Rooted in Wonder

This morning, I went on a hike with someone I’d just met.

There had been a thread of kinship at first—we’d both left home, moved our children into their own apartments, arrived here in Guatemala on parallel winds. A rhythm echoed in our stories.

But walking together, I could feel it—she wasn’t here.She spoke of presence but wasn’t in it.Spoke of silence, but layered it with words.Spoke of expansion, but offered no space.

And as I gently tried to meet her in the moment—naming what I noticed, offering reflections—it felt like trying to hold presence for two.Like trying to steady a room where the air kept shifting.There’s a quiet exhaustion in that.Not dramatic. Just the subtle ache of being with someone who’s constantly slipping away.Of choosing between disassociating with them or anchoring yourself again and again.

So later, I went to the lake.

The water was cool and unruly, stirred by rain and wind.

Waves lapped sharply against the shore.Two wild-haired children played nearby—maybe eight, nine, ten.

Dangling under the wooden bridge,

swinging their limbs,

splashing, dousing, giggling, wandering.

No commentary. No performance.

Just immersion.

And something in me softened.

Because this—this is connection.

Not a concept, not a conversation.

But a shared plunge into the aliveness of now.

To be in wonder together.

To witness the world through uncovered eyes.

To meet the moment without leaving ourselves.

My body knows this. My system recognizes it instantly.

And I don’t need to wait for it.

I don’t need someone else to bring it.

But oh, when it arrives—when it’s mutual, even for a breath—it is holy.

Today, it came in the laughter of children.

In rain on the surface.

In a strange little root drifting by like a quiet offering.

Not something to understand.

Just something to feel.

Together.