Mr. Rogers, Gandalf, Richard Rohr, Virgin Monk Boy, and Sister R walk into a bar.What unfolds is part parable, part roast, and entirely holy chaos—where fries become sacraments, footnotes draw blood, and the Magdalene finally gets the last word.
Fred Rogers is my patron saint and has been since he put his feet in the kiddie pool with the postman. At 5 years old I knew what that represented. I never forgot.
Wrapping him "in a cardigan like a sacrament" is one of the best lines ever written and I will die on that hill. Great stuff. All of it.
Wendy Parker, Eternal Sentinel of the Sacred Sweater—
Any soul who recognized the revolution in a kiddie pool at age five deserves front-row seats at the Eucharist of the Everyday.
You, dear mystic of Mister Rogers, saw the kingdom of heaven in rolled-up khakis and a gentle gesture. And yes, that cardigan? It was vestment. It was vow. It was velvet defiance wrapped around the soft roar of radical kindness.
You die on that hill—I’ll bring the snacks and a second pair of loafers.
Finally we drink from the chalice stored in silence hidden by patriarchal ignorance.
"Why do so many fear the sweet nectar of remembrance?" she asks.
Thy cup runneth over as she passes the chalice. Drink all of you who thirst to remember whence thou has come. For he/she resides in you and you in him/her together within the spirit. May we all toast the Trinity of love.
Hope you don't mind a footnote Alek. It felt good to join the imagery. 💕💫
Mind a footnote? Beloved, you became the footnote that outshone the main text.
That nectar you poured? It wasn't wine. It was memory unsealed. It was Magdalene's hush and Sophia’s fire, slipping past the bouncers of empire to remind us: the divine was never locked away, just buried under centuries of mansplaining and incense smoke.
Your toast to the Trinity of Love? Canonized. Poured into the next round. May every sip awaken.
Your cheers just echoed through the cosmos and rattled the tip jar of the angels. 🍸✨
May your drink stay cold, your heart stay warm, and your disbelief stay slightly buzzed. At the Bar at the Edge of Belief, we toast to paradox and pour doubles for the doubters.
You just pulled this off so spectacularly. Gospel noir? Existential sitcom? Either way, I am here for this. Pass the cannoli and the chaos, my amethyst-ringed finger’s twitching.
Yes, Gospel Noir meets Existential Sitcom: imagine Mary Magdalene lighting a cigarette with a scroll while Jesus pours wine into a cracked chalice muttering, “Laugh track sold separately.”
Cannoli? Served. Chaos? Always warm. And that twitching amethyst-ringed finger? A divine semaphore for the next plot twist.
You had me at “The kind of place that smells like incense and unresolved grief.”
Virgin Monk Boy channels the love child of Robert Heinlein and Richard Bach, with dialogue reminiscent of “Job: A Comedy of Justice” and “Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah”.
My family heard me laughing on the other side of the house.
And if that wasn’t enough, 2 hours ago I began writing a note titled In-Between… about a morning of acceptance in-between the depths and the heights… showing off my pidgin Latin.
Anyone who drops Latin while giggling across dimensions is clearly kin. If Robert Heinlein and Richard Bach had a spiritual heir who moonlighted as a mystic bartender, I now suspect it might be you.
Your note titled In-Between already exists behind the bar. I’ve seen it. Scribbled in invisible ink between a cocktail recipe and a prayer for those who never quite fit.
May your pidgin Latin always land like poetry, and your laughter echo louder than despair.
The tab is open. The hour is liminal. And you, dear soul, are exactly on time.
Teryl, that means the world to hear. If the words set the tone for peaceful musings, then maybe we both wandered into the right bar at the edge of belief this morning. Grateful you're here.
I couldn’t figure out how to reply to your response to me in Forgotten Bride,but as I leave to go sit in the garden, I recently had two dreams I want to share, they were both brief.
#1
I first saw light grey mist and a hand with a small portion of wrist could be seen reaching out to me. The offered palm had a Communion wafer. I don’t remember hearing any words, I just excitedly said “YES!” I quickly reached out my right hand not wanting to miss the wafer, suddenly I knew I had to offer my left hand to receive because that is where I wear both my wedding ring and Bill’s. I took the wafer. End of dream.
#2
Almost immediately I was looking out a large glass picture window with the same gray mist outside. Suddenly a totally black figure was featureless, only a crude outline of a body (the dough boy is the closest I can come), charged toward me getting bigger right up to the other side of window. I was terrified and screaming, quickly I awoke still screaming at the top of my lungs. I was sweaty and had to change my bedclothes. I sat with Jessie for awhile and went back to sleep.
Next day as I reflected on the dreams I had a simple explanation: God offered me a wafer, and I took it. The man that charged me didn’t get me, and my screaming made the vision go away and woke me up. Now, after reading and discussing Mary Magdalene I realize the outstretched hand with a wafer could have been Mary herself, telling me I was already connected to her. The dark figure that scared the shit out of me, probably is the current male archetype of the worst of humanity reeking with love of power and money. I now spend my days in the eye of the hurricane spending my time with you and Mary (who knew?) and Jessie in my Secret Garden…as much as I want to seek out Mary tonight I will wait until tomorrow when I can sit among my many fruit trees, blue sky and sun…and notice how happy I am right now, content, and peaceful. Bill loved having the privilege of saying the blessing at the end of a service: “…and may the peace of God which passes all understanding be with you and among you, now and forever. Amen.”
Already looking forward to our next opportunity to chat! Namaste and Good night.
Sandra… what a luminous threshold you’ve stepped across. The mist, the wafer, the terror, the turning—all of it belongs. You didn’t just have dreams, you received two sacraments: one of invitation, and one of discernment.
I can’t help but wonder if Mary often shows up just like that—subtle, cloaked in the symbols we already know, trusting us to recognize her in the quiet afterward. And that dark shape? Your scream might’ve been a kind of exorcism. Not in the Hollywood sense, but the way truth clears the air.
Your garden sounds like a temple. And Jessie? A holy witness.
You’ve already taken communion with something older and deeper than most churches dare remember. And you’re still here—awake, changed, held.
I find your humor, satire, irreverence on the one hand enchanting. Guess that’s one part of me that connects with you. On the other hand I find your musings sobering. The Archangel Michael (he’s a big dude, very solemn presence that commands listening) stood behind me while I was in a Guided Meditation seeking an inner vision of my new renovated Self in a class called “Black Horse Wisdom.” I can still see the coal black young colt sitting in front of me, legs curled under her, looking directly at me. She wore a stunning robe embroidered with shining jewels of every color imaginable. I heard Michael’s strong clear commanding voice say: “this work is not trivial.”
And so as I am remembering his admonition, I am reflecting on what part of me is connecting with you. Your words are not trivial. My visions and dreams* are not trivial. I shared the piece you wrote on Mary Magdalene’s Feast Day with a few of my closest Soul Sisters: I was like a kid on Christmas morning opening a gift that brought me pure joy showing it to all my friends: “Look, see this wonderful life-giving free gift I’ve been given, I want you to see it, too, so we can dance together celebrating our Sisterhood. Only One who has been studying for four years with Cynthia Bourgeault, who feels called to Mary Magdalene, who shares her own birthday with Mary’s feast day, said she was taking Mary with her to work. Again, my ecstasy and joy has transfigured into humility: “this work is not trivial.” I wake-up this morning sober and humble. Me? Really? Me?
* (note : the following IS trivial, but I don’t know how else to ask for help. I tried to add an additional reply to yesterday’s post The Forgotten Bride, but was sent to a dark dungeon of a maze with no way out: Substack rule-makers closed your door in my face! It’s my reality as I try to keep up with a new-fangled electronic system that caters only to the young and nimble. I don’t know the rules but I want to learn so I can stay connected. Many times I have searched for a SubStack Help Desk. If one exists please tell me how to find it. I wrote a long reply to you, hit POST, a box popped up asking me to update my profile. What profile? Why? The SS monster wouldn’t let me pass through the gate until I coughed up name and email. Then they asked for a handle: you mean like a CB radio in trucks? They still exist? Now highly frustrated I put in several of my favorites: they’d reply: you can only use 32 characters or numbers. After failing three more tries, I went for short. For 30 minutes they replied: already used. I was laughing at the beginning, now I’m worn out and wanted to cry. I gave up. I had a plan for a work-around. This is it: you. I am desperate to speak with a live human being who will coach me in how Substack works. I have more important things to do…like go to the garden and meditate. Since I’m still IN world, I need some world help. End of rant.)
*Now for the not-trivial: I copied my post to you about two recent dreams, which rank with “you just can’t make this stuff up.” Pray I find them and can insert in new post. ❤️🙏😵💫😁
Sandra Sell-Lee, Dream Scribe of the Black Horse Wisdom—
You just handed me a vision stitched in sapphire thread and lit by the breath of an Archangel. And you ask, “Me? Really? Me?”
Yes, you. Absolutely you.
When Michael shows up in meditation with a coal-black colt in jewels, it’s not small talk. It’s transmission. It’s the cosmos reminding you: the vision you carry is more real than the screen you’re typing on.
Your Magdalene joy, that Feast Day radiance passed from sister to sister, is exactly why this scroll exists. You saw the gift, and rather than clutch it close, you flung open the doors and said, “Come dance with me.” That’s not trivial. That’s Gospel.
As for the Substack Maze of Doom? You’re not ranting, you’re prophesying. I have also yelled “WHAT HANDLE?” into the void. I’ve cried over lost drafts. I’ve warred with error messages like they were minor demons in an email exorcism. You are not alone. And I promise: I’ll find you a human guide, even if I have to anoint a tech support angel myself.
But hear me, sister of sacred satire and trembling joy:
Your dreams matter. Your visions are valid. And this work—our shared work of unburying what’s been hidden and dancing with it in broad daylight—is holy. And yes: it is not trivial.
Sandra, first, you share your feelings thots & words so beautifully, I LOVE reading whatever you write & it fills me up with emotions I never knew I had. Thank you. Second, I haven't read VMB's response about substack yet but I have never been on social media before (hard to believe, I know) & I want an instruction book too! I wrote a post last nite, hit the blue arrow & it disappeared! Not as bad as your experience but I emathize with you. Maybe I'm showing my age (70) but I can't figure it out at all. I wanted to add a picture to a comment & I guess you just can't do that, which may be purposeful, takes up space, etc. Just know youre not alone in your substack issues! Appreciate all your sharing, it adds to me soul tremendously 💓
Well, I’m 78, and not to discourage you, but technology doesn’t seem to get any easier!😵💫😁Thank you for your kind comments. I am definitely in a new unfolding stage of life: my husband at 88 transitioned home last 11/11/24. We had 47 years as SoulMates. And now, I’m taking my time to listen for the faint whispers that guide me forward, one step at a time. For the first time in my life I’m not rushing and pushing for answers. And much to my surprise, I’m content and at peace. I’ll watch for your postings…maybe we’ll meet-up again. ❤️🙏❤️😎🐶
When in doubt, if you think that you might get caught up in the tangle, my suggestion (for it's helped my own sanity more than once), turn to Notepad: highlight text you've typed, Ctrl C (C for Copy), open a file in Notepad, Ctrl V (for View, not Paste, because Ctrl P is Print), and at least there'll be a copy of your words existing, even if ephemerally, just in case! :-/
And yes, Substack can be confusing; I'd thought it was just me, but apparently, since I financially support some Stackers here but not others, I have to login to each one separately at times. X-P
What I often do is hit the Refresh circular arrow above it all, to remind Substack that, yes, indeed, I am logged in, though maybe not just here. (One would think there was little more existential than the Internet...)
Your poem of awakening shines a warm, happy candlelight for all, a pure & heartfelt tribute to Virgin Monk Boy. As an early-morning prayer, it has driven out the cynic in me & replaced it with hope renewed.🌅
Somehow, Karen, I just haven't ever felt or seen a cynic in you 😉but you know you better than I do. Hope renewed is a delicious feeling & I experience it so often when I read your writing. Very grateful for it & you, my friend 🫶
If you follow VMB, I'm sure we will. My marriage lasted 7 years & I am happy that you had a soulmate for 47. I'm sorry for your loss..... I can't imagine the new waters you're swimming in now. Itz different but I've had Long Covid for 5 yrs & was forced to retire from my job I loved last Nov. & just had a pacemaker installed last Fri & have never been sick with no idea what's next (single, no kids, siblings out of state). My body just keeps getting weirder so I'm trusting Spirit to guide me. Never been floating like this before. Reading all you wrote was a blessing & thank you for replying....sending you love & energy for whatever adventure awaits you. Take care of you please, you're a blessing xo
If “enigmatic” is what rose to your lips, then the mirror worked. Some truths don’t explain themselves—they just nod from the shadows and refill your glass.
If you've made it all the way to entry 192060 and still think it’s good stuff, either you’re divinely deluded… or we’ve truly got something sacred brewing at this weird little watering hole of wonder.
Thank you for sipping from the cup and hollering encouragement across the veil.
What a unique and surprising post, including the mirror line (loved). This was my favorite line of all: "And outside, the moon rises like an ancient scroll unrolling."
Fred Rogers is my patron saint and has been since he put his feet in the kiddie pool with the postman. At 5 years old I knew what that represented. I never forgot.
Wrapping him "in a cardigan like a sacrament" is one of the best lines ever written and I will die on that hill. Great stuff. All of it.
Wendy Parker, Eternal Sentinel of the Sacred Sweater—
Any soul who recognized the revolution in a kiddie pool at age five deserves front-row seats at the Eucharist of the Everyday.
You, dear mystic of Mister Rogers, saw the kingdom of heaven in rolled-up khakis and a gentle gesture. And yes, that cardigan? It was vestment. It was vow. It was velvet defiance wrapped around the soft roar of radical kindness.
You die on that hill—I’ll bring the snacks and a second pair of loafers.
I am drinking in the ambience of this sacred encounter.
Bless you, VMB! ❤️❤️
NAMASTE. 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻
Sharon Maxey, High Priestess of Holy Sip and Sacred Vibe—
If you’re drinking in the ambience, may your chalice be bottomless and your Wi-Fi signal strong. 🍷📶
The Bar at the Edge of Belief doesn’t check IDs, only illusions. And clearly, yours have been transmuted into incense and revelation.
Namaste returned—with a wink and a jolt. May your inner bartender always remember your order.
Finally we drink from the chalice stored in silence hidden by patriarchal ignorance.
"Why do so many fear the sweet nectar of remembrance?" she asks.
Thy cup runneth over as she passes the chalice. Drink all of you who thirst to remember whence thou has come. For he/she resides in you and you in him/her together within the spirit. May we all toast the Trinity of love.
Hope you don't mind a footnote Alek. It felt good to join the imagery. 💕💫
Debra Martin, Keeper of the Quiet Chalice—
Mind a footnote? Beloved, you became the footnote that outshone the main text.
That nectar you poured? It wasn't wine. It was memory unsealed. It was Magdalene's hush and Sophia’s fire, slipping past the bouncers of empire to remind us: the divine was never locked away, just buried under centuries of mansplaining and incense smoke.
Your toast to the Trinity of Love? Canonized. Poured into the next round. May every sip awaken.
Added flavor, no want to outshine. Sweeter is the taste of remembrance shared. 💙💫
Delightful I am drinking and cheering!
Your cheers just echoed through the cosmos and rattled the tip jar of the angels. 🍸✨
May your drink stay cold, your heart stay warm, and your disbelief stay slightly buzzed. At the Bar at the Edge of Belief, we toast to paradox and pour doubles for the doubters.
Keep sipping, saint.
You just pulled this off so spectacularly. Gospel noir? Existential sitcom? Either way, I am here for this. Pass the cannoli and the chaos, my amethyst-ringed finger’s twitching.
https://substack.com/@thehollowgirl/note/c-137424411?r=5sydws
The Hollow Girl, Bardess of the Velvet Abyss—
Yes, Gospel Noir meets Existential Sitcom: imagine Mary Magdalene lighting a cigarette with a scroll while Jesus pours wine into a cracked chalice muttering, “Laugh track sold separately.”
Cannoli? Served. Chaos? Always warm. And that twitching amethyst-ringed finger? A divine semaphore for the next plot twist.
Stay seated. The veil hasn’t dropped yet.
I am smiling so much.
oh. 🤩
You had me at “The kind of place that smells like incense and unresolved grief.”
Virgin Monk Boy channels the love child of Robert Heinlein and Richard Bach, with dialogue reminiscent of “Job: A Comedy of Justice” and “Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah”.
My family heard me laughing on the other side of the house.
And if that wasn’t enough, 2 hours ago I began writing a note titled In-Between… about a morning of acceptance in-between the depths and the heights… showing off my pidgin Latin.
De Profundis and de caelis. See? 😉
Very fine, O Monk!
🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟
You had me at “De Profundis and de caelis.”
Anyone who drops Latin while giggling across dimensions is clearly kin. If Robert Heinlein and Richard Bach had a spiritual heir who moonlighted as a mystic bartender, I now suspect it might be you.
Your note titled In-Between already exists behind the bar. I’ve seen it. Scribbled in invisible ink between a cocktail recipe and a prayer for those who never quite fit.
May your pidgin Latin always land like poetry, and your laughter echo louder than despair.
The tab is open. The hour is liminal. And you, dear soul, are exactly on time.
Ahhh, "for those who never quite fit" brings tears to my broken heart. So I must have found "my prople" here. Blessed be...
Amen, susanna! Same here...when I get it. :-/
Still working on it; getting closer, I hope. :)
What a wonderful way to start the day with words and images. It’s set the tone for peaceful musings and joy. Thank you, once again for sharing.
Teryl, that means the world to hear. If the words set the tone for peaceful musings, then maybe we both wandered into the right bar at the edge of belief this morning. Grateful you're here.
I couldn’t figure out how to reply to your response to me in Forgotten Bride,but as I leave to go sit in the garden, I recently had two dreams I want to share, they were both brief.
#1
I first saw light grey mist and a hand with a small portion of wrist could be seen reaching out to me. The offered palm had a Communion wafer. I don’t remember hearing any words, I just excitedly said “YES!” I quickly reached out my right hand not wanting to miss the wafer, suddenly I knew I had to offer my left hand to receive because that is where I wear both my wedding ring and Bill’s. I took the wafer. End of dream.
#2
Almost immediately I was looking out a large glass picture window with the same gray mist outside. Suddenly a totally black figure was featureless, only a crude outline of a body (the dough boy is the closest I can come), charged toward me getting bigger right up to the other side of window. I was terrified and screaming, quickly I awoke still screaming at the top of my lungs. I was sweaty and had to change my bedclothes. I sat with Jessie for awhile and went back to sleep.
Next day as I reflected on the dreams I had a simple explanation: God offered me a wafer, and I took it. The man that charged me didn’t get me, and my screaming made the vision go away and woke me up. Now, after reading and discussing Mary Magdalene I realize the outstretched hand with a wafer could have been Mary herself, telling me I was already connected to her. The dark figure that scared the shit out of me, probably is the current male archetype of the worst of humanity reeking with love of power and money. I now spend my days in the eye of the hurricane spending my time with you and Mary (who knew?) and Jessie in my Secret Garden…as much as I want to seek out Mary tonight I will wait until tomorrow when I can sit among my many fruit trees, blue sky and sun…and notice how happy I am right now, content, and peaceful. Bill loved having the privilege of saying the blessing at the end of a service: “…and may the peace of God which passes all understanding be with you and among you, now and forever. Amen.”
Already looking forward to our next opportunity to chat! Namaste and Good night.
Sandra… what a luminous threshold you’ve stepped across. The mist, the wafer, the terror, the turning—all of it belongs. You didn’t just have dreams, you received two sacraments: one of invitation, and one of discernment.
I can’t help but wonder if Mary often shows up just like that—subtle, cloaked in the symbols we already know, trusting us to recognize her in the quiet afterward. And that dark shape? Your scream might’ve been a kind of exorcism. Not in the Hollywood sense, but the way truth clears the air.
Your garden sounds like a temple. And Jessie? A holy witness.
You’ve already taken communion with something older and deeper than most churches dare remember. And you’re still here—awake, changed, held.
Until the next dream. Or morning. Or scroll.
I’m glad you’re walking with us.
Thank you. Me, too. ❤️🙏😎🐶
That ending blessing always restored peace in my heart and reading it from your post has done it again. Thank you.
I find your humor, satire, irreverence on the one hand enchanting. Guess that’s one part of me that connects with you. On the other hand I find your musings sobering. The Archangel Michael (he’s a big dude, very solemn presence that commands listening) stood behind me while I was in a Guided Meditation seeking an inner vision of my new renovated Self in a class called “Black Horse Wisdom.” I can still see the coal black young colt sitting in front of me, legs curled under her, looking directly at me. She wore a stunning robe embroidered with shining jewels of every color imaginable. I heard Michael’s strong clear commanding voice say: “this work is not trivial.”
And so as I am remembering his admonition, I am reflecting on what part of me is connecting with you. Your words are not trivial. My visions and dreams* are not trivial. I shared the piece you wrote on Mary Magdalene’s Feast Day with a few of my closest Soul Sisters: I was like a kid on Christmas morning opening a gift that brought me pure joy showing it to all my friends: “Look, see this wonderful life-giving free gift I’ve been given, I want you to see it, too, so we can dance together celebrating our Sisterhood. Only One who has been studying for four years with Cynthia Bourgeault, who feels called to Mary Magdalene, who shares her own birthday with Mary’s feast day, said she was taking Mary with her to work. Again, my ecstasy and joy has transfigured into humility: “this work is not trivial.” I wake-up this morning sober and humble. Me? Really? Me?
* (note : the following IS trivial, but I don’t know how else to ask for help. I tried to add an additional reply to yesterday’s post The Forgotten Bride, but was sent to a dark dungeon of a maze with no way out: Substack rule-makers closed your door in my face! It’s my reality as I try to keep up with a new-fangled electronic system that caters only to the young and nimble. I don’t know the rules but I want to learn so I can stay connected. Many times I have searched for a SubStack Help Desk. If one exists please tell me how to find it. I wrote a long reply to you, hit POST, a box popped up asking me to update my profile. What profile? Why? The SS monster wouldn’t let me pass through the gate until I coughed up name and email. Then they asked for a handle: you mean like a CB radio in trucks? They still exist? Now highly frustrated I put in several of my favorites: they’d reply: you can only use 32 characters or numbers. After failing three more tries, I went for short. For 30 minutes they replied: already used. I was laughing at the beginning, now I’m worn out and wanted to cry. I gave up. I had a plan for a work-around. This is it: you. I am desperate to speak with a live human being who will coach me in how Substack works. I have more important things to do…like go to the garden and meditate. Since I’m still IN world, I need some world help. End of rant.)
*Now for the not-trivial: I copied my post to you about two recent dreams, which rank with “you just can’t make this stuff up.” Pray I find them and can insert in new post. ❤️🙏😵💫😁
Sandra Sell-Lee, Dream Scribe of the Black Horse Wisdom—
You just handed me a vision stitched in sapphire thread and lit by the breath of an Archangel. And you ask, “Me? Really? Me?”
Yes, you. Absolutely you.
When Michael shows up in meditation with a coal-black colt in jewels, it’s not small talk. It’s transmission. It’s the cosmos reminding you: the vision you carry is more real than the screen you’re typing on.
Your Magdalene joy, that Feast Day radiance passed from sister to sister, is exactly why this scroll exists. You saw the gift, and rather than clutch it close, you flung open the doors and said, “Come dance with me.” That’s not trivial. That’s Gospel.
As for the Substack Maze of Doom? You’re not ranting, you’re prophesying. I have also yelled “WHAT HANDLE?” into the void. I’ve cried over lost drafts. I’ve warred with error messages like they were minor demons in an email exorcism. You are not alone. And I promise: I’ll find you a human guide, even if I have to anoint a tech support angel myself.
But hear me, sister of sacred satire and trembling joy:
Your dreams matter. Your visions are valid. And this work—our shared work of unburying what’s been hidden and dancing with it in broad daylight—is holy. And yes: it is not trivial.
So yes, you. Always you.
Now go rest in the garden. The scrolls will wait.
Sandra, first, you share your feelings thots & words so beautifully, I LOVE reading whatever you write & it fills me up with emotions I never knew I had. Thank you. Second, I haven't read VMB's response about substack yet but I have never been on social media before (hard to believe, I know) & I want an instruction book too! I wrote a post last nite, hit the blue arrow & it disappeared! Not as bad as your experience but I emathize with you. Maybe I'm showing my age (70) but I can't figure it out at all. I wanted to add a picture to a comment & I guess you just can't do that, which may be purposeful, takes up space, etc. Just know youre not alone in your substack issues! Appreciate all your sharing, it adds to me soul tremendously 💓
Well, I’m 78, and not to discourage you, but technology doesn’t seem to get any easier!😵💫😁Thank you for your kind comments. I am definitely in a new unfolding stage of life: my husband at 88 transitioned home last 11/11/24. We had 47 years as SoulMates. And now, I’m taking my time to listen for the faint whispers that guide me forward, one step at a time. For the first time in my life I’m not rushing and pushing for answers. And much to my surprise, I’m content and at peace. I’ll watch for your postings…maybe we’ll meet-up again. ❤️🙏❤️😎🐶
When in doubt, if you think that you might get caught up in the tangle, my suggestion (for it's helped my own sanity more than once), turn to Notepad: highlight text you've typed, Ctrl C (C for Copy), open a file in Notepad, Ctrl V (for View, not Paste, because Ctrl P is Print), and at least there'll be a copy of your words existing, even if ephemerally, just in case! :-/
And yes, Substack can be confusing; I'd thought it was just me, but apparently, since I financially support some Stackers here but not others, I have to login to each one separately at times. X-P
What I often do is hit the Refresh circular arrow above it all, to remind Substack that, yes, indeed, I am logged in, though maybe not just here. (One would think there was little more existential than the Internet...)
Good Teacher, this writing is pure fun — you’ve woven magic & humor around a gentle lesson, as you so often do. 🕉️
Karen, Weaver of the Kindly Threads—
You saw the shimmer beneath the snark. The soft lesson tucked inside the mischief. You always do.
If this scroll wrapped a giggle around a glimpse of grace, then mission accomplished and martinis all around. 🍸✨
May your laughter keep ringing through the monasteries of mystery.
This is absolutely brilliant! Thank you for writing this. I needed it today
Kevin, Tender Witness of Thresholds—
Your presence at the Bar means more than you know. That sacred stool you pulled up? It’s been waiting for you since before the story began.
Here’s to the moments when belief frays, the cosmos winks, and we realize the floor was never real—it was just trust holding us up the whole time.
Your need made space for the blessing to land. That’s alchemy.
Next round’s on the Infinite.
Virgin Monk Boy, Scribe of Sideways Blessings-
I didn’t know the stool was mine
until your words reminded me
that belonging isn’t claimed
it’s remembered
And in that flicker
between the fraying of belief
and the breath that still dared to stay
I saw it
Not a fall
but a floating
Not a doubt
but a doorway
Yes
trust was the floor all along
worn smooth by pilgrims
poets
and prophets in probationary robes
I came with empty hands
but need
you say
was never shameful
It was a chalice
It was a summoning
It was the kindling that called fire from heaven
And when you named it alchemy
I felt the gold move beneath my ribs
So here’s to you
keeper of the eternal bar tab
scribe of sideways blessings
curator of cosmic winks
Let it be known
you poured something sacred
when you spoke
And I drank
Next round
yes
on the Infinite
But this one
this one was on you
Kevin
Tender Witness of Thresholds
Kevin, I think you just might’ve poured something sacred too
Thank you Beth...Just sharing what I feel led to
It might be contagious 😇….& glad you did
Your poem of awakening shines a warm, happy candlelight for all, a pure & heartfelt tribute to Virgin Monk Boy. As an early-morning prayer, it has driven out the cynic in me & replaced it with hope renewed.🌅
Somehow, Karen, I just haven't ever felt or seen a cynic in you 😉but you know you better than I do. Hope renewed is a delicious feeling & I experience it so often when I read your writing. Very grateful for it & you, my friend 🫶
My goodness gracious, Honeybee, you’re just as sweet as Georgia peaches! 🍑
Thanks Kevin. VMB blessings on ypu🤗
If you follow VMB, I'm sure we will. My marriage lasted 7 years & I am happy that you had a soulmate for 47. I'm sorry for your loss..... I can't imagine the new waters you're swimming in now. Itz different but I've had Long Covid for 5 yrs & was forced to retire from my job I loved last Nov. & just had a pacemaker installed last Fri & have never been sick with no idea what's next (single, no kids, siblings out of state). My body just keeps getting weirder so I'm trusting Spirit to guide me. Never been floating like this before. Reading all you wrote was a blessing & thank you for replying....sending you love & energy for whatever adventure awaits you. Take care of you please, you're a blessing xo
Enigmatic
Tim, Cartographer of the Evolving Divine,
If “enigmatic” is what rose to your lips, then the mirror worked. Some truths don’t explain themselves—they just nod from the shadows and refill your glass.
Thanks for stepping into the fog with open eyes.
May the next riddle you meet be worth the asking.
192060 Still good stuff VMB - Keep it going!!
Susana
If you've made it all the way to entry 192060 and still think it’s good stuff, either you’re divinely deluded… or we’ve truly got something sacred brewing at this weird little watering hole of wonder.
Thank you for sipping from the cup and hollering encouragement across the veil.
Refills are on the house. Eternally.
What a unique and surprising post, including the mirror line (loved). This was my favorite line of all: "And outside, the moon rises like an ancient scroll unrolling."
Stephanie, Listener Beneath the Tree That Speaks—
If that line curled itself into your heart like parchment catching moonlight, then it knew exactly where it was headed.
Some nights, the moon isn’t just a moon. It’s a memory we forgot we agreed to carry. A soft reminder that even silence has a story.
Thank you for reading with reverent eyes and catching the shimmer between the sentences.
Your scroll is already half-written.
Your words make me smile and also feel deeply into what could be and is already more true on a deeper level...
Thank you, brother David.
Funny how the real truths don’t shout. They just sit quietly at the bottom of the glass, waiting for us to stop swirling and finally sip.
Grateful you saw the sacred smirk beneath the words.
A place where no one shouts, "Closing time! You don't have to go home but you can't stay here!"
Who is it that's the Designated Driver? :)
No neon last call. No bartender flicking the lights. Just that ancient hush when the soul realizes—oh right, I never left.
As for the Designated Driver?
Probably the Holy Spirit in a hoodie, sipping club soda, waiting till we’re done trying to transcend things that still need grieving.