Yesterday I took Alegria for a ride along the beach. Pacas came with us—because why would she stay behind if there’s a ride happening?

It was later than usual, the sky moody and overcast, a storm hovering along the horizon to the north. Alegria was relaxed and her gait was easy. I fell into her rhythm. Pacas ran ahead, chasing seagulls. As we waded through the water Alegria listened to the waves—and to me—with ears like little antennae. By any objective measure, it was perfect.

And yet, I had this distinct, haunting feeling: This is not my life.

I remember the first time I had the realization. I don’t remember the specific situation, but I remember exactly where I was: the parking lot of a Ralphs Grocery Store.

Something had happened—some situation that had "triggered" me—and I could feel my emotions boiling. It was like heating milk on the stove; that precise moment where it rises up the sides of the pan, about to spill everywhere.

In that moment, a small, gentle voice made itself known:

“Maybe this is telling you something.”

About two decades ago, I was trying to figure out what was next. I had graduated from seminary and completed every grueling step for ordination in the Presbyterian Church. But I had yet to "receive a call," and honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted one.

I feel a bit hungover today, but I haven’t been drinking. It is a debt of a different kind—an energy hangover.

Yesterday morning, I skipped my daily practice of Fifteen Minutes of Nothing. It wasn’t a dramatic choice or even an intentional one; I just casually let it slip. I thought, “Maybe it isn’t essential after all. I’ll take a day off.”

For most of my life, I assumed that to be a “good host,” I had to be perpetually attentive—a 24/7 source of organization and presence. I thought love looked like pouring myself out until I was depleted, micromanaging every detail to ensure a guest’s experience was “just so.”

It was a bit like a Waymo car—always pointing outward, scanning, asking: “What do you need? What do you need now?” On the surface, it may seem like attentiveness, even kindness. But underneath, there is a shadow side. When we try to have the experience for people, we actually rob them of their own.

Hosting isn’t just about being present; it is about the art of allowing for spaciousness.

During the summer of 2002, I worked as a hospital chaplain. It was not my choice. Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) was a requirement for my ordination path. I had heard horror stories about CPE that made it sound more like a spiritual hazing than ministry training. 

It wasn’t just accompanying families to the morgue to identify their loved ones that made me want to hide, but also the "unpacking" of one's own life and issues in a small group setting that, in the telling, seemed rather like being dissected alive.

So, I entered Mission Hospital that summer less than eager.

What if the most subversive act was actually to create? To bring beauty into the world? You don’t have to be an "artist" to do this. You just have to create.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about where we put our attention—how we give our attention. How we let it be tossed about, like a child’s toy boat bobbing on the sea. How we let our inner lead be dragged around, like a horse with loose reins weaving off the path and into the bushes, going where it will.

There is a term in the horse world called "forward." It’s a driving, powerful, ground-covering stride. It isn’t a gallop, and it isn’t a trudge. It’s purposeful.

But even the strongest horse can lose their "forward" when they’re alone on an unknown trail.

We humans are the same, aren’t we?

We need our space, but we also find our bravest motion when the herd is riding with us. 🐎✨

There was no "reason" to have Taquito at the ranch. He served no "purpose." But Taquito needed a home, and what better home than a ranch?

His career had been in tourism. He came from Tijuana, a white donkey painted with black stripes—a Zonkey. For years, he had posed for tourist photos along the famous Calle Revolución. When he came to the ranch, the black stripes faded and Taquito finally got to be a donkey. Every now and again, we’d saddle him up for a trip to the beach where he’d pose with small children and eat cookies. But mostly, he just got to be a donkey.

I thought I knew how to see. 📷

In 2006, Peter Turnley showed me that my "best" photos were actually just static poses. It took ten days in Paris to realize I’d been missing the "real" my entire life.

Twenty years later, it’s happening again—this time with my sentences.

A reflection on Peter Turnley, Neal Allen, Anne Lamott, and the awe of realizing you’re still a beginner at the thing you’ve done forever.

I almost gave up on this puzzle. Twice. 🧩

First, because it looked "too hard." Then, because I realized the edge pieces were missing. My instinct was to put it back in the box—you aren't "supposed" to build a puzzle without a border.

But I stayed at the table anyway.

I’m finding that there is a specific kind of strength in the staying—even when the map is blurry and the edges are MIA.

I think it can be easy to assume, with so much of the self-help advice that goes around, that the goal of life is some perfect state of peace—a nervous system constantly regulated, never encountering a single bump in the road.

But as we say in the horse world: the only way to be 100% guaranteed you won’t fall off is to never get on.

It is the same with life.

I remember being so frazzled, so harried, and so depleted by my life that I felt like a well run dry.

I was in my late twenties, in a high-power, high-stress corporate role. I had the team, the salary, and the "ladder" under my feet. And I was miserable.

But the gift of that misery was that it forced me to stop. To consider. To examine. What did I actually want out of my life? At the time, I was so empty I didn’t even know the answer. I just knew I couldn't keep walking the path I was on. But I also couldn’t see how change was even possible.

Have you ever eaten a Tootsie Pop?

You lick, and lick, and lick—unless you are one of those people who bites them right from the get-go (and then this story maybe doesn’t work as well for you). You keep going until finally, after slow, steady effort, you come to that magical center. The part that isn't hard candy anymore, but a full-on, chewy Tootsie Roll.

I think that’s what the Deep Seat is like. Allow me to explain. 

Have you ever felt the "Tug of Mañana"?

Yesterday I had a real-world example of that familiar pull.

I had planned to ride Fortuna—I haven’t ridden her for a few weeks due to a variety of things that just kept coming up. But the day before, I had looked her in the eye and promised, “Tomorrow we will go out for a ride.”

There is a joke here that in Spanish, the word mañana doesn’t actually mean tomorrow—it just means not today.

This whole The Return experience exists because even though I had changed my life completely—swapping a frantic, corporate existence for “living the dream” in rural Baja and riding my horse along the beach at sunset—I was starting to feel a little bit like... well, a little bit like I had back in my harried, hectic, corporate days of rush and hurry.

How could that be? My time was my own. My schedule was my own. I didn’t have to sit in traffic. I didn’t have a commute. I thought I had found “the answer” to what had ailed me—only to find myself right back where I had been, just without the high-paying job that at least gave me money for therapy.

Since becoming a horsewoman, there has been something bothering me about the Palm Sunday story—and it’s probably not what you think.

Have you ever felt like you were doing all the work, but had nothing to show for it? Like you were providing the fuel, but the engine just wouldn't start?

I have three chickens. I had never had chickens before, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. I was just excited about them being the "perfect" permaculture animal—they eat kitchen scraps so nothing goes to waste, and from those scraps, they produce eggs! I love the reality of it, but I love the metaphor, too. That which would otherwise become "waste" is not only saved but put to nourishing use. It’s a beautiful metaphor for life.

But just when I thought the metaphor was as perfect as it could be, I found out there was more.

Twenty-five years ago, I was “successful.”

I was only in my 20’s, but I had climbed the corporate ladder - from managing people to products and eventually special projects for the COO of a rising technology company. I made great money, but I had no life. No time. I was exhausted. Depleted. Something I’ve come to call ‘bad tired’ - a weariness that a bubble bath or a vacation couldn’t touch. I knew I wanted more for my life than a ‘success’ that felt empty and sucked the life out of me.

So, I decided to ‘burn it all down.’

They say it is better to give than to receive, but I’ve never been too sure of that. Until, perhaps, yesterday.

Every day is a gift, of course, but yesterday was a "Santa Claus Book."