by Joan Anderson In this excerpt from her book The Second Journey, memoirist Joan Anderson describes the call that sent her in search of herself as she entered the second half of her life. The whistle of the ferry startles me, and then I feel a surge of pure excitement as the heavy boat backs […]
By Sera Beak Whether you’re a lawyer, mother, a gardener, a self-help author, or a teacher, our souls are continuously calling us deeper. If we’re willing to shed our skins (over and over again), then layer after layer of our truth will appear anew and demand action. What’s true for us today won’t necessarily be […]
by David Harshada Wagner Every son has a father. And in every father-son relationship, there’s a chance for deep spiritual growth. Years ago, when I was first getting into serious spiritual training, I worked with a brilliant psychotherapist. In my first session he asked me what my intention was. “I don’t want to be like […]
Lori Shridhare, guest blogger
One late evening in August 1990, I sat alone in the Bologna train station in northern Italy, frustrated that I had missed my overnight train to France. I was winding down my summer of backpacking through Europe and my last year as a teenager. Hot and sweaty, I had no choice but to take a local train with no sleeping cars for the hour-long journey to Milan, then several more hours to Lyon. I climbed aboard the crowded train and sat in a car with a priest and three women. As I settled into my seat, Walkman hugging my ears, a tall, distinguished twenty-something young man sat in the remaining seat across from me. His wavy blondish-brown hair curled behind his ears, with strands falling along his designer glasses. What stood out most to me were his clear aqua eyes, his suspenders strapped over his lavender button-down shirt, and his sharp nose. He looked like a European fashion model, and I hoped he’d be sitting across from me all night.
Lisa Pletzer, guest blogger
It was the first day of my junior year of high school, and my English teacher had just handed each of us a blank notebook.
“You’re all going to keep journals this year,” she said. “I’ll periodically collect them to count pages—not to read—so I want you to feel like you can be totally open and honest.” She told us that our final exam would be writing a paper about our observations of how we’d grown through our journal writings from the entire school year.
I’d always loved to write and had kept a diary in the past. But after a bad experience a couple of years before involving my mother reading my diary (“I thought you were writing a book!”) and discovering my growing interest in having sex with my boyfriend, I’d basically sworn off putting anything in writing. But this, I thought, might be different. It was a school notebook, after all. No reason for anyone to go snooping there!