From Silence To Slot Machines

April was a full month—maybe one of the fullest I’ve had in a while. I’ve had the privilege of sitting with many of you in one-on-one sessions, and if we’ve connected recently, you may have already heard that I spent about ten days away at two different Enneagram retreats. The first was at a monastery in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and the second at a convent in San Francisco, California. Both places were deeply grounding in their own way, each offering a quiet that was rare, intentional, and deeply needed.

What I noticed most was the simplicity of the spaces. There was nothing extra—no clutter, no distractions, no unnecessary noise. Just stillness. The convent especially had this layered quiet to it, shaped by both Catholic contemplative tradition and a history of Buddhist presence.

There was something beautiful—and honestly, a little disorienting—about how fully I dropped into that rhythm. It was like my whole body exhaled. And then, just like that, the quiet ended. On my way home, my connecting flight landed in Las Vegas, of all places. The contrast could not have been sharper. Ten days of deep stillness followed by flashing lights, Wheel Of Fortune slot machines, and constant noise.

It reminded me of a book by Jack Kornfield that I’ve always loved. The title alone has stayed with me: After the Ecstasy, the Laundry. Isn’t that just how life moves? From the sacred to the mundane, the profound to the ridiculous—sometimes within minutes. And if we’re not careful, we miss the space in between.

That’s the space I’ve been sitting in lately. What do I carry forward from those retreats? What needs to shift in me, not just for a week or two, but for the long haul? For me, the word that keeps rising to the surface is trust. Trusting what’s unfolding. Trusting that even in moments of overwhelm, something true is still holding me.

I’ve noticed some of that same energy showing up in sessions lately. Maybe you have too. There’s a tenderness right at the surface—a lot more tears, a lot more softness. And it’s not surprising. You don’t have to be coming home from a convent to feel disoriented by the world right now. There’s just so much. So many layers of grief, beauty, change, and longing—all happening at once.

So today, I’m hoping you can give yourself even just a few moments of quiet. A breath. A pause. Something that reminds you of your own grounding. I know I’m needing that too. And I’m trusting that it’s okay to be in this in-between space for a while.