Your Soul Knows

May 27, 2016
waterfall costa rica meghan genge
Your soul knows the geography of your destiny. Your soul alone has the map of your future, therefore you can trust this indirect, oblique side of yourself. If you do, it will take you where you need to go, but more important it will teach you a kindness of rhythm in your journey. – John O’Donohue, Anam Cara


In the past few months conversations I have had with a lot of people have come around to the subject of feeling like an outsider or an alien or a stranger in our own lives. In many ways I completely get it. So many times in my life I have felt like I did not belong somewhere; like I didn’t even speak the same language as the people who surrounded me.

But my soul knows the truth.

My soul knows the way the light hits the surface of a lake.

It knows the lyrics and the beat of certain songs before I have even heard them.

It knows the truth in certain words when they are collected together. It knows books and quotes and lyrics, and it wraps them around me like a blanket just when I need them the most.

It knows the smell of oranges and jasmine tea and onions cooking. It knows lilacs and freshly cut wood and deep, rich wine. It knows the smell of incense – especially nag champa – and candle wax and woodsmoke and dandelions and all of the most important humans in my life.

It knows the paths through the trees and the trees themselves, even if I’ve never been there before. It knows earth and leaves and dappled sunlight. It knows butterflies.

It knows a warm breeze on naked skin.

It knows that there are angels and it introduces me to them on a regular basis.

It knows some people better than I do, and always before we have actually met. If I am open to it, it gives me moments of, ‘there you are!’ – the unmistakeable resonance of a soul mate.

It knows places I have never been, and it calls me to visit them.

It knows wonder and enchantment, and when it finds them, it gives me a nudge to say, “You want more of this.”

It knows power – my power – and it waits patiently as I muddle through all of my favourite illusions of powerlessness.

It knows the way. It always has.

It knows that I am not an alien, not alone, not a weirdo, not lost, and that I do belong. But it also knows that I have lost my way. And so it tries to remind me with those whispers, “This feels good. This feels right. They feel good. Go that way. Follow me. I know the way.”

And if I let it, it reminds me that I am always home.




The Simple Lesson

May 23, 2016
flower meghan genge costa rica

To navigate the wild world, you need to move your basic perceptual and analytical thinking out of your head and into the whole inner space of the body.Martha Beck

It’s been hot today – so hot that I had to strip down to as little as I could and lie as still as possible, just to try to think about something other than being hot.

I’ve had a crazy headache for the past four days and a case of hives for the past month. Our internet only gives us five minutes at a time.

I am sitting in our living room watching the rain fall. The breeze is luscious, and we have opened every door and window in order to let that breeze have its way with us.

The rain is bringing lots of leaves down around us, and it seems that more than statistically should be are ending up in the pool.

As I watch, a small green and black frog uses our patio as his path out for the evening. A gecko chases his dinner around the window screen. Some strange insect that looks suspiciously like dryer lint makes its way across the rocks outside the window. The rain falls straight down.

It all tells me the same thing.

There are ways, I know, that we could put things into place that would make us feel more in control here. Air conditioning would make us think it was a ‘better’ temperature. Better screens would keep bugs and snakes and spiders and butterflies out of the house. We could hire someone (as many here do) to clean our pool. We could try to make our life here as easy as possible; pretend we had some control.

Taking a pain killer will put a pause on my headache and an antihistamine will give me a break from my hives. A bottle of wine would make me forget my worries for an hour or two. I could list dozens of other things I could do – have done – to help me forget where I am uncomfortable or ashamed or generally unhappy.

But all of that would be missing the point.

The lesson that living in the jungle is teaching me is that I am as unimportant in the grand scheme of things as it is possible to be. We all are. I have met trees here that are older than we can imagine, and every inch of ground is populated by insects smaller than I can see. If we walked away from this house and nobody came back, it would be claimed by the jungle in a heartbeat. They fix our electrics and a tree takes them out again. They fix the road and the rain washes it away.

None of it matters.

But the rest of the lesson – the true lesson – is that I am also equally as important as that tree; as the gecko; as the rain. Every ring is a part of the whole. Every creature is a critical piece of the picture; every drop returns eventually to the ocean.

All of it matters.

I am it, it is me, and my place in it is to be as present in the moment as I can while doing my best to keep perspective on the rest. I have not got – never had – any control over any of it. (No matter how much all of the current thinking says we do.) The only thing I can control is how I choose to react to each moment; how I choose to be.

And if it sounds ludicrous and self-important, maybe it is. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

So in this moment, I choose to notice the heat, the rain, the gecko and the frog, the leaves floating on the surface of the pool, the greyness of the sea, my husband and the dinner he is cooking.

In this precise moment, that is all there is.

And I am grateful.


inspiring women

Welcome, Friends! (An Invocation)

May 20, 2016
motorcycles meghan genge
Every Tuesday morning I meet with a group of women and we talk about marriage and friendship and community. And we also talk about faith and doubt and the condition of our spirits. We make space for all the leanings of our lives. They are my ardenthearted and I am forever grateful to be walking with them. ~ Alisha Sommer


This week, the wondrous Alisha Sommer wrote the piece above about a group of her friends. It struck a deep chord in my heart and I knew it was something I needed to think about some more. We are committing to this place and we are about to begin building our dream. My physical world is about to get far more man-full in the next 6-12 months.

And I am finally ready to fill it with just as many, or more, women. Women who I can meet face-to-face.  I am officially calling in my own ardenthearted group of women.

I am a big believer in behaving like it has already happened, so here is my invitation, my love letter, and my invocation. Universe, I ask for this, or something better!


Dear You,

Thank you! Thank you for being my friend.

Thank you for holding my heart with tenderness and fierceness and respect and love.

Thank you for not giving a shit if my – or your – house is clean.

Thank you for being there when it matters – and knowing when that is.

Thank you for talking with me about spirituality and faith and doubt and creativity and inspiration.

Thank you for meeting up to talk about absolutely nothing important – just because we like to hang out.

Thank you for occasionally talking with me about moving to an all-female commune, and equally not being threatened or annoyed when I want to talk about how much I love my husband.

Thank you for absolutely and always having my back.

Thank you for shared coffee or tea or green juice or smoothies or wine or margaritas or whatever it is we need most at the time.

Thank you for honesty and sass and spirit and tears and hand-holding and ass-kicking and silliness and shrewdness and kindness and fun.

Thank you for having a full life of your own and understanding that if sometimes we don’t talk for days, it is nothing personal.

Thank you for knowing that this doesn’t mean I don’t love you.

Thank you for understanding if I never cook for you. Truly. I’m terrible at it.

Thank you for being a part of a rich, supportive, growing circle of friends; of a community of amazing men and women. We are so lucky to be here, now!

Thank you for inspiring me with your heart and your contribution.

Thank you for making me laugh so hard and so much.

Thank you for knowing me. Seeing me. Getting me.

Mostly, thank you for finding me.

I love you!