I first wrote Common Threads Beyond Culture in 2013 devastated by the mass killings in Syria, unable to sit still without doing something. No matter a small thing, all I could do was write about what’s possible instead…because I witnessed it. When news came from Ukraine — mounting genocide, innocent…

Several years ago, my friend Hilary Bee, a professional intuitive and spiritual teacher in the UK, told me that I have a strong inner navigational system guiding me. Over time, I’ve learned to trust it implicitly — even when the next step is obscured from my vision. I call this…

Chapter Eighteen Sybilla and PJ rejoined everyone in the kitchen. The women carried platters of food laden with tortillas, beans, rice and squash to the table. Bowls were already stacked. One of the young boys got up from his place on the bench so they could crowd in next to Javier. Davis…

I’m sitting here waiting for the words to come. Sometimes writing is like that. Not because there’s writer’s block but because it takes a while — sometimes a long while — for the feelings to swim up…and form thought…then phrases…then sentences. At least enough to make a cohesive statement. I’m…

Chapter Seventeen Sybilla awoke in the early morning hours to the rhythmic drip of water splashing on the floor next to the bed; a spot in the thatched roof had weakened. Sidestepping the puddle, she peered through the mesh window to find her vision quite limited. A deafening rush, torrential sheets of…

I’m part of a small women’s circle. We meet monthly, now well over a decade. We rarely have any agenda except to provide a safe haven. We gather. We talk. We share our lives, the good times and the difficult ones. We act as witnesses for each other. All arises…

Chapter Sixteen As silent as the desert was after dusk, the rainforest was equally humming with all manner of insects and amphibians clamoring to be known to the night. Darkness fell early beneath the canopy. The tiny restaurant at their lodging only offered breakfast. But Javier prevailed upon the owner’s daughter Rosa…

Almost immediately into the film, I was overwhelmed by nostalgia. One was for France, even though I’d only been absent three years, the time lengthened due to the pandemic. The other was for the kind of road trips I frequently took, spanning the mid-1990s to early 2000s, through the US…

Chapter Fifteen Six weeks passed. Sybilla was fixing lunch for PJ when the phone rang. A gruff male voice on the other end said, “Sybilla Johns?” The line crackled and sounded far away. “Yes?” she said. “This is Davis Mitchell and I hear you want to speak to me.” …