At the Threshold
Breadcrumbs from the Trail...
I’m writing from another moment of transition.
Not quite home yet.
No longer traveling.
Somewhere along the rain-washed forests between Squamish and Vancouver, where the mountains command worship and the air smells like cedar and return.
For now, I’m staying in my daughter’s home, held in its warmth and familiarity, while my own space waits, so close now, so close.
Tomorrow I will walk over the threshold of my cherished space.
The furniture will not arrive until Monday.
Most of my belongings are still elsewhere.
When I walk through the door, the rooms will be nearly empty.
And somehow, that feels exactly right.
This past week has carried a quiet rhythm. Rain moving through the trees. Sudden breaks of sunlight slipping through cloud. Long walks with George, both of us sensing something shifting. Not urgency. Not striving. Simply energy returning in a gentler form.
My steps feel lighter in the cool air.
Sleep has come deeply and generously, the kind that arrives when the body finally understands it can truly rest.
During the days, I’ve been building again. Refining my work. Shaping ideas that have followed me across continents and years. Hours spent designing tools, language, and pathways for the work I know I am here to do.
And yet there is no rush.
In my Creating the Impossible group this week, we entered what Michael Neill calls “Over to You.” An invitation to simply share whatever is showing up for you. I watched from the sidelines but what I receive from just showing up, is invaluable.
After weeks of travel, I found myself logging in each day, listening.
Again, remembering something simple.
Nothing needs forcing.
There are seasons for pushing forward.
And there are seasons for allowing life to unfold.
This feels like the second kind.
Life is always exactly as it should be, no matter what you think about how it might be.
I’m noticing something else too.
Each season of transition seems to deepen my ability to sit beside others as they navigate their own. Living through uncertainty, return, reinvention, and quiet beginnings changes how you listen. It softens urgency. It widens patience.
Like Kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with gold, experience does not erase the fractures of change. It illuminates them.
The gold is not perfection.
It is understanding.
And it allows me to meet clients not from expertise alone, but from recognition. From having stood at thresholds myself and learned that clarity often arrives after we stop forcing it.
Tomorrow I will cross the threshold into my home. Not fully moved in. Not fully settled. Just beginning.
An open space waiting to be lived into.
I’m noticing how rarely we allow ourselves to stand here.
At the edge of what is about to begin.
Not chasing the future.
Not holding onto what came before.
Just listening.
The forest seems to understand this kind of patience.
Perhaps we are meant to as well.
Today’s breadcrumb:
The next chapter rarely begins when everything is ready. It begins when you step across the threshold anyway.