As many of you know, I have been diligently at work on a new book. I began it as spring appeared, and now, as Adi brings her holistic wellness center into reality, I work right near her, crafting the novel. Occasionally I have to pop up and bartend at the Barn Restaurant or bus some dishes off a table, in full servant mode, but when it slows down, I slide back into my booth and return to this wonderful new world I am creating. It's been so much fun.
Ten years ago, I left myself a note. I found it again this spring, buried in a long-typed journal in my Dropbox, telling me to write a book I had not written yet. The strange part is the tone of it. The man who wrote it did not hope the book would happen. He wrote as though it already had, and here I am, finishing it, tens years later. That is the quiet power of putting a dream on the page. You stop wishing for it and begin living as though it has already arrived. Neville Goddard called this assumption, and he taught that an assumption held long enough hardens into fact.
So here is something I want to offer you this week. Sometime when the house is quiet, sit down with a blank page and write your dream in the present tense, as though it has already arrived. Picture the morning you wake up inside it.
How do you carry yourself across a room?
How do you speak when someone asks what you do?
You are not reaching toward the life anymore. You are writing from inside it. Leave yourself a note while you are there, the way I once did. The version of you already living that life knows exactly what to say, so believe the person holding the pen.
Come see us at the ranch soon and I'm looking forward to sharing my new novel with you soon. Part One is written and I am currently finishing Parts Two and Three.
Green and wide, the valley of Sovereignty Ranchopened toward the wooded hills, the sky enormous and blue above it and the sun going down soft and low at the far edge, warming the tops of the hills, and the gravel road ran ahead through all of it toward nowhere in particular, which was the whole point, because the destination was never the reason for the walk. Adi stood on the road in her pink dress and turned back to look, paused there between where she had been and where she was going, the whole Hill Country spread out around her and the light catching the side of her face. I called to her, and she looked back, because that is what she always does. She could have walked faster and crested the hill alone, but doing so alone does not carry the same meaning.
There is a way of moving through a life with another person that has nothing to do with grand declarations and everything to do with this, the looking back, the waiting, the refusal to let too much distance open up between two people on the same road. One calls and the other turns. One falls behind and the other slows without being asked. The valley does not care whether we walk it together or apart, and the hills will hold the light the same either way, but something in the choosing to stay within sight of each other is the truest thing on the whole ranch, truer than the sunset and older than the hills. Adi waits more often than I do. I know this, and I am grateful, and I call her name just to watch her look back one more time.
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.