown places. When something stops working, move on.

QUIETLY.

There's no great drama you ever need to contain. No need to prove that you were right or that the other person was wrong. No need to turn every ending into a battle, or even some of them.

I spent a lot of my life believing certain things were so terribly important; they weren't, but I defended them anyway. I argued endlessly for them. Above all else, I wanted to be right. I wasted a lot of time on meaningless details. Now I can’t even remember half of what they were about. That tells me something. Perhaps life isn’t about getting it right.

Perhaps it’s about fully experiencing life and knowing when it’s time to let something go and keep walking.

@3goodthings
@DigitalCoup
@meditation
@economics_that_works
@disability
@pwd
@joinin

#Life #LettingGo #Perspective #Wisdom #KeepWalking

QUIETLY, KEEP WALKING 💎

At seventy, I sometimes wonder what I would want an elder to have told me when I was young.

Probably this:

Don’t take anything too seriously. You will not solve every dilemma you encounter anyway. Try new things. Try new ideas. Try different ways of living. Meet lots of different people. Travel and have different experiences in unknown places. When something stops working, move on.

QUIETLY.

There's no great drama you ever need to contain. No need to prove that you were right or that the other person was wrong. No need to turn every ending into a battle, or even some of them.

I spent a lot of my life believing certain things were so terribly important; they weren't, but I defended them anyway. I argued endlessly for them. Above all else, I wanted to be right. I wasted a lot of time on meaningless details. Now I can’t even remember half of what they were about. That tells me something. Perhaps life isn’t about getting it right.

Perhaps it’s about fully experiencing life and knowing when it’s time to let something go and keep walking.

@3goodthings
@DigitalCoup
@meditation
@economics_that_works
@disability
@pwd
@joinin

#Life #LettingGo #Perspective #Wisdom #KeepWalking

QUIETLY, KEEP WALKING 💎

At seventy, I sometimes wonder what I would want an elder to have told me when I was young.

Probably this:

Don’t take anything too seriously. You will not solve every dilemma you encounter anyway. Try new things. Try new ideas. Try different ways of living. Meet lots of different people. Travel and have different experiences in unknown places. When something stops working, move on.

QUIETLY.

There's no great drama you ever need to contain. No need to prove that you were right or that the other person was wrong. No need to turn every ending into a battle, or even some of them.

I spent a lot of my life believing certain things were so terribly important; they weren't, but I defended them anyway. I argued endlessly for them. Above all else, I wanted to be right. I wasted a lot of time on meaningless details. Now I can’t even remember half of what they were about. That tells me something. Perhaps life isn’t about getting it right.

Perhaps it’s about fully experiencing life and knowing when it’s time to let something go and keep walking.

@3goodthings
@DigitalCoup
@meditation
@economics_that_works
@disability
@pwd
@joinin

#Life #LettingGo #Perspective #Wisdom #KeepWalking

QUIETLY, KEEP WALKING 💎

At seventy, I sometimes wonder what I would want an elder to have told me when I was young.

Probably this:

Don’t take anything too seriously. You will not solve every dilemma you encounter anyway. Try new things. Try new ideas. Try different ways of living. Meet lots of different people. Travel and have different experiences in unknown places. When something stops working, move on.

QUIETLY.

There's no great drama you ever need to contain. No need to prove that you were right or that the other person was wrong. No need to turn every ending into a battle, or even some of them.

I spent a lot of my life believing certain things were so terribly important; they weren't, but I defended them anyway. I argued endlessly for them. Above all else, I wanted to be right. I wasted a lot of time on meaningless details. Now I can’t even remember half of what they were about. That tells me something. Perhaps life isn’t about getting it right.

Perhaps it’s about fully experiencing life and knowing when it’s time to let something go and keep walking.

@3goodthings
@DigitalCoup
@meditation
@economics_that_works
@disability
@pwd
@joinin

#Life #LettingGo #Perspective #Wisdom #KeepWalking

QUIETLY, KEEP WALKING 💎

At seventy, I sometimes wonder what I would want an elder to have told me when I was young.

Probably this:

Don’t take anything too seriously. You will not solve every dilemma you encounter anyway. Try new things. Try new ideas. Try different ways of living. Meet lots of different people. Travel and have different experiences in unknown places. When something stops working, move on.

QUIETLY.

There's no great drama you ever need to contain. No need to prove that you were right or that the other person was wrong. No need to turn every ending into a battle, or even some of them.

I spent a lot of my life believing certain things were so terribly important; they weren't, but I defended them anyway. I argued endlessly for them. Above all else, I wanted to be right. I wasted a lot of time on meaningless details. Now I can’t even remember half of what they were about. That tells me something. Perhaps life isn’t about getting it right.

Perhaps it’s about fully experiencing life and knowing when it’s time to let something go and keep walking.

@3goodthings
@DigitalCoup
@meditation
@economics_that_works
@disability
@pwd
@joinin

#Life #LettingGo #Perspective #Wisdom #KeepWalking

The Beauty of Broken Things

I almost stepped over it.

It was just a piece of broken shell lying in the dirt, surrounded by pine needles, stones, and the debris that accumulates wherever nature is left to itself.

But then I saw the color.

That impossible blue against the earth.

And I stopped.

I wondered how many beautiful things we miss because we have already decided that broken means ruined.

There’s something almost absurdly beautiful about the broken turquoise shell lying in dirt and pine needles. It’s not beautiful despite being broken. The brokenness is what makes it visually arresting. The jagged edges, the pieces scattered around it, the contrast between that almost luminous blue and the ordinary earth.

And then there are those little intact forms beside it—whole, quiet, almost egg-like things. So you have this natural juxtaposition of whole and broken, becoming and becoming-undone.

We like the unbroken bowl.
The finished painting.
The relationship that works.
The body that doesn’t betray us.
The life that follows the plan.

We tend to look at the broken thing and immediately think:

This needs to be fixed.

But what if brokenness isn’t always a failure of the thing?

What if sometimes the breaking is part of what reveals it?

A shell has to break for something to emerge from it. A seed has to split open. A fallen branch becomes habitat. A decaying thing feeds something else. Even the pieces of something that can no longer be made whole become part of the landscape.

And maybe people aren’t so different.

Perhaps we spend too much of our lives trying to return ourselves to a version of whole that never really existed.

A version only held in memory.

Maybe this is true of our memories, too.

A fragment here. A face there. The feeling of sunlight through a particular window. The sound of someone’s voice. A sentence we can’t quite remember but somehow remember how it made us feel.

We take these fragments and build a story around them.

And sometimes, without realizing it, we mistake the story for the thing itself.

We remember childhood as a place we could once return to. A relationship as something that was once whole. A version of ourselves we imagine we might somehow find again.

But perhaps what we’re remembering was never quite as whole as we believe.

What happens when we stop trying to put the memories back together?

Because maybe the fragments don’t need to reconstruct the whole.

Maybe a broken memory can simply be a piece of what was—valuable without being complete, beautiful without being entirely accurate.

The turquoise eggshell isn’t beautiful because you can reconstruct the object it once belonged to.

It’s beautiful as a fragment.

Some things don’t need to be made whole to be worthy of being held.

The Beauty of Broken Things

I almost stepped over it.

It was just a piece of broken shell lying in the dirt, surrounded by pine needles, stones, and the debris that accumulates wherever nature is left to itself.

But then I saw the color.

That impossible blue against the earth.

And I stopped.

I wondered how many beautiful things we miss because we have already decided that broken means ruined.

There’s something almost absurdly beautiful about the broken turquoise shell lying in dirt and pine needles. It’s not beautiful despite being broken. The brokenness is what makes it visually arresting. The jagged edges, the pieces scattered around it, the contrast between that almost luminous blue and the ordinary earth.

And then there are those little intact forms beside it—whole, quiet, almost egg-like things. So you have this natural juxtaposition of whole and broken, becoming and becoming-undone.

We like the unbroken bowl.
The finished painting.
The relationship that works.
The body that doesn’t betray us.
The life that follows the plan.

We tend to look at the broken thing and immediately think:

This needs to be fixed.

But what if brokenness isn’t always a failure of the thing?

What if sometimes the breaking is part of what reveals it?

A shell has to break for something to emerge from it. A seed has to split open. A fallen branch becomes habitat. A decaying thing feeds something else. Even the pieces of something that can no longer be made whole become part of the landscape.

And maybe people aren’t so different.

Perhaps we spend too much of our lives trying to return ourselves to a version of whole that never really existed.

A version only held in memory.

Maybe this is true of our memories, too.

A fragment here. A face there. The feeling of sunlight through a particular window. The sound of someone’s voice. A sentence we can’t quite remember but somehow remember how it made us feel.

We take these fragments and build a story around them.

And sometimes, without realizing it, we mistake the story for the thing itself.

We remember childhood as a place we could once return to. A relationship as something that was once whole. A version of ourselves we imagine we might somehow find again.

But perhaps what we’re remembering was never quite as whole as we believe.

What happens when we stop trying to put the memories back together?

Because maybe the fragments don’t need to reconstruct the whole.

Maybe a broken memory can simply be a piece of what was—valuable without being complete, beautiful without being entirely accurate.

The turquoise eggshell isn’t beautiful because you can reconstruct the object it once belonged to.

It’s beautiful as a fragment.

Some things don’t need to be made whole to be worthy of being held.

Finding Your Higher Power: Trusting When God Removes People From Your Life

https://notestonowhere6.wordpress.com/2026/09/05/finding-your-higher-power-trusting-when-god-removes-people-from-your-life/

Finding Your Higher Power: Trusting When God Removes People From Your Life

https://notestonowhere6.wordpress.com/2026/09/05/finding-your-higher-power-trusting-when-god-removes-people-from-your-life/

Finding Your Higher Power: Trusting When God Removes People From Your Life

https://notestonowhere6.wordpress.com/2026/09/05/finding-your-higher-power-trusting-when-god-removes-people-from-your-life/

Finding Your Higher Power: Trusting When God Removes People From Your Life

https://notestonowhere6.wordpress.com/2026/09/05/finding-your-higher-power-trusting-when-god-removes-people-from-your-life/

Finding Your Higher Power: Trusting When God Removes People From Your Life

https://notestonowhere6.wordpress.com/2026/09/05/finding-your-higher-power-trusting-when-god-removes-people-from-your-life/

https://nkvssp.thecomicseries.com/comics/699/

Some folks just do that

#kitteh #puppy #fridayreads #sketch #FridayFact #webcomics #webcomicchat #comicbookhour #comics #sketch #harm #lettinggo #choice #life #moveon #saturdaymorning #vibecheck

https://nkvssp.thecomicseries.com/comics/699/

Some folks just do that

#kitteh #puppy #fridayreads #sketch #FridayFact #webcomics #webcomicchat #comicbookhour #comics #sketch #harm #lettinggo #choice #life #moveon #saturdaymorning #vibecheck

https://nkvssp.thecomicseries.com/comics/699/

Some folks just do that

#kitteh #puppy #fridayreads #sketch #FridayFact #webcomics #webcomicchat #comicbookhour #comics #sketch #harm #lettinggo #choice #life #moveon #saturdaymorning #vibecheck

https://nkvssp.thecomicseries.com/comics/699/

Some folks just do that

#kitteh #puppy #fridayreads #sketch #FridayFact #webcomics #webcomicchat #comicbookhour #comics #sketch #harm #lettinggo #choice #life #moveon #saturdaymorning #vibecheck

✮ After-Dinner Breakfast ✮

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✮ After-Dinner Breakfast ✮

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✮ After-Dinner Breakfast ✮

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✮ Razorblade Sundae ✮

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✮ Razorblade Sundae ✮

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✮ Razorblade Sundae ✮

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Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.

The early morning is still dark when my hound and I arrive at the dog park. Almost immediately, there is a flash of white, and suddenly chaos ensues.

A cat is trapped inside the smaller of the two fenced-in areas. Even though a chain-link fence separates the two, both animals instantly go into a frenzy. My hound begins howling, while the terrified cat races back and forth, careening into the fence as it desperately searches for a way out.

I try to help it escape, all to the loud dismay of my hound, but the cat is too frightened to understand what I am doing. After crashing into the fence several times, it finally collapses low into the grass and simply lies there. I keep my distance, unsure whether it may be injured or sick.

Eventually, I leave the gates open and manage to pull my thoroughly over-hyped hunter away from the scene, fighting against everything years of breeding and evolution have taught her to do.

It takes most of the morning at home—and then a return trip to the now-empty dog park, where she follows one scent trail after another—before she finally begins to calm down.

Needless to say, it was not the most ideal way to start my day.

I, too, needed some time before I could let the chaos of the morning fade away.

And perhaps that was the first lesson.

There are some things that are better left alone.

That sounds simple enough, but I am not especially good at it. Neither, apparently, is my hound.

Once she caught the scent, something ancient took over. The world became very small. There was no longer a dog park, no morning, no leash, no person calling her name. There was only the cat.

I wonder how often I live that way.

Something catches my attention—a problem, a slight, a fear, an argument, a worry, some unfinished thing—and suddenly the whole world narrows around it. I circle it. I howl at it. I follow its scent long after the thing itself has disappeared.

There are habits in us that are older than our intentions.

The hound was not making a philosophical decision to terrorize a cat. She was doing what generations of hounds had prepared her to do. Her body knew before her mind could know.

Human beings are not so different.

We carry instincts of our own: to defend ourselves, to retaliate, to prove ourselves right, to pursue what frightens us, to hold tightly to what we think belongs to us. Sometimes we call these things personality. Sometimes, principle. Sometimes even righteousness.

But occasionally, they are simply old instincts running loose.

The spiritual life may involve learning that not everything within us deserves obedience.

Paul wrote about taking thoughts captive. Jesus spoke repeatedly of watching, waking, remaining alert. Perhaps part of discipleship is noticing the moment when something inside us begins to run.

There is a hound within me, too.

There are things I chase simply because they moved.

There are arguments that do not need another reply. There are offenses that do not need another inspection. There are anxieties whose scent I follow until I have wandered miles from peace.

Sometimes, faithfulness means pursuit.

Sometimes, faithfulness means calling the hound home.

But there was another creature in the story.

The cat.

The more frightened it became, the harder it tried to escape. And the harder it tried to escape, the more violently it crashed into the fence.

There was probably an opening somewhere. I had opened gates. I was trying to make a way.

But fear could not see the opening.

Fear only saw the threat.

So the cat ran harder.

I know something about that, too.

There are moments when I become frightened enough that I begin throwing myself against whatever boundary happens to be nearest. I want out of the discomfort immediately. I want the problem solved now. I want certainty restored.

And sometimes, in trying so desperately to escape, I hurt myself against the very thing I am trying to get through.

The Psalmist says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

We often print those words on peaceful photographs of mountains and lakes.

But perhaps they belong just as much at a chain-link fence.

Be still.

Not because there is no danger.

Not because everything is fine.

But because panic is not always capable of recognizing an opening.

There are times when running is necessary.

And there are times when running harder only drives us deeper into the fence.

Eventually, the cat did something remarkable.

It stopped.

It lowered itself into the grass and became almost completely still.

At first, I thought it might be injured. Perhaps it was.

But there was also something strangely wise about that surrender. When every frantic attempt had failed, the animal finally quit fighting the entire world.

Sometimes, this is where grace begins.

Not when we finally overpower the situation.

But when we stop exhausting ourselves against it.

“Come to me,” Jesus says, “all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens.”

Not: figure everything out.

Not: run faster.

Not: break the fence.

Come.

Rest.

There is perhaps a third lesson as well, and it concerns my own place in the drama.

I could not make either animal understand what I was trying to do.

The cat could not understand that I was trying to help it.

The hound could not understand why I was preventing her from doing the one thing that seemed most important in the universe.

From their perspectives, I was probably interfering with both of them.

Yet I could see something, neither could you see.

I could see the whole enclosure.

I could see the gates.

I could see the fence.

I could see the danger.

I could see the way out.

That thought has stayed with me.

Perhaps there are moments when God seems strangely obstructive because God sees the whole enclosure.

We pull toward something, and the leash tightens.

We run toward an opening and somehow find ourselves redirected.

We pray for one thing and receive another.

From inside our frightened or excited little worlds, divine restraint can feel like abandonment or interference.

But perhaps the One holding us back can see something we cannot.

The old prayer says,

Your will be done.

There are days when that prayer may simply mean:

God, if I am chasing something I should leave alone, pull me back.

If I am panicking against a fence, help me become still enough to see the gate.

And if I cannot understand what you are doing, help me trust that you see more of the field than I do.

By the time my hound and I returned to the dog park later that morning, the cat was gone.

Only the scent remained.

Naturally, the hound investigated every inch of it.

She ran from fence to fence, nose down, reconstructing the entire drama from invisible traces.

Eventually even those grew faint.

Her breathing slowed.

Her body loosened.

The morning became a morning again.

Perhaps that is grace too.

The thing that once filled the entire world eventually becomes only a scent in the grass.

The crisis passes.

The fear fades.

The instinct quiets.

What seemed moments earlier to demand every ounce of our attention becomes simply one more thing that happened.

And somewhere between the hound and the cat I recognize myself.

Sometimes I am the pursuer.

Sometimes I am the pursued.

Sometimes I chase things better left alone.

Sometimes I run terrified into fences that cannot possibly become doors.

The difficult wisdom is learning which is which.

Perhaps this is why the spiritual life requires so much attention.

To know when to pursue.

To know when to stop.

To know when to run.

To know when to lie quietly in the grass.

To know when the leash pulling against us is not punishment but mercy.

And above all, to remember that somewhere beyond the frenzy there may already be an open gate we are simply too frightened—or too excited—to see.

Prayer

God of the open gate,

When I chase what I should release, call me home.

When old instincts rise in me—fear, anger, pride, the need to be right—teach me that not every impulse deserves obedience.

When I am frightened and cannot see a way forward, keep me from throwing myself again and again against the same fence. Slow my breathing. Quiet my spirit. Help me become still enough to notice the opening I could not see before.

Give me wisdom to know when to pursue and when to stop, when to act and when to wait, when to hold on and when to let go.

And when your restraint feels like a leash pulling against everything I want, give me enough trust to believe that you may see more of the field than I do.

Make me gentle with frightened creatures, including the frightened places within myself.

Let the things that consume me today become, in time, only a fading scent in the grass.

And when chaos narrows my world, remind me that beyond the fence there is still a morning, still a horizon, still grace, and perhaps an open gate I have not yet learned to see.

Amen.

The Open Gate

The early morning is still dark when my hound and I arrive at the dog park. Almost immediately, there is a flash of white, and suddenly chaos ensues.

A cat is trapped inside the smaller of the two fenced-in areas. Even though a chain-link fence separates the two, both animals instantly go into a frenzy. My hound begins howling, while the terrified cat races back and forth, careening into the fence as it desperately searches for a way out.

I try to help it escape, all to the loud dismay of my hound, but the cat is too frightened to understand what I am doing. After crashing into the fence several times, it finally collapses low into the grass and simply lies there. I keep my distance, unsure whether it may be injured or sick.

Eventually, I leave the gates open and manage to pull my thoroughly over-hyped hunter away from the scene, fighting against everything years of breeding and evolution have taught her to do.

It takes most of the morning at home—and then a return trip to the now-empty dog park, where she follows one scent trail after another—before she finally begins to calm down.

Needless to say, it was not the most ideal way to start my day.

I, too, needed some time before I could let the chaos of the morning fade away.

And perhaps that was the first lesson.

There are some things that are better left alone.

That sounds simple enough, but I am not especially good at it. Neither, apparently, is my hound.

Once she caught the scent, something ancient took over. The world became very small. There was no longer a dog park, no morning, no leash, no person calling her name. There was only the cat.

I wonder how often I live that way.

Something catches my attention—a problem, a slight, a fear, an argument, a worry, some unfinished thing—and suddenly the whole world narrows around it. I circle it. I howl at it. I follow its scent long after the thing itself has disappeared.

There are habits in us that are older than our intentions.

The hound was not making a philosophical decision to terrorize a cat. She was doing what generations of hounds had prepared her to do. Her body knew before her mind could know.

Human beings are not so different.

We carry instincts of our own: to defend ourselves, to retaliate, to prove ourselves right, to pursue what frightens us, to hold tightly to what we think belongs to us. Sometimes we call these things personality. Sometimes, principle. Sometimes even righteousness.

But occasionally, they are simply old instincts running loose.

The spiritual life may involve learning that not everything within us deserves obedience.

Paul wrote about taking thoughts captive. Jesus spoke repeatedly of watching, waking, remaining alert. Perhaps part of discipleship is noticing the moment when something inside us begins to run.

There is a hound within me, too.

There are things I chase simply because they moved.

There are arguments that do not need another reply. There are offenses that do not need another inspection. There are anxieties whose scent I follow until I have wandered miles from peace.

Sometimes, faithfulness means pursuit.

Sometimes, faithfulness means calling the hound home.

But there was another creature in the story.

The cat.

The more frightened it became, the harder it tried to escape. And the harder it tried to escape, the more violently it crashed into the fence.

There was probably an opening somewhere. I had opened gates. I was trying to make a way.

But fear could not see the opening.

Fear only saw the threat.

So the cat ran harder.

I know something about that, too.

There are moments when I become frightened enough that I begin throwing myself against whatever boundary happens to be nearest. I want out of the discomfort immediately. I want the problem solved now. I want certainty restored.

And sometimes, in trying so desperately to escape, I hurt myself against the very thing I am trying to get through.

The Psalmist says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

We often print those words on peaceful photographs of mountains and lakes.

But perhaps they belong just as much on a chain-link fence.

Be still.

Not because there is no danger.

Not because everything is fine.

But because panic is not always capable of recognizing an opening.

There are times when running is necessary.

And there are times when running harder only drives us deeper into the fence.

Eventually, the cat did something remarkable.

It stopped.

It lowered itself into the grass and became almost completely still.

At first, I thought it might be injured. Perhaps it was.

But there was also something strangely wise about that surrender. When every frantic attempt had failed, the animal finally quit fighting the entire world.

Sometimes, this is where grace begins.

Not when we finally overpower the situation.

But when we stop exhausting ourselves against it.

“Come to me,” Jesus says, “all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens.”

Not: figure everything out.

Not: run faster.

Not: break the fence.

Come.

Rest.

There is perhaps a third lesson as well, and it concerns my own place in the drama.

I could not make either animal understand what I was trying to do.

The cat could not understand that I was trying to help it.

The hound could not understand why I was preventing her from doing the one thing that seemed most important in the universe.

From their perspectives, I was probably interfering with both of them.

Yet I could see something neither could see.

I could see the whole enclosure.

I could see the gates.

I could see the fence.

I could see the danger.

I could see the way out.

That thought has stayed with me.

Perhaps there are moments when God seems strangely obstructive because God sees the whole enclosure.

We pull toward something, and the leash tightens.

We run toward an opening and somehow find ourselves redirected.

We pray for one thing and receive another.

From inside our frightened or excited little worlds, divine restraint can feel like abandonment or interference.

But perhaps the One holding us back can see something we can’t.

The old prayer says,

Your will be done.

There are days when that prayer may simply mean:

God, if I am chasing something I should leave alone, pull me back.

If I am panicking against a fence, help me become still enough to see the gate.

And if I can’t understand what you are doing, help me trust that you see more of the field than I do.

By the time my hound and I returned to the dog park later that morning, the cat was gone.

Only the scent remained.

Naturally, the hound investigated every inch of it.

She ran from fence to fence, nose down, reconstructing the entire drama from invisible traces.

Eventually, even those grew faint.

Her breathing slowed.

Her body loosened.

The morning became a morning again.

Perhaps that is grace too.

The thing that once filled the entire world eventually becomes only a fading scent in the grass.

The crisis passes.

The fear fades.

The instinct quiets.

What seemed moments earlier to demand every ounce of our attention becomes simply one more thing that happened.

And somewhere between the hound and the cat, I recognize myself.

Sometimes, I am the pursuer.

Sometimes, I am the pursued.

Sometimes, I chase things better left alone.

Sometimes, I run terrified into fences that can never possibly become doors.

The difficult wisdom is learning which is which.

Perhaps this is why the spiritual life requires so much attention.

To know when to pursue.

To know when to stop.

To know when to run.

To know when to lie quietly in the grass.

To know when the leash pulling against us is not punishment but mercy.

And above all, to remember that somewhere beyond the frenzy there may already be an open gate we are simply too frightened—or too excited—to see.

Prayer

God of the open gate,

When I chase what I should release, call me home.

When old instincts rise in me—fear, anger, pride, the need to be right—teach me that not every impulse deserves obedience.

When I am frightened and cannot see a way forward, keep me from throwing myself again and again against the same fence. Slow my breathing. Quiet my spirit. Help me become still enough to notice the opening I could not see before.

Give me wisdom to know when to pursue and when to stop, when to act and when to wait, when to hold on and when to let go.

And when your restraint feels like a leash pulling against everything I want, give me enough trust to believe that you may see more of the field than I do.

Make me gentle with frightened creatures, including the frightened places within myself.

Let the things that consume me today become, in time, only a fading scent in the grass.

And when chaos narrows my world, remind me that beyond the fence there is still a morning, still a horizon, still grace, and perhaps an open gate I have not yet learned to see.

Amen.

The early morning is still dark when my hound and I arrive at the dog park. Almost immediately, there is a flash of white, and suddenly chaos ensues.

A cat is trapped inside the smaller of the two fenced-in areas. Even though a chain-link fence separates the two, both animals instantly go into a frenzy. My hound begins howling, while the terrified cat races back and forth, careening into the fence as it desperately searches for a way out.

I try to help it escape, all to the loud dismay of my hound, but the cat is too frightened to understand what I am doing. After crashing into the fence several times, it finally collapses low into the grass and simply lies there. I keep my distance, unsure whether it may be injured or sick.

Eventually, I leave the gates open and manage to pull my thoroughly over-hyped hunter away from the scene, fighting against everything years of breeding and evolution have taught her to do.

It takes most of the morning at home—and then a return trip to the now-empty dog park, where she follows one scent trail after another—before she finally begins to calm down.

Needless to say, it was not the most ideal way to start my day.

I, too, needed some time before I could let the chaos of the morning fade away.

And perhaps that was the first lesson.

There are some things that are better left alone.

That sounds simple enough, but I am not especially good at it. Neither, apparently, is my hound.

Once she caught the scent, something ancient took over. The world became very small. There was no longer a dog park, no morning, no leash, no person calling her name. There was only the cat.

I wonder how often I live that way.

Something catches my attention—a problem, a slight, a fear, an argument, a worry, some unfinished thing—and suddenly the whole world narrows around it. I circle it. I howl at it. I follow its scent long after the thing itself has disappeared.

There are habits in us that are older than our intentions.

The hound was not making a philosophical decision to terrorize a cat. She was doing what generations of hounds had prepared her to do. Her body knew before her mind could know.

Human beings are not so different.

We carry instincts of our own: to defend ourselves, to retaliate, to prove ourselves right, to pursue what frightens us, to hold tightly to what we think belongs to us. Sometimes we call these things personality. Sometimes, principle. Sometimes even righteousness.

But occasionally, they are simply old instincts running loose.

The spiritual life may involve learning that not everything within us deserves obedience.

Paul wrote about taking thoughts captive. Jesus spoke repeatedly of watching, waking, remaining alert. Perhaps part of discipleship is noticing the moment when something inside us begins to run.

There is a hound within me, too.

There are things I chase simply because they moved.

There are arguments that do not need another reply. There are offenses that do not need another inspection. There are anxieties whose scent I follow until I have wandered miles from peace.

Sometimes, faithfulness means pursuit.

Sometimes, faithfulness means calling the hound home.

But there was another creature in the story.

The cat.

The more frightened it became, the harder it tried to escape. And the harder it tried to escape, the more violently it crashed into the fence.

There was probably an opening somewhere. I had opened gates. I was trying to make a way.

But fear could not see the opening.

Fear only saw the threat.

So the cat ran harder.

I know something about that, too.

There are moments when I become frightened enough that I begin throwing myself against whatever boundary happens to be nearest. I want out of the discomfort immediately. I want the problem solved now. I want certainty restored.

And sometimes, in trying so desperately to escape, I hurt myself against the very thing I am trying to get through.

The Psalmist says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

We often print those words on peaceful photographs of mountains and lakes.

But perhaps they belong just as much at a chain-link fence.

Be still.

Not because there is no danger.

Not because everything is fine.

But because panic is not always capable of recognizing an opening.

There are times when running is necessary.

And there are times when running harder only drives us deeper into the fence.

Eventually, the cat did something remarkable.

It stopped.

It lowered itself into the grass and became almost completely still.

At first, I thought it might be injured. Perhaps it was.

But there was also something strangely wise about that surrender. When every frantic attempt had failed, the animal finally quit fighting the entire world.

Sometimes, this is where grace begins.

Not when we finally overpower the situation.

But when we stop exhausting ourselves against it.

“Come to me,” Jesus says, “all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens.”

Not: figure everything out.

Not: run faster.

Not: break the fence.

Come.

Rest.

There is perhaps a third lesson as well, and it concerns my own place in the drama.

I could not make either animal understand what I was trying to do.

The cat could not understand that I was trying to help it.

The hound could not understand why I was preventing her from doing the one thing that seemed most important in the universe.

From their perspectives, I was probably interfering with both of them.

Yet I could see something, neither could you see.

I could see the whole enclosure.

I could see the gates.

I could see the fence.

I could see the danger.

I could see the way out.

That thought has stayed with me.

Perhaps there are moments when God seems strangely obstructive because God sees the whole enclosure.

We pull toward something, and the leash tightens.

We run toward an opening and somehow find ourselves redirected.

We pray for one thing and receive another.

From inside our frightened or excited little worlds, divine restraint can feel like abandonment or interference.

But perhaps the One holding us back can see something we cannot.

The old prayer says,

Your will be done.

There are days when that prayer may simply mean:

God, if I am chasing something I should leave alone, pull me back.

If I am panicking against a fence, help me become still enough to see the gate.

And if I cannot understand what you are doing, help me trust that you see more of the field than I do.

By the time my hound and I returned to the dog park later that morning, the cat was gone.

Only the scent remained.

Naturally, the hound investigated every inch of it.

She ran from fence to fence, nose down, reconstructing the entire drama from invisible traces.

Eventually even those grew faint.

Her breathing slowed.

Her body loosened.

The morning became a morning again.

Perhaps that is grace too.

The thing that once filled the entire world eventually becomes only a scent in the grass.

The crisis passes.

The fear fades.

The instinct quiets.

What seemed moments earlier to demand every ounce of our attention becomes simply one more thing that happened.

And somewhere between the hound and the cat I recognize myself.

Sometimes I am the pursuer.

Sometimes I am the pursued.

Sometimes I chase things better left alone.

Sometimes I run terrified into fences that cannot possibly become doors.

The difficult wisdom is learning which is which.

Perhaps this is why the spiritual life requires so much attention.

To know when to pursue.

To know when to stop.

To know when to run.

To know when to lie quietly in the grass.

To know when the leash pulling against us is not punishment but mercy.

And above all, to remember that somewhere beyond the frenzy there may already be an open gate we are simply too frightened—or too excited—to see.

Prayer

God of the open gate,

When I chase what I should release, call me home.

When old instincts rise in me—fear, anger, pride, the need to be right—teach me that not every impulse deserves obedience.

When I am frightened and cannot see a way forward, keep me from throwing myself again and again against the same fence. Slow my breathing. Quiet my spirit. Help me become still enough to notice the opening I could not see before.

Give me wisdom to know when to pursue and when to stop, when to act and when to wait, when to hold on and when to let go.

And when your restraint feels like a leash pulling against everything I want, give me enough trust to believe that you may see more of the field than I do.

Make me gentle with frightened creatures, including the frightened places within myself.

Let the things that consume me today become, in time, only a fading scent in the grass.

And when chaos narrows my world, remind me that beyond the fence there is still a morning, still a horizon, still grace, and perhaps an open gate I have not yet learned to see.

Amen.

The early morning is still dark when my hound and I arrive at the dog park. Almost immediately, there is a flash of white, and suddenly chaos ensues.

A cat is trapped inside the smaller of the two fenced-in areas. Even though a chain-link fence separates the two, both animals instantly go into a frenzy. My hound begins howling, while the terrified cat races back and forth, careening into the fence as it desperately searches for a way out.

I try to help it escape, all to the loud dismay of my hound, but the cat is too frightened to understand what I am doing. After crashing into the fence several times, it finally collapses low into the grass and simply lies there. I keep my distance, unsure whether it may be injured or sick.

Eventually, I leave the gates open and manage to pull my thoroughly over-hyped hunter away from the scene, fighting against everything years of breeding and evolution have taught her to do.

It takes most of the morning at home—and then a return trip to the now-empty dog park, where she follows one scent trail after another—before she finally begins to calm down.

Needless to say, it was not the most ideal way to start my day.

I, too, needed some time before I could let the chaos of the morning fade away.

And perhaps that was the first lesson.

There are some things that are better left alone.

That sounds simple enough, but I am not especially good at it. Neither, apparently, is my hound.

Once she caught the scent, something ancient took over. The world became very small. There was no longer a dog park, no morning, no leash, no person calling her name. There was only the cat.

I wonder how often I live that way.

Something catches my attention—a problem, a slight, a fear, an argument, a worry, some unfinished thing—and suddenly the whole world narrows around it. I circle it. I howl at it. I follow its scent long after the thing itself has disappeared.

There are habits in us that are older than our intentions.

The hound was not making a philosophical decision to terrorize a cat. She was doing what generations of hounds had prepared her to do. Her body knew before her mind could know.

Human beings are not so different.

We carry instincts of our own: to defend ourselves, to retaliate, to prove ourselves right, to pursue what frightens us, to hold tightly to what we think belongs to us. Sometimes we call these things personality. Sometimes, principle. Sometimes even righteousness.

But occasionally, they are simply old instincts running loose.

The spiritual life may involve learning that not everything within us deserves obedience.

Paul wrote about taking thoughts captive. Jesus spoke repeatedly of watching, waking, remaining alert. Perhaps part of discipleship is noticing the moment when something inside us begins to run.

There is a hound within me, too.

There are things I chase simply because they moved.

There are arguments that do not need another reply. There are offenses that do not need another inspection. There are anxieties whose scent I follow until I have wandered miles from peace.

Sometimes, faithfulness means pursuit.

Sometimes, faithfulness means calling the hound home.

But there was another creature in the story.

The cat.

The more frightened it became, the harder it tried to escape. And the harder it tried to escape, the more violently it crashed into the fence.

There was probably an opening somewhere. I had opened gates. I was trying to make a way.

But fear could not see the opening.

Fear only saw the threat.

So the cat ran harder.

I know something about that, too.

There are moments when I become frightened enough that I begin throwing myself against whatever boundary happens to be nearest. I want out of the discomfort immediately. I want the problem solved now. I want certainty restored.

And sometimes, in trying so desperately to escape, I hurt myself against the very thing I am trying to get through.

The Psalmist says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

We often print those words on peaceful photographs of mountains and lakes.

But perhaps they belong just as much at a chain-link fence.

Be still.

Not because there is no danger.

Not because everything is fine.

But because panic is not always capable of recognizing an opening.

There are times when running is necessary.

And there are times when running harder only drives us deeper into the fence.

Eventually, the cat did something remarkable.

It stopped.

It lowered itself into the grass and became almost completely still.

At first, I thought it might be injured. Perhaps it was.

But there was also something strangely wise about that surrender. When every frantic attempt had failed, the animal finally quit fighting the entire world.

Sometimes, this is where grace begins.

Not when we finally overpower the situation.

But when we stop exhausting ourselves against it.

“Come to me,” Jesus says, “all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens.”

Not: figure everything out.

Not: run faster.

Not: break the fence.

Come.

Rest.

There is perhaps a third lesson as well, and it concerns my own place in the drama.

I could not make either animal understand what I was trying to do.

The cat could not understand that I was trying to help it.

The hound could not understand why I was preventing her from doing the one thing that seemed most important in the universe.

From their perspectives, I was probably interfering with both of them.

Yet I could see something, neither could you see.

I could see the whole enclosure.

I could see the gates.

I could see the fence.

I could see the danger.

I could see the way out.

That thought has stayed with me.

Perhaps there are moments when God seems strangely obstructive because God sees the whole enclosure.

We pull toward something, and the leash tightens.

We run toward an opening and somehow find ourselves redirected.

We pray for one thing and receive another.

From inside our frightened or excited little worlds, divine restraint can feel like abandonment or interference.

But perhaps the One holding us back can see something we cannot.

The old prayer says,

Your will be done.

There are days when that prayer may simply mean:

God, if I am chasing something I should leave alone, pull me back.

If I am panicking against a fence, help me become still enough to see the gate.

And if I cannot understand what you are doing, help me trust that you see more of the field than I do.

By the time my hound and I returned to the dog park later that morning, the cat was gone.

Only the scent remained.

Naturally, the hound investigated every inch of it.

She ran from fence to fence, nose down, reconstructing the entire drama from invisible traces.

Eventually even those grew faint.

Her breathing slowed.

Her body loosened.

The morning became a morning again.

Perhaps that is grace too.

The thing that once filled the entire world eventually becomes only a scent in the grass.

The crisis passes.

The fear fades.

The instinct quiets.

What seemed moments earlier to demand every ounce of our attention becomes simply one more thing that happened.

And somewhere between the hound and the cat I recognize myself.

Sometimes I am the pursuer.

Sometimes I am the pursued.

Sometimes I chase things better left alone.

Sometimes I run terrified into fences that cannot possibly become doors.

The difficult wisdom is learning which is which.

Perhaps this is why the spiritual life requires so much attention.

To know when to pursue.

To know when to stop.

To know when to run.

To know when to lie quietly in the grass.

To know when the leash pulling against us is not punishment but mercy.

And above all, to remember that somewhere beyond the frenzy there may already be an open gate we are simply too frightened—or too excited—to see.

Prayer

God of the open gate,

When I chase what I should release, call me home.

When old instincts rise in me—fear, anger, pride, the need to be right—teach me that not every impulse deserves obedience.

When I am frightened and cannot see a way forward, keep me from throwing myself again and again against the same fence. Slow my breathing. Quiet my spirit. Help me become still enough to notice the opening I could not see before.

Give me wisdom to know when to pursue and when to stop, when to act and when to wait, when to hold on and when to let go.

And when your restraint feels like a leash pulling against everything I want, give me enough trust to believe that you may see more of the field than I do.

Make me gentle with frightened creatures, including the frightened places within myself.

Let the things that consume me today become, in time, only a fading scent in the grass.

And when chaos narrows my world, remind me that beyond the fence there is still a morning, still a horizon, still grace, and perhaps an open gate I have not yet learned to see.

Amen.

The early morning is still dark when my hound and I arrive at the dog park. Almost immediately, there is a flash of white, and suddenly chaos ensues.

A cat is trapped inside the smaller of the two fenced-in areas. Even though a chain-link fence separates the two, both animals instantly go into a frenzy. My hound begins howling, while the terrified cat races back and forth, careening into the fence as it desperately searches for a way out.

I try to help it escape, all to the loud dismay of my hound, but the cat is too frightened to understand what I am doing. After crashing into the fence several times, it finally collapses low into the grass and simply lies there. I keep my distance, unsure whether it may be injured or sick.

Eventually, I leave the gates open and manage to pull my thoroughly over-hyped hunter away from the scene, fighting against everything years of breeding and evolution have taught her to do.

It takes most of the morning at home—and then a return trip to the now-empty dog park, where she follows one scent trail after another—before she finally begins to calm down.

Needless to say, it was not the most ideal way to start my day.

I, too, needed some time before I could let the chaos of the morning fade away.

And perhaps that was the first lesson.

There are some things that are better left alone.

That sounds simple enough, but I am not especially good at it. Neither, apparently, is my hound.

Once she caught the scent, something ancient took over. The world became very small. There was no longer a dog park, no morning, no leash, no person calling her name. There was only the cat.

I wonder how often I live that way.

Something catches my attention—a problem, a slight, a fear, an argument, a worry, some unfinished thing—and suddenly the whole world narrows around it. I circle it. I howl at it. I follow its scent long after the thing itself has disappeared.

There are habits in us that are older than our intentions.

The hound was not making a philosophical decision to terrorize a cat. She was doing what generations of hounds had prepared her to do. Her body knew before her mind could know.

Human beings are not so different.

We carry instincts of our own: to defend ourselves, to retaliate, to prove ourselves right, to pursue what frightens us, to hold tightly to what we think belongs to us. Sometimes we call these things personality. Sometimes, principle. Sometimes even righteousness.

But occasionally, they are simply old instincts running loose.

The spiritual life may involve learning that not everything within us deserves obedience.

Paul wrote about taking thoughts captive. Jesus spoke repeatedly of watching, waking, remaining alert. Perhaps part of discipleship is noticing the moment when something inside us begins to run.

There is a hound within me, too.

There are things I chase simply because they moved.

There are arguments that do not need another reply. There are offenses that do not need another inspection. There are anxieties whose scent I follow until I have wandered miles from peace.

Sometimes, faithfulness means pursuit.

Sometimes, faithfulness means calling the hound home.

But there was another creature in the story.

The cat.

The more frightened it became, the harder it tried to escape. And the harder it tried to escape, the more violently it crashed into the fence.

There was probably an opening somewhere. I had opened gates. I was trying to make a way.

But fear could not see the opening.

Fear only saw the threat.

So the cat ran harder.

I know something about that, too.

There are moments when I become frightened enough that I begin throwing myself against whatever boundary happens to be nearest. I want out of the discomfort immediately. I want the problem solved now. I want certainty restored.

And sometimes, in trying so desperately to escape, I hurt myself against the very thing I am trying to get through.

The Psalmist says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

We often print those words on peaceful photographs of mountains and lakes.

But perhaps they belong just as much at a chain-link fence.

Be still.

Not because there is no danger.

Not because everything is fine.

But because panic is not always capable of recognizing an opening.

There are times when running is necessary.

And there are times when running harder only drives us deeper into the fence.

Eventually, the cat did something remarkable.

It stopped.

It lowered itself into the grass and became almost completely still.

At first, I thought it might be injured. Perhaps it was.

But there was also something strangely wise about that surrender. When every frantic attempt had failed, the animal finally quit fighting the entire world.

Sometimes, this is where grace begins.

Not when we finally overpower the situation.

But when we stop exhausting ourselves against it.

“Come to me,” Jesus says, “all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens.”

Not: figure everything out.

Not: run faster.

Not: break the fence.

Come.

Rest.

There is perhaps a third lesson as well, and it concerns my own place in the drama.

I could not make either animal understand what I was trying to do.

The cat could not understand that I was trying to help it.

The hound could not understand why I was preventing her from doing the one thing that seemed most important in the universe.

From their perspectives, I was probably interfering with both of them.

Yet I could see something, neither could you see.

I could see the whole enclosure.

I could see the gates.

I could see the fence.

I could see the danger.

I could see the way out.

That thought has stayed with me.

Perhaps there are moments when God seems strangely obstructive because God sees the whole enclosure.

We pull toward something, and the leash tightens.

We run toward an opening and somehow find ourselves redirected.

We pray for one thing and receive another.

From inside our frightened or excited little worlds, divine restraint can feel like abandonment or interference.

But perhaps the One holding us back can see something we cannot.

The old prayer says,

Your will be done.

There are days when that prayer may simply mean:

God, if I am chasing something I should leave alone, pull me back.

If I am panicking against a fence, help me become still enough to see the gate.

And if I cannot understand what you are doing, help me trust that you see more of the field than I do.

By the time my hound and I returned to the dog park later that morning, the cat was gone.

Only the scent remained.

Naturally, the hound investigated every inch of it.

She ran from fence to fence, nose down, reconstructing the entire drama from invisible traces.

Eventually even those grew faint.

Her breathing slowed.

Her body loosened.

The morning became a morning again.

Perhaps that is grace too.

The thing that once filled the entire world eventually becomes only a scent in the grass.

The crisis passes.

The fear fades.

The instinct quiets.

What seemed moments earlier to demand every ounce of our attention becomes simply one more thing that happened.

And somewhere between the hound and the cat I recognize myself.

Sometimes I am the pursuer.

Sometimes I am the pursued.

Sometimes I chase things better left alone.

Sometimes I run terrified into fences that cannot possibly become doors.

The difficult wisdom is learning which is which.

Perhaps this is why the spiritual life requires so much attention.

To know when to pursue.

To know when to stop.

To know when to run.

To know when to lie quietly in the grass.

To know when the leash pulling against us is not punishment but mercy.

And above all, to remember that somewhere beyond the frenzy there may already be an open gate we are simply too frightened—or too excited—to see.

Prayer

God of the open gate,

When I chase what I should release, call me home.

When old instincts rise in me—fear, anger, pride, the need to be right—teach me that not every impulse deserves obedience.

When I am frightened and cannot see a way forward, keep me from throwing myself again and again against the same fence. Slow my breathing. Quiet my spirit. Help me become still enough to notice the opening I could not see before.

Give me wisdom to know when to pursue and when to stop, when to act and when to wait, when to hold on and when to let go.

And when your restraint feels like a leash pulling against everything I want, give me enough trust to believe that you may see more of the field than I do.

Make me gentle with frightened creatures, including the frightened places within myself.

Let the things that consume me today become, in time, only a fading scent in the grass.

And when chaos narrows my world, remind me that beyond the fence there is still a morning, still a horizon, still grace, and perhaps an open gate I have not yet learned to see.

Amen.

Worry Wart

The troubles of this passing day
weigh heavy on my head,
until I join the hollow-eyed,
the weary walking dead;
I stumble through the crumbling streets
where nameless fears are bred,
consumed by temoral things
and this mortal dread.

O, that this wart of worry
might be lifted from my head,
this small, persistent torment
on which my fears are fed;
that I might cease rehearsing
each bitter word unsaid,
and stop imagining sorrows
still waiting up ahead.

O, let me quit resisting
the road where I am led,
and trust the ground beneath me
though shadows o'er me spread,
for life is more than trembling
before the things I dread—
perhaps the path I fear to walk
leads to trust instead.

August 8, 2015 (exp. 2026)

My breath practice showed me the doorway. Sleep helped me pass through.

#Breathwork #OceanBreath #Sleep #Peace #Stillness #LettingGo #Trust #Rest #Presence #Healing #NervousSystem #Mindfulness #Wellbeing #Life

#forgiveness #emotionalhealing #personalgrowth #selfimprovement #lettinggo #innerpeace #mindfulness #wellbeing #NeuroScience #NeuroDivergent #NeuroCiencia #Neuro #Neurology #NeuroPlasticity #NeuroCirurgia #NeuroDiverse #spiritualjourney https://mastodon.social/@biohackingpathway/116993757044577041

✮ Warning Lights I Ignore ✮

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✮ Warning Lights I Ignore ✮

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✮ Warning Lights I Ignore ✮

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✮ Maturity is Far Away from Home ‐ Iridescent ✮

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Knowing when to give up on someone isn’t about hate, it’s about self-respect.

https://de320.isrefer.com/go/HEART639FREE/Stuartn/
 
#KnowYourWorth #HealthyBoundaries #LettingGo #SelfRespect #EmotionalHealth #ThinkandGrowEducation #RayBehan #Shiftyourtribe #Selfdevelopment

Maturity is learning to walk away from people and situations that threaten your peace of mind, self-respect, values, morals, and self-worth.

#Maturity #SelfRespect #PeaceOfMind #PersonalGrowth #MentalHealth #LettingGo #SelfWorth #KnowYourWorth #SetBoundaries #EmotionalIntelligence #GrowthMindset #LifeLessons #Wisdom #SelfLove #WalkingAway #PositiveVibes #Quotes #ShareInspireQuotes

"I LEFT #CHRISTIANITY & FOUND #PEACE: Free Your Mind"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MduIRLBPcBA

#deconstructingchristianity #FreeYourMind #Religion #Spirituality #Faith #Beliefs #PersonalGrowth #SelfDiscovery #MentalHealth #ReligiousJourney #Deconversion #Enlightenment #InnerPeace #BreakingFree #Awakening #FindingYourPath #LettingGo #SelfEmpowerment #leavingreligion #skeptic

Thursday May 2nd, 2024

Pluto in Aquarius stations retrograde today...

bringing a feeling of intensity 😬 as we access:

✨ truth 💖
✨ power 💪🏽
✨ transformation 🦋

The Moon 🌘 goes into Pisces ♓, asking us to release

old ways of being and attachments 🌬️

that no longer serves us. 💞

Details in this video https://youtu.be/1JuRV-doofs

#astrology #AstrologyHeals #pluto #PlutoRetrograde #PiscesMoon #PlutoinAquarius #LettingGo

Friday April 5, 2024

Today the Waning Crescent Moon 🌘 goes into...

boundary-dissolving Pisces. 🌊

There's a feeling of coming full circle, 💫

while also being time to release the past. 🌬️

Letting go helps us ➡️

create space for new possibilities. 💖

Details in this video https://youtu.be/ebwSCBQy0Oc

#astrology #AstrologyHeals #Pisces #PiscesMoon #FullCircle #WaningCrescent #LettingGo

You Are Not Responsible.
https://wp.me/p84YjG-3IA
#responsible #quotes #anthonyhopkins #author #penulis #zsoltzsemba #writer #novel #words #LettingGo #SelfCare #Relationships
#Boundaries #MutualLove

http://zsoltzsemba.com/2024/03/12/you-are-not-responsible/

Monday Jan 15, 2024

Today the Moon is in Pisces, inviting us to...

GO with the FLOW. 🏄🏽‍♀️

Some self-care themes for a Pisces Moon include:

✨ listening to #intuition 👂🏽
✨ surrendering to a bigger picture 🖼️
✨ letting go of the past 🍂

We can do all of these things and stay on track 🛤️ with our #intentions.

More in this video! https://youtu.be/TjKXPFC1CRY

#astrology #AstroVibe #AstrologyHeals #Pisces #GoWithTheFlow #PiscesMoon #LettingGo