The Pivot

Note: This little reflection was inspired by a recent prayer shared by Nadia Bolz-Weber—a writer and public theologian who is one of the most refreshingly honest spiritual voices around. She brings irreverence and reverence together in a way that’s uniquely her own and a little bit badass—in the best possible way.

These days, many of us find ourselves caught in a strange and relentless fog—swept up in headlines that defy logic, behavior that mocks decency, and a rising tide of cruelty masquerading as strength. It's hard to make sense of it all, harder still to stay grounded in a world that seems increasingly untethered from truth, compassion, and common sense.

Even with good intentions and healthy habits—movement, rest, nourishing food, time outdoors—there’s often a lingering sense of fatigue. Not just physical tiredness, but something deeper: a spiritual or emotional weariness that seems to settle in the bones.

When the mind turns toward the future, it can feel like walking into a hall of mirrors. Questions multiply. Like, “Are we past the point of no return?”

In times like these, the practice of presence can feel almost impossible—or at least insufficient. And yet, even in the swirl of uncertainty, there are moments when something simpler emerges. A shaft of sunlight across the floor. The rhythm of a steady breath. A flower blooming without concern for human chaos. Recently, for me, it was my kayak floating quietly on a nearly still body of water after I stopped paddling and my little water craft drifted by a log covered in turtles sunning themselves.

This kind of noticing doesn’t solve anything, but it shifts something. A pause. A softening. A return.

It’s a small act of turning attention from noise to stillness, from overwhelm to something more tangible and real.

This is the pivot.

Not a fix or a cure. Not a bypass. But a gentle redirection—away from the spinning thoughts and toward the ground beneath our feet, the breath in our lungs, the body that knows how to be here.

The pivot asks:

What if steadiness doesn’t come from controlling the world, but from sensing this moment more clearly?

What if we could meet fear and fatigue not with frantic effort, but with compassionate awareness?

What happens when we stop trying to think our way out, and instead feel our way back in?

Maybe we don't need to wait for perfect conditions. The pivot is available in any moment. It’s the act of remembering we are still here. Still breathing. Still capable of noticing beauty, even now.

And perhaps that noticing—fragile, fleeting, imperfect as it may be—is what reconnects us to our humanity. To each other.

The Land, The Practice, and The Teacher Within

A dear friend recently asked me if I had any thoughts on how to meet the hearts and minds that will arrive this summer at The Mindful Unplug retreat program—some vexed, some worried, some heavy with the weight of the world. It was a good question. And it had me reflecting on a few simple but enduring principles.

First, I trust the practice. I trust movement, breath, stillness. I trust that if we come to them honestly—without force, without expectation—they will do their work. I have seen this again and again. There is something ancient, something wordless, in the way these practices meet us where we are and begin, almost imperceptibly, to shift the light. They do not require our belief in them. They only ask for our presence.

Second, I remember that each of us is our own best teacher. The finest guides I have known were those who never claimed to have all the answers, who never promised that if I only followed their way, I would be made whole. They pointed toward possibility. They reminded me that my own body, my own breath, my own awareness—these were the true guides. And so, when I share, I try to do the same. I offer what I can, and then I trust the deep intelligence within each person to find what they need.

Then there is the land. The Ranch has a way of working on people. It does not need a syllabus or an agenda. It moves through us in the hush of early morning light, in the rhythm of footfalls on a dirt path, in the way the sky stretches open at the end of the day. Simply being in its presence—allowing the wind, the trees, the shifting clouds to speak in their own quiet language—can be a tonic. There is something at work here beyond what can be taught. I trust that, too.

And finally, there is this: Let yourself feel what you feel. This world gives us plenty of reasons to carry grief, to carry anger, to carry fear. Let it be there. Let it move through you, but don’t let it be the only thing. Discover, instead, how offering your presence to another can be a remedy of its own. The simple act of listening, of supporting, of being with—this is not just for them. It’s for you, too. This is how we shift from feeling lost in our own turmoil to remembering that we belong to something larger.

I don’t have all the answers. I never have. I have my own moments of doubt, of worry, of feeling small in the face of all that is beyond my influence and control. But I’m pretty sure I know this: Trusting the practice, trusting the land, trusting the wisdom within each person who arrives—this has always been enough. And I believe it will be enough again.