I woke early on the island and there was no one to tell about it, Adi is away working on the ranch this weekend. The house is quiet and only the cats are here to keep me company. The morning light came in slow and easy, touching the palms and the quiet street like it had nowhere else to be. I put on Artie Shaw and let it fill the room, and almost on cue, “Softly, As in a Morning Sunrise” came through the speakers like it had been waiting for this exact moment. I made coffee and sat with it, listening to the birds carry on as they always do, and I thought about how all my old friends are scattered now, each living their own lives in places I am not. There was a time I would have felt the absence of that, but this morning it felt more like a clearing, a space that had been made for something I had not been able to see when everything was so full.
Out here on the island, with no one to perform for and nothing to prove, I have begun to notice how much of life bends to where I place my attention. When I let it settle on what is here, the small and ordinary things begin to answer back in a way that feels almost like companionship. The air softens, the moment stretches, and the world within reach becomes enough. It is not the whole world that changes, only the one I am living in, but that has started to feel like everything. The universe has a clever way of reminding us, not with force but with something as simple as a song arriving at the right time. I wonder now if we ever needed all that noise, or if we were always meant to find our way back to something this quiet and this true.
Mornings are slower on the island, and Sundays slow them even more until time itself seems to rest beside you. Coffee greets you with the birds, and the sunlight finds the palms as if it has always known the way. The porch holds you in a quiet agreement that nothing needs to be chased today. The air moves gently, and in that movement something inside you begins to settle into a rhythm that feels older than thought.
You begin to wonder why there was ever such urgency to begin with, and what it was that kept you running toward something that never quite arrived. The achievements stand behind you like distant markers, but they carry no warmth in this light. There is a question here that does not demand an answer, only your attention. What was traded for those restless pursuits, and what might return if you simply remain here long enough to remember it again.
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.