Thursday, February 21, 2019


I can honestly say that I have never been lonely.

When I was alone.

I have had a few people share with me lately that they are experiencing loneliness. Life circumstances have shifted, leaving them in some ways alone. As they shared with me I internally did what I always do when interacting with someone’s feelings: I went into my own depths in order to directly relate and empathize with what was being shared. It was that direct inquiry inside of myself that reaffirmed what I have long known.

I have never been lonely when I am alone.

I have indeed felt lonely in relationship and sometimes even in crowds. I feel lonely in relationships where there is little actual relating. When vacancy is premium and intimacy rare. When I felt myself quite literally talking into a listless void. When regardless of how I tried I could not find a connection. When I have been with people who are rarely with themselves, and so are incapable of being with me. There is loneliness when I cannot for the life of me feel myself landing in the experience of the other. When there truly isn’t any there, there.

Then I feel a loneliness. A sadness. A longing to connect. A deep desire to feel atone rather than alone in company.

I see you there, and yet somehow you aren’t.

In a world of photo ops and endless selfies I long to see deeply and to know that I am seen. To touch and to be touched. To fully and freely let you in and to feel myself happening inside of you energetically and relationally. I care little about having a virtual record of our encounters if I didn’t feel like we were even really there.

My empathic exploration within reaffirmed for me that I am good company. I like spending time with me. I pay attention to myself. I listen. I feel freely and openly. I laugh, I cry, I take life in and I let love out. I relish my moments and my inner-activity.

The one thing I am not when I am alone is lonely.

So maybe you would like to spend a little time with me? Together? Not to avoid loneliness but to celebrate true togetherness.

We could take a walk. Have a chat. Listen deeply and respond authentically. Or we could sit and do nothing at all. Not even speak. Just sit and silently share space. Heart to heart. Gaze to gaze. Two people who enjoy their own and so each other’s company. It would be lovely.

Or if that doesn’t work, I will be content to sit alone and listen and feel and gaze and wonder and simply be.

Alone, and not a bit lonely.

Thursday, February 14, 2019


I have always had a tender, sensitive heart. From the earliest age I loved fully and easily. I loved everyone, much to my parent’s consternation. A tenderhearted, sensitive, loving boychild was sure to be hurt.

They were right.

So I decided sometime in my mid-twenties that I was going to pull back. That I was going to toughen up. That I was not going to traverse the earth as this sensitive, open, loving easy target. I had been hurt enough times by then. I knew it was time to put on the armor. To replace sensitivity with a bit of sarcasm. Tenderness with toughness. Love with aloofness. The hurt had to stop. I would make it stop. I would keep you at bay. If aloof meant alone than so be it.

What I didn’t count on was that toughening up was even more painful than tender and open.

It seems sometimes like it has taken longer to disarm than it did to armor up. I have faced and refaced a lifetime of hurts. A seeming million rejections. An ocean of abandonment. I have reheard every voice that told me I was not enough. That I was a mistake to be rectified. An abomination to be abolished. That I was doomed to be dropped repeatedly.

The closure that I thought would keep me from this litany of lovelessness actually locked me in it.

You see, I was not born to live defended. I am not meant to hide. For me and my sensitive heart closure is suffering. I must consistently be less than I am meant to be. Love less than I am meant to love. Show up with armor when my nature is to show up as an embrace.

And so I have reclaimed my tender, open heart. I have unleashed the love that seeks a free and flowing expression. The pain of closure is far greater than the pain that sometimes accompanies a tender, giving nature.

So, I choose to love. Sure, I know that I may well be hurt. Being what I authentically am is so worth the risk. A sometimes-hurting heart tells me that I am open. It tells me that my sensitivity is engaged. Hurting shows me that tenderness has triumphed over toughness. It tells me that I am human. That I am plugged into my shared humanity and my common Divinity.

Ultimately, God cannot be known by a closed heart. Mysticism requires openness and defenseless. God-Love needs entrance through a willing open heart.

And finally that is what I have.

Wednesday, February 6, 2019


“I can’t make it tomorrow. But I will be with you in spirit.”

“I know I said I was going to be there, but I’ll be there in spirit.”

“Gosh, I can’t make it again tonight, but I’ll sure be there in spirit.”

After repeated vacancies excused by the promise of terrestrial presence I finally needed to speak up.

“No thank you. Keep your spirit with you. You’ll need it.”

A prolonged silence was followed by a nervous giggle.

Things happen in life that truly do prevent us from being where we have committed to be. In my experience these occurrences are rare. It is more common to make a commitment to be somewhere and then just decide we really don’t feel like following through. Maybe we had said yes when we really meant to say no. Maybe we have gotten what we perceive to be a better offer. Maybe we are a bit tired or are feeling overcommitted. Maybe spirit is the one excuse no one can argue with?

And so, we pull the “there in spirit card.”

So, let me be clear that I know you will be with me in spirit. There is nowhere else for you to be. We are all together in spirit all the time.

That is not the same as being physically present where you said you would be.

There is nothing evil or ill-intentioned about this framing. It just isn’t helpful. I for one would much prefer the honest and in my face approach. “I know I said I was going to be there, and now I am really not wanting to do that. So, I am sorry. I won’t be there.”


No reaching for the spirit realm out clause. No excuse or even regret. I said I would be there and now I am saying I won’t. Clean. Concise. Honest. Done.

Then we are clear, and I still know we are forever together in spirit. And I know that you are someone that occasionally, or even repeatedly, does not keep commitments. I can file that information away, and maybe even extend invitations accordingly.

And I can know without judgment that your spirit is ever-present, though sometimes you simply are not.