Sailing semantic seas can easily leave us adrift somewhere behind our forehead, riding digital waves, dreaming that we are not dreaming, unless we allow ourselves to be transported across the gap between language and what language represents.

This, of course, asks much of us. Sometimes what we are reading invites us to thus leap, perhaps even accompanying us in our crossing, holding us without holding us back.

Through the words and between the lines, we may at such times sense the kinship, the steps, the pulse and spirit of the author, whose differences from us only make more vividly compelling the similarities.

In our passage to the essential — our journey into what truly matters — we find a deepening appreciation for all the word-boats that helped carry us out on the open sea and into its depths.

I began writing 50 years ago.  I haven’t stopped. If no one read what I wrote, I’d still write; it’s in my blood to do so, in fittingly vital parallel with the psychospiritual work I offer and teach.




My writings are held together by a stubborn passion for a deeper life, a life devoted to deep healing, integration, and full-blooded awakening, a life in which everything — everything! — is permitted to awaken us.

My writings are fundamentally about becoming more intimate with all that we are — dark and light, high and low, shallow and deep, relational and isolated, dying and undying. Such intimacy, such a deeply embodied multidimensional knowing of ourselves, is both birthright and path, potently reminding us that we are more than we can imagine.

Some of my writings sing, some bleed, some rant, some attempt to say what may be better left unsaid, but all are invitations, however roughly wrapped, to more fully enter our heartland, whether done like an eagle riding a wave of everlasting morning or on our hands and knees.

Greetings to the you who has already arrived, and greetings to the you who is still arriving. Both are equally welcome.


To know without thinking, to see without eyes, to fly without wings, to die without leaving,

to love without expecting to be loved back — such are the primordial yet everfresh chords

weaving through our living chambers, perhaps muted, perhaps unheard, but nevertheless still here,

like wildblue sky behind a churning sea of clouds.


ESSAYS       |      POETRY