On moving past shallow comfort, looking beneath the waves, and weaving a life of genuine resonance.

A reflection from the archives, bridging a moment of solitary questioning by the lake during the early pandemic with the intentional, grounded geometry of living today.

A few years ago, early in the pandemic, I sat by a lake without my children for the first time in six months. I picked up a pen, put ink on paper, and stared at the water.

The world had suddenly slowed to a crawl, yet inside, my mind was vibrating with a haunting question. What is missing?

It wasn’t the breeze, the delicate beauty of the gladiolas, or the dip-dive of the loons. It wasn’t the diamonded water. What was missing back then was structured conviviality. It was the shared joy of communal achievement. It was the echo, the ripple of resonance, the silence before the storm.

In that sudden, baffling isolation, I wrote these words:

“What’s missing, perhaps, is the understanding that underneath the wings of clouds there is space. It takes time for raindrops to fall... and it requires time for the earth to open up and soak that water in. There is a basic fallacy at play. We mistook a human being for the moon. When, in fact, that human was only ever the finger pointing to the moon.”

In that heavy, solitary reverie, I realized that the shallow, Reader’s Digest version of reality—the one that tries to soothe collective trauma with cute puppy pictures and Hallmark truisms—was a gaggingly shallow illusion. When our world is falling apart, what we need most is not to skim the surface, but to look deeply, darkly below the waves.

I left myself with a realization that felt more like a challenge than a comfort: “Perhaps what’s missing, in the end, is a recognition that nothing is missing. It is up to us to pick up the pieces and weave a more fulfilling tapestry.”

I am reading those words today from my porch in Vermont. The sun is blasting, the house is quiet after a morning filled with family, and my garden tea is steeping.

Looking back, I can see that the “nothingness” I felt by the lake wasn’t an empty void; it was a cleared canvas. We had lost everything because we never truly owned anything, but we also already had everything we needed. We just needed the time and the space for the earth to open up and soak the water in.

Five years ago, I was begging for resonance and communal achievement. Today, I don’t have to look for it; I am intentionally building it.

I am building it when I sit on a meditation cushion. I am building it when I paint a portrait of a new garden archway with my daughter. I am building it when I help a friend strategize the remodel of his store, or when I prepare to share my writing to inspire contemplative practice everywhere.

The tapestry isn’t a theory anymore. It is the physical geometry of my days.

The inconsistencies and vagaries of life cannot be explained by cute pictures or easy answers. It is still a messy dance. But when you choose to not only acknowledge the disaster but actually engage with it—when you dare to look beneath the waves—you realize that nothing was ever missing. The thread was always in your hands.

We are only air and dirt and water falling back to earth. So enjoy and trust the dance. Because if you don’t, you fall back into the sky.

Enjoyed this reflection?

If these words met you where you are today, consider sharing them with someone navigating their own search for resonance, or subscribe to receive regular essays on somatic practice, presence, and creative sovereignty.