Just Showing Up: Unscripted. Present. Just a Little Undone.

Just showing up—present, honest, maybe a little undone.

There’s something stirring this summer. Not a project or a plan—more like a shift in how I’m being invited to show up. The kind of change that doesn’t ask for control or clarity up front, just honesty. Just presence.

As I was writing The Very Good News, I couldn’t find my footing in my usual style. The message didn’t want to be explained—it wanted to be exclaimed. What came out wasn’t what I was used to. It stretched me. But it also freed me.

That book changed me in ways I’m still discovering. I find myself listening differently now—where I once heard discord, I’m starting to hear complexity. The clear lines I used to draw have softened, and in their place, I’m beginning to see the beautiful, tangled humanity we all share.

It’s like someone adjusted the lens—suddenly there’s more nuance, more grace, more room for contradiction, growth, and the beauty of being human.

This shift is seeping into everything. How I write, how I listen, how I hold space for others and for myself. There’s a pull toward something that feels both riskier and more honest.

More room for mystery. More willingness to sit with questions that don’t have tidy answers. More trust in voices that don’t sound like mine, stories that challenge what I thought I knew.

Maybe it’s also about breaking out of the boxes we unconsciously build around ourselves—the familiar rhythms and structures we get so comfortable with that we stop noticing when they start feeling constraining. Like wearing clothes that technically fit but don’t feel quite right anymore. Sometimes the message itself demands a different vessel.

Lately, I’ve been leaning into things I once thought weren’t for me. Writing poetry, even though it’s new ground. Letting go of familiar teaching forms, even when it feels uncertain. And quietly listening to the voice of fiction—something that’s lingered at the edges of my imagination for years, patiently waiting to be welcomed in.

Maybe it’s all been about voice. Not just finding it, but letting it shift. Letting it stretch beyond what’s comfortable. Sometimes it teaches. Sometimes it tells the truth without flinching. And sometimes voice isn't a sound—it's a pause.

There’s a quieter rhythm I’m learning to follow—one that listens before it speaks, that trusts transformation to unfold without being forced.

I was cooking dinner the other night, listening to old jazz—the kind that moves slow and speaks deep. Voices that feel like old friends. It’s not my era, but something in it feels familiar. Settling. Unrushed.

I’ve always been an old soul—drawn to old movies, slow jazz and soulful blues. I’m moved by stories that take their time, melodies that carry weight. Times that felt slower—not because everything was right, but because there was space to breathe. Back then, time wasn’t something to conquer; it was something to inhabit.

That still speaks to me.

There’s something in those voices, those rhythms, that feels like home. Like some part of me remembers a world I never physically lived in, but its rhythm still finds me.

And still—I'm pulled toward what’s ahead. I want to build what doesn’t yet exist. To make room for voices that haven’t had their moment—for those carrying grace, truth, and a quiet fire that refuses to stay hidden.

To make space those voices be heard.

It’s the reason I write the way I do. And why I publish the way I do. It's why TWS isn’t just a business—it’s a living space for stories that matter. A place where time slows down and something lasting gets built. A space that honors the deep, ancient things while making room for the new ones.

So yeah… I’ll keep listening to the greats while cooking dinner.

And I’ll keep leaning in to the voice of the One within me—still surprising, still creating, still speaking in ways I didn’t expect.

And I’ll keep building something that outlives me—one story, one voice, one sacred yes at a time.

Until next time…