: : Par amor.

The only thing more powerful than the heartbreak of the futility of reality is a mind’s ability to prevent us from feeling it. Whole religions, philosophies, and dreamscapes have been created to prevent an awareness of the depths of this notion. Busyness, self-importance and credentialed becoming grow exponentially so that the starkness of that fact is kept at bay. And yet on some level, all of it true. The hide and the seek. The peekaboo of you.

But when you pull back the veil and fall into the abyss, the most loving thing happens. The black hole, devourer of hope, joy, and possibility shoots you through a wormhole of death and spews out the whitest of light - splattered in all directions- redistributed far and wide.

Just like forest.

We like to think that our life means something or that we stand for something or that there is something to come or that we are connected to something that once was.. Our minds will go to all extremes to prove to us that this is so. But when we see that the decaying log becomes a verdant forest floor and understand that we    are .   that…      when we let go on the pressure valve, the posturing this way or that.. and actually let it land..

And this love. This redistribution. This is so full and so complete and so whole. There is no need for anything more. It is so with the black hole in outer space. It is so inside of a life. It is so on the forest floor.

As a pal on the path which has been my gig this lifetime, I will not take you on a wild goose chase around various gods and goddesses and energy centers and planets and lifetimes and star people, except for on those rare occasions when I do ;) but the underlying foundation to all is here- can be found in the body.  I will guide you into your body because there is a forest floor in there. It is timeless, fertile, teeming, and has everything you need. It regenerates, dies, comes alive again, right here under our skin.

..the portal that is there at the end of kapalabhati. The flood of blood, oxygenated and full, when the pose unfolds. The eyes opening after savanna, and the world falling into you once more..

These are the places. These, the spaces.

So do, if you like- stand for something and be the thing, but also die to it all in unfathomable emptiness. And then see. If you aren’t tree. And how truly loving that can be.

Here is the thing that is the opposite of futility - because it is always a paradox- you can become forest floor in the span of a life. You can experience the death of everything- the abyss of futility and be reborn just as she (forest) does.

Just, apparently, as he does. You see? The distraction is also the truth.

Pulling the nothing-matters thread, the death of a thousand egos, has a little knot at the end and once unraveled, a little note that says ‘hey you- all those steps you just took, that dark night, that endless grief… those matter. They are everything. YOU are everything.’ And once bare boned, soul-starved, and ready, the message is received in the place that matters most. The heart of the heart that is home of eternity and will never, not even once, let you go. Not par excellence, but par commune—of the people, by the people. Par terra. Par gaia—connected, equal, breathing. Together. One.

So follow your futility. Let it hollow you out.
Let the black hole make you whole.
The MOST important thing.
Through more than a few, till lightly, churn the soil and realize that root of utter unequivocal importance.
Without the shadowed through, the black hole made new, it will always only ever be a half whole.

In the shell of a nut:
True wholeness comes not from avoiding futility, but by dying into it—letting it strip you bare—so that love, meaning, and belonging can grow like a forest from the compost of your undoing.


Aaaannnndddddd yet, even here, there’s another way. A way that doesn’t demand we break or build, but simply remembers.


What if there’s not just the path of ego-death (dying to our futility)
or the path of rebirth (becoming forest floor)—
but a third that says: You were never separate to begin with.

What if it’s not about composting the self
or transcending it
but about loving it back into belonging?

And that feels like Mary Magdalene.
Not the death priestess, not the resurrection fanfare.
But the tender in-between.
The one who anoints, who sees with holy eyes.
The path of devotion. The middle of the spiral.
Love as the solvent that dissolves futility, not through suffering,
but through seeing.

A third way.

Not par excellence.
But
Par amor.
Par anointing.
Par mercy.
Par Magdalene.

A way where the black hole doesn’t just eat you,
and the forest floor doesn’t just rebirth you,
but love cradles you mid-fall
and whispers~
You were whole the whole entire time.

What if that’s the way?

In this day and age, on this planet earth, revolving around this sun, in this universe among so many, and dealing with all that we do, let’s hold space for that Magdalene path:
The one that doesn’t demand we shatter,
doesn’t insist we transcend,
but invites us to remember—softly, slowly, sensually—
that even futility is sacred when met with love.

Happy Easter, my loves.

She is risen.