For much of my adult life, I moved forward with purpose and determination. I built a career, became an expert in my field, trained, taught, and spent decades helping others navigate change and healing. Yet there came a point when the life that had carried me for so long began asking something different.

What followed was not a brief transition, but a prolonged period of unwinding. An unwinding of identity, beliefs, relationships, and a deepening relationship with the wisdom held in my body. My body began demanding attention in ways I could not ignore. Health challenges. Crippling pain. Loss of voice. Extreme fatigue and energy depletion. The strategies that had carried me through earlier chapters of life could not override what was happening in the body.

Years of psychological inquiry, contemplative practice, and spiritual training helped me recognize what was being asked of me. Not to fix or fight or try to return to who I had been. But to slow down, to take a significant pause, and to listen deeply. To my body. My dreams. The natural world. To the quieter currents moving beneath the surface of my life. I knew this was not just a temporary hiatus from life as I knew it, but an initiation into something deeper.

Looking back, I can see that those years were threshold years. Years of descent. Years of not knowing. Years of shedding identities, expectations, and assumptions about who I thought I needed to be. They were not easy years. Yet they taught me something essential: transformation cannot be forced or rushed. It unfolds in its own time, often through challenge, uncertainty, and loss. It requires the willingness to stop long enough for a different kind of knowing to emerge.

The writings that follow emerged during this prolonged period of retreat and reorientation. They are reflections from the threshold itself—a time of waiting, listening, dreaming, unwinding, and learning to trust that what seemed like an ending was also the beginning of something not yet visible. More than anything, they document the gradual return to an inner way of knowing that had been there all along, quietly waiting to be heard.

I hope these poems, dreams, and essays from the in-between offer companionship to others standing at a similar threshold. If you are, I’d love to hear from you. Questions, comments, and inquiries welcome.

Love,

Jess

Winter (2017)

She enters her crate

as the last light dims,

and makes up her bed

for the winter.

…

Instinct guiding her

toward the place

where she will spend

the season.

…

Outside,

the world continues.

People hurry

they overlook.

It doesn’t matter

that few will understand.

…

Something older

has called her home.

Trusting what she cannot

yet see,

she curls into the dark.

…

The animals know this time

the seeds know it too.

The long gathering

beneath the surface.

What appears dormant

is preparing.

…

So she settles deeper

into the dark,

listening

for what winter

has come to teach.

…

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When the Holy Enters (2018)

Some years ago, I lost my voice.

It wasn’t like I had a sore throat, something that could be soothed with hot tea and lemon, honey, or lozenges.

No.

This once vital energy center was simply powering down.

Going offline.

For several years chronic back pain, arthritic knees, and lifelong cranial compression had already narrowed my world.

But it wasn’t until I lost my voice that I was forced to stop.

Completely.

To clear out a space where the holy could enter.

Of course, the holy had been there all along.

Patiently waiting.

Perhaps hoping that once I left the city and moved to the mountains with a view of the sea, I might create a clearing on my own.

I might spread a wool blanket beneath the oak and watch the redbreasts picking lichen from her crooked branches.

Gaze at the cobalt sky.

But I remained busy.

An endless stream of projects.

Distractions.

Ways of avoiding the longing in my soul.

The longing to make room.

To pause.

Listen.

Allow the debris of outer influences to settle and fall away.

To hear the voice that was shouting

when I could no longer speak.

…

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Apprenticeship (2018)

…

The slow and quiet power of time.

I was forced into a kind of quarantine long before COVID-19.

My body let me know it was time to stop.

To change direction.

No longer able to rely on the old ways of being — pushing, efforting, willing things to get done.

I had to learn a new way of relating to myself and the world.

One where I linger in bed long enough to retrieve the images from my dreams, trusting they are as instructive as anything in waking life.

One where I start my day doing rounds in the garden instead of with patients.

Saying good morning to the bluebirds, woodpeckers, the family of quail.

The hummingbirds drinking from the pink sage.

The ancient oaks.

The nature spirits.

All teachers in my new classroom.

Slowly, I begin to learn their rhythms.

Where the sunlight falls throughout the seasons.

When the winds arrive and it’s time to gather the cushions and umbrellas from the yard.

The best time to plant.

Cultivate.

Fertilize.

Wait.

No longer pushing my agenda or rushing toward the next thing, I can allow things to take root.

To unfold in their own time.

I am reminded of the wisdom of Lao Zi:

Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.

…

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River (2018)

…

In some ways it appears I’ve just been wandering.

Retiring from work. Letting go of roles, responsibilities, possessions. Long periods of silence and retreat.

But the river of my life has been quite deliberate in her direction, always pulling me toward my soul’s calling. Letting me know when I’ve taken a wrong turn, drying up when I am no longer flowing freely. Forcing me to change course or perish in the marshlands.

The river seems to know where she is going.

If only I can trust. Listen. Allow the current to move through me instead of trying to control.

She is a river, after all.

Sometimes she asks me to swim harder, to move toward my destination. Other times the invitation is to drift. Float. Languish along her banks.

Occasionally I need to pull over. Dock my boat. Drink from the clear clean water. Get a good night’s sleep before continuing on.

Sometimes this respite lasts days. Weeks. Even years.

I have come to trust the river. Her capacity to regenerate, self-correct, adjust to changing tides.

She smiles when I think I know better.

When I think I know where we are going.

When it turns out I don’t, she holds no grudges.

She simply keeps moving.

As do I.

…

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Grandfather Tree (2017)

Before he died
he summoned me
more than once,
like a grandfather.

Whispering gentle
encouragements:
keep going
keep listening
to the ancient wisdom
stored in his hollow belly.

Sometimes I climbed
up into his gnarled trunk
the morning sun on my face
autumn light shimmering
through his branches,
greeting the robins
woodpeckers
blue jays.

I felt his presence in my dreams
a ghostly reminder
to wake up,
pay attention,
don’t fall
back asleep.

For years
I took him for granted
this gentle giant,
his canopy my shelter
his muscular body
my anchor
his roots
my very own.

Then one day,
when I was out of town
secure that I wouldn’t see
the grandfather tree fell.

Leaving a hole
in the space
for something else
to enter.

The Holy Middle (2018)

…

Finally, I have come to understand this:

waiting is sacred

not to be rushed

but revered.

…

Mornings in the garden,

the trees whispering

their ancient wisdom

to the young poppies

sprouting in the yard.

…

Afternoons spent

walking in the woods,

the wind at my back

the river

rushing.

…

Evening arriving

before

I am ready.

…

It is the holy middle

this time of waiting,

standing at the threshold

of a new beginning.

Unmoving.

…

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Calling Her Back (2018)

…

Did she ever leave

or did I abandon her

in exchange

for something

less essential?

…

Was she there

when I went off to college

started doing drugs

overachieving

starving myself?

…

Was she there

when I traveled

through Asia

Africa

the Americas.

Wrote a book

got married

built a career

fed pride?

…

Was she there

when I got sick

crippled with fatigue,

accompanying me

through appointments

blood tests

scans?

…

Was she relieved

when we left the city

for a house on the hill

overlooking the sea,

hoping

praying

I might finally stop

to listen?

…

Was she watching

even warning

as everything began to crumble

into a million

little

pieces?

…

Was she the one

who whispered:

go outside,

take one step

beyond the tame land.

See what might be waiting

under the cool shade

of the old oak tree?

…

All this time

have I been calling her back,

or has she been there

in the shadows,

waiting

patiently

for me to come home?

…

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Fishtail Palm (2018)

There is a large fishtail palm in my living room.

It’s been there for a decade
amidst the yellow walls
and worn leather chairs.

I used to marvel at how
every year or so,
a giant new leaf would simply appear overnight.

But this year
I’ve been watching more closely.

Observing how her growth
is similar to mine.

At first
the new leaf is nothing more
than a thick green stalk.

Substantial.

For months it appears
to do nothing at all.

Then one day
almost imperceptibly
it begins to split open.

Tiny movements.

Rustling.

Crackling.

The slow unfurling.

Followed by months
of stillness.

After six months
the new leaf
is only half open.

If I tried to force the opening,
the branch would surely break.

If I ignored the process unfolding
in my living room,
I would miss the magic.

So I practice patience.

Watching.

Waiting.

Trusting that the palm knows
exactly when
and how
to unfold.

And perhaps
my own transformation
is no different.

Sit Still (2018)

1

If we sit still long enough
we start to see things.

New things, of course,
but also details
that have always been there
unnoticed
overlooked.

Like the way the fuchsia bougainvillea
runs up the side of the house,
its new buds almost the same color
as the flowers themselves,

or the way the furry foxtails sway
in the summer breeze,
not resisting
only swaying.

2

If how we spend our days
is how we spend our lives,

then right now
my life is about
looking
resting
seeing what is there.

Not what I want to be there
or what I imagine to be there

but what is actually there.

3

A lizard scurries
across the warm rocks,
soaking up the late afternoon sun.

Two young deer graze in the yard,
enjoying the last tender sprouts
of spring.

At dusk
a lone bobcat appears
traversing the dry hillside
scanning for prey.

I watch until it’s too dark to see.

Hypnopompia (2019)

The state between sleeping and waking.

I stop and linger.

If I move too quickly, start thinking about my day, my to-do list, I lose access to the images from the night.

Often whole stories are revealed. Messages conveyed.

If I allow myself to remain.

Last night I spent the evening in my old house, where my husband and I lived the first ten years of our marriage.

I spend a lot of time in this house in my dreams.

People from my past often make appearances. Big cats come and go. Workmen working. Sometimes smashing windows to get me out.

Our bedroom transformed into a secret garden, the ceiling open to the night sky, elaborate vines snaking along the walls.

But last night I came into the house dripping wet from the sea, dressed in layers of black and silver like some mythical creature, only to find three naked young men putting up framing on a new house.

The blueprint was the same, but they were erecting a new structure.

We smiled our hellos but spoke no words.

It’s true.

I’m in the process of building a new internal residence.

After taking it down to the studs, I’m now reconfiguring the whole house.

And how lovely to know that three beautiful young men are there to help.

But had I moved too quickly into my morning routine, had I forgotten to take the extra moment to pause, to remember,

I would have missed them for sure.

She Comes to Me in Dreams (2019)

…

A ringing in the darkness

a loud whisper.

Other times

a softer voice

beckoning me to follow her

into my childhood home,

crystal caves,

a secret place

where I can breathe

underwater

in the dark.

…

The first time she tapped me gently

was the night

my grandmother died,

offering a roadmap

to the inner realms.

I wish I had known

to sit up,

take notice.

To map it out

with watercolors.

But that was more than twenty years ago,

long before I knew

who she was.

…

Years later

she arrived disguised as a he.

My stepfather

recently departed.

Offering an apology.

You have nothing

to apologize for,

I said.

But that was in the past.

…

Today

she comes mostly through images

fragments.

Pieces of a puzzle

which, if I am paying attention

begin to form a map of their own.

A map of where

the lost aspects of me

have gone missing

and where they can be found.

A map of the interior landscape,

the dream terrain.

Because, despite what you may think

it is possible

to get lost there,

just as it is possible

to lose our way

in waking life.

…

And when she calls

I know how to follow.

Back through the old house.

The crystal city.

Underwater caverns.

Back into my body

just in time

to switch on my headlamp

and write it all down.

…

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Running with the Wind (2019)

…

The other night

the wind was running alongside my car,

her gauzy garments trailing behind her

as she directed me this way and that,

away from the maze of cars and pedestrians

and onto the open road.

…

Then suddenly

I’m on a bicycle,

and we’re in a hurry

to get to the sea.

She doesn’t say why,

only that time

is of the essence.

…

A small white ship,

more U-boat than ferry,

has already left the dock.

People are crowded on board

some in yellow rain jackets

others with bicycles.

All eyes are on us.

…

The wind whips her magic

as only the wind can do,

instructing the captain

to turn the boat around

and come back for me.

…

I don’t know

where the boat is headed

only that it is important

I get on board

with my bicycle

and whatever provisions

I have gathered

along the way,

and see

where the wind

will take me.

…

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Walk Slowly, Bow Often (2020)

It’s strange, now that I’m done with treatment, done with my trips to the radiation lab, the doctors and technicians, applying lotions and ointments to my tender skin.

Now that I’m rested, fed, and coming out of the cancer fog, I would almost say that I’m feeling more distant from myself. Not distant exactly, but unclear about what comes next.

Should I get back to work? Write? See a few friends? Should I do something new? Sign up for the astrology course I’ve been wanting to take or plan a trip to Hawaii where I can snorkel in the turquoise bay with dolphins and manta rays?

Maybe I’ll do some or all of these things, but first I will pause.

Take a deep breath.

Appreciate my life without cancer. Without a list of appointments and procedures and the physical and emotional bracing that goes along with them.

I will delight in a perfectly ripe summer peach. A bowl of cherries. A cold glass of chardonnay. The sweetly intoxicating fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. The soft fleece of Ella’s fur and her quiet purr as I sit down to write.

The way the sky turns red, then orange, then black as night settles over the canyon and the moon and stars make their dazzling appearance, winking and twinkling as if just for me.

It’s simple, really.

In not trying to be anyone, I can be completely myself.

In not hurrying to get somewhere, or prove anything, I can observe things as they really are.

The world, alive with its own magic.

I can see what truly needs my attention and what does not.

I can walk slowly and bow often.

Maybe that is enough.

Red Hedge (2020)

…

Today I was out walking in the hills

when I came upon a hedge

aflame with red leaves.

So remarkable in its redness

against the neon green grasses

and dark purple mountains.

…

Not long ago

I couldn’t walk at all.

Or only for a few minutes

before needing to sit down

and rest.

Now I am galloping along,

bursting with gratitude

for this seemingly simple act.

…

Funny how we wake each morning

believing we know

how the day will unfold.

But we don’t.

A call from the doctor.

A diagnosis.

An unexpected turn.

And suddenly

everything looks different.

…

Perhaps that is why

the ordinary things

feel so precious.

The sweet mountain air.

The crows cawing.

The horses that greet me

over the neighbor’s old wooden fence.

…

So when I walk now,

I walk in reverence.

Prayer.

Not because I should

but because I can.

…

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Into the Wild (2020)

…

At dusk I leave the edge of town

and step into the wild.

A band of horses rumbles past me

like a sleeper train in the night.

Twilight deepens.

I keep walking.

…

Suddenly

a herd of animals engulfs me.

Donkeys.

Maybe wildebeest.

It is too dark to see.

One startles.

Then all startle.

I dodge out of the way to avoid being trampled.

Straight into the lions’ den.

…

These are my lions.

Patrolling the perimeter.

Waiting

to be released.

…

I unlatch the wooden gate.

They yawn.

Stretch out their long lean bodies.

In no hurry whatsoever.

…

Then take their places.

One on either side,

like sentinels.

The others behind.

Together we roam

through the dark night.

…

A voice comes over a loudspeaker:

If you don’t have business out here in the wild, return to safety immediately.

…

I have a choice.

A turnoff where I can return to the known.

Streetlights.

Storefronts.

Little cafés lining the main street.

…

But the lions and I turn away.

And stride

deeper

into the wild.

…

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