Writing the Soul

11/10/2025

Yesterday morning, as I drove through the mountains from Santa Fe toward Boulder, a white dove struck my windshield. This was before dawn, the highway empty, and the world tinted in early blue. A cold fog drifted along the shoulders of the road, and frost feathered the glass. To the east, a thin line of orange light hovered over the peaks. I sipped from a paper cup of gas-station coffee and kept my eyes peeled for deer. A few miles north of Poncha Springs, a yellow sign appeared in my headlights: WATCH FOR WILDLIFE. I slowed, scanning the edges of the pavement for movement. The road shimmered with ice. I was thinking about the writing classes I teach, about Hasita, about the weekend ahead, and about the quiet that waited for me at home.

Then, without warning, a white blur cut across my headlights from the right. There was no time to react. A soft thud, the crack of impact, and then silence. My chest clenched. I kept driving, stunned, waiting for something to follow—a feather caught on the wiper, a smear, or a sign of what had just happened—but there was nothing. Just the dark road rising and falling through the mountains, the hum of the engine, and the sick feeling that comes when beauty and violence meet.

For the next thirty miles I drove in a kind of trance, gripped by this pregnant moment. The way it had come out of nowhere. How alive and quick it had been. And how final it seemed.
The world felt charged. It vibrated.

When I finally stopped for gas in Fairplay, the sun was spilling over the ridgeline. I stepped out into the cold, and the first thing I saw was the dusty imprint. Across the glass was the faint, perfect outline of a dove: wings open and head lifted, as if still in flight. There wasn’t blood. Only dust, a soft white powder. At the center was a small crack where its body had struck. The rest of it looked almost holy, like the negative of an old photograph.

I stood there a long time, staring at it. I felt guilt, but also something else: awe. I had hit a bird. But I had also collided with a symbol.

I reached for the squeegee, thinking I could wash it away. I pressed hard, dragging the rubber across the glass. The outline smeared but didn’t disappear. I tried again. I leaned into the strokes, the cold air biting my hands. Still, the wings remained: ghostly, stubborn, and translucent. Even now, a day later, if the light hits just right, you can still see the faint trace of its body on the glass.

Driving north again, I kept thinking about how something so soft could arrive with such force. I had been living lately with more focus and more boundaries. Good things, but maybe there was a message here: stay soft.

This seemed to be one of those moments when the veil thins and the unseen pushes its way into the visible world. Yesterday morning felt like what Robert A. Johnson called a moment of the Golden World. He describes the Golden World as a brief opening when the ordinary becomes extraordinary and spirit and matter fold into one another.

As I drove, I kept thinking of the bird’s image on my windshield. It asked to be understood. It reminded me of Johnson’s memoir, Balancing Heaven and Earth. In it, Johnson describes further the Golden World, those moments when the soul breaks through the surface of everyday life and shows us that the world is not random. It is alive, responsive, and speaking.

Johnson’s descriptions and insights gave helped me understand. He gave words to this type of experience I’d known since childhood. Reading him helped me see that the sacred isn’t somewhere else. It’s right here, hiding in plain sight, waiting for us to notice.

That book changed me. It helped me trust my own way of experiencing things. I now see that the the experiences and descriptions that many people would call superstition or projection are, in truth, the original language of the psyche. Johnson taught me that these moments of shock and beauty are how the soul shows us it’s listening. The more I’ve leaned into that way of living, the more the world has leaned back.
The day after the dove, I pulled a card from The Great Beyond Archetype Deck. I use that deck the way I use dreams: playfully, curiously, not to predict but to listen. The card I drew was The Unseen. I laughed out loud. Of course it was.

Here’s the thing: The more I honor this kind of listening to my soul and to the soul of the world, the more people I meet who live this way too. My Substack began to grow when I stopped hiding the mystical parts of my life and started writing about how the world actually feels to me. It is strange, interactive, and full of weird, meaningful emissaries.

That morning’s encounter with the unseen felt like a continuation of something much older in me. I’ve spent my life chasing and being chased by moments like it. I tell this story in my memoir, Into the Soul of the World: My Journey to Healing. The book tells of my rise as a journalist and adventure writer, the years of travel and success, and the crash that followed: addiction, PTSD, depression, and the slow climb back. It’s also about learning again to live in conversation with the unseen. In it, I write about being pulled back to India decades after my first visit, drawn by something that felt like a teacher. That journey led me to a cave in the Himalayas, where I met a hundred-year-old yogi who had lived there for twenty-five years. When I was a teenager, I used to read about yogis in caves and dream of finding one. Forty years later, I did.

That encounter stayed with me. I left the mountains more certain than ever that the world is alive. That it speaks through events and people if we learn to listen. Later, a friend gave me language for what I had felt. He told me that God shows up in emissaries. These symbols, people, and natural happenings are the ways the divine makes contac. Each one is a visitation reminding us that we’re not alone, that meaning is woven through even the most ordinary moments.

I think about that when life feels ordinary. When Tommy rests his head on my knee while I write. When Hasita starts singing along to a favorite song as we drive the gravel roads outside Santa Fe, her voice rising with the dust. When a student finds the sentence that finally unlocks their story. These are emissaries too. They are reminders that the unseen keeps moving quietly through the visible world.

It’s in moments like these that my two lives, the writer and the teacher, feel like one. They come from the same impulse: to pay attention, to say what’s true, and to let meaning reveal itself through story. I’ve taught and edited memoir writing for almost fifteen years. What I teach in Writing the Soul is not just craft. It’s a way of being with your story. You don’t have to be spiritual to belong here. You only have to believe that stories matter. I teach writing, but more than anything, I teach people how to listen to their own stories and to the world that keeps trying to speak through them. You don’t have to be mystical or have access to golden worlds. You only have to be yourself. You have to stop filtering your story and stop leaving parts of you out. That is where the alchemy begins.

The imprint of that dove is still on my windshield. I’ve stopped trying to wipe it off. It reminds me that the world speaks when it wants to, that spirit and matter are never far apart, and that every story begins with a single, undeniable moment of impact.

11/05/2025

https://substack.com//note/c-173897385?r=52197&utm_medium=ios&utm_source=notes-share-action

Hi Friends, I’m going Live today at 2 pm ET, 11 am PT with a guided journaling prompt. I hope to see you there. https://open.substack.com/live-stream/75109?r=52197&utm_medium=ios

10/09/2025

Hi Friends,
Will you have a glance at my latest Seeking newsletter? It's called The Dead Guru Who Won't Leave Me Alone. This week’s Seeking is about Neem Karoli Baba—the dead Indian saint who keeps showing up in my life—and about the strange intelligence we call love. Not romantic love, but the kind that seems to hold the whole universe together, the one that slips in when reason runs out of words. I’ve spent years trying to understand who or what this being is, and I still don’t know. Maybe that’s the point. What remains, whenever I stop trying to explain it, is a felt sense of presence—warm, electric, and vast—reminding me that love isn’t an emotion we manufacture, but the atmosphere we’re already breathing.
The Dead Guru Who Won’t Leave Me Alone
I think a lot of us are just looking for a place to set our doubt down—so the part of us that believes and the part that questions can stop arguing long enough for us to take a deep breath.
I’ve spent half a lifetime caught in that fight, trying to square the sacred with the rational so that my mind and my heart could finally belong to this one body.
Is this true for you? Do you hear or feel the low hum of something real but unspeakable beneath the noise of ordinary life? Do you, like me, sense that something intelligent and tender is moving through our world just beyond the field of proof and certainty?
For years I tried to ignore the hum. As a magazine journalist, I built a life on facts and clever language. I trusted what could be verified, mapped, or measured. I trusted evidence and proof, and I mistrusted anything that couldn’t be placed in a category or given a definition.
And yet, throughout the years, something wild and barely imaginable kept slipping through the cracks.
Did this happen for you too? Does the universe keep reminding you that proof is only part of the story?
For me, this pull toward—let’s call it—a wild god began in the late 1990s in the form of a dead Indian saint named Neem Karoli Baba. Famous as the guru to Ram Dass, the American psychology-professor-turned-spiritual teacher, Maharaj-ji, as he was known, left his body in 1973 when I was six years old. But somehow this dead guru keeps showing up in my life, in my mind, and especially in my heart.
Yes, I know how strange this sounds to most people today. We are all so conditioned by society to be materialists. We’ve sadly come to believe that “stuff” is all there is.
I guess I never completely fell for it.
And trust me, I’m not the guru type. I’ve been allergic to blind faith and the cult of personality. But somehow this presence feels different.
Neem Karoli Baba didn’t teach. He wasn’t about hierarchy or method. He was a being.
People who sat with him say he loved you from the inside out.
And me? I never met him. But even after his death, his intelligent, mischievous love has rearranged me from the inside out.
I’m not the only person who’s experienced this.
My journey with Neem Karoli Baba began one night in the late nineties on the floor of the Unitarian church in Santa Fe. Thirty or forty of us, mostly women and men who practiced yoga, sat cross-legged as Krishna Das played his harmonium and sang Indian religious chants. His voice was both rough and tender, and he linked them with stories told in a New York accent and laced with profanity.
Within minutes of the first chant, my chest was vibrating like a cello.
A few months later, I spotted a sign on a bulletin board for an in-person talk by Ram Dass at a retreat center in the New Mexico desert. His post-stroke voice was halting but soaked with grace—which happened to be the topic of his talk.
A few years later, my friend Claudine handed me her old copy of Ram Dass’s Be Here Now. I’d never read—nor seen—a book like that. Soon I was buying CDs of his talks and listening to them over the hum of my tires on long desert drives.
I felt the truth of his words, a different type of truth than mere fact.
I didn’t know it then, but I was already feeling the mysterious pull of Neem Karoli Baba. A pull to Mystery. A pull to Love with a capital L.
And then I began fixating on returning to India, where I’d traveled as a journalist years before. I didn’t have a choice. I needed to spend time at his temple in the village of Kainchi, in the jungle-covered Himalayan foothills.
And so I bought a plane ticket, and I went in search of the feeling that was growing inside me.
Today I understand better. This draw toward the dead guru wasn’t happenstance. It wasn’t mere obsession. It was spiritual transmission—though not in the formal sense. It was the world itself speaking in his shape, asking to be noticed. It was love. The kind that underlies everything.
Still, despite all the spiritual “evidence” I was accruing, I kept clinging to reason and to my thinking brain like a railing on a balcony twenty stories up.
And yet something truer, more ancient, and simultaneously more correct to me, kept tugging at me, asking to be trusted.
Eventually I did trust.
I didn’t abandon my need for facts. But I opened to something more true.
Back home in Colorado, I built an altar. I began to sit in the pre-dawn and light candles and incense. The smoke coiled upward like a nervous system searching for sky. I began to talk to Maharaj-ji’s photograph, to his grinning, trickster face, and asked him to fix things I couldn’t. I asked him to make me less resentful, less self-centered, less delusional…more loving.
The past few weeks in Santa Fe had been sweet ones. I was teaching my Writing the Soul classes, working one-on-one with memoir clients, and spending long mornings with Hasita in the garden by the koi pond. The light fell through the cottonwoods in long gold threads; the sound of water and wind mixed like breath. Tommy, my six-year-old cattle dog, had been sick most of the summer but was finally wagging his tail again. Hasita is funny, stubborn, and full of grace; her compassion stretches wide. She teaches me softness just by being herself. Maharaj-ji teaches me to stay there—to hold the softness even when it feels like too much. Maybe that’s why, when the pull toward Taos came, I didn’t resist it. I wanted to feel closer to the source of that tenderness I’m still learning to trust.
And so last Sunday I drove north from Santa Fe to Taos to visit the Neem Karoli Baba Ashram and Hanuman Temple. I needed a spiritual check-in with my dead guru.
Ahead of time I set an intention. I would ask him for a word.
The sky was rinsed clean, the air crisp with September clarity. Past Tesuque, the aspens flashed yellow against dark firs. North of Española, pueblos stood quiet, adobe walls the color of bread crust. The road tightened into a steep canyon. The Rio Grande flashed below to the left. Black volcanic cliffs rose on both sides. Wire mesh glittered over the rock as if it were the desert’s nervous system. My pulse kept time with the curves, and that question returned: Was I losing my mind, or finally finding my heart?
By the time I reached the Neem Karoli Baba Ashram, the light had softened to gold. The smell of roasting chiles drifted through town. I parked beside the low adobe wall and sat with the engine ticking. Every pilgrimage begins with hesitation—the wish to be seen by the divine and the wish to hide from it. I could almost hear my old journalist friends teasing, Wetzler’s gone mystical. He’s bonkers.
Maybe I had.
But this: a world that mocks love is the real insane asylum.
Inside the courtyard the air smelled of marigolds and ghee. A bearded devotee sat cross-legged on the mandir floor with a harmonium on his lap. Behind him, a large Hanuman murti rose from the altar, orange and gold, his face both fierce and tender, his tail curling upward toward the rafters. Around him hung framed photographs of Maharaj-ji—smiling, eyes half-shut in laughter, wrapped in his plaid blanket. The walls were lined with candles in brass holders; the air shimmered with incense, sandalwood and smoke. The devotee began to sing Om Namah Shivaya, his voice carrying through the room like a bell struck underwater. Then he moved into the Hanuman Chalisa—forty verses of praise to the monkey god of courage and service.
I sat a few feet away and joined him. The harmonium’s reeds breathed and trembled. Each syllable vibrated behind my ribs. The sound climbed my spine. The air felt thick, fragrant, and alive. The candles flickered as though the sound itself was breath.
Do you know that feeling? The moment when a sound or utter silence cracks your shell and you realize you’re not separate from anything after all.
When the music stopped, silence poured in like water. I stayed seated. Outside, cottonwoods shimmered. A few wanderers crossed the courtyard—scruffy, sun-creased faces. They seemed like people who no longer fit our culture’s narrow idea of worth.
Nobody here seemed to belong, which somehow made the belonging deeper. I felt the loving presence of Maharaj-ji in the courtyard.
I sat on a bench drinking chai. My jeans were tight at the knees. Sweat cooled along my spine. I whispered Ram Ram Ram Sita Ram. Tommy had been sick all summer. And my body and mind were exhausted from the stress and fear that he’d die.
And then, as I was about to stand up and head back to my car, a single word arrived: mercy.
I could almost hear Maharaj-ji laugh and Ram Dass’s voice saying, Your mind is tired? Good. Stay in your heart.
As the word echoed, the high desert blurred and Kainchi came into focus. Suddenly, it was seven years ago, and I was back in that narrow Himalayan valley, the jungle rising steep and green on both sides, the air heavy with pine and woodsmoke. The Kosi River ran fast and silver below the road, cutting through smooth stones, its sound carrying like breath through the trees.
I was crossing the narrow bridge over the stream again, monkeys darting around me, their babies clinging to their backs. On the far side the orange temple roofs caught the sun and glowed like embers. I turned left, down the steps, into the courtyard where men sang and bells rang. The sound of the kirtan spilled from the halls like light, voices layered with drum and harmonium. I sat near the cot where Baba had once rested, the woven rope pressed into the earth, and emptied myself, asking the divine to pour in.
A few days later, I climbed the steep path through the pines to the cave of a hundred-year-old yogi, one of Baba’s disciples who had lived there for decades. Inside, the light was dim, blue smoke curling from a brass lamp. We sat cross-legged in silence until he began to chant, low and rhythmic, the syllables rising and falling like the pulse of the mountain itself. I joined him, the chant threading us together. When the sound faded, I asked him questions—not clever ones, just the simple things that rise from a heart wanting to understand: What is real? How do we serve? How do we love when the world wounds us? He answered mostly in gestures and smiles, a wave of the hand, a widening of the eyes. And then he leaned forward, placed his palm on the crown of my head, and something in me broke open. When I left the cave, the world tilted; for twelve hours everything breathed—trees, rocks, air—alive and awake.
What I experienced that day wasn’t an escape from reality—it was discovering what reality was going to be for me. I experienced the opening of an inner eye, a way of seeing that changed how I moved through the world. Love was no longer an emotion or a virtue; it was the structure of being itself, the connective tissue of creation. This isn’t what we’re taught in school or in church or in the markets of achievement. You learn it only when something cracks you open—when beauty, grief, or devotion rearranges your sense of what is real.
Even now, I resist it. The rational mind tries to shut the door, to label it heatstroke or projection. But I know better. The universe is stranger, more intelligent, than we allow. Reason is a fine tool but a terrible god. What could be saner than love?
Sometimes I see it this way: Neem Karoli Baba has given me, a former depressed journalist, a whole new nervous system. He speaks through laughter. He doesn’t need my religious guilt; he wants my joy and presence. He doesn’t inspire guilt. He says, You’re already forgiven—now get on with loving.
Sometimes I think Baba has been translating the language of love back into a tongue I can understand. He once told Ram Dass that Jesus and Hanuman were the same—that both were born only to serve, that both loved love itself.
Hearing that the first time unsettled me. What Neem Karoli Baba and Jesus share isn’t devotion, but an open-hearted willingness to suffer with and for the world. Maybe that’s what salvation really is: a loving presence so deep it turns into mercy.
It’s taken most of a lifetime to unlearn a punishing God. Each day I still feel the tug of those old voices, the ones that mistook shame for devotion. But love keeps finding a way in.
Slowly I returned to Taos. I lingered in the courtyard for a few more minutes. The air had changed—the colors seemed fuller, even the gravel under my shoes seemed to vibrate. People were talking softly near the temple steps. The bearded man folded his harmonium like a bird’s wings. I felt emptied and filled at once. The word mercy was still moving through me, low and steady, like water under ice.
When I left the ashram that afternoon, clouds were gathering over the mountains. I thought of all my outer journeys—the ice of Greenland, the Himalayan passes, the deserts of the Middle East—and realized they’d all been rehearsals for this one: learning to travel inward without getting lost.
The drive home was a descent through thunder, rain, and light. The highway rode the top of the mesa before plunging into canyon. The Rio Grande’s silver water shimmered below, cutting through black basalt. Lightning flashed across the clouds; rain hammered the windshield. Each flash illuminated the wet rock walls, and for a heartbeat the whole world felt self-aware.
By the time I reached Santa Fe, the storm had thinned to mist.
The streets glistened, mountains veiled. I sat at a red light, flannel damp, beard whiter now, glasses slipping down my nose. I realized Maharaj-ji wasn’t somewhere else. He has become the circuitry of my being, as real as stone, as real as storm, as real as mercy.
Each morning when I sit by my altar and look at his photograph, his grin loosens something in me. I’m almost sixty now, still stubborn, still learning to give myself the mercy he keeps offering. Outside, the streetlights glowed in the rain. Inside, mercy hummed low and steady, like thunder still rolling somewhere just beyond the mountains.
And you—if you’d been there beside me in that mandir, or later on the canyon road with thunder laughing overhead—what presence would you admit is already walking beside you? What word would rise if you asked for one, and what might it make of you if you let it stay?

04/07/2025

Here I am, getting ready for tomorrow’s first session of Writing the Soul. I’m very excited

Thirteen incredible humans have already said yes. Some are writers. Others are seekers. A few are arriving with a specific project in mind—a memoir, a body of work they can feel taking shape. Others are coming with a deeper question in their chest: How can I show up more fully in the world? How can I live from the deepest part of myself?

I have room for two more.

This course has been a labor of love and attention. And I’m not doing this alone. I’m joined by six extraordinary co-teachers—Melissa Walker, Radha Marcum, Adam Guzman-Poole, Michelle Dowd, Emily Rapp Black, and Scott Youmans—each of whom brings a unique voice and hard-won wisdom to the circle. I trust them with my own soul, and I trust them with yours.

Writing the Soul is an eight-week journey into the deep interior. It’s part writing class, part spiritual exploration, part refuge. Each week, we explore a different facet of the self: the hidden, the wild, the embodied and sexual, thd archetypal. We write not just to say something—but to listen for what our lives are trying to tell us.

I’ve been preparing in the usual way—outlines, edits, long work sessions.
And I’ve also been preparing the soul way—by walking, pausing, listening. Letting what’s true rise up from beneath the noise.

When I say “soul,” I don’t mean a religious idea. I mean the Deep Self—that ancient, intimate, intelligent part of us that remembers who we are. It’s the thread that connects us to one another, to nature, to something larger. Some call it mystery. Some call it God. I just know it’s real—and I trust it more than ever.

That’s the place we’ll write from.
That’s the space we’ll hold.

If something in you stirs while reading this, DM me. Or sign up at my website—I’ll drop the link in the comments.

Let’s begin.

10/17/2024

Have you ever felt torn between two worlds? One built on cold, hard facts, the other filled with mystery you can’t quite explain?

That’s been my story for years—pulled between what I know in my gut and what I can prove with my mind. Maybe you’ve felt that same tension, like your heart and mind are locked in a fight neither of them can win.

This morning, as I sat in candlelight, meditating before the sun came up, an old memory hit me. Gene Savoy. The explorer I met years ago in Hawaii while reporting an article for *The New York Times Magazine*. We were sitting in a dingy seaside bar on the North Shore of Oahu. I can still smell the salt air mixing with spilled beer and whiskey. He was thin, hunched over the table, wearing a white captain’s hat emblazoned with an anchor emblem, a pipe dangling from his mouth. He told me about a time in the 1960s when he and his team got lost in the jungles of Peru.

There was something about him—a mix of arrogance and desperation. He had spent his life searching for pre-Incan ruins and wisdom in far-off places, but his ego always seemed to get in the way. He was brilliant, but there was something small and broken in him, too.

Savoy described how he and his crew pushed deeper into the jungle every day, the path swallowed by vines and overgrowth. They were lost, and fear crept in. But Savoy refused to show it.

One day, while poring over maps in his tent, he heard a sound—*Riiiiiing, riiiiiing*—cutting through the thick, stifling air. He ran outside and found his men hacking at vines with their machetes. He grabbed one and swung it himself. The same ringing echoed with every strike.

His eyes lit up as he told me this, gripping my hand.

“Mr. Bradley,” he said, “I knew we were saved. We weren’t going to die.”

I was confused. “How?”

“We’d found an ancient Incan road,” he said. “A road goes somewhere. Maybe it would take us to ruins, but more importantly, it would take us back to civilization. Roads can lead you home.”

Back then, I didn’t fully understand what he meant. His words felt like a koan. But years later, after I began facing the PTSD and addiction that had taken hold of me, his story made more sense. I saw that road as a metaphor for my own journey out of the pit and back to myself.

But today, decades later, I’m seeing it differently.

The Road Home isn’t about finding oneself. It’s about finding humility, about opening up to something bigger than yourself. What all those ancient books say is true: *To have it all, you must give it all away.*

What does that mean? It means letting go of the need to be correct. It means giving up the certainty I once clung to as a journalist, and even the certainty I reached for in my spiritual practice.

For years, I held too tightly to both sides of myself: the part that craved logic and the part that wanted to surrender to mystery. I thought I had to choose between them. But I don’t.

Real healing began when I let go, stopped trying to force life to fit into the boxes I had built for it. Giving it all away means being okay with the mess, the tension, and the not knowing. I spent years trying to nail down who I was, what I believed, and what life should look like. The truth is, I had to let it all go.

The hardest part? Humility meant unwinding the toxic masculinity I didn’t even know I was carrying—the certainty, the arrogance, the way I pushed forward to achieve and attain without stopping to listen. At 58, I’m learning to be a better listener now. I’m learning to stop talking long enough to hear what life is trying to tell me. Letting go of the need to be right. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m learning.

This new road I’m on is about bringing the two sides of my mind together—the part of me that demands things make sense, and the part of me that knows there’s a mystery you can’t touch with logic. I wonder if you’ve felt that same split inside—like you’re torn between what you “know” and what you “feel.”

I know I’m not alone. We live in a culture that’s as divided as I’ve been. Some of us put all our faith in science and logic, while others cling to religious dogma that doesn’t fit reality. Neither side feels whole. There’s no clear path to reconcile the split, to heal the chasm between our scientific minds and our deep human desire to experience the sacred.

Maybe you’ve felt this longing, too. Have you ever felt like parts of yourself aren’t talking to each other? Like your mind and your heart are at war?

I’m learning that the real work isn’t about picking a side. It’s about finding humility. And when I did, a road through the jungle appeared. Logic and mystery can walk side by side.

So, as I sit here thinking about Gene Savoy’s story, I wonder—where are you on your journey? Do you feel like you’re walking a road that connects all the parts of yourself? Or are you still stuck, trying to figure out which side to choose?

What would it look like to find a road that leads you home? A road where your mind and heart don’t have to fight anymore. A road where the logical and the mystical can finally live together.

As I keep walking this road, I’ve been working on something new—another memoir with reporting mixed in. This book is about the process of bringing the pieces of myself together—figuring out how to let the logical and spiritual sides of me live in the same space. But here’s the truth: I couldn’t have arrived at this hard-earned wisdom if my life as an adventure writer hadn’t been taken from me by addiction and PTSD. Losing that life broke me, but it also set me on this road. And I’m learning that the road to balance, like Savoy’s ancient road, is always there, waiting to take us somewhere deeper. It always leads us home.

for more like this, see my Enlightened-ish newsletter on Substack