Acceptance & Aging

So much has happened since I last wrote. Another year has slipped by. I like to think I move like the spirits—outside of time—but the clock still rules the world.

In the past year I moved twice, unpacked boxes, started a job, made peace with some things and took a stand on others, climbed mountains, learned to coax fire from a wood stove, painted Dream House, and traveled. I loved and I lost. Like you, I ride this rollercoaster called life, trying to make sense of it all.

Through every change, my mornings remain the same. I sit. I breathe deeply. I give thanks. Sometimes I pray. The universe is still my home, I remind myself. The universe is timeless.

Lately, I feel as if I’ve stepped into a higher frequency—one where the smallest moments can bring me to tears. It’s as if I’ve stumbled into a consciousness where the weave of my life reveals itself in the ordinary. Perhaps this is what David Hawkins calls Acceptance, an energy level of 350: “One now sees things without distortion or misinterpretation… one is capable of seeing the whole picture.”

The whole picture.

Through this lens, I notice how people reveal themselves in the smallest gestures—especially in the way they eat. Today, my heart broke open thinking of my aging mother at the table.

I see her mouth moving slowly as she chews, her arm resting on the table, bread held delicately in her right hand while her left lies still, uncurled. Her eyes drift far away, almost glossy. In these details, I see her aged wisdom and the young girl I never met—innocent, vulnerable, lit by the simple joy of eating. I imagine that child bouncing in her chair, and I want to protect her. But I can’t. I can’t hold back the tide. My mother, like my husband and my brother, will one day move on to the great beyond. What I witnessed in that instant was not just her—it was the void, shimmering at the edges.

I wept over my own lunch, alone. These days I am more present with her, knowing every moment is both love and letting go. Life is nothing more, perhaps, than a string of intimate moments—gone as quickly as they come, asking only to be seen.

And so the tears come, and with them, tenderness.

And so the tears come, and with them, tenderness.