08/18/2026
The Cosmic Weather Is Changing
Sun in Gate 29 — Devotion ☀️
Earth in Gate 30 — Passion 🌍
I’ve been thinking about the little disappointments.
The things that, in the grand scheme of life, really aren’t that big.
Something takes longer than we expected.
Plans change.
Someone cancels.
Something we were looking forward to doesn’t happen.
A conversation doesn’t go quite the way we hoped.
Sometimes those things move through me incredibly quickly.
Well, that’s disappointing.
I feel it.
Adjust.
Carry on.
And sometimes I can almost immediately see something else.
Another possibility.
Something I hadn’t considered.
Maybe even a gift.
There are times when I can genuinely trust that although this one thing didn’t happen the way I wanted, that doesn’t mean something has gone wrong.
I don’t need to know why it happened.
I don’t need to know what comes next.
There’s simply enough space around the disappointment for me to remember:
This moment isn’t the whole story.
And then there are other times when something equally small takes a little longer to move through.
Not dramatically longer.
Not because I’ve secretly turned it into something enormous.
It just lands differently.
And I’ve become really curious about that.
Because disappointment never arrives to an empty room.
It arrives in the middle of an entire life.
Where we are emotionally.
What else we’ve been carrying.
How connected we feel to ourselves.
Whether we’ve been doing the things that feed us.
For me, where I am in my emotional wave absolutely matters.
When I’m feeling connected, doing work I love, keeping the rituals that support me, creating, connecting and giving my energy somewhere meaningful to move, there’s more happening in my life that feels good.
The disappointment is still disappointing.
It just isn’t the loudest thing in the room.
There’s more access to possibility.
More perspective.
More trust in the bigger picture.
At another point in my wave, particularly when I haven’t been feeding myself with those things in the same way, the exact same disappointment might need a little longer.
The possibility I could see immediately another day might not be visible yet.
The gift might not be available to me.
And perhaps that doesn’t mean anything has gone wrong either.
I don’t have to force myself to find the gift.
I don’t have to manufacture gratitude.
I don’t have to decide I should be handling it differently.
I can simply recognize:
This is where it found me today.
And trust that where I am now isn’t necessarily where I’ll see it from later.
So instead of:
Why is this bothering me so much?
Maybe the questions become:
What did this disappointment land on?
What might I need more of right now?
Not to make the disappointment disappear.
To nourish the person experiencing it.
And sometimes there’s something else happening too.
A small disappointment can touch a much bigger desire.
The cancelled plan might touch our desire for connection.
The delayed answer might touch how ready we were to finally move forward.
A comment might touch our desire to feel seen.
A change we know we’ll adjust to might touch a future we had already imagined differently.
So perhaps instead of measuring how disappointed we should be by the size of what happened, we can become curious about:
What was I really wanting?
Because desire isn’t wrong.
And that feels particularly alive as the Cosmic Weather moves into Gate 29, Devotion, with the Earth in Gate 30, Passion.
In the Gene Keys, Gate 29 takes us through:
Half-heartedness → Commitment → Devotion
while Gate 30 moves through:
Desire → Lightness → Rapture.
And together, they feel less like an invitation to master our desires…
and more like an invitation to become brave enough to care deeply about being alive.
🌿 Desire
We want things.
Of course we do.
We hope.
We anticipate.
We imagine.
We get excited.
We fall in love with people, experiences and possibilities.
We create futures in our minds before we ever arrive in them.
There is so much life in desire.
And there is vulnerability too.
Because the moment we really allow ourselves to want something, we also create the possibility of not getting it.
And sometimes the disappointment isn’t only about what didn’t happen.
It’s about the story we’d already begun building around what we thought would.
How it would feel.
What might happen next.
What it would mean.
Sometimes we’re grieving something that existed partly in our imagination and was still completely real to us.
I don’t think the answer is to imagine less.
Or want less.
Or protect ourselves by never getting too excited.
I’ve lived enough life to know it doesn’t promise to follow the story I’ve written for it.
But I still want to write stories.
I still want to dream.
I still want to get excited.
I still want things to matter.
Because the alternative to disappointment isn’t necessarily peace.
Sometimes it’s simply not letting ourselves care enough to be disappointed.
And I don’t want that.
🌿 Lightness
This is where the Gift of Gate 30, Lightness, has been opening differently for me.
I don’t think Lightness asks us to care less.
And I don’t think it asks us to find the positive in everything that happens.
Maybe Lightness is releasing our insistence that the story we imagined was the only good story available.
That doesn’t mean pretending we didn’t prefer it.
I can still say:
I wanted that.
I’m disappointed.
I wish it had happened differently.
And leave a little space beside those truths for:
I don’t know yet what else this might contain.
That yet feels important.
Sometimes I can see another possibility almost immediately.
Sometimes the gift becomes obvious later.
And sometimes I may never call what happened a gift at all.
I don’t think trust requires me to.
Because some disappointments aren’t little.
There are losses that contain real grief.
Relationships end.
Dreams don’t happen.
Something—or someone—we thought would be part of our future isn’t.
Those experiences deserve whatever time they need.
Lightness cannot become another expectation:
You should have let this go by now.
Maybe Lightness isn’t about how quickly we move on.
Maybe it’s about not allowing disappointment to permanently close the part of us that is willing to want again.
And perhaps trust isn’t:
Everything happens for a reason.
Or even:
Everything is going to work out exactly the way I want.
Maybe trust is quieter.
I don’t know enough from where I’m standing to know the whole story yet.
I can let this be disappointing without deciding what it means about everything that comes next.
🌿 Half-heartedness
And this is where Gate 29 starts speaking to Gate 30 in a way I find really interesting.
What happens after we’ve been disappointed enough times?
Sometimes we protect ourselves.
I’m not getting my hopes up.
We’ll see.
It probably won’t happen anyway.
I don’t really care.
We hold something at arm’s length before life gets the opportunity to take it away.
And suddenly Half-heartedness looks different.
Sometimes half-heartedness isn’t a lack of passion.
Sometimes it’s passion wearing armour.
If I don’t give myself fully to this, maybe it won’t hurt as much if it doesn’t work.
If I don’t get too excited, maybe I won’t be as disappointed.
If I keep one foot out, perhaps I’ll be safer.
I understand that.
But I also know what it costs.
Because eventually we aren’t only protecting ourselves from disappointment.
We’re protecting ourselves from aliveness.
🌿 Commitment
So perhaps Commitment isn’t simply about staying with something.
Maybe it begins with being willing to say:
Yes. This matters to me.
Knowing there are no guarantees.
That’s a vulnerable yes.
And it requires discernment.
Because wholeheartedness doesn’t mean saying yes to everything.
I’ve learned that being capable of carrying something doesn’t necessarily mean it belongs to me to carry.
Being able to make something work doesn’t mean I need to.
And something having once been a wholehearted yes doesn’t mean it must remain one forever.
Commitment can ask us to listen again:
Is this still my yes?
Not because we’re looking for an escape the moment something becomes difficult.
Things we deeply care about can ask a lot of us.
But because our life force matters.
And I want my yes to mean something.
🌿 Devotion
And maybe that’s why Devotion feels different to me now too.
I’ve been thinking about devotion not only as:
What am I willing to give myself to?
But:
What am I devoted to giving myself?
What feeds the life in me?
What brings me home to myself?
What gives my energy somewhere meaningful to move?
What makes me feel creative, connected, curious, alive?
Those things aren’t extras.
They aren’t rewards for finishing everything else.
They change the way I meet my life.
When I’m feeding the things that feed me, disappointment doesn’t disappear.
But there’s more life around it.
More possibility.
More perspective.
More access to trust.
And there’s another layer here too.
Underneath the particular outcome I want, there is often something deeper I’m devoted to.
I might want one particular opportunity.
But underneath it, perhaps I’m devoted to contribution.
I might want one particular relationship to look a certain way.
But underneath it, perhaps I’m devoted to love and connection.
I might want one particular version of my future.
But underneath that form may be freedom, creativity, service, belonging, adventure or beauty.
So when life changes the form, perhaps eventually I can ask:
What remains true underneath what I wanted?
Not to make myself feel better.
Not to rush myself toward meaning.
But to remember that losing one expression of something doesn’t necessarily mean I’ve lost the deeper thing I’m devoted to.
And sometimes the thing not happening when I wanted it to gives me something I couldn’t have known I needed.
Time.
Space to feel.
To understand.
To see something differently.
To integrate something that perhaps couldn’t have been integrated on the timeline I would have chosen.
The gift wasn’t visible when the disappointment arrived.
It became visible later.
And that matters to me.
Because it means I don’t have to rush myself toward meaning.
I don’t have to immediately decide something happened for me.
I can let myself experience what is true now…
and leave room for life to reveal something else later.
🌿 Rapture
And then Gate 30 takes us all the way to Rapture.
I don’t imagine Rapture as finally becoming so evolved that life no longer disappoints us.
Maybe it’s an extraordinary willingness to experience the whole thing.
To desire.
To love.
To hope.
To anticipate.
To be surprised.
To be disappointed.
To grieve.
To laugh.
To have something work out even better than we imagined.
And sometimes to never understand why something happened at all.
And still participate.
Still care.
Still want.
Still allow life to touch us.
Because devotion doesn’t guarantee outcome.
Love doesn’t guarantee permanence.
Doing everything “right” doesn’t guarantee the result.
And perhaps the deepest invitation of these two gates is to stop asking life for that guarantee before we’re willing to give it our heart.
Can I give myself wholeheartedly to what is true for me without requiring life to promise me what I’ll receive in return?
That feels like Devotion.
And perhaps Rapture is what becomes possible when we stop needing every moment to prove life is going our way before we’re willing to be fully inside it.
🌿 A Somatic Practice — What Is Underneath the Disappointment?
Bring to mind a small disappointment.
Something that feels safe enough to sit with.
Notice what happens in your body as you remember it.
And simply acknowledge:
I wanted something different.
Pause.
No reframing.
No silver lining.
Then ask:
What was I really wanting?
Let your body answer before your mind builds the story.
Maybe it was connection.
Recognition.
Movement.
Relief.
Love.
Possibility.
Or maybe you simply wanted the thing you wanted.
That’s enough.
Then ask:
What did this disappointment land on?
Notice where you are today.
Not where you think you should be.
And then:
What needs feeding in me right now?
Not:
How do I fix this?
Not:
How do I get over it?
What would bring a little more life into you?
And finally:
If I didn’t need to know the whole story yet, what might I be willing to leave open?
You don’t need an answer.
Sometimes the practice is simply leaving enough space for something we cannot see yet.
🌿 This Week I’m Sitting With…
What was I really wanting underneath my disappointment?
When something small takes a little longer, can I become curious about where it found me instead of deciding I shouldn’t feel this way?
What am I devoted to that genuinely feeds the life in me?
Where might half-heartedness actually be protecting me from the vulnerability of caring?
What remains true underneath the particular outcome I wanted?
And perhaps the question underneath all of it:
Can I release the story of how I thought life should unfold without releasing my devotion to living it wholeheartedly?
Because I don’t think I want a life that never disappoints me.
To guarantee that, I’d have to want less.
Hope less.
Risk less.
Love less.
Care less.
I want a life that feeds me enough to keep caring.
A life where I can say:
I wanted that.
I’m disappointed.
I can’t see the gift from here.
And sometimes, later:
Oh.
I couldn’t have seen this then.
Maybe trust is allowing all of those moments to belong.
Being wholehearted in what we choose.
Tender with ourselves when life doesn’t meet the picture we were holding.
Devoted to what keeps us alive inside.
And open enough to remember:
This moment doesn’t have to tell me the whole story.
And I would love to hear from you…
What helps you stay open to possibility when something doesn’t go the way you hoped?
W 💗
08/11/2026
A Different Wellness Wednesday
We have a wall.
There’s still more work to be done, but after everything that’s happened with this room over the last couple of weeks, it feels a little surreal to actually see it there.
And I’ve decided — for now anyway — that I’m staying.
So now I get to reimagine the room.
And almost immediately I caught myself thinking:
How am I going to fit everything back in?
Where will this go?
Where will that go?
How do I make everything that belonged in the old room work in a space that is now almost half the size?
And then I realized…
Why am I assuming everything needs to come back?
Why would everything that belonged in the old space automatically belong in the new one?
That feels like a much more interesting question.
So instead of trying to recreate what I had, I’m looking at everything differently.
What needs to stay?
What still belongs?
What has served its purpose?
And maybe the one I’m most curious about:
What am I keeping simply because there used to be room for it?
And I have a feeling those questions aren’t only about my room.
Because we do this in life too.
Our circumstances change.
Our capacity changes.
We change.
But sometimes we’re still trying to fit everything from the previous version of our lives into the one we’re living now.
Maybe not everything needs to come with us.
⸻
There won’t be an in-person Wellness Wednesday again this week while the work continues.
I was very kindly offered another space downstairs so we could still gather.
And I could have made it work.
I’m pretty good at making things work. 😂
But I started thinking about everything I would need to move and rearrange to temporarily create the kind of experience I want to hold…
and this question came back to me:
What would it feel like not to make this harder than it needs to be?
I’ve done things the hard way plenty of times in my life.
Made things more complicated.
Added more steps.
Put in more effort simply because I knew I could figure it out.
These days, I’ve come to really love the freedom in simplicity.
And this week, simplicity looks like not trying to create a temporary version of Wellness Wednesday somewhere else.
Instead, I’m inviting you to take the practice home.
Your At-Home Wellness Wednesday 💚
Find somewhere comfortable.
Feel your feet on the ground.
Notice the support underneath you.
Take a comfortable breath.
And bring to mind one area of your life that feels a little crowded right now.
Not necessarily physically.
Maybe there’s simply a lot.
A lot to do.
A lot to think about.
A lot you’re trying to make work.
And ask yourself:
Am I trying to fit everything from what was into what is?
Pause.
Then ask:
What actually needs to stay?
What might I be carrying simply because there used to be room for it?
And:
What would become simpler if I stopped trying to make everything fit?
Don’t turn this into another project.
You don’t have to clear out your house, change your life or make a big decision today. 😂
Just notice what comes.
And before you finish, one last question:
What would it feel like not to make this harder than it needs to be?
Take a breath.
Feel your feet again.
And go on with your day.
Maybe simplicity begins with noticing where we’ve been adding complexity we no longer need.
As for me…
The wall is here.
I’m staying, for now anyway.
And instead of trying to squeeze the old room into the new one, I’m going to get curious about what actually deserves to come back in.
I’ll keep you posted.
W💗
08/11/2026
The Cosmic Weather Is Changing August 12th
New Moon + Total Solar Eclipse
Sun in Gate 4 ☀️ | Earth in Gate 49 🌍
I’ve been thinking about how much of my life I’ve spent wanting to know what’s coming.
Not because I need to control every detail.
At least, I don’t think that’s what it’s really about.
I think some part of me has believed that if I know what’s coming, I can prepare myself for it.
I can think it through.
Get ahead of it.
Work out what I might need.
Make sure I’m ready.
And there’s nothing wrong with being prepared.
But I’ve learned to recognize the moments when preparation stops being preparation…
and becomes an attempt to make myself feel safe in a future that hasn’t happened yet.
Because the truth is, some of the things that have changed me most in this life…
I could never have prepared for.
The things I’ve lost.
The things I’ve loved.
The things that ended.
The things that began when I wasn’t looking.
The people who changed me.
The things I thought I couldn’t handle until life asked me to handle them.
No amount of thinking ahead could have made me completely ready.
And strangely, when those moments arrived, something else arrived with them.
Me.
Not the version of me who had rehearsed every possible outcome.
The version of me who was actually there.
Present.
Feeling.
Noticing.
Responding.
Finding the next thing.
And then the next.
Maybe presence has prepared me for life far more than prediction ever has.
That feels especially alive as we move toward August 12.
A New Moon.
A total solar eclipse.
The Perseid meteor shower reaching its peak around the same time, against the darkness of a New Moon sky.
And in the Human Design weather, the Sun is in Gate 4 and the Earth in Gate 49.
In the Quantum Human Design language I love, Gate 4 is Possibility and Gate 49 is the Catalyst.
In the Gene Keys, Gate 4 moves from Intolerance, through Understanding, into Forgiveness.
Gate 49 moves from Reaction, through Revolution, into Rebirth.
And there’s something about these two together that feels incredibly human to me.
That moment when something in us knows:
This can’t continue in the same way.
Even though we may have absolutely no idea what comes next.
The Catalyst
I know those moments when something happens and my reaction arrives before I’ve had time to understand it.
No.
This isn’t okay.
Something needs to change.
And if you’ve been reading my posts, you know I’ve become much less interested in making my reaction wrong.
Because sometimes there’s information inside it.
A boundary has been touched.
Something I’ve tolerated isn’t sustainable anymore.
Something matters more deeply to me than I realized.
Maybe I’ve changed.
Maybe I know something now that I can’t unknow.
The question isn’t whether I reacted. It’s what I do with what the reaction has shown me.
Can I stay with myself long enough to understand what matters underneath it?
Because revolution doesn’t always mean burning everything down.
Sometimes it’s incredibly quiet.
I’m not doing this to myself anymore.
I don’t believe that anymore.
This doesn’t work for me anymore.
Nobody else may even know something has changed.
But I do.
Maybe that’s the Catalyst.
The moment the old way becomes impossible to inhabit in quite the same way again.
Possibility
And then Gate 4 brings us into our relationship with answers.
I know how quickly my mind can want one.
What does this mean?
What happens now?
What should I do?
Sometimes an answer — any answer — can feel more comfortable than uncertainty.
But an answer we create because we can’t tolerate not knowing isn’t necessarily understanding.
Possibility asks for a little room.
Maybe I don’t know yet.
There was a time when those words would have felt incredibly uncomfortable to me.
Sometimes they still do.
But there’s also freedom in them.
Because if I don’t know yet…
there may be something I haven’t seen.
A conversation I haven’t had.
An idea that hasn’t arrived.
A version of me I haven’t become yet.
Not knowing contains possibility.
And then Gate 4 takes us somewhere I have thought about for a very long time.
Forgiveness.
I’ve had a particular relationship with forgiveness for a number of years now.
And it may be different from the way some people think about it.
Something I learned through grief work has stayed with me.
Forgiveness doesn’t mean pretending something didn’t matter.
It doesn’t mean saying something was okay when it wasn’t.
It doesn’t mean forgetting.
It doesn’t necessarily mean reconciliation.
And it certainly doesn’t mean someone gets access to me again simply because I’ve forgiven them.
For me, forgiveness can be much simpler.
It happened.
It hurt me.
And I am not going to allow what happened to keep hurting me.
That doesn’t change what happened.
It doesn’t excuse it.
And it doesn’t require the other person to understand, apologize or even be part of the process.
It changes what I choose to continue carrying.
There are things we cannot change.
Words we cannot unsay.
Choices we cannot undo.
People who may never understand the impact they had.
Answers we may never receive.
And at some point, continuing to fight with what happened doesn’t change what happened.
It only changes how much of today I continue to give to it.
I know the desire to understand.
Why did this happen?
Why did they do that?
Why did I allow it?
Why didn’t I see it sooner?
What could I have done differently?
As though if I could finally understand every piece, I could put it down.
But perhaps forgiveness doesn’t require every answer.
Sometimes it can simply be:
I don’t need to understand this any further in order to stop carrying it forward.
That doesn’t make what happened okay.
It doesn’t take away what I learned.
It doesn’t mean I don’t have boundaries.
It means I can honour that something hurt me without continuing to organize my life around the hurt.
I can remember without constantly reliving.
I can learn without hardening.
I can have boundaries without needing bitterness to maintain them.
And perhaps the biggest one:
I can decide something will never be acceptable to me again without staying angry enough to prove that it wasn’t acceptable in the first place.
That feels like freedom to me.
Forgiveness isn’t:
It didn’t matter.
It’s:
It mattered.
It hurt.
And I am not going to allow what happened to keep hurting me.
I know what happened.
I know what it cost me.
I know what I learned.
And I get to decide what happens inside me now.
Maybe that’s where Forgiveness meets Rebirth.
Not when the past changes.
When my relationship to the past changes.
Maybe something that once had a hold on me doesn’t anymore.
A reaction passes more quickly.
A story feels like old news.
I can remember without becoming the version of myself who originally lived it.
I’m simply not standing in the same place anymore.
And the energy I’ve been using to replay what happened…
understand it…
fight with it…
wish it had been different…
becomes available again.
For now.
For life.
For possibility.
Which leaves me wondering:
What becomes possible when all the energy I was using to hold onto what happened is mine again?
Maybe that is its own kind of rebirth.
And there’s something about what is happening in the sky that feels like a beautiful image for all of this.
During the eclipse, for a moment, the familiar light is obscured.
And around the same time, the Perseids are reaching their peak against a dark New Moon sky.
What I love about that is simple.
The darkness makes something else easier to see.
Maybe we don’t always need to rush to illuminate the unknown.
Maybe our eyes need a little time to adjust.
Maybe life is still giving us information.
Maybe possibility becomes visible when we leave enough room for something we haven’t seen yet.
I don’t have to prepare today for every version of tomorrow.
I can meet today.
Maybe that’s enough preparation.
A Somatic Practice — Carrying It Differently
Feel your feet on the ground.
Notice the support beneath you.
Let your breath be as it is.
Bring to mind something you’ve been carrying.
Nothing overwhelming.
Something that happened that you know you cannot change.
You don’t need to explain it.
Just notice what happens in your body when you remember it.
Where do you feel it?
Your chest?
Your belly?
Your throat?
Your shoulders?
Don’t try to release anything.
Just notice.
And quietly ask:
What have I needed to carry about this?
Pause.
Maybe the anger helped you know something wasn’t okay.
Maybe the hurt showed you what mattered.
Maybe holding onto the story helped you make sense of something you couldn’t understand at the time.
You don’t need to make any of that wrong.
Now ask:
Do I still need to carry it in the same way?
Pause.
Not:
Should I be over this?
Not:
Why haven’t I forgiven yet?
Simply:
Am I ready to carry any part of this differently?
Notice what your body does.
And perhaps ask:
What am I afraid I might lose if I put some of this down?
Maybe part of you believes letting go means saying it was okay.
Maybe anger has helped you hold a boundary.
Maybe the story has protected something important.
Let yourself hear that too.
And then gently remind yourself:
I don’t have to forget what happened in order to stop living inside it.
Pause.
Feel your feet again.
Look around the room.
Come back to where you actually are.
And ask:
If I gave a little less of today to what happened yesterday… what might I have more room for?
Don’t search for an answer.
Just leave a little space.
This Week I’m Sitting With…
What is my reaction showing me about what matters?
What do I know cannot continue in quite the same way?
Where am I still looking for an answer I may never receive?
What am I afraid forgiveness would mean?
What am I ready to carry differently?
And perhaps the question underneath all of them:
What becomes possible when I stop allowing what happened to keep hurting me?
Maybe this New Moon and eclipse aren’t asking me to make some huge declaration about what comes next.
Maybe they’re asking for something quieter.
To notice what has changed.
To allow my reactions without letting them decide everything that happens next.
To understand without demanding every answer.
To forgive without pretending.
To let something be finished without immediately knowing what will take its place.
And to leave some space.
For the possibility I haven’t thought of.
For the answer that isn’t ready.
For the life that doesn’t have to be built around what hurt me.
For the person I’m still becoming.
Because maybe being prepared for life doesn’t mean seeing it coming.
Maybe it means trusting that when life arrives… I’ll be there too.
And maybe forgiveness is part of how I make sure that when I arrive…
I’m not carrying every version of the past with me.
W 💜
08/07/2026
The Cosmic Weather Is Changing
Sun in Gate 7 ☀️ | Earth in Gate 13 🌍
The changes happening to my room have had me thinking about perspective, and how quickly our relationship with a story can change.
When I first learned that a hallway might need to be built through the space, I had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted and how I hoped things would unfold.
I loved that room. So the possibility of losing a significant part of it because of something outside my control brought up a lot.
There were moments when I didn’t feel particularly heard or included in the way I’d hoped.
And for a while, I think I was looking at the whole situation mostly through the story of what I was losing.
That story wasn’t wrong.
I was losing something.
But then I started looking at other possibilities, including moving downstairs.
And I discovered that the largest open space downstairs was actually smaller than the room I would still have after the hallway was built.
That shifted something for me.
Not because I suddenly decided I was happy about what was happening.
Not because what I was losing suddenly didn’t matter.
I simply had information I hadn’t had before.
The new room would still be bigger than my last room.
And more importantly, I realized I wasn’t losing the thing I love most about this space.
The light.
The windows.
That feeling everyone seems to notice when they walk into the room — and that I love too.
I get to keep that.
And suddenly I wasn’t only seeing what was going away.
I could see what remained.
And from there, I could start to imagine what this new version of the room might become.
Not better.
Not worse.
Different.
What I find really interesting is how quickly all of this has happened.
I only found out two Wednesdays ago that the wall was definitely happening.
The actual work only started yesterday.
And yet somehow, it already feels like old news.
Not because it didn’t matter.
It did.
But my relationship with it has already changed.
The physical situation is still unfolding, but the story I’m telling about it has already moved.
And that has me wondering how often we keep carrying a version of a story because we think we’re supposed to.
Maybe because it only happened recently.
Maybe because it mattered.
Maybe because we were hurt, disappointed, angry or afraid.
But what if sometimes we’re simply finished with that version of the story?
We don’t have to keep feeling what we felt at the beginning just because the circumstances themselves haven’t finished changing.
And we don’t have to make the original story wrong in order to move.
Sometimes the story we’re telling is completely true — and still isn’t the whole story.
Maybe changing our perspective isn’t about replacing one story with a better one.
Maybe it’s allowing the story to become big enough to hold more of the truth.
This isn’t what I wanted.
And there are things here I still deeply value.
Something is being lost.
And something new can still be created.
Both can be true.
And that feels so connected to this week’s Cosmic Weather.
The Sun is in Gate 7 and the Earth is in Gate 13.
Gate 13 is sometimes known as the Listener, and in the Gene Keys its journey moves from Discord, through Discernment, into Empathy.
I’ve been thinking about how easily discord happens when we become attached to one version of a story.
Not because our version is necessarily wrong.
It may be completely true.
But when we’re standing right inside it, sometimes it’s the only thing we can see.
And we do this with each other too.
Someone tells us their experience and before they’ve even finished, we’re filtering it through our own.
That’s not how I see it.
I wouldn’t have done that.
They should…
Two people can even live through the same experience and come away with completely different stories.
And there can be this almost automatic pull to establish whose version is right.
But what if listening isn’t about deciding which story gets to win?
What if there’s room for more than one truth?
Your experience can be true for you without making mine untrue.
I can disagree with you and still be curious about how you got there.
I can know what something felt like for me and remain open to something I haven’t seen.
That, to me, feels like discernment becoming empathy.
Not losing our own perspective.
Becoming spacious enough to see beyond it.
There’s something incredibly powerful about being with someone who gives us that kind of space.
I’ve known for a long time that guidance isn’t about having someone else’s answer.
Some of the most meaningful conversations I’ve had are the ones where someone begins talking from one place…
and somewhere along the way, they hear themselves differently.
Something that felt tangled begins to loosen.
Something they couldn’t see becomes visible.
I haven’t necessarily given them an answer.
I’ve listened.
Asked a question.
Reflected something back.
Made room.
There’s something almost sacred about being witnessed without being managed.
Sometimes we don’t need someone to tell us where to go.
We need enough space to see something we couldn’t see from where we were standing.
And then there’s Gate 7.
Its Gene Keys journey moves from Division, through Guidance, into Virtue.
Division is easy to see in the bigger world.
But I’m more interested in the quieter ways it shows up in our own lives.
Right or wrong.
My way or your way.
Stay or go.
This worked or this failed.
The life I thought I was going to have versus the life that is actually here.
Division narrows our view.
And when the view narrows, our choices can narrow with it.
Sometimes there’s another possibility we genuinely cannot see from where we’re standing.
I didn’t force myself to find that with my room.
I didn’t sit down and try to come up with the positive interpretation.
My perspective widened enough that something else became visible.
And I think that difference matters.
Because sometimes we’re so busy trying to work out what to do that we don’t notice the perspective we’re trying to make the decision from.
Maybe before asking:
What should I do?
We could ask:
What am I able to see from here?
What else might also be true?
What remains that still matters to me?
And then:
Knowing what I know now, what direction do I choose from here?
Because listening to our history doesn’t mean allowing our history to choose our future.
We can honour where we’ve been without continuing in the same direction.
And maybe we don’t need to stay emotionally loyal to an old version of a story just because it was once true.
And perhaps we do this for one another too.
Sometimes I hold the space.
Sometimes you do.
Sometimes I see something you can’t see from where you’re standing.
Sometimes you see something I can’t.
Sometimes your story changes the way I understand mine.
Sometimes watching someone else choose courage, kindness, honesty or possibility reminds me that I have choices too.
We influence each other’s direction without needing to direct each other’s lives.
I really love that.
We don’t have to walk the same road.
We don’t even have to agree about which road is best.
Maybe we can walk beside each other for a while.
Listen.
Reflect.
Ask the question that opens something.
Remind each other of possibilities we may not be able to see on our own.
And then trust each other to choose our own way.
Maybe that’s guidance at its most beautiful.
Not:
Follow me.
But:
Look again. What can you see now?
And perhaps, at its highest expression, guidance becomes less about what we say and more about how we live.
How we choose.
How we treat people.
How we meet change.
How willing we are to remain curious when it would be easier to decide we already know.
Our lives quietly show something of what is possible.
🌿 A Somatic Practice — What Can I See From Here?
Feel your feet on the ground.
Notice the support beneath you.
Let your breath be exactly as it is.
Bring to mind something in your life that hasn’t gone the way you expected.
Nothing overwhelming.
Just somewhere you find yourself thinking:
This isn’t how I thought this would go.
Notice what happens in your body.
Then ask:
What is true for me about this?
Pause.
Let that be true.
You don’t need to change it.
You don’t need to make it positive.
Feel your feet again.
Take a comfortable breath.
And ask:
What else might also be true?
Pause.
Not what’s the lesson?
Not how can I make this good?
Simply:
What can I see from here that I couldn’t see before?
And perhaps:
What remains that matters to me?
Pause.
Then notice whether there’s a version of this story you may already be finished carrying.
Not because it wasn’t true.
Not because it didn’t matter.
But because it may no longer be where you are.
And finally:
Knowing what I know now, what direction do I choose from here?
Not the whole path.
Just from here.
This Week I’m Sitting With…
Where am I so attached to my version of the story that I may have stopped listening?
Can someone else’s experience be true without making mine less true?
Is there a story that still feels recent, but somehow I already know I’m finished living inside it?
When I look beyond what has changed or been lost, what remains that matters to me?
And perhaps most of all:
What can I see from here that I couldn’t see before?
Maybe this week isn’t asking us to find a better story.
Maybe it’s asking us to become curious about whether the story we’re telling is the whole story.
To listen before we decide.
To let someone else’s truth sit beside our own.
To honour what happened without assuming we have to keep experiencing it in the same way.
To notice what has been lost.
And what remains.
And maybe to give ourselves permission to move when something inside us has already moved — even if, by the calendar, it seems like hardly any time has passed at all.
Because listening to our history doesn’t mean allowing our history to choose our future.
We can honour where we’ve been…
without continuing in the same direction.
And when we don’t know where to go next, perhaps we don’t need to push harder for an answer.
Maybe we need to widen the view.
What is true?
What else is true?
What remains?
What can I see from here that I couldn’t see before?
And from everything I can see now…
what direction do I choose?
W💗
