It Means What I Make It Mean

I’ve always been someone who wants things to make sense. I want meaning in what I’m looking at. I want there to be a reason things are happening, not just random events unfolding.  I want it to mean something.

I understand where that probably comes from. I was raised in a world where everything had meaning, everything was serious, and you had to pay attention because you didn’t want to be left behind. Nothing felt accidental. Everything felt loaded with purpose.

As a kid, we talked about things being divinely appointed. Destiny. God’s plan. If God knew how many hairs were on your head, then surely He already knew everything that was going to happen in your life before it happened. It was all part of a prewritten plan. We were just showing up to play out what had already been determined.

That belief gave life structure. It gave it purpose. It made pain feel explainable. When bad things happened, you could chalk it up to God working out His plan. It gave suffering a reason. It gave life a storyline. It made things matter.

And I think that’s part of why I’ve always wanted to find meaning in everything.

But the older I get, the more I realize that not everything has a meaning—except for the meaning I give it. Not everything happens for a reason. Not everything needs a spiritual explanation or a metaphysical backstory playing it out behind the scenes.  Sometimes things just happen.

Sometimes shit happens for no reason other than shit happening.

And maybe what I’m really given is the opportunity to decide what it means.

At 63, I can decide what that number means.

I can make it mean I’m past my prime.
That I’m the “been-there-done-that” guy.

Or I can make it mean I’ve lived a full, rich, lived-in life.
That I’m grateful to still be here in this body and still get to explore a new era. That I get to be one of those rare people who sage instead of age.

I can actually embrace my inner sage. My inner daddy. lol
And be okay with it.

The more I think about it, the more I realize this has always been true:

It’s up to me to decide what things mean, or don’t mean.
It’s up to me to assign the reason, or be ok when there isn’t one.
It’s up to me to author the story, and live my own life.

That might be all meaning is. 

I’ll let you know when I find out what it all means. :)

Song Circle - Getting Out Of The Way

Last night I led our Song Circle in the chapel of my spiritual community, Center for Spiritual Living in Reno. We’ve been gathering for a couple of years now, and it felt like more evidence that this really works best when I get out of the way.

It’s not something I can manufacture or create.  It happens in the moment.  The less I try to steer it, the more space there is for something real to happen - a kind of shared experience that feels grounded and alive.

There’s something about singing together that settles my body.  My breath deepens and my nervous system has a chance to soften.  I think others feel the same way. It’s like we all drop out of our heads and into our bodies, even if we don’t always have the words to describe it.  Within the chants and songs I feel us all take a deep exhale.

When I look around the room I can see how different we all are - different lives, beliefs, politics, worldviews, dreams, hopes.  On a normal day, those differences can feel loud.  But in the middle of singing, so much of that seems to dissolve.  Not because we suddenly agree - but because agreement stops being the point.

It might just be in my own mind, but it feels like we’re connected in a way that doesn’t happen when we’re just talking or thinking or scrolling.  When we sing together, something bypasses our defenses and reminds us that we’re all being humans, together.  Something lets us feel the present moment - not as a woo-woo idea, but as a lived experience.

Something kind of funny happened last night. I was going to sing a song to the group - not one that we were singing together, but just one I wanted to offer. As I started, I noticed how connected I felt to everyone’s faces. Like they weren’t looking at me with any expectation, but just experiencing the moment and our little community we’ve created. Then I got to a line in the song, and completely went blank. I started over, and when I got to the same place, I forgot the lyric again. At first I freaked out. Is this a senior moment? Am I finally losing it? But looking back this morning, I realized that I was so wrapped up in the feeling of connection - in how supported and held I felt - that the words just didn’t matter as much as the moment. We all had a good laugh, and I assume they were laughing with me and not at me. lol

Song Circle for me isn’t about performance or polish.  It’s about creating a space where people can breathe deeper, feel a little more honestly, and remember what it’s like to be in a room where we don’t have anything to prove.

Everytime it happens, it reminds me that the magic isn’t in trying harder or controlling the moment.  It’s in trusting the moment and getting out of the way.  Music is the gift that keeps giving, that reminds me that we don’t have to do any of  this alone.

The Kingdom, The Dogs and The Shadow of Doubt

It’s early in the morning. Like real early. I just took Danny to the airport for an early flight and a business trip this week, and now I’m back in bed, a big dog on either side of me, just lying here and pondering what I’ve been feeling over the last week or so.

A friend of mine sent me a YouTube video from Esther Hicks and Abraham, whom I love. All about living in paradise if I’ll just notice that it’s already here. Like the Kingdom is at hand. Like heaven is on earth if we just recognize and act as if it already is.

It’s a reminder of what I believe - or at least what I say I believe is true - but right now in this moment it feels a little more hollow than usual. Almost like a spiritual bypass. I truly want to know it beyond the shadow of a doubt, but it seems I’m in the shadow right now.

Part of me wants to believe it’s true. Another part of me sees the contrast in the world I live in, and it just doesn’t add up in this present moment.

Maybe later today I’ll feel different. But right now, it’s hard to see the kingdom when I’m faced with the reality of a country and an authoritarian administration that seems completely out of control.

I realize as I write this that I’m looking outside myself. And the belief is that the kingdom is within. So why do I keep looking without?

I guess I look around because I’m not the only one that exists in the world. There are real people in real situations with real consequences and real pain. I may not be experiencing it directly, but I am experiencing it by being a fellow human on the planet.

I can’t just go into my little cocoon of the kingdom and revel in the reality that it’s not directly affecting me while I see it happening outside my body. Yes, these are the thoughts that run through my head in moments like these.

It’s difficult to find the balance of believing the kingdom is within and at hand when I see reality that is contrary to that belief. It’s easy for me to say as I lie here in my warm bed between my two dogs, while there are others at this particular moment who are grieving the loss of a soulmate, or hungry because they haven’t eaten this week, or in pain because their limbs were blown off in an explosion of war.

How do I have the audacity to say the kingdom is at hand to any of these fellow human beings? “Change your thinking, change your life” seems a little shallow and unrealistic in these situations.

I would hope if I were in any of these situations, I would hold to these principles and practices. But if I’m honest, I don’t know what I would do. I don’t know how I would put it all together in my brain so I could raise my vibration and see the good in watching my partner get shot in the face by a rogue federal agent in the middle of the afternoon on a crowded neighborhood street in broad daylight.

You catch my drift?

Abraham says just to feel your way into it and you can be in paradise. I’m not saying that’s not possible. But it feels a little privileged to say. I believe…but help my unbelief. Because it just doesn’t add up sometimes.

So here I am. Warmth of pups on either side, the kingdom within and at hand. Grateful in a way. Confused in another. Wanting to believe the narrative I’ve lived by, and also questioning it deeply.

There’s really no resolution in this moment, or a pretty bow to wrap it all up with. So I sit with the contrast. With the suffering around me. With the questions of what the hell is going on. Have we lost our way? And is there a way back?

Is the question without a clear answer part of the problem? Am I “ye of little faith”? Should I be more sure, more hopeful, more confident that if I can just feel into it, it will resolve?

I don’t know.

I think I’ll try to get a little more sleep for now. And maybe a dream from my subconscious will give me an answer. Or at least a nudge in the right direction.

Staying Present in a Strange Time

Lately I’ve been noticing something in my body.

When I don’t run, don’t check out, and actually stay with what I’m feeling… my breath deepens, my shoulders soften, and I feel lighter somehow.

There’s a sense that I’m going to move through this… the same way I’ve moved through everything else in my life.  Not all at once.  Not dramatically.  Just one thing at a time, as it shows up.

This season feels different, though.  Not because it’s harder, but because so much of what’s happening right now feels outside of me.  Outside my control or my ability to fix or reframe or make sense of.

And honestly… a lot of it disturbs me.

The power grabs.
The blatant lies.
The way truth feels optional in places where it used to be expected.

One of the hardest things for me to watch is the press conferences. Reporters asking real questions, seeing the same things we’re all seeing, and then hearing answers that are so far from reality it’s almost surreal. And then… nothing.  No calling it out.  No naming the lie.  Just decorum.  Just politeness.  Just awkward silence.

I understand there are rules. I understand there are limits.
But there’s also a point where something becomes unacceptable.

And it feels like we’ve crossed it.

I’ve always tried to be positive. I still do. I look for the good, for the human. I look for what’s possible.  But I also feel like we’ve crossed some lines we can’t uncross.  

And I don’t know what to do with that sometimes.

I don’t know what it looks like when we’ve finally had enough.
I don’t know how or when people finally say, “This isn’t okay.”
I don’t know how this resolves.

But I do know this:

I don’t want to abandon myself in the middle of it.

I don’t want to numb out.
I don’t want to pretend.
I don’t want to disappear.
I don’t want to look away — but I also don’t want to stare at it until it all feels hopeless.

I’m trying to find that balance.
Awake, but not overwhelmed.
Aware, but still in my body.

Some days I question everything.  Even the stories I’ve told myself about who I am and why I’m here.  Maybe this is all there is.  Maybe it isn’t.  I don’t actually know.

What I do know is that being here matters to me.
Being in my body matters.
Being honest matters.

So for now, I choose to stay present.  With myself, with this moment. With the truth as I am able to see it.  Without needing to solve it.  

If you’re feeling any of this, too — the grief, the confusion, the quiet awakening — you’re not alone.  We don’t have to have all the answers.  We don’t have to know what’s next.

We can just be here. 

That’s what I’m doing. 

You’re welcome to join me. :)

If You Were The Only One

Last Friday I was flying to Denver for the first rehearsal of the Candlelight Services at Mile Hi Church. Because of windy conditions in both Reno and Denver, the flight was delayed. So I found myself sitting in the airport—nowhere to go, nothing to do—checking messages, catching up on email, scrolling through Facebook.

In that in-between space, I came across a livestream from an old friend, Jeff Ferguson. He does a short daily reflection at noon. Normally I notice it and keep scrolling. This time, for whatever reason, I stopped and listened.

He began talking about a well-known Christian artist, Steve Archer. My ears perked up immediately, because Steve recorded a song I co-wrote in the late ’80s called If You Were the Only One. That song reached #1 on the Contemporary Christian Music charts almost forty years ago. And then—unexpectedly—Jeff started talking about that very song. He even mentioned my name as one of the writers.

I just happened to be listening. On a random Friday morning.
Only because my flight was delayed. What are the chances?

At first, my mind wanted to judge the moment. To remind myself that I don’t believe the same things I believed back then. That my theology has shifted. That my understanding of Jesus and Christ Consciousness has evolved. That that season of my life sometimes feels like a previous lifetime. But if I’m honest, that wasn’t what the moment was about at all. What stayed with me was something simpler.

I haven’t been forgotten.

Something I created a long time ago is still alive in someone else’s consciousness. And in that moment, so was I. The meaning of the song—its true meaning—hadn’t changed.

At its heart, the song isn’t really about theology. It’s about presence. It’s about the idea that if you were the only one who needed to be seen, loved, and met with unconditional presence, love would still show up.

I don’t have to return to the original framing of the song—about Jesus dying for our sins—to receive that truth now. I can let the essence remain without carrying the old container with it.

And somehow, that truth connected perfectly to where I am right now—and to these candlelight services I’m about to be part of. Candlelight isn’t about spectacle. It’s not about lighting the whole room at once. It’s about one flame lighting another.

What came into my awareness was this simple image:

If there were only one flame in the room, it would still light up the darkness.

That feels like the through-line of my life right now.

I’m no longer trying to convince, convert, or carry anything that isn’t mine to carry. I’m not trying to be bigger, louder, or more certain. I’m learning to trust that showing up fully—as I am, where I am—is enough.

Lately, I’ve been reimagining and regrouping. What sometimes feels like depression, or like I’ve overstayed my welcome, or entered a “been there, done that” season in some people’s eyes, feels—when I slow down—more like a reset. A season of releasing.

And right in the middle of that, I receive this small, unexpected reminder: I am okay exactly where I am. I can slow down. I don’t have to reclaim old meanings or re-enter old worlds to honor what was real. I can simply acknowledge that I’ve already made a difference—and allow myself not to know what’s next.

I’m not here because I want anything earth-shattering to happen. I’m not trying to be more than I am. My intention right now is simply to rest in this moment of being—without performing, without striving, without needing to make it mean anything.

I’m only one candle, but if there were only one flame, it would still matter.

And so it is.

Dopamine & The Doom Scroll

This is the first morning that I'm creating a trace for a morning practice/meditation. I had a conversation with a friend last night, and we were talking about dopamine, and how scrolling and constant phone-in-hand creates a sense of pleasure without actually having to naturally create it for ourselves. Dopamine isn’t a bad thing. It’s a motivation and anticipation neurotransmitter. It is something that is a good thing when we don’t short circuit it by creating it with a doom scroll. It actually drives seeking, focus, learning and reinforcement. It helps wire habits that say “Do that again”.

What happens when I pick up my phone and scroll TikTok before I'm even out of bed is like a dopamine slot machine. I don’t have to actually do anything at all to get the reward. I don’t know what I’ll see next. Something meaningful, a laugh, outrage or beauty. My brain loves the uncertainty, and before I know it. I’m feeding it dopamine before I’ve even had my first cup of coffee. It doesn’t require anything on my part, other than putting my finger on the screen and scrolling up, down, left or right. Subconsciously, I get in a loop that says “why pursue real effort when I can get stimulated instantly?”

With every swipe, I get something new without any real effort on my part. After 10 minutes of scrolling, my ordinary life seems a little less exciting, a little more dull. It gets harder to feel creative and I feel a little more anxious and moody.

Again, dopamine isn’t a bad thing, and with all the negative press about it, I realize I have come to think that it is. In reality, I am tuned for depth and resonance in the world. Art, prayer, chanting, embodiment, intimacy, silence…these all require a regulated dopamine baseline. When I overstimulate myself, it blunts creativity, sensitivity and presence in my body. It’s not weakness, just a mismatch of energy. It’s not the end of the world.

I have the ability to stabilize my own dopamine if I will just do it. It’s not reinventing the wheel. Just small movements taken consciously with a little effort on my part. Simple things. Write a couple of lines of a song, chant for 5 minutes, clean off one counter, walk for 10 minutes. Here’s what happens. My brain learns that effort equals reward.

My new morning ritual is to create something before I consume anything. Even just a little. A simple new rule of thumb. Today was my first day to try this new practice. Hum before scrolling. One paragraph of a journal entry before looking at news. Strecth or do a few crunches before I check my email. Apparently this protects my dopamine regulation and the stability of my nervous system. Who knew?

It is my intention to keep this up, and I’m counting on this blog creation to help solidify it in my brain and body. Over time, and even today. I will crave presence over performance, depth over novelty. It’s not about doing less. It’s about doing what feeds my nervous system, not what drains it. And it’s totally up to me.

I already feel better today, and it’s just 8am. It’s going to be a great day. Let’s hope I keep it up. So far, I've stretched, had a cup of coffee, walked my dogs around the block, and written this blog, and I haven’t even looked to see what’s up with Erika and Candace yet! It’s going to be a great day!

Morning Dog Walks

I love our morning dog walks. I live for them. There’s something sacred about the ritual every  morning - the small but holy act of leashes clipped, harnesses buckled, and two canines and a human stepping out into the day together. Most mornings it’s just the three pack.

Judah makes me laugh every day, walking the curb like a balance beam.  Bodhi keeps close to my side, not because I ask him to, but because he wants to.  We walk, side by side, hearts beating in rhythm.  Their joy is contagious - it spills over into my morning, too.

The walk grounds me.  It reminds me that life is not complicated.  That love is not complicated.  These two beings trust completely that wherever we’re going, all is well.  They don’t second-guess the path, they don’t worry about what’s around the next corner.  They trust.  And I get to practice trusting, too. Trusting the present moment is all we ever need.

Each morning becomes a walking meditation:  just a human and two canines circling the block.  Nothing else matters.  Judah on his balance beam.  Bodhi healing by my side.  Me, breathing the morning air step by step.

It’s not just a walk.  It’s communion.  A reminder that the kingdom is here, in the ordinary, in the smells and pawsteps and shared silence of a neighborhood morning.  Practicing being present, practicing unconditional love - one dog walk at a time..

G-Flo & The Tribe: A Meditation You Can Listen To

There’s a way to listen to this album that lets it become something more than music. It can be a spiritual journey. A practice. A way back to the essence of who you are.

When I recorded G-Flo & The Tribe, I wasn’t really trying to make a “record”. I was trying to create an experience you could step into. These chants came out of a season of deep listening, and many were inspired from a yoga class at Ananda Village, and the affirmations of Swami Kriyananda. The affirmations took hold of me, and then I started hearing melodies, which turned into chants that we sang in a Song Circle I was leading in Reno, and eventually evolved into this album.

If you want to experience this album the way it was meant to be felt, try this:

Put on your headphones. Close your eyes. And let the music become a meditation.

Chant along with me. Open your heart and your throat chakra, and let it rise and fall with your breath. Let the repetition carry you inward. Let the vibration of the music pull you deeper into your awareness of being in the present moment.

Let every simple chant be a reminder that you already have everything you need inside you. Music is healing, and if you let it, it will meet you right where you are - in the middle of your healing and in remembering who you are.