The Guest House

My grandmother's final gift to me was a rosary of fifty-nine blue stone beads around a silver-cast cross. It arrived in the mail one afternoon with a card that read Dear Shawn, Pray. Love, Gram like a wire sent from her hospice bed in Pennsylvania to my kitchen in New Mexico. What was the lesson my grandmother, at age 98, wanted to dispatch as she packed her bags for another world? With a grocery bag tucked under one arm and a baby on my hip, I read and reread the card, trying to decode her tremulous cursive and the white space around the words, their unspoken context.

Like many women of her generation, my grandmother seemed preternaturally endowed with reserve and fortitude. She graduated from college, became a dietician, served in the military, and raised six children after the love of her life, the grandfather I never met, died in their forties. 

My grandmother wore rubber-heeled red sandals with cherry lipstick. She drove a van with handicap rigging for my aunt, who had cerebral palsy. We spent many childhood summers living under her roof at the lake. She would hand us exactly one dollar each for candy at the bodega on good days. With the point of an index finger, she instructed us to wash your hands, make your bed, unload the groceries, say your please & thank you’s. What my grandmother commanded, we obeyed — and on Fridays, she cooked bolognese. 

Sundays were for church-going. Mary Oliver humbly wrote, “I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention.” I didn’t know how to pray or pay attention, but prayer was the thread my grandmother followed through life’s uncertainties, so to church we went. 

I believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible…. To appear good, I joined the murmur of the congregation as the priest in his white and gold vestments lifted a chalice above his head. I remember how the almost sweet scent of incense hung in the air, the hard feel of the wooden pew beneath me, the sound of men clearing their throats, and women singing in airy voices while flipping through thin pages in the book of hymns. I remember how mid-morning light would enter through the stained glass windows above us and calmly spread its wings. 

Since those days, I have learned to pray in four languages. I've made ritual movements with my whole body, sat still in sustained silence, sought refuge in poems, touched flowers, poured water, circled up, made altars, and joined in song. I've sweat through prayers on airplanes and in hospital waiting rooms and held vigil with gripped hands through long nights, repeating the most muscular prayer of all: please. 

I once watched an old woman for an entire day at Boudhanath in Kathmandu. She had worn deep grooves in the wooden board beneath her by anchoring her feet and sliding on her hands and knees, touching her forehead to the ground, murmuring om mani pädme hum, back and forth, forward and back, through countless repetitions.

And though certain prayers have become friends, the specific form is less interesting to me now than the quality of concentration into which any prayer can invite our attention. “Attention” says the French philosopher Simone Weil, “taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer. It presupposes faith and love. Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.” Prayer doesn’t require formal structure; it doesn’t even require words. It just asks for presence.

Thich Nhat Hanh once responded to a question about the practice of prayer:

This is the basic condition for the effectiveness of prayer. The one who prays should be truly there, established in the here and now, having a very clear intention, a very clear desire as to whom he or she will pray, and for whom he or she will pray. If the one who prays can put himself or herself in that situation, much has already been done. That person already has begun to generate the energy of prayer, because he or she is truly present in the here and now with concentration, with mindfulness and intention. If that does not happen, well, nothing will happen.

A flame rises without human definition; prayer tends the flame. Prayer is any act that clarifies and concentrates the attentional channel between the one who prays and the direction of all prayer, which is up, which is love. Perhaps this is what Thich Nhat Hanh, who embodied and advocated tirelessly for peace, meant when he spoke of “generat[ing] the energy of prayer.” To be “truly [t]here” is to awaken to the groundlessness of any moment — to our dynamic, collective context — and to anchor ourselves in the living presence we can call by any name, but that does not demand one specific name. The Sanskrit word ishtadevata loosely translates as whatever facet of the divine you can recognize.

For all of us still learning to pay attention, 14th-century mystic Meister Eckhart offered an assurance: “If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” Thanksgiving is a complicated holiday. At best, it invites us to recognize the conditions that nourish and imbue our lives with goodness. This is no passive practice. When we feel re-sized by pain and disillusionment, when uncertainty wraps its cold fingers around our hearts, gratitude is the radical choice to acknowledge the blessed sustenance of our existence nonetheless. "To love life even when you have no stomach for it,” writes poet Ellen Bass. To notice the sun rising yet again. A friend's easy forgiveness. How light enters a room. A palmful of chestnuts. The almost sweet scent of cinnamon leaves. A finely shaped gourd. The way salt flavors a dish. A set table.

Together, we’re making sense of being human in an era of radical change. Your presence here matters. Thank you for reading, sharing, ‘heart’ing, commenting, and subscribing to The Guest House.

Today, climate leader Jess Serrante joins me in a heartfelt and insightful conversation on activism, emotional resilience, mentorship, and redefining hope in turbulent, uncertain times.

Serrante recounts her path from activist burnout to Joanna Macy’s “The Work That Reconnects,” a practice built around gratitude, grief, and transformative action. We delve into “The Great Turning,” a paradigm shift toward sustainable and interconnected living, and examine the role of intergenerational wisdom and community support in overcoming despair. Drawing on her longtime friendship with Joanna and their recent conversation series, “We Are The Great Turning,” Jess shares insights that offer a roadmap for staying engaged in activism with purpose, resilience, and connection.

Episode Highlights:

Processing Emotions in Activism: Jess describes the emotional "soup" experienced by many activists after pivotal societal events and how acknowledging these emotions—whether numbness, anger, or sorrow—helps sustain long-term engagement.

The Role of Mentorship in Activism: Jess reflects on her relationship with Joanna Macy, who has inspired her to navigate activism with grace and resilience through practices rooted in mindfulness and connection.

Exploring "The Spiral" Framework: Jess explains "The Spiral" process—moving through gratitude, honoring pain, gaining new perspectives, and taking action—and how it supports emotional sustainability in the face of climate grief.

The Power of Intergenerational Relationships: Emphasizing the role of elders in the activist journey, Jess shares how wisdom from mentors like Joanna has grounded her purpose and broadened her perspective on hope and resilience.

Understanding “The Great Turning”: Shawn and Jess discuss the transition from the current societal model to a more sustainable, just paradigm, as described by Joanna Macy’s “The Great Turning,” and explore the role of individual and community-based change.

Redefining Hope and Courage: The conversation shifts to the concept of “active hope,” where hope is redefined as a commitment to transformative actions rooted in love, courage, and an honest confrontation with grief.

Building a Supportive Community: Jess stresses the necessity of finding a community to share in the journey of eco-activism, as collective strength and compassion are essential in facing global environmental challenges.

This episode invites you to reflect on your own role in "The Great Turning" and offers practical insights and resources for nurturing a just, interconnected world.

Resource Links

1. You can learn more about Jess' work and ways to work with her at Jessserrante.com.

2. Follow Jess on Instagram @Jess_Serrante.

3. Join her newsletter at Jesserrante.com/subscribe.

4. Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.

5. Shawnparell.com - Check out Shawn's website to sign up for 5 free meditations, join Shawn’s email list for monthly field notes and music alchemy, and learn more about her work and upcoming events.

6. Stay connected with Shawn on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice.

It was a honor to sit down with Henry Shukman—Zen master, poet, and author—to explore dimensions of meditation, mindfulness practice, and awakening. Our conversation centers around Henry’s profound insights into the nature of "original love," a concept he discusses in his latest book. Together, we reflect on the journey of how spiritual practice connects us to a greater sense of belonging and love.

We delve into how spiritual practice, particularly mindfulness and meditation, can lead to transformative insights. We discuss the nature of awakening and the deeper connection we all share with the world around us. From personal experiences to philosophical reflections, this episode weaves together practical advice and wisdom for new and seasoned practitioners alike.

Episode Highlights:

The Essence of "Original Love": Henry discusses how love, beyond sentimentality, is an inherent force that connects us to all life.

The Path of Awakening: Exploring the concept of kensho, a moment of non-dual realization where the boundary between self and world dissolves.

Challenges of Spiritual Practice: Henry reflects on the difficulties of maintaining mindfulness and integrating awakening experiences into daily life.

Spiritual Practice as a Journey: A deep dive into the structured progression of Henry’s app, The Way, which offers a path through mindfulness, support, flow, and awakening.

Personal Stories of Mindfulness: We share personal anecdotes, including how suffering and challenges can inadvertently cultivate mindfulness.

The Role of Community in Practice: Emphasizing the importance of support systems, we reflect on how mindfulness is not an isolated practice but one deeply connected to the collective.

Poetry and Spiritual Insight: The episode ends with A.R. Ammons' poem, “Still,” capturing the beauty and interconnectedness of all life.

Tune in for a rich dialogue on mindfulness, love, and the journey toward awakening. I hope this episode provides moments of inspiration for deepening your practice and reflecting on your own path of growth.

Resource Links

To learn more about Henry and his offerings, visit henryshukman.com.

Order your copy of Original Love.

Check out Henry’s app: The Way.

Follow Henry on Instagram @henryshukman

Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.

Shawnparell.com - Check out Shawn's website to sign up for 5 free meditations, join Shawn’s email list for monthly field notes and music alchemy, and learn more about her work and upcoming events.

Stay connected with Shawn on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice.

It’s a bright morning in early autumn, and a few hundred of us are seated on wooden pews in a historic auditorium at the New Mexico Museum of Art. A murmurous sound fills the hall as friends greet each other beneath a painted mural of St. Francis — patron saint of ecology and animals, those who are invisible to the outer world, and this place, Santa Fe, that we call home.

Philosopher and poet David Whyte and teacher and author Henry Shukman take their seats on stage. Renowned in their respective fields and acquainted since their pub days, Henry wears slacks and a button-down, while David, in signature black, positions himself center stage.

David opens his oratory with such agility and resonance I find myself wondering about the force that calls us to the artistry of our lives. James Baldwin once wrote about the inevitability of his calling: “The terrible thing about being a writer is that you don’t decide to become one, you discover that you are one.” To be an artist seems less a choice than a truth to Baldwin, less a vocation than an unbidden command that could sweep the furnishings from your life.

David’s treatment of the word “unordinary” touches into this truth. He describes it as “what lies beneath my everyday life, like an interior seam of precious metal hidden by layers of my surface ordinariness; something to be uncovered and perhaps at times, even unleashed.”

An interior seam of precious metal hidden by layers of my surface ordinariness —

Something to be uncovered —

even unleashed —

A contemplative hush moves through the hall. David’s voice rings a bell of intimacy and longing for many of us; it’s a knowing nod to the untapped brilliance beneath the surface of our lives.

By adulthood, most of us have charted a course. Consciously or otherwise, we have put our rudder in the water. We have tied our knots. And all along this voyage we call adulthood, we must continually tack in the direction we have assigned for ourselves. This is how, as the wide-open estuaries of youth narrow into the channels of midlife, we can lose sight of an intrinsic, irreducible essence within us.

Or perhaps we make a choice. Faithfulness to the ordinary can keep us safe and serve us well for a time; it can support values like constancy, integrity, and trustworthiness. It can make us reliable and at least half-decent.

Habituating ourselves to the ordinary may work for a while, tidying up the messy surface bits even as intuition whispers from the depths. On the other hand, striving to be extraordinary is exhausting and rooted in insecurity, a cycle of fear on repeat. But to be unordinary is to be liberated from the tensions of the ordinary and the appraisals of the extraordinary. “May what is hidden within you become your gift to the world,” David says.

Pursuing an unsatisfactory life is no passive practice, however unprepared we may feel for the risk of something real. It’s a bargain against our wholeheartedness—against the undefinable yet knowable essence that, in every moment, is breathing its way into being. Beneath our to-do lists and human dramas, our grasping and avoiding, our busy peddling of wares while forgetting the greater plot, there exists a wakeful, tender, and intelligent wilderness within us.

“Dwell as near as possible to the channel in which your life flows,” counseled Henry David Thoreau, understanding that what is hidden within us will always make its way toward the light. Who can’t relate to an inner knowing that, if given the chance, would inspire courageous acts of authenticity and influence the creative flow of your life?

—

Above the pews and beyond the windows from where we sit, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains extend skyward. A pavement project along Hyde Park Road, the only road linking downtown Santa Fe to its nearest peak, has resulted in the mountain being temporarily inaccessible to the public. It’s a strange feeling for the humans who live here to be barred from the forests and rivers we know so well. From afar, we watch the face of our mountain as its hues change—first from deepening green to yellow, and now, as if signaling some secret thought, here comes a blush of crimson, cinnamon, and orange.

Most days, ordinary is the kind of person I seem to want to be; it’s the kind of person I tend to be. But this season, perhaps spurred by the particularities of my human loneliness, I long to be among the aspens with their shimmering sweep of drying leaves, each tree part of a singular organism that eats light and sends messages through tangled roots beneath the forest floor. Every day, on my way to wherever I’m going, I look toward the mountain and wonder, spared from the human gaze, what is happening beneath the veil of its exterior.

The bear who lumbered from the deep woods at the bend in Borrego last Spring — is she feasting on trout before the river freezes? I imagine black stones sighing into river beds and afternoons casting long, warm shadows across untrammeled trails. Un-startled deer walking over fallen leaves and needles, their delicate nervous systems rebalancing. Furred creatures foraging for seeds, nuts, and berries among the underbrush. Oyster mushrooms growing in happy clumps on the underside of composting trees. And birds testing their wings for long flight.

I imagine a kingdom, unburdened for a time, awakening to itself in a thousand brilliant ways.

“At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke

Each season reflects a facet of nature’s wisdom and offers us a mirror to reimagine our own experience of aliveness. In autumn, we touch inevitability, learning to bring forth the fruit that is ours, to surrender our leafy adornments. Loneliness and grief may be our teachers; this meditation may be bittersweet, but it will be wholly ours to claim.

Backlit by an image of St. Francis, Henry’s voice stirs the air with an invitation:

Let the quiet come —

Let the quiet come like a tide —

Let the quiet come like a tide you’ve been waiting for your whole life.

Invitation for reflection: What does it mean to you to “let the quiet come”? What unordinary awareness is making itself known through you as the season deepens? What thoughts, beliefs, habits, and behaviors must you let go of to make room for to integrate revelation, and what must you invite in?

Together, we are making sense of being human in an era of radical change. Your presence here matters. Thank you for reading, sharing, ‘heart’ing, commenting, and subscribing to The Guest House.

In this rich conversation, I welcome meditation teacher Jonathan Foust to explore his remarkable 50-year journey of practice and teaching. Enjoy this deep dive at the intersection of meditation, mindfulness, and the evolving path of spiritual awakening.

Jonathan offers listeners an inside look at a life-long path of self-awareness and transformation. He reflects on childhood experiences of disconnection and belonging and shares how living in an ashram for 24 years profoundly shaped his spiritual path. Jonathan also provides practical advice for those balancing a meditation practice with the demands of everyday life.

The episode delves into somatic inquiry, exploring how tuning into bodily sensations can reveal profound insights and contribute to healing. Jonathan encourages a flexible and adaptable meditation practice grounded in sincerity.

Episode Highlights

Jonathan’s Evolution of Practice: From childhood experiences of disconnection and longing to 50 years of deep meditation and spiritual practice, including 24 years living and teaching at Kripalu.

Somatic Inquiry and Body Awareness: Exploring how the body holds emotions, thoughts, and beliefs, and how tuning into these sensations can offer healing and insight.

Balancing Daily Life with Deep Practice: Advice for integrating mindfulness into everyday life, emphasizing the value of sincerity, fluidity, and adaptability.

Meditation and Self-Discovery: Using meditation to bring unconscious patterns into awareness, as described through Joseph Campbell’s metaphor of the conscious and unconscious mind.

The RAIN Technique: Jonathan discusses the power of Recognize, Allow, Investigate, and Nurture (RAIN) to address pain, cultivate compassion, and transform inner experiences.

Collective Energy in Spiritual Practice: Reflections on the power of community, collective meditation, and the energy generated through shared spiritual practices.

Resource Links

To learn more about Jonathan and his offerings, visit Jonathanfoust.com.

Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.

Shawnparell.com - Check out Shawn's website to sign up for 5 free meditations, join Shawn’s email list for monthly field notes and music alchemy, and learn more about her work and upcoming events.

Stay connected with Shawn on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice.

A few days ago, if asked, I would have said I lacked the spaciousness and sanity to write this month. I know it would have been an excuse born of scarcity and fatigue — but summer is flaring into autumn, and time can seem like a horse bolting for the barn in the back half of the year.

In a recent advisory on parents’ mental health, the Surgeon General cited an APA finding that 48% of American parents feel completely overwhelmed every day. In the ordinary overwhelm of modern life, friends exchange waves from afar with an undertone of “you can call if you’re in crisis; otherwise, just text.” Sound familiar?

But then there’s this: shadows lengthening across the field, the animalic resin of roasted chile and yellow clusters of Chamisa. In The Home Place: Memoirs of a Colored Man’s Love Affair with Nature, the ornithologist and wildlife ecologist J. Drew Lanham reflects on the restlessness of autumn’s arrival:

“The Germans have a fine word for it: zugunruhe. A compound derived from the roots zug (migration) and unruhe (anxiety), it describes the seasonal migration of birds and other animals. In this wanderlust I want to go somewhere far away, to fly to some place I think I need to be. Nature is on the move, too, migrating, storing, and dying. Everything is either accelerating or slowing down. Some things are rushing about to put in seed for the next generation. A monarch butterfly in a field full of goldenrod is urgent on tissue-thin wings of black and orange to gather the surging sweetness before the frost locks it away. Apple trees and tangles of muscadines hang heavy. The fruit-dense orchards offer a final call to the wildlings. Foxes, deer, coons, possum, and wild turkeys fatten in the feasting. The air is spiced with the scent of dying leaves. The perfume of decay gathers as berries ripen into wild wine. Even the sun sits differently in an autumnal sky, sending a mellower light in somber slants that foretell the coming change.”

Something is shifting in the air. Equinox, the threshold of autumn, arrives with an invitation to notice the restlessness and, further, to consider the phenomenon of balance in nature. Because on Equinox, from Latin aequus (equal) and nox (night), the light steadies itself between day and night, and in a hardly perceptible motion, the seasons turn toward each other, bow in symmetry, and exchange place.

I am reminded of a place in the Amazon I visited years ago. Manaus is located nine hundred miles arterially inland from the Atlantic Ocean, deep in the body of the rainforest. The city is home to more than half of the region’s human inhabitants and a staggering array of life: 40,000 plant species, 3,000 fish species, 1,300 bird species, 430 mammal species, and 2.5 million insect species.

In the latter half of the 19th century, fueled by rubber exports and indentured servitude, Manaus briefly enjoyed the status of the wealthiest city in the world. Colonial commentators dubbed it the “Paris of the Tropics,” thanks to its electricity, drinking water, and sewage systems—nouveau luxuries in its day.

Together, we are making sense of being human in an era of radical change. Your presence here matters. Thank you for reading, sharing, ‘heart’ing, commenting, and subscribing to The Guest House.

One of the city’s crowning achievements was Teatro Amazonas, perhaps the world’s most improbable opera house. First conceived in 1881, the opera premiered on January 7, 1897, with a performance of Ponchielli's La Gioconda by world-renowned tenor Caruso. By all accounts, the evening was magnificent. The finest materials had been imported from Europe, including 198 chandeliers—32 made from Murano glass—and 36,000 ceramic tiles arranged over the dome in an impressive mosaic of the Brazilian flag. The opera house’s most specific and transcendent feature was a 75-meter-high stage curtain depicting the water goddess Iara above a local site, the Encontro das Águas, or Meeting of the Waters.

The Rio Negro, as its name implies, is black, colored by decayed plant matter, and descends from the Colombian hills. By contrast, the Rio Solimões is milky brown and carries sediment from the Andes Mountains. When these two rivers meet, they do not immediately blend but remain distinct for six kilometers (3.7 miles) before finally merging into the great Rio Amazonas, the Amazon River. Their respective temperatures, speeds, and compositions contribute to an extraordinary symbiosis wherein they balance each other and flow together, reconciled to their mutual existence.

Of my time in Manaus, I remember the midday sun pressing downward on my shoulders and the taste of dark tannins in the wet air. The freshwater creatures on display at the local market gleamed slick and otherworldly. But most of all, I remember reaching my hands into two rivers as our wooden boat steadied between them.

As Equinox opens the door to Libra season, I’m reminded of the transmission of the meeting of the waters: two rivers centered calmly, two currents in harmony. Libra is symbolized by the scales held by Themis, the Greek personification of divine law and balance, who invites us to reflect on equilibrium—on the balance between light and dark, between movement and stillness.

When autumn arrives with its gold and slanting light, with its sweet bark, it offers us an earthly reminder. We are delicately set within these bodies and the turning of time, responsible for cultivating steadiness where we place our hands.

And one more thing: the word essay comes from French, essai (to try). In this pivot into the year's final quarter, perhaps trying is what we can do. We can show up and steady ourselves, one word, one day at a time.

“I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again,” wrote Georgia O’Keeffe to fellow painter Russell Vernon Hunter from her desert hermitage in 1932.

I am writing to you today from a cottage along the rugged coast of New England. This is the kind of salt-cured day I often dream about from the desert. The atmosphere is low and thickly layered, daylight fused with a deeper blue now as we arrive at the far fringe of summer. Black-headed gulls and egrets convene as the tide recedes, and a soft fog absorbs every sound but the rolling hush of morning waves. A steaming mug keeps rhythm with the tick of a wall-mounted clock, and occasional keystrokes move across the page.

My family gathers here every summer. This is the cove where my stepmother dug among wet rocks for mussels and crabs with her many siblings and where, as teenagers, we built beach bonfires and popped firecrackers into the night sky. It is where my children set up their first lemonade stand with cousins and learned how to serenade periwinkles from their shells. This summer, a humpback whale made headlines when, mid-breach, it pitched its long body onto a boat, tossing a few local fishermen into the harbor.

But salty quietude is the balm of this place today. Midway between the summer solstice and autumn equinox, August’s Lughnasadh marks the beginning of the harvest in the Celtic tradition. It signifies an annual maturation — when boughs become fruit-laden and afternoons swell, sometimes bursting into rainstorms, before tapering into early evenings.

What is maturation? The word comes from Latin, mātūrāre, meaning “to grow ripe.” Perhaps it is simply to slow down and stay with a gradual, faithful revealing — to allow the flavor of a thing to emerge in its own time. There is no need to push now, for the seeds have already been planted. The earnest prayers of earlier days have ripened into well-earned meaning.

In 2021, actress, screenwriter, director, and producer Michaela Coel became the first Black woman to be awarded an Emmy in the Writing for a Limited Series category for HBO’s extraordinary “I May Destroy You.” When she took the stage, she unfolded a small piece of paper and read:

"I just wrote a little something for writers, really: Write the tale that scares you, that makes you feel uncertain, that isn't comfortable. I dare you. In a world that entices us to browse through the lives of others to help us better determine how we feel about ourselves, and to, in turn, feel the need to be constantly visible – for visibility these days seems to somehow equate to success – do not be afraid to disappear from it, from us, for a while, and see what comes to you in the silence."

A balance point exists here between the seasons. Through the window and across several miles of moving water, my gaze drifts toward the Isles of Shoals—a cluster of barely inhabited islands along an unseen maritime border between New Hampshire and Maine. My mind hovers in midair—in the middle distance. I napped yesterday, perhaps for the first time in years. Upon waking, I sensed that some deep, meaningful thing had happened—some nonspecific remembering.

In the poem “You Can’t Have It All,” Barbara Ras writes “…and when it is August, you can have it August and abundantly so.”

The fringe of summer welcomes us to sip and sift and soften into ampleness. You can let yourself have it. The world may not even notice, and if it does, you can simply explain how you’ve been waiting to receive what is yours from silence.

My daughter hauls a bucket of saltwater from the beach below. She has the fine idea of boiling an egg in it. My father—her grandfather—gamely eats every bite and then reports that it is the best damn egg he ever tasted.

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Join me on our upcoming Iceland yoga and meditation retreat!

Akureyri, North Iceland | October 4-11, 2025

The city of Akureyri was voted the #1 destination in Europe by Lonely Planet. Located on the longest fjord in the country, its mild climate and proximity to the Arctic Circle make it a bucket list, must-see destination. Join us for yoga, meditation, stunning views, breathtaking hikes, frozen waterfalls, Icelandic horseback rides, whale watching, soaking in starlit nature baths, and under the right conditions - chasing the northern lights.

Payment plans are available! Learn more about this offering at shawnparell.com/iceland.

In this episode, I delve into conversation with Hawah Kasat, a globally recognized humanitarian, educator, author, and co-founder of One Common Unity (OCU). Join us for a rich exploration of emotional resilience, cultural wisdom, and the integration of intellect and intuition. Discover how a balanced, heart-centered approach to living and leadership, grounded in honesty, stillness, and a deep connection to nature, can foster a more harmonious and sustainable future.

Episode Highlights

Initial Meeting and Collaborations: Reflecting on our first encounter at Flow Yoga Center and projects like the Global Mala project.

Early Life Influences: Hawah's childhood trips to India and how they shaped his sense of social responsibility.

Binary Thinking: The dangers of extreme binary thinking and the need for balance in society.

Mental Well-Being: Strategies for maintaining hope and well-being amidst societal polarization and systemic issues.

Empathetic Overload and Numbing: The effects of constant exposure to trauma and the importance of feeling necessary emotions.

Cultural Learning and Peace Advocacy: The value of learning from indigenous cultures and promoting non-violent conflict resolution.

Roots to Sky Sanctuary: The role of this regenerative farm and healing arts center in reconnecting people with nature and sustainable living.

Resource Links

• Learn more about Hawah and how to connect at https://linktr.ee/everlutionary

• Check out Hawah's new podcast Everlutionary on Apple Podcasts or on Spotify.

• Follow Hawah on Instagram @hawahkasat, on Facebook, or on LinkedIn.

• Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.

• Shawnparell.com - Check out Shawn's website to sign up for 5 free meditations, join Shawn’s email list for monthly field notes and music alchemy, and learn more about her work and upcoming events.

• Stay connected with Shawn on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice.

It’s the middle of the night, and somehow I have returned to the mountains and plains of Northern Kenya. In a language I can understand only while dreaming, I have been invited to skim mud from the surface of a freshly dug singing well with a carved wooden cup. Voices rise above the trumpeting of elephants and the bleating of goats. My body awkwardly recalls the gestures of this ritual. An upward whistle follows every earthly bow according to a rhythm passed from voice to voice through generations.

Suddenly, I awaken in my bed — a world away, thick with fatigue, and feeling vaguely bereft. Did I fail the task? Now, how will that murky groundwater ever run clear? 

My senses tenderized by the dark, I shuffle through my unlit home and touch the minor attributes of this particular life: a thick cashmere throw I bought along the Irish coast, the flecked stone countertops my children love to run their hands along, the soft, sage leaves of a potted plant. Our home seems to have settled back into its bones in our time away. The garden has filled greenly in the monsoon rains, and plump raspberries are ready to be picked and eaten. 

For the Samburu, the semi-nomadic pastoral people of Northern Kenya, daily life is organized according to the law of water, blood, milk, and meat. The sacred dwells in higher places. Homes are shoulder-height and constructed of straight sticks mixed with mud, dung, and ash paste. They are situated such that a Samburu must bow toward the mountain each time he enters. A circular briar enclosure keeps the camels, cows, and goats in and the leopards and lions out.

Our friend, Tilas, explains that the marbling on his calf came from the blaze of a lion’s paw, a relic from when he was a young warrior, freshly circumcised, with an able spear. He touches each plant, naming its properties and uses as we walk. Tilas introduces us to the stars, explaining how they determine when and for what his people pray. He traces a line from Alpha Centauri to Beta Centauri to Gacrux at the tip of the Southern Cross. When asked about his home, he nods over the mountain: “Under the full moon, it’s a six-hour walk.” 

In recent years, the Samburu have built an indigenous-owned conservancy for wildlife, the first orphanage of its kind in Africa. Reteti is home to an absurdly cute troupe of 47 baby elephants. Five times daily, they are bottle-fed goat milk provided by herders from the surrounding villages.

“Elephants remember everything; we help them remember they belong.”

When new orphans arrive, often in the aftermath of trauma, the keepers cradle them, sleep alongside them, and surround them with the healing chants they learned around the singing wells of their youth — sometimes night and day for weeks. After years of care and intentional preparation, the elephants are returned within their adopted family systems to the lands from which they came.

“Most of us have been displaced from those cultures of origin, a global diaspora of refugees severed not only from the land but from the sheer genius that comes from belonging in symbiotic relation to [it].” ― Tyson Yunkaporta, Sand Talk: How Indigenous Thinking Can Save the World

It’s not that I long for any home but this one. Lord knows I bristle at the implicit expectations of women even in this privileged world — expectations that pale in comparison to the norms of most women’s lives around the world. But it is a transmission of the spiritual force of symbiosis to be among the Samburu. Some primal memory stirs in proximity to a culture that still listens for water in the earth and prays according to the mountains, stars, and seasons. Indeed, there is earthly sanity — “sheer genius” — in remembering that we are not orphans among the family of things and that our rightful place is as an intermediary, guardian species.

As daylight rises, I climb a nearby mountain to survey the valley beneath. This valley contains the daily rituals of my human life. It is where I drive my children to school and share meals with friends. From this vantage point, I can close my eyes and imagine buildings and highways gently swept like eraser shavings from a living canvas, revealing a landscape beneath our human claim. When I dream of singing wells, I remember an irreducible wilderness, a relationship that has always been — and find solace in it.

The Guest House is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

In this episode, I am thrilled to introduce Rachel Rossitto, a dedicated practitioner of Earth-based feminine wisdom, women's holistic health, womb healing, and much more. For more than 15 years, Rachel has immersed herself in diverse spiritual and healing practices. Today, she offers courses, mentorship, and guidance to help women reclaim their divine feminine energy. Our discussion delves into the vital work of redefining and reclaiming the feminine in our lives.

In this conversation, we delve into misconceptions about the divine feminine, the importance of balance, and how Rachel's own journey informs her work with others. This episode is a heartfelt exploration of feminine spirituality, sexuality, and the power of collective healing.

Episode Highlights

Rachel Rossitto's Background: Exploring Rachel's 15-year journey studying Earth-based feminine wisdom, holistic health, womb healing, and spiritual practices.

Reconnecting with the Divine Feminine: The importance of reclaiming the divine feminine energy and its role in achieving balance in our lives.

Principles of Balance in Nature: How nature's inherent balance offers insights into gender norms and the integration of masculine and feminine energies.

Misconceptions about the Divine Feminine: Addressing common misunderstandings and emphasizing that divine feminine energy transcends gender.

The Role of Sensuality and Sexuality: How Rachel's work helps women reconnect with their sensuality and sexuality as integral parts of their spiritual and personal growth.

Rachel's Personal Journey: From her unique birth story to her rebellious teenage years and her eventual path into the healing arts.

Collective Healing and Community: The power of women gathering in circles, amplifying each other's growth, and creating safe, nurturing spaces for healing and transformation.

Resource Links

• Learn more about Rachel and how to engage in her offerings, courses, and retreats at rachelrossitto.com.

• Follow Rachel on Instagram @RachelRossitto

• Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more

• shawnparell.com - Check out Shawn's website to sign up for 5 free meditations, join Shawn’s email list for monthly field notes and music alchemy, and learn more about her work and upcoming events

• Stay connected with Shawn on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice

Join me on our upcoming Iceland yoga and meditation retreat!

Akureyri, North Iceland | October 4-11, 2025

The city of Akureyri was voted the #1 destination in Europe by Lonely Planet. Located on the longest fjord in the country, its mild climate and proximity to the Arctic Circle make it a bucket list, must-see destination. Join us for yoga, meditation, stunning views, breathtaking hikes, frozen waterfalls, Icelandic horseback rides, whale watching, soaking in starlit nature baths, and under the right conditions - chasing the northern lights.

Payment plans are available! Learn more about this offering at shawnparell.com/iceland.

Register Today

A young monk arrives at an old monastery. Among his daily tasks, he is assigned to replicate sacred church canons by hand. He soon observes that each replica is copied from a preceding replica and asks the abbot: “Father, is this not problematic? One mistake could perpetuate through every subsequent copy.” The abbot shrugs and responds, “We have been copying from copies for centuries.” But, wanting to encourage the young monk’s earnestness, he submits to check the original manuscripts for discrepancies.

So, the abbot disappears down a dark staircase to a vault in a cave beneath the monastery. Hours pass and he does not reappear. By now concerned, the young monk descends the staircase and discovers the abbot on the floor, ancient scrolls scattered about, wild-eyed and muttering to himself.

"Father, are you alright?" the novice pleads.

The abbot manages to stutter a single word in response. The young monk slowly, questioningly, sounds it back: “cel-e-brate?”  

“Yes, yes – that’s it! We had it all wrong, my boy. The word was ‘CELEBRATE!’”

~

I love this old dharma joke. Its cheekiness is underpinned by valuable teachings like how a beginner’s mind can grant a fresh perspective and how ritual can devolve into absurdity if its original energy is forgotten. It also makes light of a disposition that seems exclusive to our species – namely, to be unnecessarily hard on ourselves. The sacred revelation of this story is to celebrate.

My mother invoked the aphorism nothing’s ever easy as counsel throughout my growing years. During apartment moves and breakups, at 2 a.m., when I called, bleary-eyed, from a campus library and, repeatedly, through the season of a nervous breakdown (mine, not hers). Among a class of women pioneers in the legal field and a single mom, she worked staggeringly long hours, sacrificed amply, and rarely complained. More than advice, nothing’s ever easy was an anthem and an affirmation: like The Little Engine That Could, it was her way of chugging I think I can, I think I can up the mountain.

My mother was then the age I am now, and I understand how her perseverance was born of a necessary resolve. If she could reframe hardship as reliable rather than unexpected, she could calmly measure the weight of any presenting challenge and steady her course onward and upward. She could overcome. And so, she did.

But every belief has its implications. If we take ourselves too seriously and are convinced that our growth depends on our gravity (the word “serious” comes from the Latin root “serious,” which means "weighty, important, or grave"), we risk veering with programmatic precision toward celibate and not leaving room for celebrate.

Here’s how it happens.

Negativity bias refers to our neurobiological stickiness around negative events or emotions. We weigh perceived threats more heavily than positive or benign factors – it’s a matter of primal electrical activity, information processing, and evolutionary advantage. One constructive comment could be cozied into an outpouring of approval and admiration, for example, and we assume that the constructive comment is the only honest one. We are preferentially sensitized to the pea beneath the mattress.

Modern media algorithmically harnesses and exploits this psychological predilection for negative news to keep our attention. Fear is a hungry beast. Consistent exposure to toxicity and traumatic imagery has become the norm, even for those of us who are media literate and intend to set healthy boundaries for our nervous systems. What’s more, when negativity bias combines with availability bias, the tendency to perseverate and overestimate the importance of the examples that immediately come to mind when considering a topic, and confirmation bias, the tendency to seek out, remember, and favor information that supports something we already believe, diffuse impressions can concretize into core narratives.

Now for an insightful bit of research. Because negative news carries disproportionate psychological weight, balance does not equate to a 50-50 equilibrium. Researchers charted the amount of time couples spent fighting versus nurturing and determined that a ratio of five to one between positive and negative interactions is needed to sustain a stable, satisfying relationship over time. If we apply these findings to our relationship with ourselves, it follows that our physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual well-being is predicated on the multifold cultivation of signals of self-regard over those of scrutiny and punishment.

The first noble truth is that suffering, or dukkha in Pali, is unavoidable. Rupture is bound to happen. Challenges happen; life happens. Nothing’s ever easy. Whether or not we reconcile ourselves to our situation, we are of the nature to grow old, to become ill, to die, and to experience loss. “Be joyful though you have considered all the facts,” wrote Wendell Berry. Our actions and attitudes are our only true belongings, the only ground upon which we stand.

What is the difference between your existence and that of a Saint? The Saint knows that the spiritual path is a sublime chess game with God. And that the beloved has just made such a fantastic move and that the Saint is now continually tripping over joy and bursting out in laughter and saying, 'I surrender.' Whereas, my dear, I'm afraid you still think you have a thousand serious moves. - Hafiz

Joy is about surrendering to the rapture and grace of life. A fresh cell spontaneously begins to pulse within its round, fluid body, sparking neighboring cells, and so on, until a wave of light radiates across a forming heart. This, I believe, is an utterance of joy.

Joy also widens the heart's aperture to delight in facets of our interconnectedness. Sympathetic joy, or mudita in Pali, is the practice of finding pleasure in the intrinsic happiness, health, and good fortune of others. Mudita promises to untie our thoughts from unhelpful comparison and gladden our relational field.

Even allowing the heart to experience sorrow can be a tenderizing portal into joy. According to resilience and bereavement expert George Bonnano, allowing the full spectrum of emotions to emerge is essential to a healthy grief process. His research with psychology professor Dacher Keltner demonstrated that the more widows and widowers laugh and smile during the early months after their spouse’s death, the better their mental health outcomes over the first two years of bereavement.

We can despair over the thousand serious moves we thought we had – or we can recognize that sifting for joy is part of our resilience training. "They've taken so much from me. They've taken our ability to worship in the way we might. They've taken parts of our culture. They burn texts. They've destroyed so much. Why should I let them take my happiness?" wrote the Dalai Lama.

My friend Mark Jensen recalls hearing Father Thomas Barry counsel that we should wake up every morning and beg forgiveness because we are human and because of how much we have destroyed and are destroying; and then, we should stand up, look around, and celebrate beauty so that our celebration is greater than our despair. Because, as we awaken, we may find ourselves like the old monk — bewildered and delighted at how mistaken we were, struggling to appear good rather than inclining ourselves toward the essence of goodness. And, meanwhile, yellow-bodied roses will be opening across the garden.

My guest today is Kasey Hendricks Crown. Kasey is a transpersonal psychotherapist. She's a clinical supervisor, a consultant, a wellness educator, and an activist who challenges traditional mental health paradigms and advocates for a balanced integration of scientific and spiritual perspectives, which I so resonate with.

Kasey has over a decade of experience in facilitating healing for individuals and groups, and she focuses on unlocking vital wisdom to help people reconnect with their true selves.

Along with Jackie Lenardini, Kasey is also the visionary co-founder of WellSoul, a dynamic wellness education company designed to guide individuals toward profound healing and self-discovery.

Resource Links:

* Learn more about Kasey, including events and offerings, at kaseycrown.com.

* Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.

* Shawnparell.com - Check out Shawn's website to sign up for 5 free meditations, join Shawn’s email list for monthly field notes and music alchemy, and learn more about her work and upcoming events.

* Stay connected with Shawn on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice.

Spirals began appearing in the Boyne Valley. First, in a dream when I was rounding cobblestoned streets searching for a place I vaguely remembered. Then, indelibly, among the neolithic moons carved into the mother stones at Newgrange in County Meath, where an invisible hand was believed to gesture to the dead on the briefest day of the year.

The fiddle ferns seemed eager to converse at Ballymaloe, their shoulders smiling atop their green, springtime spines; and a cream-colored nautilus curled perfectly in my palm on a windswept beach in Ardmore. An acupuncturist friend explained how Chi travels through the body's meridians in spiral patterns. Spirals began opening in the intervals between musical harmonies and along the wooden banister in my father’s home. And then, in meditation — massive, breathing spirals emanated like forest vines behind my eyes.

“The spiral is a spiritualized circle. In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, has ceased to be vicious; it has been set free,” said the Russian American author and poet Vladimir Nabokov.

Vedic people sensed this spiritualized circle moving through all creation — and reflected in the physical shape of the galaxies — as the interweaving power of creation itself. The universe does not manifest randomly but is expressed through an intricate matrix they gave the nomenclature Ṛta, a Sanskrit word that means “that which is joined together, order, truth, or architecture.”

Ṛta is closely allied to the injunctions and ordinances thought to uphold it, collectively referred to as dharma, and the action of the individual in relation to those ordinances, referred to as karma (two terms that eventually eclipsed Ṛta in framing a sense of moral and religious order). Josh Schrei and I recently spoke about Ṛta with respect to its etymological connection to the words harmony, rite, art, order, rhythm, and ritual.

But some facts do not square tidily with our notions of sacred geometry. Words and actions can unfurl in conscious or unconscious directions. We get caught in tired eddies of protection, maelstroms of othering, devastating tornadoes of forgetting.

The beauty, the horror. We find ourselves asking — what vastness can contain all this?

Scholar William Mahony explains Ṛta, this concept that encapsulates the centripetal and centrifugal movement of time and evolution, of energy and light, as follows: “Vedic thought holds that a true vision of a divine universe must necessarily include the brokenness of the world and that, in fact, it is precisely the imagination that is able to see the way the whole fits together despite the often disjointed nature of the parts.”

So an uncoiling, integrative comprehension of reality must stretch to encompass the world's brokenness, Mahony counsels.

Joanna Macy, an elder in environmental activism and deep ecology, is the visionary teacher of the Work that Reconnects, a roadmap for staying present to painful truths — the brokenness — while opening to the joy that comes with a renewed commitment to acting on behalf of a more just and humane world.

The Spiral of the Work that Reconnects progresses through four stages as follows:

(1) Gratitude. First, we must touch the ground. Gratitude resources our nervous systems. It links us to a flow of empathy and the inspiration to engage in the present moment and the world around us.

(2) Grief. Here, we stop trying to bypass suffering with protection and privilege. “This world, in which we are born and take our being, is alive. It is … our larger body” (Coming Back to Life, Macy & Brown). We feel our interconnectedness. With support, we allow for the movement of sorrow, the broken-heartedness through which we can access vulnerability and courage toward change.

(3) Seeing with New Eyes. “When we reconnect with life, by willingly enduring our pain for it, the mind retrieves its natural clarity” (Coming Back to Life, Macy & Brown). Opening to knowledge that has been suppressed and making room for our natural emotional responses can evoke greater equilibrium and clarity of thought. No longer unconsciously driven by aversion or grasping, sobriety can emerge — and with it, a more accurate understanding.

(4) Going Forth. Awareness and reconnection naturally inspire a desire to be the change. Our personal mandate to contribute can awaken as we re-sensitize ourselves to the web of life. This is a creative process. It’s about paying attention to how we can participate in the emergence of healing.

Ken Wilber famously spent three years inventorying every known system worldwide—biological, medical, political, cultural, religious, psychological, spiritual, and philosophical—and arranging them into an integral theory. Wilber thus popularized Spiral Dynamics, based on the emergent cyclical theory of adult human development by Professor Clare Graves. As Graves explained: 

“Briefly, what I am proposing is that the psychology of the mature human being is an unfolding, emergent, oscillating, spiraling process marked by progressive subordination of older, lower-order behavior systems to newer, higher-order systems as man's existential problems change. These systems alternate between focus upon the external world, and attempts to change it, and focus upon the inner world, and attempts to come to peace with it, with the means to each end changing in each alternatively prognostic system. Thus, man tends, normally, to change his psychology as the conditions of his existence change. Each successive state, or level of existence, is a state through which people pass on the way to other states of equilibrium. When a person is centralized in one state of existence, he has a total psychology which is particular to that state.”

We don’t always have the vantage point to know where we stand in the great turning. But uncertainty, even ominous apprehension of what could be around the next bend, can nevertheless be a starting point. There are days when the light seems to bend back and shine on everything. There are mornings after storms when perspective can return.

I want to believe in nature's underlying architecture of good and our capacity for deep remembrance. I want to believe that we are held in a gorgeous persistence. When I touch your crown, soft hair whorls upward into my palm. Spirals name your fingertips. Surely, these, too, are glimpses of an ancient vision. 

Tracee Stanley is the author of the bestselling books Radiant Rest: Yoga Nidra for Deep Relaxation and Awakened Clarity and The Luminous Self: Sacred Yogic Practices & Rituals to Remember Who You Are - by Shambhala Publications. She is the founder of Empowered Life Circle, a sacred community and portal of practices, rituals, and Tantric teachings inspired by more than 28 years of studentship in Sri Vidya Tantra and the teachings of the Himalayan Masters. As a post-lineage teacher, Tracee is devoted to sharing the wisdom of yoga nidra, rest, meditation, self-inquiry, spiritual ecology, and ancestor reverence. Tracee is gifted in illuminating the magic and power found in liminal space and weaving devotion and practice into daily life.

Resource Links:

* Find out more about Tracee -  traceestanley.com

* Order a copy of The Luminous Self at traceestanley.com/luminous-self

* Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.

* Shawnparell.com - Check out Shawn's website to sign up for 5 free meditations, join Shawn’s email list for monthly field notes and music alchemy, and learn more about her work and upcoming events.

* Stay connected with Shawn on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice.

Hatchling season has arrived along the coast of Florida. 

With climate change, one can never be certain. Rising sea levels make tides ever higher and rising temperatures heat the sand on which this ancient ritual depends. I was disturbed to read recently that overheating can both kill nesting turtles and skew sex ratios to produce mostly female hatchlings.

One can never be certain these days. Most years, I am reminded of hatchling season by my stepmother, a devotee of the moonlit kingdom that swells each month near her home. She is among the earliest of risers, awake in the navy hours to meditate or send a message to us, her adult children dispersed around the country — or, between March and October, to commune with the thousand-pound pilgrim mothers who entrust their children to this seashore. 

But this year I was there to see it. On a morning when thick clouds bustled the sky, when I was walking through tidal pools, fine-boned birds balancing on the wind, I came upon a cratered mound with a massive, rippling tail tucked beneath the water’s edge. Such a teardrop wingspan could belong only to a Leatherback, among the most elusive and endangered species to bless this place. It was an ordinary morning except that a beloved great-aunt had disappeared into the stars, so naturally I received the nest as a nod from beyond. She must have lumbered to shore on the previous night’s full moon tide — the same, harnessed to an eclipse, into which my aunt receded. 

Watchful guardians had already ribboned the area with orange netting. After sixty days of vigil, a miracle will happen here: a hundred caruncled darlings will muscle their way upward from silent earth toward moonlight, toward ocean, and salvation. Puhpowee, ‘the force which causes mushrooms to push up from the earth overnight’, wrote Robin Wall Kimmerer in her book, Braiding Sweetgrass. It is a word translated from Anishinaabe, an indigenous language concentrated around the Great Lakes. 

Puhpowee is the word I borrow and pray. Most will not survive. They will be picked off by birds or crabs or seek false refuge and never find the ocean. Puhpowee. It is forbidden to help them along; and this, too, is a teaching. 

“In the three syllables of this new word I could see an entire process of close observation in the damp morning woods, the formulation of a theory for which English had no equivalent. The makers of this word understood a world of being, full of unseen energies that animate everything.”

-Robin Wall Kimmerer

It is a comfort to remember the unseen energies of resurrection – to know the one in a thousand who does survive, if granted the conditions, may live a long life, the 150 million years of DNA that came before her awakened in her black eyes. She may travel more than ten thousand miles between nesting and foraging grounds, dive to unseen depths, then rise and return to this place of her unearthing. 

Joshua Michael Schrei is the founder of The Emerald, a podcast that combines evocative narrative, soul-stirring music, and interviews with award-winning authors and luminaries to explore the human experience through a vibrant lens of myth, story, and imagination.

Throughout a lifetime of teaching, study, meditation and yogic practice, wilderness immersion, art, music, and public speaking, Josh has sought to navigate the living, animate space of the imagination and advocate for a world that prioritizes imaginative vision. Josh has taught intensive courses in mythology and somatic disciplines for over 20 years.

Resource Links:

* Join Josh’s mailing list at [email protected]

* Consider Josh’s Patreon to participate in small study groups and more at patreon.com/theemeraldpodcast.

* Check out Josh’s Linktr.ee for more opportunities to connect and subscribe to The Emerald Podcast: https://linktr.ee/theemeraldpodcast

* Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.

* ShawnParell.com - Check out Shawn's website to learn more about her work and upcoming events.

* Stay connected with Shawn and join for live sits on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice.

* Join Shawn in her upcoming virtual course, When the Body Becomes All Eyes: Foundations of Mindfulness Meditation!

Jess is a polymath who lives and works in Washington, DC. She is one of those rare people who is deeply knowledgeable and articulate and able to synthesize a broad range of subjects. I truly love and admire how conversations can go from politics to literature, to history, psychology, to science, to pop culture.

She is a longtime yoga and meditation teacher who leads long-form immersions and international retreats. And she's also been a dedicated student of world-renowned teachers, Shiva Rea for several decades now, as well as Tara Brach, Pema Chodron, and the list goes on.

She has two graduate degrees in journalism and poetry, respectively. She spent 12 years living and working in Israel as a journalist. She is part of an Israeli-American family and has not only granted her fluency in Hebrew, but truly a multicultural perspective.

And most importantly, Jess is a remarkable mom to two Gen Zers, adulting daughters, Ella and Eden.

I asked Jess to join me today for a conversation that has nothing and everything to do with her bio.

Jess is one of the most enduring friends of my life. Whenever there's something in life that I'm scratching my head about (like marriage, what is that all about? What is friendship all about?), she’s the person that I turn to.

Join us as we explore the phenomenon of friendship and its value in times of radical change.

Resource Links:

* Follow Jess on Instagram @jayjolazar

* Check out www.jessicalazar.com for info on yoga classes, teacher training, retreats, and more.

* Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.

* ShawnParell.com - Check out Shawn's website to learn more about her work and upcoming events.

* Stay connected with Shawn and join for live sits on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice.

* Join Shawn in her upcoming virtual course, When the Body Becomes All Eyes: Foundations of Mindfulness Meditation

Wind marks the transition between seasons in Northern New Mexico. Dry wind — the kind that agitates the senses — and mud that coats paws and suctions around walking boots. Emblematic of its military-inspired moniker, March can seem like a landscape across which one must trudge from territory to territory. Dickens described the temper of this month in Great Expectations: “It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”

The sun gradually climbs toward the equator. I unbutton my jacket. A tendril of cold touches my neck. I shiver and burrow my head under a wool cap. I am continuously learning how to get unstuck. Today, the image of another child, shrouded. A mother confronting another day of terrible unknowing. With each step, I name these things with bewilderment.

Why are we not better than we are?

I try to focus on the life that is here, but everything speaks of everything else. Here, dead pines ravaged by bark beetles will have to be removed to prevent a contagion. Here, my son has pulled a little tooth with jagged edges from his mouth and strung it on a necklace.

And here are a few more facts. According to Pew Research, 81% of adults in the U.S. say there is something spiritual beyond the natural world, even if we cannot see it. 46% say they feel a deep sense of wonder about the universe at least once or twice a month, and a similar share (44%) say they feel a sense of spiritual peace and well-being with the same frequency. Also, a folk etymology of the apotropaic incantation abracadabra is avra kehdabra, a biblical Hebrew/Aramaic word from Genesis that means “I will create as I speak” or “I create with the word.”

So, here is another voice I want to hear: a murmur is rising from the deep. Green inspiration is unfurling into form. Time ripens and sleeping palaces breathe themselves awake again. In winter it seems impossible to imagine, but beneath the thin world of our human happenings, nature has all along been secretly, marvelously conjuring.

The rhythm of emergence is a gradual slow beat always inching its way forward; change remains faithful to itself until the new unfolds in the full confidence of true arrival. Because nothing is abrupt, the beginning of spring nearly always catches us unawares. It is there before we see it; and then we can look nowhere without seeing it. 

- ”To Bless the Space Between Us” by John O’Donohue

Any garden we have ever loved depends on this private resurrection. Our growth, too, is often obscured beneath and behind a gradual sequence of unfolding. Our growth, too, cannot be agitated but must continuously emerge from a thawing ground.

John O’Donohue wrote that we must “put our eye to the earth at an unusual angle to glimpse the circle toward which all things aspire.” We rarely speak to each other in such strange terms, but I believe authentic rituals can provide the conditions to sense our belonging. I recently interviewed Mark Jensen, an herbalist elder and dear friend, who described to me the forest walks that have contextualized his daily life for more than forty years. He spoke of greeting a certain plant that intrigued him, year after year, with faithfulness and friendliness and unassuming attention — until, one day, he felt the blessing of a mysterious and reciprocal salutation.

Soon, seemingly out of nowhere, a stream moving down the mountain again may call your attention. In the early morning, or whenever your senses lean toward the liminal, listen for this low hum — a loving, unearthing resonance. Tender saplings may have broken ground overnight; a fist of color may have opened; and you may find yourself once again in communion with nature’s awakening. In time, you may even learn a language, unusual and all your own, shared by lichen and seedlings. Hello down there? I am here. You are here. It is enough. Please, keep going.

The Guest House is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber at https://shawnparell.substack.com

Never in my life have I met anyone who felt music so intensely as my father. He could not help listening to it; when he heard music that pleased him he became excited and there was a contraction in his throat; he sobbed and shed tears. The feelings aroused in him were unreasoning emotion and excitement. Sometimes it excited him against his will and even tormented him, and he would say: que me veut cette musique? (what does that music want of me?)  - Tolstoy, C. S., & Maude, A. (1926). Music in Tolstoy’s Life. The Musical Times, 67(1000), 516–518.

A few weeks ago, while circling the driveway of an elementary school, I received a directive from an old friend via text: listen for nostalgia. Another bell tone followed, delivering a link to an interview about a song I had nearly forgotten in the decade since I last heard it. I am not in the habit of listening to music podcasts. Rarely have I memorized lyrics or researched the story behind a song, believing instead in the primacy of learning a song by heart, through its melodic currents and timbre. But I can understand Tolstoy’s question what does that music want of me? If I find myself intrigued by a song, I like to get quiet and listen with my whole body, and then return again and again until the song becomes a friend and I notice myself asking strange questions like what’s happening here? and why does this feel meaningful to me?

I first heard the song “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight” as a freshman in college. It opens with three incantatory notes from a synthesized organ (C, Dm, Am) and then begins to layer disarmingly self-conscious lyrics, smeared black ink, your palms are sweaty, I’m barely listening, swelling into a melodious revelation: I am finally seeing why I was the one worth leaving. The bridge repeatedly chimes where I am, where I am, offering a gentle allowance to accept where we are and have been.

For those of us for whom Washington, DC in the early 2000s was not just a city but the proving ground of our relational lives, “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight” touched a relatable quality of loneliness, an effervescent tension between wanting to sense our worthiness and dignity on one hand, and the public absurdities and private regrets that are emblematic of a certain chapter of life on the other.  

From Hrishikesh Hirway’s recently remastered interview with Jimmy Tamborello and Ben Gibbard, the unlikely halves of an indie-electronic duo called The Postal Service, I learned some informative details. Their collaboration began at the fringes of their early twenties, when, living in different cities, broke, and barely acquainted, they began mailing fragments of songs back and forth to each other. Fresh musical layers were decanted in the days between sending and receiving them. Gibbard would walk through his neighborhood at night listening to that day’s delivery through wire headphones; his mind would slide around with Tamborello’s instrumentals until an unexpected image or memory would emerge; then he would pull a notebook out of his pocket and start scribbling. It was a faithful process. They asked another acquaintance, Jenny Lewis, to contribute harmonies, and, after some months, they christened their first and only album Give Up.

Give Up was a good one, as it turned out. It is considered a landmark album for its unique fusion of indie-rock and electronic elements; to the artists’ surprise, it sold more than a million records. Warm vocals stream above experimental sounds in what Tamborello and Gibbard dubbed an “80’s electro-pop revival record.” Even now, the songs feel at once familiar and yet serendipitous. We sense two artists on their way somewhere else, but just available enough to slip into a creative portal meant just for them.

Of the album’s first song, Gibbard explains that his first love had left him to pursue a job in Washington, DC. A few months later, he was passing through on tour with Death Cab for Cutie. It felt strange to be in the vicinity of her new life, so they arranged a reunion at the venue before the show. The sweaty palms were hers; the smeared black ink, a list of grievances she had inscribed on her skin earlier that day lest she forget one in the bewilderment of the moment. Her confidence was foam, easily dissolving into anxiety, and her yearning was thick with the conviction that some mutual ground could be found, something taken could be given back.

I remember the cathartic resonance of chanting I was the one worth leaving with a hundred strangers at The Black Cat in the Spring of 2003. I did not know then about the girl who had stood outside the entrance, heart blazing, nor about the boy’s shifty discomfort as ticket holders passed them — I’m staring at the asphalt wondering what’s buried underneath. And yet I did know the girl. I understood her longing to be heard and her futile bids for validation. And I knew the boy, his disassociation, his numbing. We recognized some part of ourselves in their awkward grappling as we had all, in one ragged moment or another, subjected our hearts to over-exposure or barely listened for fear of what would spill over.

The experience of certain feelings can seem particularly pregnant with desire for resolution: loneliness, boredom, anxiety. Unless we can relax with these feelings, it’s very hard to stay in the middle when we experience them. We want victory or defeat, praise or blame. For example, if somebody abandons us, we don’t want to be with that raw discomfort. Instead, we conjure up a familiar identity of ourselves as a hapless victim. Or maybe we avoid the rawness by acting out and righteously telling the person how messed up he or she is. We automatically want to cover over the pain in one way or another, identifying with victory or victimhood.

 – Pema Chodron, “Pema Chodron’s Six Kinds of Loneliness”

February is advertised for romance – but love is not a narrow teacher. No matter our age or stage of life, we want to believe in our worthiness to be met. We have all failed at one time or another to meet another. The stories we have told ourselves are not special, yet they merit our healing attention. Rather than narrowing our treatment of love, rather than setting ourselves up for disappointment on the axis of praise or blame or any of the worldly winds, could we reframe loneliness as an invitation to a more generous and wakeful experience of love?

Beloved Buddhist nun and teacher, Pema Chodron, distinguishes hot loneliness: restless and angsty and pregnant with the desire for resolution; from cool loneliness: an awareness of the groundlessness of life wherein we can observe fear-based patterns without stumbling headlong into them. She explores six facets of cool loneliness that, when integrated through practice over time, amount to a revolution in dignified steadiness, a middle way of presence between the traps of grasping and avoidance. They are “less desire,” or the willingness to be lonely without grasping for a fix – as the Zen master Katagirir Roshi often said, “One can be lonely and not be tossed away by it;” “contentment,” a synonym for accepting the texture of the moment as it is rather than grasping to quell the discomfort; “avoiding unnecessary activities,” an invitation to quit flailing around to escape being with ourselves; “complete discipline,” a willingness to come back again and again, naming and noting and bowing to the profound insolvability of life and our place in it; “not wandering the world of desire,” which is an acknowledgment of false refuge and an invitation to cultivate sobriety in our thoughts and actions; and “not seeking security from one’s discursive thoughts,” an antidote to the subtle ways we measure ourselves against self-inflicted and perceived expectations.  

Let’s be kind, we must remind ourselves, for this is the work of lifetimes. The word “nostalgia” is from the Greek compound nostos (meaning ‘return home’) and algos (meaning ‘pain’). Some memories become eddies; once recalled, we can swirl to make meaning of them. The ache of an unfinished conversation can baffle us not for what happened then, which matters little now, but for what it can reveal about the maturation of love. For we are seekers – we study consciousness through its prisms of knowing and not knowing, of forgetting and remembering. When our attention migrates back to a place where we have surprised, disappointed, or even harmed ourselves, it is calling us to recognize and befriend the hidden forces within us that are subject to swirl in the first place.

~~~

In closing, a small prompt for your consideration: what is a song or a poem or a piece of art or a scene from a movie that stirs your heart to deeper inquiry? What about it draws you closer? Where in your memory does it lead, and how can you more lovingly make sense of or relate to those memories now? What does that music want of you?

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My guest today is Leigh Marz. Leigh is an author, leadership coach, and collaboration consultant. She’s led diverse initiatives, including a training program to promote an experimental mindset among multi-generational teams at the NASA Goddard Space Flight Center and a decade-long cross-sector collaboration to reduce toxic chemicals in partnership with the Green Science Policy Institute, Harvard University, IKEA, Google Green Team, Kaiser Permanente, and many others. 

Most notably for today’s conversation, Leigh is the author, along with her co-author Justin Zorn, of Golden: The Power of Silence in a World of Noise, published by HarperCollins and now being translated into 13 languages. 

Resource Links:

* Find Golden: The Power of Silence in a World of Noise at HarperCollins, Amazon, Bookshop, or anywhere you buy books.

* Pre-order the Golden paperback on Amazon.

* Listen to the Golden audiobook on Audible, read by Prentice Onayemi.

* Foreign publications are available in the UK/Commonwealth, Italy, Portugal, Brazil, Spain, Germany, Slovakia, Japan, The Netherlands, Korea, Russia, Poland, China, and Denmark.

* Visit Leigh and Jason’s website at astreastrategies.com for articles, podcasts, and media coverage tailored to specific audiences such as business, health & wellness, politics, and more.

* Connect with Leigh on LinkedIn @leigh-marz or through her website at leighmarz.com.

* Follow Jarvis through his website, freejarvis.org for information and updates on his case and current appeal.

* Sign the petition to free Jarvis Jay Masters - join the group of over 10k individuals speaking up for Justice for Jarvis.

* Check out Jarvis’ books Finding Freedom: How Death Row Broke and Opened My Heart and Oprah’s book club pick, That Bird Has My Wings: The Autobiography of an Innocent Man on Death Row.  

* Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.

* ShawnParell.com - Check out Shawn's website to learn more about her work and upcoming events.

* Stay connected with Shawn and join for live sits on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice.