Soul Callings Never Die

The soul must depart from the place of primal unity to be born in a specific life story... soul essence ignites a journey of conscious returning—the remembering of original wild wholeness

What is the Meaning of Life?

Published in Excellence Reporter, September 26, 2019

This question guided my response in an Excellence Reporter interview. The memory came during my recent three-week pause—off-grid, on sacred land—holding space to feel, shed, and nourish the soul.

Retreat is an ancient practice of soul renewal—a space for stories to be told, witnessed, and touched by feminine love, mercy, and the grounding strength of collective hope. Where the soul remembers its rhythm—where we wrestle with our instinct for meaning.

When I emerged, the world was louder. The unhoming. The forgetting. The erasure. The injustice.

The search for meaning in community is more urgent than ever.

Early on, I felt betrayed by my sex; the only door I knew to God slammed shut. Exiled from myself. Not holy. Separate from love. I compulsively sought connection in all the wrong places. At 18, I fled my wild Irish Catholic family in a beaten-up ’57 Chevy—with a block for a gas pedal, rope for door handles, a milk crate of albums, and a trash bag of jeans and tees.

My college roommate warned that if I kept self-destructing, I’d soon be dead. She kindly dragged me to an oracle named R.W., who led me to my first spiritual teacher, Eunice. These meetings hinted at ‘soul purpose’ and a long journey of revivification. They spoke of “being a soul in continuous life far from beginnings and conscious of life as spiritual sustenance.” Their words pierced a wound. A medicinal journey began: to learn, correct errors, transform, recover, remember dreams, re-create memory—to enrich my soul in worldly life.

Our work began with unlearning patriarchy, undoing hatred of mistakes, and turning toward the ‘unbeautiful.’

I came to see: mistakes as more valuable than so-called success; what we view at a distance is distorted by introjections that taint our perceptions and illicit projections; what we call close reveals its inherent beauty.

I saw that patriarchy isn’t just hating women or exalting men. It’s a system of inherited privilege, often invisible to those who benefit. It shapes how we work, rest, birth, die, parent, pray, pleasure, speak, commune, and disappear. A fuckernuckles show I continue to reckon with—inside and out.

A bit after Eunice’s sudden death, I met my next soul friend and teacher, Adyashanti. I first heard his voice on an audio recording about the mysteries of Christ. I was in the thick of it—raising three young children, two born at one pound, with severe brain injuries. I was sleep-deprived, spiritually scorched, cracked open by the unexpected.

His steady, unadorned voice pierced everything I thought I knew:
“Nothing worthwhile comes without challenge. Resurrection doesn’t happen without crucifixion (sacrifice). By standing in the fire of challenge, you are standing in love. If you stay, a transformation will happen. Love will wear your face.”

Love will wear your face. What?

I forgot what Eunice taught me. I knew no spiritual bypass would get me out. No mantra, no prayer, no teaching could override what was right in front of me. This life—with its pain, its round-the-clock care, its unrelenting presence—was mine.

Nothing I’d studied showed how to stay with this kind of fire. Not just endure it—but meet it with bone-deep intimacy.

One night, deep in the dark, I broke. Exhausted and numb, I confessed to the night:

This is not a life I can live.

Mother wind roared back:
Stop. This is the life you are meant to live.

A shift happened. Light poured in. Resistance softened. My body came alive with intelligence again. I began to see: I hold the keys. Not to escape—but to unpack and stay. To meet it. To allow a resurrection.

As I unwrapped layer by layer, shed tear by tear, meaning emerged. My capacity grew. Gratitude followed. I stopped denying, fixing, and pushing. I listened. I received. I began to live from the inside out.

I came to know—deep in my cells—that all life has meaning. Birth is a gift. We don’t choose the wrapping paper—we open it. Whether it arrives as elation or devastation, each package carries something meaningful for us.

We don’t have to love it. What matters is how intimately we’re willing to receive it—and melt in its love.¹

At the Earth Temple, Hidden Paradise, Spain, offering a plant spirit meditation retreat. My friend, Adyashanti, is in the background. 2019.

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I’m obsessed with finding meaning in the dark, and aware that part of me wants to hide. I let this be okay, and meet myself with softness.

We have full permission to honor our sensitivities in a world cracking at the seams—Trumpcaspades, MAGA extremism, LA riots, attacks on women’s autonomy, LGBTQ+ rights under fire, climate realities, and AI sprinting beyond ethics.

Many people feel disoriented—grieving, raging, questioning everything. I hear it in quiet conversations. I sense it behind burnout, outrage, and withdrawal. And feel it in hungry strides for more—not always as a direct question like:

What is the meaning of life?
Why am I here?
What is love?
How do I live fully?

—but in the reckoning that guts us when we lose a loved one, or lose our way. When we feel jolted, choked in the throat, and tears won’t come. Stretched thin, hollow, dark. Like something essential passed us by. Something we can’t name. And aware of the existence of thresholds.

Our souls long for meaning:

The quiet call: a wind chime, a sudden stillness, a deep sigh. A walk in the woods, a retreat in the mountains, silence by the sea. An impulse to stop. A moment of awe that recalibrates our nervous system and opens our hearts. A dream in the night. A memory stirred by music. An ache that won’t go away. These are invitations.

Sometimes the call roars. A betrayal. A diagnosis. A death. A birth. A collapse. An underground journey.

We may not remember asking for it. But we did. And our soul remembers.

The soul uses the story of our lives to crack us open. To remind us. To teach us how to feed the deeper self. To ignite a journey of remembering and return—a conscious homecoming to our original wholeness.

No one can give us the meaning of life. Perhaps it’s our task to stand inside the fire that birthed us—to open and receive the ‘unbeautiful,’ the hard and messy, as part of a medicinal journey of creative reimagining.

To paint, draw, write, listen to the urges that draw us close to our soul:
What makes my heart sing with gladness?
What permission do I give myself to rest, pleasure, wonder, delight, remember?
What kindness awaits me to give or receive?

There is meaning in questioning our answers. In loosening definitions and letting ideologies soften. In choosing kindness and in cultivating gratitude for tiny treasures.

We might remember: we are never given more than we can learn from. We reach in, reach out, receive support, and remember—we’re never alone.

And by staying with our lives as they are—and unpacking the packages we’ve been given—Love wears our face.

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Dear Precious Reader,

Thank you for reading. I’d love to hear your thoughts and feel your feelings. Join this open conversation and share your passion.

• What meaning is waiting to be lived—quietly, not solved?

• How do you nourish the whispers and roars of your soul?

• What treasure have you unwrapped that you may have perceived as ‘unbeautiful?’

1. My first memoir Edge of Grace: Fierce Awakenings to Love, tells the full story of meeting my first teachers and the harrowing journey that both devastated and transformed the lives of me and my children. It’s a valuable and necessary story for our times. I hope you enjoy it.