The fog blankets the island this time of year, sometimes reducing visibility to only a few feet ahead. Familiar streets that we normally navigate with ease begin to lose their sharp edges, while something inside becomes uneasy, questioning what is usually assumed without thought. When the sun is shining (life is moving along effortlessly), certainty arrives easily as landmarks (things we have always believed to be true) reassure us . But in the fog, that assurance loosens, replaced by uncertainty which makes us question what we have always known to be true.
I have spent a great deal of time in that fog over the last three years. Things that once felt certain gave way to an unease that left me off balance, inviting a way of seeing and listening that felt unfamiliar at first. Over time, I began to hear from others who recognized the same shift in themselves. Many have felt their sense of certainty pulled out from under them, as though familiar ground moved without warning. When that happens, the question arises naturally and without drama. What now?
Fog does not remove the road, even when life feels uncertain and direction seems lost. What once guided us may fade from view, and even the familiar landmarks we relied upon can shift or fall away. When that happens, it can feel as though nothing solid remains. Yet the path has not vanished. The edges blur not because the way is gone, but because we are being asked to move differently than before. In times like these, progress no longer comes from seeing far ahead, but from staying present with what is nearest and true. We slow our pace, listen more closely, and trust the quiet knowledge that lives beneath habit and expectation, remembering that even when clarity disappears, the way forward still exists.
The winter storm has arrived, and rain strikes the island with steady force as palm trees bend and resist. Outside feels relentless, as though the weather has chosen its target and will not soften its aim. Inside, the room holds warmth and quiet, sheltered from the noise and urgency beyond the glass. The storm does its work without concern for us, and we are spared the need to respond.
The harp stands ready near the window, patient and untroubled, waiting to offer a song of unity and compassion. The music for the day rests open, notes poised in stillness, asking only for attention. Nothing here needs to be finished or proven. These are the days when the Creator invites us to stop, to listen, and to remain. When the rain falls like this and the cold presses close, what if rest is not avoidance, but the very work being asked of you?
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.