A few years ago I set out to write a big book. I wanted it to be full of massive ideas that blow your mind about this universe we call home that’s been expanding for 13 billion years and how it continues to increase in depth and complexity and how in the same way each of us are invited to expand right along with it-but that book just wasn’t happening. It felt flat on the page. Like it was just ideas. And not much more.
And then this question arose
Where did these ideas come from?
Followed by another question
How did I come to see the world the way that I do?
Which led to
How did I get here?
Which took me back, way back.
To the generations before me,
to growing up,
to the places and spaces and people who shaped me,
to stumbling into this work I do for the first time…
I hadn’t written about any of that before.
It was unexpectedly unnerving,
all those stops and starts and pain and shame and
tentative steps along the way-
writing about it meant I had to own all of it.
Every last bit of it.
Because everything is spiritual.