They are home. After three weeks, Adi and Wesley pulled back onto the island earlier this week, the gong went back to its corner, and Oscar and George reasserted their positions with the particular authority of animals whose favorite person has finally returned home. I am tolerated by the cats, Adi is adored. The house sounds like itself again.
Confluencewas something special this year. Adi closed out the festival with a sound journey she had written herself, one hundred people on the ground under the Texas stars, and it was one of the most beautiful things I have ever witnessed. I was there. I watched it happen. I wrote about it last week, and if that story hasn't found you yet, it's here.
What I didn't write about, because it was still becoming itself, was what came next. Confluence went so well that Adi and her partner Mollie are building something new on Sovereignty Ranch. A holistic wellness center called Entero, the kind of place Adi has been talking about for years. Red light therapy, cold plunge, saunas, hyperbaric oxygen chambers, the RASHA, a scalar frequency device I have now experienced myself and genuinely have no adequate words for.
They set their intention on April 19, Akshaya Tritiya, the one day a year in Vedic tradition when the Sun and Moon are both exalted at once, a day whose name means that which cannot be destroyed. When you plant a seed on this day, it grows. June is when they break ground on Entero, and Adi and I will be spending a great deal more time in the Hill Country as it grows into something the world needs.
I married a woman who said she wanted to feed people. I thought she meant dinner. She meant all of this.
First it was the birds. Then the rooster down the street who has never once been wrong about the hour. Then the cats, whose breakfast tolerates no delay. Finally the island itself stirred, the way it always stirs, without urgency, without apology, as if the new day were an old friend arriving at a familiar door. Life here is difficult to explain to the person who comes once a year, or once a summer, or not at all. For those who call this home there is a particular kind of peace in watching it wake. We do not have to rush. The island will still be here. For visitors it is different. They arrive with a few days burning in their pockets like coins they cannot afford to lose, and the island receives them the way it receives everything. Patiently. Without keeping score.
The palm outside the window does not know it is beautiful. It simply grows toward whatever light is available that morning and lets the rest take care of itself. The sun was pushing through the oak across the street in the specific way it does when the air is still wet from the night. A person could spend a lifetime trying to describe that light to someone who has never seen it. Or they could simply open a window and let the morning in. The island has never required an explanation. It has only ever required your presence.
I’ve spent most of my life onstage, telling stories for laughs and feeling a room shift in real time. For twenty five years I hosted an improvisational show called Four Day Weekend, and that stage felt like home. In 2020 the world shifted, and so did I. The questions of the world began to matter more to me than comedy, and I turned toward writing about life's greater mysteries, finishing We’ll Always Have Paris and later Quietude, which became a quiet turning point in my life. Exploring The 12 Universal Laws widened the lens even more. Now the island reflections and everyday synchronicities I share carry one intention, which is to help you awaken to your highest potential. I am not here to convince or impress you. I simply hope to brighten your day, invite you to question what you have been told, and remind you of what you already know. Each morning I return to the same ground. I am awake. I am aware. I am able. I remember. Everything I share grows from there.