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Hi Subscriber First Name, Welcome to the first Letter from The Glass Room—a new collection of quiet reflections on creativity, nature, change, wellbeing, and the moments that help us feel less alone. I’m grateful you’re here. The gathering never happened. Yet connection did. For weeks, I had been imagining an intimate Summer Solstice sanctuary at a lavender farm. I could see the ivory cotton tablecloths, the honey-amber glass candleholders, the marigolds, and the small pieces of motivational signage placed with intention. There would be a farm-to-table lunch, lavender ice cream, lavender lemonade, and personalized art kits prepared by hand for each person. The evening before, I brewed sun-and-moon tea as an offering to honor the solstice and its energy. Everything had been considered—not only how the day would unfold, but how it might feel. I imagined eight people arriving for different reasons. One might be celebrating a birthday. Another might be seeking a softer place to land amid uncertainty and noise. Someone else might simply need to be in nature, to share in community, or to experience the quiet relief of being seen, heard, and witnessed without having to explain too much. By the time the forecast changed and the experience was cancelled, the sanctuary already felt real to me. I had watched it unfold in my mind’s eye for weeks. I could feel the joy of it as though it had already happened. Releasing that vision was painful. As part of the experience, each participant had been offered a private 30-minute conversation afterward—a gentle space to reflect on what the solstice had awakened and what they might want to learn, welcome, or let go of. When the gathering was cancelled, I decided to honor those conversations anyway. The solstice passed. The tables were never set. The candles were not lit. The tea was not poured. But the invitation remained. To date, five of the eight humans who registered, mostly women,—none of whom had met me before—have stepped into conversation with me. One conversation unfolded as we walked through wildflower meadows and beneath tall trees. We paused to watch honeybees gathering on mountain mint and wandered through an allée of tulip poplars. Another conversation happened online. Another began with a request for more information. We spoke about stress and rest. Swimming and breathing. Agency, creativity, freedom, and the thoughts that keep circling when the mind cannot quite become still. We considered what might happen if there were no need to solve everything at once. Some things, after all, may only need enough space to be spoken aloud. A few of the women were navigating significant moments in their lives and did not have the capacity to begin something new. Their responses were not a no. They were a not right now. There is tenderness in that distinction. Sometimes we need support most when we have the least room to receive it. Sometimes recognizing what we need is the beginning—even when acting upon it must wait. The conversations reminded me that coaching may begin long before an agreement is signed or a formal journey starts. Perhaps it begins when someone feels safe enough to exhale. Perhaps it begins when a question allows us to hear our own wisdom. Perhaps it begins the moment we realize we do not have to carry everything alone. After one particularly heartfelt conversation, I sat outside in my backyard reflecting on all that had been shared. The scent of lavender began rising from plants I had grown myself. It felt unexpected and unmistakable—a quiet echo of the gathering that had never taken place at the farm. Then, a bright red ladybug landed directly on my bare arm. I felt her tiny feet holding on. I took a photograph and, after a moment, gently blew her away. Later, when I looked more closely, I counted eighteen spots—nine balanced on each side. One appeared to be shaped like a small heart. I believe the Universe sends us signs when we are moving in alignment. Or perhaps the signs are always there, and alignment simply makes us more available to notice them. The experience I had imagined never manifested in its intended form. Yet the care placed into it did not disappear. Its deepest intention—creating space for human connection—found another way to live. The physical sanctuary did not open. Instead, sanctuary emerged one conversation at a time. It would be easy to tell this story as though the unexpected outcome erased the disappointment. It did not. Something can hurt and still reveal something beautiful. A plan can be released without its meaning being lost. The gathering was cancelled. Its deeper purpose was not. Connection simply found another way to arrive. A gentle invitation. Is there something in your life that did not unfold in the form you imagined? What intention might still be alive beneath the original plan? And what might you notice if you become still enough to let another possibility reveal itself? Humans make plans, and the Universe smiles. May you trust that what matters can take more than one form—and that changing the shape of something does not always mean losing its meaning.
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