Stepping Beyond the Familiar
The souls quiet magic, opening to what you can’t yet see
“Risk might be our greatest ally. To live a truly creative life, we always need to cast a critical look at where we presently are, discerning where we have become stagnant and where a new beginning might be ripening.”—John O’Donohue
Sometimes I forget there’s a world waiting just beyond the familiar
Not in the habit body, rehearsed routes, or reflexive no’s.
Not in a far-off place, but here:
hidden in the pause,
In the choice to turn slightly left instead of right,
In the courage to knock on a door you’ve passed a hundred times.
I stop at a “FREE” sign staked in the lawn of a neighbor’s home I’ve long admired—
for its wild, soulful art.
Mosaic wind chimes sing in the breeze: take me home.
Old metal milk crates wait, as if prepped for my she-shed.
I dare to knock.
A spry man, barefoot and warm-eyed—seventy-five, maybe—opens the door.
With him: a tapestry of color, a hum of aliveness.
Bliss Haven, his wife named her art studio—
where leukemia is transmuted by rock, red paint, and light.
Like life, even in its most brutal form, choosing itself again.
Collective hearts swell like waves breathing in, rolling out.
The defiant strength of whale bones.
Bare feet walk in star-lit nights.
Wildflowers bloom through steel cracks.
Mother Earth tilts toward light.
We, her children, respond.
We pride our protest
a zillion refusals to conform to the fear-mongering psychosis
of a dethroned boy-“king” clinging to mythic power,
who mocks, bombs, wrecks, rapes, erases, excludes, sterilizes.
We tilt toward each other.
Toward what is queer, immigrant, disabled, unyielding
In refusing to disappear.
Where fear softens. Strength gathers. We begin again.
But resistance isn’t always marching with signs in public.
It’s in the tender, invisible daily work of undervalued care
advocating for your children, your parent, your friend,
in copious emails and calls to a crusty patriarchal system.
The bone-deep insistence that disability matters.
Of staying in the room long enough to change it.
It lives in the ancient exhaustion of womanhood
of having to explain why you need a nap without interruption,
of justifying your desire to love fiercely
to a case manager who can’t keep your daughters straight
and won’t be here next month.
Until the day rage erupts
politeness vanishes, impatience kicks
Like a tsunami crashing through years of denial.
Sacred. Clean. Holy.
Suddenly, resources appear,
funds for additional nursing, for equipment,
for the kind of care that should never have required a storm.
But rain has runoff.
And nothing arrives without strings.
The full weight of implementation:
budgets to manage, staff to recruit and train,
endless coordination with flawed laws and agencies
fragments of care like crumbs from a table.
In posting an ad for a new nurse for Libby
In a different corner of the internet
A dozen responses, the perfect match among them.
Will the fiscal team do their part?
In skipping my usual yoga class,
Choosing a different day,
I meet a teacher who tells me about Urban Works
a vessel that offers people with disabilities
a way to play, to be seen, to thrive.
It mirrors the sanctuary we are curating here
where inclusion isn’t an afterthought,
But the point.
A place for unabashed, joyful belonging.
These weren’t plans,
Calls, stepping stones
acts of courage to meet discomfort, knock on doors,
shed layers, dare to dream, unwrap possibilities.
And in doing so, learning to walk in different realms at once:
One eye opened to a brutal world,
The other, attuned to the astonishing beauty of the soul.
“Surely this is what women do, how women walk through life, separately and together—never doing one task at a time, never moving in one realm at a time. Rarely is one activity segregated from another; rather, each is woven into a complex fabric of daily responsibilities and relationships. The sacred and the heartfelt suffuse the ordinary.” —Marion Woodman
Is this alchemy?
Small moments of softening beyond the familiar.
To remember that our soul meets us halfway
opening doors to live us fully.
Our conditioned personality prefers the familiar, even when it cages us.
But we are most connected, body and soul
When we live close to the innate spark set within us
to begin again, to birth another way, to remember.
The Goddess has a sense of humor.
Meet our new kitty, Ruby—initially welcomed to scare off unwelcome mice. She's utterly adorable… though Woody is feeling a bit displaced as the family pet. He’s shivering less in her presence these days, while she takes over his bed, his water bowl, and his snuggles.
Her latest game? Chasing his tail. Poor Woody.
Dear generous reader,
I’ve been writing for you on Substack nearly every week for a year, threading stories from the many ways my soul calls me to stay. This piece rose from exhaustion, unlived celebrations. The world is shifting, we know this. What you’ve just read is a snapshot of the life I kneel before and breathe through—naked, unfixed, unscripted, often flinching. I partly understand why I won the battle for funds (not yet seen) for my girls. I’m assigned full-time management without a salary, a former role at various agencies, now broken.
I’m grateful for your kinship, the kindness in your comments, and for recommending the Salty Crone:
“Who isn’t reading a substack called ‘The Salty Crone’? You have to. Every time I see a note or a post from Prajna, they never fail to make me smile. I could stare at her sweet Woody’s face for days. I love reading about her family. She gives me lots to think about…” —Lyns McCracken
write the kindest things to my children. seed for creative ground.
This post is partly inspired by Substacks I devour. Among many, your voices are a balm, a spark, a necessary kindling in these times.
, I crave more time to read your stories. Free header image provided by my dear friendThank you for walking with me.
If this piece illuminated a crack to the not-yet-seen, please tap the 💜 and consider sharing it so more readers find our stories. I’d love to chat with you:
✨ What awaits your creative spark?
Read our full story in my memoir, Edge of Grace, Fierce Awakenings to Love. Or in popular short pieces,
When Laughter Speaks Louder Than Words
When Libby was born at one pound, resuscitated twice, intubated, and soundless in a semi-coma for six months, I never imagined laughter would become her superpower.
Prajna, this is beautiful. And just what I needed today, at this very moment. Your words, both gentle and fierce, touched me profoundly. I’m honored to be mentioned. Sending love and hugs to you and your family.🙏💕💛
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