Love, Maur

I’m getting ready to wander from the known structures of time and responsibility, going off grid for a few days in the unscheduled flow of wanderlust. I am going to Ireland. Headed there for my daughter Billie’s Maiden Voyage to the Motherland, this time I go with the passport of a native, the visa of one who has returned, clinging tight to the souvenir I have acquired from the adventure of chasing dual citizenship. This tiny booklet is a symbol that I have untangled the knots and restored the umbilical cord to my ancestors. I return with the shifty, shy gaze of a stepchild, or a long-lost relative, waving a notification from 23andMe, “I belong to you, and I’m hoping someone will retrieve me from the bus stop.”But of course, it’s not all that desperate and dire; we’ve rented a car, so we should be fine.It’s interesting to go away to come home. And stranger still to be homesick for a place you’ve never lived. Am I programmed for melancholy, or is this an echo of generational healing?I think of Ireland as my spiritual home; it holds a sense of sacred magic, like entering an old church. I find a calm settling, both mysterious and yet certain, not easily identifiable, and yet I know it by heart. And my body agrees, responding in a way that feels like stepping into the ocean, “Oh yes, hello, it’s you again.” And then there comes a baptism, a swell of ancient rites, ritual, and reverence, and suddenly I am home.Of course, this shift does not need to be sought through pilgrimage; it can be found in a cup of tea, a chance encounter, a labyrinth, or a lover. Not so much something we go to, but rather an awakening, an awareness of what we come from.This is not some stumbling into Grace, not a happy accident; we encounter awareness because we have made the space to remember that we are precious, sacred beings in need of rest, respite, and soul food. This is the truth that gets silenced by the screaming world.And so my invite, my friend, is to find your way home. We were not built for the firehouse of stimuli. We are designed to go at the pace of peace, to listen to the rain, take the slow path, shoot the breeze, and surrender to the plan of fate and favor that is not our own. It can sound passive, but it is not. In the surrender, there is bristle and brilliance. Fresh learning invites us to the awe and reverence that this life deserves. This moment is so palpable, so all-encompassing, so restorative, like being held safe in the mother’s lap or the lover’s arms.Your breath catches and expands,Your voice softens. Your eyes begin to see again.Clarity comes, striving goes, and a trust in an intelligence that provides all andasks nothing begins to seem strangely trustworthy.And you are homeI have witnessed this type of arrival happen day after day in our community, MiraclesLIVE365, and no matter how many times I see it, it never gets old. It’s a constant loop of sunrises, each one more breathtaking than the last. Friends come carrying the weight of grief or grievance, struggling with an unseen splinter in their paws. And then we meet, tucking our chins, bowing our heads, and begin again to surrender the meaning and arrive at the moment.It’s not always a sweet melting; sometimes it’s a street fight, to surrender to heal to forgive to return home. But we get there.We cross the threshold, sometimes with just a breath, that takes us in, and the baggage, the burden, seems to be transformed, translated into something holy, or forgotten. It’s a miracle.And like raindrops illuminate the spiderweb, we see the connection between us. The commonalities that help us to drop the facade and just be, another sacred drop on the web of life.The soul returns, remembers, and responds to the radiant rhythm of breath and being. The body relaxes, and in the absence of proving and striving, we come home, again and again, to the journey without distance from the head to the heart.What matters is not your place or position; what matters is your presence and your willingness to be present in the ever-flowing, shifting stream of life. I hope you find your way there, I hope you find you are here, I hope we all find our way home. Love, MaurEVENTSCheck out the talk in the header, and if you want more, click the link below to get the Zoom link and a reminder text. At SpeakEasy, easy is our last name.I am thrilled about this Mother’s Day series and the awesome line-up of speakers! If you are looking to awaken your Voice, Value, and Visibility, this is for you.SpeakEasy Spiritual Community honors all paths and is anchored in the teachings of A Course in Miracles and the Divine Feminine. We meet virtually on Sunday at 10:30 am CT and feature a community conversation that invites us to speak easily about spiritual principles and practice. Please don’t leave your brains, beliefs, or background at the door. We don’t have all the answers, but we love the questions. Join us live at SpeakEasy Spiritual Community to add your voice to the conversation.Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. Subscribe and gain access to our weekly Live Virtual Story Salon for writing accountability and support.If you have thoughts to share, I would love to hear from you. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

Underneath It AllThe Tower or the Altar: Build it up or lay it down.A reflection on the Tower of Babel, the Binding of Isaac, and the shift from seeking to surrender.What looks separate… isn’t.In meditation, a forest revealed something simple and profound:trees may appear to stand alone, but beneath the surface they are connected—root to root, life to life, sustained by an unseen network.this is us.We move through the world as if we are separate—defining, comparing, protecting what is “mine.” But underneath it all, we are already joined. What we call separation is learned, practiced, reinforced.In A Course in Miracles, this forgetting takes the form of special relationships—where we exclude, judge, and attempt to control. In contrast, holy relationships remind us that nothing real can be threatened, and no one is outside of love.The story of the Tower of Babel is not just ancient—it is alive in us now. Every time we decide who belongs and who does not, every time we confuse righteousness with judgment, we add another brick to the tower. We build identities that separate us, even as we claim to be seeking God.But there is another way.In the story of the Binding of Isaac, we are invited into something quieter and more courageous: surrender. Not sacrifice, but trust. The willingness to release what we think we must hold onto in order to be okay.Because what we are afraid to lose… has already become an idol.And yet, when placed in God’s hands, nothing real is taken—only the fear dissolves.This is the movement from tower to altar.From building to releasing.From fear to trust.And as that shift happens, something else begins to fall away:the idea of “other.”We no longer need to defend who we are, or exclude who someone else is. Difference is no longer a threat—it becomes an invitation to expand love beyond our comfort zone.Lesson 263 offers a gentle correction:“My holy vision sees all things as pure.”Not because the world has changed, but because we are willing to see differently.So the question becomes:What are we building?And what are we willing to lay down?Because the way home is not something we construct—it is something we remember.Underneath it all…we are already one.Key Takeaways: Separation is learned, not real Striving builds walls; surrender reveals connection What we fear losing often becomes an idol Love expands when we release the idea of “other” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

Up on Madeline Island, darker days have settled in. The town has grown quiet, the water cold. Summer folks have flown off with the geese to sunnier shores, leaving the rest of us to navigate the dark. I was once among them. But this time, this year, I wait and witness as the light bows out early. In the remote solitude of Island life, traffic lights are replaced with stop signs, pulsing neons give way to the soft glow of lanterns, and darkness arrives honestly. It takes hold of the cabin, cuddling it in a black velvet-gloved embrace, until I can’t see my own hand an inch from my face, which is mesmerizing and feels less like absence and more like arrival. I am here. Here, where blaring search lights and sirens are replaced with subtle starlight and silence. I watch in wonder, realizing that I can be comfortable in the dark, no longer afraid but oddly intrigued, and apparently prepared for it.Earlier this year, I found myself reading book after book, such as Learning to Walk in the Dark by Barbara Brown Taylor and Waking Up to the Dark by Clark Strand. I had no idea why I was gobbling up these volumes designed to romance the dark. But I know that many of these books didn’t just ask us to make peace with the dark, but to enter it —walk in it, alone. As I thumbed through the pages, I had no idea at the time that they were welcoming me into an initiation that I would have never chosen for myself. In a dark time, the eye begins to see.-Theodore RoethkeI don’t think I need to confess my bias toward brilliance and brightness. I’ve been taught to fear the darkness. I have romanced, regaled, and relished the light. Fire it up, friends, court your brilliance, chase off the shadows, and shine, shine, shine, sis-star! It seems that this overamplification of light’s value has blinded me to my own dualistic allegiances. And so it’s time that I forgive my fears and make peace with the full spectrum of humanity. To welcome darkness not as void, but as a fertile field of possibilities. A classroom, a teacher, and an opportunity to own and honor all aspects of myself, the waxing and waning. Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.In the cold, dark, stillness of these northern nights, I am discovering that I need darkness as much as I need dawn. My soul has been craving this. And as a sunny optimist, a seven on the enneagram, as a card-carrying rose-colored glasses, self-identified “silver lining factory,” I am honestly unerved by the depth of darkness and the rich love affair I have forsaken for sunnier sermons and high-vibe brilliance. I guess what I am saying is, I am ready to dance in the dark. “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.” -Mary Oliver: My sunrise spirituality and breezy barefoot blessings have been effectively honored and celebrated. But now the darkness calls, and it will not be denied. It whispers of richness: of warm mugs of spiced dark chocolate, red velvet and incense, warm, worn leather… candlelight. And even now, as I write, I see how I am attempting to romance the darkness, to wrap and rebrand the bare bones of winter —the chill of shadows — as some glorious cashmere-grey mist settling over the woods. It just may be, but I hope you can spot the Ever Ready Bunny of Sunshine, so determined to avoid the darkness. Although these textures are sensual, and tangibly and decadent, do not be distracted, dear reader. Beneath the warmth of velvet, the richness of candlelight, they point to something deeper: the winter of the soul, the cold, dark, damp cave of hibernation, the solitude, the silence. And I, a people person through and through, find myself trying to convince myself that I am not afraid of the dark. I mean, I am not… I am really not. But then again, I am also not very fluent in it.And so I watch as grey skies turn black and deliver a generous sprinkling of stars who brilliantly dance and delight this audience of one, and I make myself stand in the darkness. And I find that it’s not a hiding place, but is a womb. It is not just the absence of light, but a beautiful mystery. Some things can only be seen in the dark.And so my task is to venture into the shorter days and solitude, not because the dark is comfortable, but because it offers me a sense of the sacred that I could not have secured for myself on sunny shores. And although I still favor them, I am entertaining the sacred in me that has always known how to find its way through the dark.The darker the night, the more brilliant the light appears.“I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.” -Hafiz I hope to find that, share it with you, and invite you into your own sacred darkness. So join me tomorrow at SpeakEasy Spiritual Community as we contemplate the full spectrum of darkness and light — the laser, the lantern, and the sun — and explore how we might navigate the continual waxing and waning of illumination within and around us.“Perhaps the light can only be found by those who have learned to love the dark.” — Barbara Brown TaylorMay our love grow bolder in the darker days and darker times; may our love grow so bold that it outshines the sun. LOVE, MaurPS: Enjoy dessert.EVENTSSpeakEasy Spiritual Community honors all paths and is anchored in the teachings of A Course in Miracles and the Divine Feminine. We meet virtually on Sunday at 10:30 am CT and feature a community conversation that invites us to speak easily about spiritual principles and practice. Please don’t leave your brains, beliefs, or background at the door. We don’t have all the answers, but we love the questions. DESSERTA little spoof on daylight savings. I mean saving. It’s not plural! Join our virtual weekly Story Salon and get accountability and support on your writing. Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

This week in The Artist’s Way at SpeakEasy, we’re invited to connect with our Muse and create a piece of artwork that celebrates the Muse. The invitation makes my heart flutter.I’ve been digging through the remnants of my past as we prepare for our move to Madeline Island. Closing up a home that has held my family and me for the past fifteen years is no small thing. I’m swimming through an ocean of emotions, gratefully anchored each day by what always seems like the perfect lessons from A Course in Miracles during this time.Lesson 288, Let me forget my brother’s past today. Lesson 289, The past is over. It can touch me not. Lesson 290 My present happiness is all I see. Oh, if this could be true, how gentle my path would be. But with every photo I pack, with every item and piece of artwork, I’m pulled into the stories of my past.This has been a home of stories and self-expression, where I wrote and published three books, created a one-person play, started a church, and launched a program that teaches and coaches people from around the world to embody the spiritual principles of A Course in Miracles. This is the home that birthed a dozen retreats, where I led women to sacred spaces. It’s the home that helped host The Maiden Voyage, a program guiding women on their internal journey of self-realization.So much has been stirred up and stored within the walls of this home, from the depths of addiction to the breathtaking betrayals, to the serenading of singers, sisters, and brothers, and the echoes of a trillion miracles upon miracles upon miracles. If you know, you know. This house has generously held it all, with barely a creak or a word of condemnation.This has been the home of the Muse.Finding the Muse is a bit like finding “a God of your own understanding,” but softer, more playful. Maybe she arrives as a fiery angel with paint on her wings, or a gentle grandmother tending a fire and humming you courage. Maybe she’s the boldest, brightest version of you, the part that sings out loud and speaks the truth without edit or apology. Maybe she’s the fearless, shameless, blameless, unedited, sexy, sacred siren who calls you to the sacred truth and to play, and shows you that these things are not mutually exclusive.However she appears, remember this: she is fun. She is frivolous. And she absolutely has your back.So, get to know her. This week, Jerome Imhoff, our fearless leader in The Artist’s Way group, invites us to take this connection a step further and create a piece of art inspired by your Muse. Paint her, sculpt her, collage her, write her a letter, use Canva or canvas, as I did in the image above. Let yourself have fun. How novel. And bring her essence into form.As Course students and teachers, we know that God is the Creator, and we are created in Its likeness.Child of God, you were created to create the good, the beautiful and the holy. - A Course in MiraclesIn The Maiden Voyage, A Spiritual Odyssey Through the Archetypes of the Feminine Soul, we journey through the archetypes as a creative and spiritual awakening, celebrating the Maiden, Muse, Mogul, Mother, Minister, Mystic, Monarch.Side Note: For those interested, The Maiden Voyage officially launches this January with a virtual and in-person monthly gathering for coaching, creativity, and soul care, culminating in an in-person celebration on July 22nd. Mark your calendars! More info. to follow. As for me, I have been so devoted to the Muse that I have often been mistaken for one. This has never been my goal. I am not a genie in a bottle, and I try not to be a shadow artist, a term coined by Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way. No, dear reader, I am not interested in being the choreographer of your best moves; I am just a dancer, devoted to being led by my Divine, my own internal Muse, this lifelong companion who has swept me into adventures and sweetly seduced from me products, programs, and prayers beyond my own authorship.This internal guide makes it easy for me to step from the knowing and lean into the mystery, the trusted compass that gives me the gumption to pull the thread on all the tapestries I have woven, so that I can begin again, in a new chapter, in a new home, in a new way that will surely be an even more blessed and beautiful version of all the stories I once held so dear. Because God never steps backward. And so it is into the Mystery we go, when we go with the Muse, the miracle worker. She only asks us to give up two things: forget the past and forget the future. Stay here, in this present moment of conception, so that you can be guided and beguiled by her magnificent brilliance and beauty. Come, empty yourself, and surrender to inspiration, the Spirit that dwells within.Now is the time, dear reader, to reacquaint yourself with your own innate power. Now is the time to entertain your Muse. She does not come to the fearful or the controlling. She lives in the present and arrives to the one who celebrates the light on leaves, the wind in branches, and dreams in the desert, where all seems lost, and yet, and yet, look about you, look up, be willing, and you will not be able to ignore the single star that still shines for you. And when you lay your thirsty eyes upon this light, let it seduce from you a wish, a foolish, frivolous, childlike wish. Then wait, and watch with willingness.If I know anything about the Muse, and I do, I know that she comes to those who smile at the fire, for they know about the phoenix. The ones who gather bones from the graveyard and build themselves a throne. The ones willing to hear the rhythm of a new song, and the courageous ones who decide to sing along, even if they don’t yet know all the words.Whether you’re walking this path with our Artist’s Way group or simply following along from afar, I invite you to pause this week. Consider your Muse and create something, anything, that honors your God-given creative nature.The Muse is always waiting, ready to play, to guide, to remind you that art is sacred, joyful, and human.One final note: my place of home is shifting, but my love remains the same. I am always easy to connect with via the aforementioned Creative Virtual classes and conversations. The Muse in me is percolating with exciting ways to connect and collaborate in the future, and I can’t wait to share it all with you.And remember, if you want to meet up in person every week, swap stories, and work on your writing, subscribe to the Substack, and you’ll receive the Zoom information. It’s a great place to dance with the Muse.Thank you to all who have come to this home, and to those who took up residence here. We have had the privilege of hosting many friends in transition. Thank you to all who brought your music and musings to our table over the years, who planted our gardens, and broke bread with us.As I close up this home, this chapter, I look forward to connecting with you wherever and whenever that may happen. Because home is not a location.I think my kids sang it best: Home is wherever I am with you. You can find their wonderful rendition of the song in the dessert section.In the meantime…Love,MaurLove, MaurAnd now, enjoy DESSERT!I would love to hear from you! And if you'd like to connect, pitch a story for Voice Box, have me on your podcast, just have a chat, reach out here. For free resources and community connections, visit our calendar of events, click on any item of interest, and it will direct you to a registration form. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

My spiritual well-being cocktail is made up of three simple syrups: forgiveness, focus, and friendship. Forgive the fears, focus on the love, and find some good friends to walk the path home. Dr. Tererai Trent has been one such friend. Years ago, I was invited to attend the final filming of the Oprah Show. With visions of finding a car under my seat, I headed off to the show with my friend America, and that is where I was gifted something even more valuable. The episode was “Oprah’s top guests.” That’s where I heard the story of a girl from rural Zimbabwe who dreamed of coming to America, going to school, becoming a doctor, and returning home to serve her community.Because she was not allowed to attend school, she secretly taught herself to read and write by doing her brothers’ homework. The local teacher pleaded with her father to let her attend school, but to no avail.By eighteen, she was married with three children and trapped in an abusive relationship, until she met Jo Luck (a perfect name for the moment). Jo, then president of Heifer International, had come to Zimbabwe to stir hope and healing. After hearing the girl's dreams, she leaned in and assured the young woman that it was all possible. That small vote of encouragement became the fuel for the young woman, who would become Dr. Tererai Trent, to reach every last seemingly impossible dream. She would go on to share with the world the idea of Tinnogana, which means it is achievable.Side note, I did not get a car, but Oprah did gift us all a free Tinogona T-shirts, modeled here by my son. But I actually got so much more than a T-shirt. After the show, I took an action. I reached out to Dr. Tereria, and to my surprise, she wrote back. We became friends, and eventually, she joined me as an honored guest speaker at SpeakEasy. Later, she would also write the foreword to my first book, Giant Love Song.Foreward To Giant Love Song by Dr. Tererai TrentI met Maureen Muldoon while on my book tour with The Awakened Woman. She made it known that we would be friends. Thankfully, I felt the same way or I may have needed a restraining order. It’s interesting when you cross paths with a soul sister from across the globe and discover how similar our journeys, how universal our struggles, and how kindred our spirits. It’s beautiful to see that when we walk the good walk, life carves for us a path that is not meant to break us, but to wake us, and it peoples that path with helpful hands.We rise and awaken not just for ourselves but we do this for the betterment of all. This does not mean that the journey will be easy, but we will be guaranteed that our willingness will leave a legacy for those who still struggle. This has been my own life’s work, and it is also the theme woven so beautifully into Giant Love Song.Beneath every brokenhearted story is a love song, a lesson, or a blessing. These experiences are an invitation to find our most authentic and helpful voices. We are each responsible for delivering our stories and finding our own truths. My grandmther used to remind me of the importance of owning a voice that matches our dreams: “Until the female lion becomes the historian of her OWN story, the tale of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.”In Giant Love Song, Maureen Muldoon has become her own historian. She has found and honors the voice of resistance, the voice of fear, the voice of willingness, and finally, the voice of resurrection. No matter what our stories are, we must all learn to rise.Enjoy the journey through this giant love song and allow it to crack you open. Find that place, that open wound. Travel to your tender spots and let them inform you. Be willing to wait and listen. It is in these universal classrooms of love and losses that we will find our redemption and healing. We become more awakened. The deeper truth of our universal potential lies within the heart of the individual. However, it does not hurt to have some mighty companions along the journey. If you are looking to be reminded that we are each an essential and Divine thread in love’s tapestry, this book is for you.May it help you hear and honor your own giant love songs.—Dr. Tererai TrentDr. Tereria and I had our dreams supported by both consistency and community. Community and consistency are love and law. Or what I call Deep River and Big Ocean. You can’t get to the Big Ocean without going through the Deep River. Deep river means consistency. It is the daily recommitment, the willingness to stay the course, to work the scales over and over, to hold to the dream, and to keep fresh your high resolve.Our daily thought patterns dictate our outcomes. Malcolm Gladwell popularized the idea that it takes 10,000 hours to go from ordinary to mastery. He pointed to the Beatles and Bill Gates, not as flukes of luck, but as masters of consistency.The difference between those who dream and those who deliver is often determined by how well you stay steady through the storms. Because life will get distracting, the river of our consistency will splinter into puddles. We’ll lose focus, gumption, courage, and faith.And that is when community plays a part. Community is one of the most significant predictors of resilience, focus, and long-term fulfillment. Birds of a feather flock together. The idea of social contagion in behavioral science shows that habits, good or bad, spread through communities. When your “flock” is committed to dreaming big, it’s easier to stay awake to your own calling.Community is the fertile ground where our callings take root and become more than just private dreams. Viktor Frankl, in Man’s Search for Meaning, taught that meaning is not found in isolation but in how we relate to others and to something bigger than ourselves. Or as my friend Barb said on our morning call, “When it comes to recovery, the people are the healing.” Alcoholics Anonymous rests on both these pillars: the people are the love, and the program is the law. And the people can make all the difference. It’s so affirming to see another artist sell a painting, a fellow life coach raise their session rate, or a sister musician take the mic and crush a song. In the same way, it’s devastating to see a fellow alcoholic go out or another writer receive a rejection letter. But doing it together is always better than going it alone.A Course in Miracles honors these pillars, too. The workbook holds 365 meditative lessons, one for each day. The lessons ask us to work with the specifics of our special relationships. Theory gives us the truth, and application brings that truth to life. For the past thirteen years, I’ve woken up to miracles thanks to Miracles LIVE 365, our daily A Course in Miracles calls. It’s not just a deep river, it’s a love-fest of friends. And honestly, when I attempted to go it alone, I did not get too far. They say, “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” Personally, I prefer the long, slow path in the company of friends. Nothing can be loved at speed. -Michael Leunig This is also why The Artist’s Way works. The three handwritten pages each morning are the law, paired with the artist date, the love that fills the well and replenishes the soul. Honor these two pillars, and nothing can keep you from reaching the Big Ocean. If consistency is king, community is queen. That’s why we created SpeakEasy, a spiritual community where dreamers, seekers, and believers gather to go deeper together. Whether it’s through Miracles LIVE 365, The Artist’s Way groups, our weekly 12-step gatherings, or the other cool conversations and events that fill our calendar. SpeakEasy is designed to help people stay the course, hold to the vision, and keep rowing down the river that flows toward your ocean.So here’s your next step: Jump in the water. Pick one practice. Join one circle. Take one step toward consistency and community, one step toward your Big Ocean.* Join us for a free week of Miracles LIVE 365* Sit in on our weekly 12-Step to Miracles meeting* Or walk with us through The Artist’s Way this October on Zoom And for writers, when you subscribe to this newsletter, you get access to our weekly online writers’ group, Story Salon. A simple but powerful way to stay consistent, keep your words flowing, and feel supported by a community that believes in your voice.Because the truth is: you don’t need to wait for someday. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to show up.I could say that I went to the Oprah show and all I got was a losey T-shirt, but the truth is I got so much more, because I took one step. I reached out to that little girl with the big dream, I held tight to her example, and I got to the big ocean, and I want to take you there, too. Tinogona! It is achievable.Love, MaurBOOK LINKS: LINK for Giant Love Song by Maureen Muldoon LINK for The Awakened Women by Dr. Tereria Trent✨ Thank you for walking this path with me. If you feel called, share this with someone who needs a reminder that their dreams are still alive.EVENTSRemember the words of Saint Francis of Assisi: where there is hatred, let me bring love. Contemplating this can reveal deeper insights to assist in reprogramming our psychological reflexes.  A person is never only their opinion, and every opinion has a half-life. Opinions are like clouds - only appearing to be permanent at a glance. Pay more attention and one can perceive the numerous forces continuously reshaping it.  Every profile picture is a doorway to an infinite interior, even for that individual. I go on uncovering and peeling layers around myself in pursuit of self-knowledge.  Our task—especially in seasons of heat—is to refuse the fixation of the single facet. To meet any neighbor as more than a position is moral hygiene. When we restore dimensions, we restore possibility: the chance that a disagreement can be a bridge, that truth can travel without cruelty, that our commonality can be a place for transformation.This Sunday, SpeakEasy welcomes Todd Fink* as our speaker, leading the conversation - hosted by Maureen Muldoon*Todd Fink is the host of the Kind Mind podcast and co-founder of The Giving Tree Band.  As a licensed therapist, he also holds certifications in addiction counseling and mindfulness meditation teaching. He is a graduate of Georgetown and Columbia University with degrees in psychology and advanced clinical social work.  His contemplative songs, talks, and writings have inspired many around the world. Learn more & connect at https://michaeltoddfink.com Enjoy Dessert:Dr. Tererai's story on the Oprah Show. “You, too, are creating your own reality show every day. "You can have nothing, come from nothing, and still have everything you dream.” This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

Healing Has No Ceiling One summer when I was about seven, while spending a week with my cousins, I skinned my knee in such a hideous way that I couldn’t even bear to look at it. My Aunt Helen took me into the kitchen, propped me up on the counter, and began to care for the wound. I was terrified and traumatized, but her steady authority and focused care healed a part of me I didn’t even know was hurting. Was it the gentle assurance of her voice, the steady gaze of compassion? All I know is that the moment is still ringing in my cells. I felt like a feral cat that had somehow been adopted, for that moment, by a queen who generously filled my milk bowl with cream, and she touched something far beneath the skin, an ancient thirst. She applied a thick, cooling salve, followed by the largest Band-Aid I had ever seen.My aunt was a nurse, and Band-Aids were her business. In our home, when a wound appeared, we were pretty much on our own. The approach was “brush it off and move along,” or in more serious cases, you got a wad of toilet tissue held under the faucet. Nothing wrong with those rustic modes of healing—it was all I had known, and it worked.But under the careful care of my Aunt Helen, I was immersed in the art of care and learned many lessons from that oversized Band-Aid. First off, I loved it. I didn’t know you could love a Band-Aid, but I did. I loved how it looked, how it felt, and the love it represented.But all good things must end. The day came when the Band-Aid was no longer my friend. It had grown uglier than the wound itself, filled with dirt, lint, and sand—and it was time to pull it off. Again, my aunt was there. She sat beside me as I slowly peeled the edges from my skin, each attempt bringing a wave of pain and fear.“You just have to rip it off fast,” she said gently. “It’ll be less painful.”“I can’t,” I admitted.“Come here,” she said.And as I moved to her side, she reached down. With one clean, powerful gesture, she separated me from the Band-Aid. It was quick and painful, and then it was done. I felt sideswiped. Where had that kind and gentle care gone? Tears welled up in my eyes as we both looked down at the scabbed mess of my knee.“Now it needs air and sunlight,” she said. “Now the real healing begins.”I looked up at her in confusion. No more Band-Aid? But it was so cool, and it had been working so well!“No,” she said. “No more Band-Aid. It needs sunlight and air. Exposure to the elements will do the trick.”Exposure could be healing? I have come to find that her remedies were sound. Each morning during the Miracles Live gatherings, people from all walks of life share experiences, from major traumas to quiet griefs, that they have overcome or are coming through. They have the scars but no longer need the Band-Aid. The wound is now part of the perfection, not something to be hidden or feared.And sometimes, when the wound is fresh and the wounded is brave, something remarkable happens. There is a collective healing: tears, nodding heads, and an outpouring of appreciation. This vulnerability is how we rip the Band-Aid off our shared classrooms. This is how we bravely trust the elements to do their job, and in the witnessing of that strength, we’re reminded that we can handle the whole truth. We can heal together.Transparency is a generous elixir. Maybe not at first, maybe not right away. There are times, stages of healing, when we’ll still need Band-Aids to protect and cover our raw and ravaged vulnerabilities. But protection has an expiration date. Eventually, to fully heal, we must expose the tender parts of our story to light, to air, and to the kindness of mighty companions.This exposure not only heals the one who is wounded, but it also gives the rest of us the courage to remove our own Band-Aids. And in that courage, our compassion grows.So, how old are your Band-Aids? Is it time to let the elements help you?This Sunday, Lisa Natoli is joining us for a healing conversation on fearless love. I hope you will join us. Here is the link to join us LIVE at 10:30 am CT!In the meantime…Love, MaurLisa Natoli is A Course in Miracles teacher and the creator of online courses on the topics of healing, abundance, awakening, and being aware of the light of your true Self. She came to know directly that the natural state of everyone is a shared, eternal, infinite Being, light, perfect love, timeless. Any difficulties one seems to experience in life come only from living in resistance, identification as a body-self, and being in contraction from our natural eternal state. Any limitations you seem to experience come only from the concepts you hold about yourself in mind. The light of truth dissolves all false beliefs you held about yourself, and the result is peace, joy, ease, and freedom. Her website is https://www.lisanatoli.comIf you are unable to make the talk, here is a vintage conversation with Lisa Natoli!Love, MaurLove, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

Last year in Ireland, on the very first day of a retreat, Kathy Scott of Trailblazey asked a question that made me dig. The theme of the retreat was Homecoming, and it was geared toward fostering a reconnection for the Irish soul, as well as for all the other ways a person might need to come home to themselves. Her question was…"What are the gifts you don't confess to? What are the gifts you're hiding?"I was in a small group of three women, and when it was time to share, we each admitted to the exact same thing.I am intuitive.What an odd and extraordinary moment. It’s one thing to be an alcoholic, and another to step into a room to hear everyone else's confession of what you have held as a secret. There is something inherently holy and helpful about transparency, especially in a world that can feel so warped and well-filtered. After our delightful discovery, we found that we had even more in common. The three of us had always known about our ability to know things. But up until that moment, we had not fully let ourselves be known. And so we sat, quietly. Privately. Sometimes playfully, sometimes reverently, with this secret. Keeping it under the bed or in the back of the closet. And as we all know, things that live under the bed, in the back of the closet, or behind the drapes can take on a spooky glow. This knowing was the kind of knowing that we all had been taught to tuck into our pockets. It was not a safe topic. Unless, as in my case, unless you were drunk. Yes. Back in my drinking days, my friends called me the “psychic drunk.” My party trick was offering enebriated “readings.” Just take that in for a moment—enebriated psychic readings. All I can say is it’s a good thing that I got sober. But that week in Ireland was not drenched in drugs and alcohol; it was a clean, clear confession, and for the first time in my life, the cat was out of the bag. Or should I say, the veil was lifted, the oracle had spoken. My third eye winked. Whatever, you get the idea. Something shifted.I looked at the women who had unburdened themselves, and I thought, of course you’re intuitive, of course. I trusted them, and so I trusted myself, a wee bit more than I had before the trifecta confession. I believe the act of confession is what liberated your true gifts. There was a time over a decade ago when I was invited to a health fair. I informed the organizer that I would offer 10-minute affirmative prayer sessions. I explained to her that it was an intuitive way to open up to the interpretations of a Higher Hand and to place an affirmative blessing on the situation. She was confused about my offering and suggested that I call them “intuitive readings.” For some reason, I didn’t blink an eye. I knew that my prayer sessions were intuitive, I just never labeled them that way. I changed the sign on my booth to read “10-minute Intuitive Readings”, and I set it up as I would for offering affirmative prayers. When my daughter arrived, she smirked at the sign. “Are you intuitive?” I shrugged back. “I am today.” But here’s the thing: in claiming this intuition, in putting it out there, I seemed to have opened a door to greater connections and confidence around my “readings.”Back in Ireland, a new permission was in the room. A new authority. I felt it, this sense that my gifts were no longer just mine to hide. They were meant to be shared and honored.Later that night, I decided to list all the ways my intuition had shown itself to me. This is an exercise I give my clients, based on the idea that what you focus on increases. I was genuinely surprised by all that I had been denying. In the more paranormal sense, I have communicated with pets that have transitioned, not just in mind, but in sight… like the movie The Sixth Sense, I have seen dead people, or at least dead pets, which, as it turns out, are not actually dead. I’ve channeled messages from those who have passed over, which I was not fully prepared for and not’t entirely interested in; it was a bit intense. But in a more gentle and less WooWoo way, my clients and I have benefited from the highly intuitive prompts, interpretations, and awareness of things that I could not have known that I knew, and yet I knew. I did not go to Ireland to retrieve these gifts. Still, acknowledging them in a group of other intuitives felt like an initiation, a calling out, a coming to terms with something that was no longer willing to be ignored, a homecoming. When I came back to the States, it was as if the soil had changed. Something bloomed. My intuitive channel opened wider. And then, after a personal trauma —a moment that cracked me wide open, the gifts amplified.In some ways, you could say, I got out of the way, or I was gotten out of the way.And I began to notice the shift, the sessions I offer, which have always been deeply transformational, began to move with even more specificity, clarity, and precision, like truth on tap. Connections would arrive before I could “think” them. Knowing would flow through me, things I didn’t know I knew, and yet I knew. And it all felt oddly effortless, like someone else was doing my job. Now I understand that back in the day, confessions like this could have gotten me burned at the stake, and in more modern times, subject to an uncomfortable eye roll. This 6th sense is not universally accepted. It might be the reason why it feels like we are still banging rocks together when it comes to our level of communication. As a child, when I explained to my mother that I could still see and interact with our pet dog, Joe, who had been in a fatal car accident, she simply said to me, “No, you can’t.” The truth is, I was a little freak as a kid. I barely had a toe on the earth, and I am sure my mother was ’t looking to encourage my oddball ways. But what was once feared and stigmatized is now being confessed. Let’s face it, the world needs more freaky oddballs. So, although I don’t tread ignorantly out onto this new ice, I do tread, because I have a gut feeling that I am not alone; in fact, I would not be surprised if you, dear reader, might also have a few hidden gifts of your own. If so, leave your declaration in the comments. What is claimed and strengthened. What is denied is weakened. So you choose. If it is any encouragement to you, since that moment in Ireland, my discernment and clarity have amplified, and numerous signs and symbols have marked my life. Spirit always gets Her way. And the more we talk about it, the more we find that what was once feared, shamed, or silenced is now being openly accepted, integrated, and celebrated in brave and beautiful conversations. I believe that we are all intuitive. Some of us just have a harder time hiding it. To continue this conversation, I am thrilled to share that next week at SpeakEasy, we will be hosting Carrine Zupko, author of The Clairs. This book covers how to assess guidance and intuition, specifically directed towards students of the Course in Miracles. In the book, she references a section of The Course: “…each individual has many abilities of which he is unaware. As his awareness increases, he may well develop abilities that seem quite startling to him. Yet nothing he can do can compare even in the slightest with the glorious surprise of remembering Who he is. (ACIM, M-25.1:3-5).If you are interested in learning more, grab the free book on her site and join us next Sunday for the conversation. I have listed her link in the dessert section. I hope you show up, because all healing is mutual. When you begin to accept your gifts and remember who you are, you can be more helpful to others. Since my confession, my own sessions have gone next-level. I have had more clients cry in the last two months than in my entire career, not because of pain, but because of the profound experience of being truly seen. It’s beautiful to behold. So I am excited about these upcoming conversations, both in session and at SpeakEasy. My hope is that they offer you a place to confess a few gifts of your own. If you're feeling called, if you’ve been navigating something heavy, confusing, or tender, or if your soul yearns for some transparency and crystal clear direction, I’m here to support you in awakening to your most impactful, empowered, and intuitive self. Link to book a session. Or if you want to try out a 10-minute affirmative prayer session, AKA intuitive reading… Click here. I promise I will be sober. Till then, enjoy dessert! Dessert!This past week, I was a guest on Lisa Whittingham’s lovely podcast. She just launched it, and her first guest was Sonia Choquette. I started listening right before I was about to post this Substack. The topic is intuition… Go figure, as if we needed another sign. You are going to love this conversation. LINKAnd don’t forget to grab a FREE copy of Corinne’s book and join us next Sunday at SpeakEasy. LINK to free book.Link to join the conversation. LINKThis week at SpeakEasy, we have Todd Fink of the Kind Mind Podcast with a conversation on Causeless Grace. It’s gonna be a good one. LINKLove, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.And until we meet again. Love, Maur This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

Growing up, my family lived just up the block from the church, and everything we did revolved around our church and school. We never veered far from it, mentally or physically, and when we did, we could still locate its steeple even when we were blocks from home. It pointed to the heavens as a reminder of our potential and possibilities.To enter the church, you had to open these massive wooden doors, which required you to lean back and pull with great force. As kids, sometimes it took several of us to get the job done.But once opened, we were greeted by a dark sanctuary that rushed us like a cool and welcoming exhale from the marble floors and walls. The breath of this building was perfumed with incense and wood polish. The stained glass windows filtered reverence into the air.But the main attraction for me was the people. It was always the people, the women in their lipstick and fancy hats, men in crumpled ties. The teenage girls, attempting high heels for the first time, clicked and clacked down the aisle as they delivered the offerings to the priest.The squirly kids, doing their best to avoid secret pinches from their haggard mothers, while not losing their minds in the boredom of it all. And the wrinkled old men who slide the baskets of money under our noses, tempting us with the delusion of grandeur.I loved the people, second only to the stories.The ones that the priest told, the ones that made us laugh, think, and see things differently.I was in awe of the alchemy of the stories that could draw us in and transform us into a better version of ourselves.I loved church.So much that I wanted to be a priest, but I was told right off the bat that I couldn't be a priest because I had a physical disability.The physical disability was called “my vagina”.As it turns out, anyone with a vagina, could not be a priest.Which seemed like such a random, radical, and yet strangely specific criterion for holiness.And so, instead of being a priest, I left for Hollywood and became an actress, a storyteller.Telling stories on TV and film, and I did this for twenty years.But after playing hookers, and drug atticts and jewelry thiefs, I decided I was done acting. I want to play the role I came for. So, I gave up my second-class citizenship as an actress and became a priest, of sorts. Priest was the only word I had for what I was destined to do, but it never quite fit. Soon, I learned the word “celebrant.” That's exactly what I do. I celebrate life with all its riddles, rough patches, and rites of passage.I summon the sacred and weave a bit of wonder in the hem of the mundane, giving a poetic nod to a memorial service or blessing a young couple's vows. I weave the stories and sermons that help people feel seen and heard. Reminding them that there is something sacred about their humanness.It was not always easy to step into the role; it was a coming out of sorts. But the gentle, intuitive prompt would not be denied, and after a while, I just got tired of fighting it, so I started a church and ordained myself. Vagina and all.And for the last 13 years, I have been running a spiritual community called SpeakEasy. It was not born alone; it had a twin sister, called Voice Box Stories and Serenade, a monthly story event with a musical twist, where I helped to get storytellers. I started the church about the same time I started Voice Box. These two sisters grew up together, yet apart.Which seemed right.Some people would never go to a church.And some people would never go to a bar.Still, something sacred could happen under these twin peaks. People could gather and share good stories, the definition of gospel. This was church.At both places, I got to collaborate with Cathy Richardson, the rock goddess. At SpeakEasy, she was the High Priestess of song, at Voice Box, she was the High, High priestess of Song. Cause the woman likes her weed. Though when I told this story at Voice Box, she shamelessly confessed to being high at church too. Which makes more sense than my original version.Together, we created community. Here’s the church, here’s the steeple, open the doors and love all the people.Things seem to go humming right along. We had ups and downs and in and outs, traumas, dramas, celebrations, and deaths. But even through COVID and catastrophes, we held our ground and showed up. Showing up was all we needed to do, and the rest of the magic just happened. But this past April, showing up became impossible. My life blew up, and took everything down to ash, it was so irreversible, and irreverent that I found myself standing in the aftermath mumbling incoherently, “Oh my God.” Over and over.My Inner teacher assured me that “there were no victims, no bad guys, and I was entering a time of a thousand kindnesses.” And yet, for all intents and purposes, it sure as f**k felt like an annihilation. I was devastated, blasted right out of my shoes, and could no longer follow the known pathways. I couldn’t go to church, I couldn’t show up at Voice Box. Friends filled in for me, and I found myself driving to New York, my Motherland, with my daughter sitting side saddle. My daughter had decided a few months earlier that she was going to rent a place in New York, the three weeks prior to Easter, so she could experience the city and meet up with old friends.When she first told me about these plans back in January, I asked, “Can I go with you?” At which she promptly, clearly, and sharply replied, “NO, this is my time, Mom. It’s just for me.”And yet here we were driving together to New York. There is nothing like a good catastrophe to bring mothers and daughters together.When we arrived at the Airbnb in Brooklyn, it was a church, a beautiful old red church. I stepped out of the car and said, “What is this?”And she said, “This is where we are staying.” I said, “We are staying inside a church?”She nodded and grabbed her bags and made her way in as I stared up at the steeple wondering what the ever living f**k?I reluctantly entered the church and found myself in a renovated apartment. On one wall was a picture of a Risen Christ, and on the other, a large skeleton kneeling in prayer. I felt more like the skeleton.The owner of this Airbnb was hitting the holy hard.To get onto the internet, the password was Exodus 444.Exodus is about leaving your home, leaving all that you know to lean into the mystery. Oddly appropriate at that moment.My daughter wanted to know more about the 444. She reached for the bible on the shelf and opened it, only to find that it was not a bible, but a safe. A safe that required three digits. She punched in 444 and it sprang open.And there inside the safe were drugs, mushrooms. I wish I could tell you that I took the mushrooms, ate them all, and met God. But the truth was that my daughter and I were so pixilated from the devastation of our lives that no amount of drugs would have made a dent or a difference.So, we shut the safe and began to move through rotations of sadness, rage, depression, remorse, shame, sadness, rage, depression, remorse. They flooded in and tag-teamed us around the clock.But the one thing I did not allow into the room was grievance. I was being marinated in grief, upon grief, upon grief, upon grief. Still, I had no budget for grievance, because I had already visited this particular place in hell, all those years earlier, when my first husband left me for Miss Universe (Full story here or on Audible). At that time, I took up a grievance that I could not lay down. I hated the man with every ounce of my being, I hated him from my bone marrow, and when that was not enough, I borrowed bone marrow from friends, and convinced them to hate him too. And I was pretty successful in that, if that’s what you call success.For 7 years, I stoked the flames of that hatred with my life energy. The attention that belonged to my children I placed on the fire, the energy for my creativity I placed on the fire. I offered all I had to keep this grievance well lit.One day prior to opening my own church, I was employed at another church as the Youth minister. And this particular Sunday, I was supposed to teach the kids about forgiveness. Which I knew I couldn’t do, because I hadn’t figured out how to forgive. So, I said to my higher power, “What the f**k do you want me to do? How the f**k am I supposed to teach forgiveness to kids, when you know I hate this man.” Plus, these were city kids who could smell b******t faster then a drunk uncle can ruin Thanksgiving.The intuitive suggestion that I received back was that if I was willing to forgive him, all I had to do was think of one good thing about him.You would have thought this would be easy. But remember, I had spent some years stockpiling this grievance. I had buried all the good things under my hatred. I tried to bypass this step, suggesting to my Higher Power that I could not think of one good thing. To which It replied, “I’ll wait.”So, I took a minute —a good, long minute — to try and think of one good thing. And finally I thought of flower boxes that he had made, for our shitty appartment in Sunnyside Queens. I thought of a helicopter ride that he had surprised me with for my 24th birthday, and I thought of the moment in my life when I was down on my luck, and he came to me as a friend and said, “I will walk you through this thing.” And he did. He was a friend to me when I really needed one. When I remembered that, it was uncomfortable for me to imagine how I could have ever forgotten it, and suddenly something lifted.So, I went to church and taught the kids about forgiveness, about having one good thought, about looking past the crime to the Christ, to the innocence, if you can.Not long after that, I had a chance to see him, and when I saw him, I actually saw him. I did not see the hatred; I only saw the kindness, and when I saw that, I was so overwhelmed. I excused myself and sat in my car, crying because I saw him as innocent, which was such a sight that I made a vow to myself that I would never hate like that again.I made a vow that I would never hold a grievance like that. I could not afford it.I have made vows before, with people who could not keep them.But that day, I made a vow to myself, and it did not require anyone to co-sign that vow. And here I was at the cusp of breaking it. But what would it get me? And so I decided in that moment, in New York, to keep that vow. I would not spend a minute of my life carrying a grievance.And I did what I had taught those kids to do, all those years earlier. In the middle of a nightmare, I had and held to one good thought. It was enough. But I wanted more. I was done with nightmares and misery. I had paid my dues. I wanted, I deserved beauty. To celebrate the kept vow, I decided to buy myself flowers. Because Milie Cyrus said we can.Out I went to this janky little flower stand in the middle of this sketchy area in Brooklyn, and I gathered the most beautiful flowers I could find.I stepped up to the stand, where a woman was waiting in sweats and a T-shirt, being circles by two snot-nose kids running around her, knocking into her as they chased each other like feral cats.And as I stood next to her in line, I noticed a wedding bouquet on the counter that the man was fixing for her, pink roses and baby's breath and pale pink ribbons.She told the man behind the counter that I could go before her, since the bouquet would take some time.I smiled at her and leaned in with my credit card.But as my card crossed over the top of this wedding bouquet, I paused and I asked her, “Whose wedding bouquet is this?” She beamingly replied, “It’s mine. I am getting married. I am finally getting married after nine years.”There was an old version of me that wanted to scream at her… RUUUUUUUNN RUNNNN!!But instead, I turned to the man behind the counter and said, “Put it on my card. I want to buy her flowers.”The woman leaned back and said, “Oh, no, Oh No. You can’t buy…”But I stopped her, “You cannot buy your own wedding bouquet, not on my time. I won’t have it.” If you know me, you know I can be bossy.She smiled. And then she cried, a big, hot, wet cry that washed over her face like a tapped hydrant. As she swatted at her tears, she asked if she could give me a hug. And there outside the jankie flowershop, with trash in the air and junkie on the corner, and squirly little feral children who were now clinging to their mother’s t-shirt and staring up at us as if they were angels bookending the blessed Mother, we hugged. A good, long, heartbeat-to-heartbeat hug. The kind you see at the airport when sisters are leaving each other for foreign lands.And then she leaned back and asked, “Will you come to my wedding? Will you come to the church?” To which I replied, “No.” A hug would have to do. But she was bossy, like me, and typed her contact into my phone in case I changed my mind. A month later, I texted her to see how her day went and to tell her that buying her flowers was the perfect medicine to heal my own heart. She replied, “I hope you are well. In the name of Jesus, those flowers were very special to me. It was more than a gift because my mother was not with me at the special moment, and the Lord Jesus put you in her place, which seemed like a gift from heaven. May God take care of you and guide you always.” And I was reminded once again that it was never the doors, and it was not the steeple; it has only ever been the people. When you are ready, I’d love to take you to church. Love, MaurEVENTSJoin me this week at SpeakEasy, the theme is Freedom! Link to join us. Voice Box is on hiatus until September, but all paid subscriptions come with a private weekly Zoom Story Salon, where we workshop our stories. Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

In times like these, it is easy to forget ourselves, to forget that Spring will come. The world's weight presses in, making us feel small, uncertain, and unsteady. My grievances seem to block the brilliance. And then Spring comes, slow and shyly, slipping in, waking us from the dream of darkness and devastation and returning us to peace. "Let everything happen to you—beauty and terror.Just keep going.No feeling is final."—Rainer Maria RilkeIt’s rocky out here, I’ll give you that. But it seems that, like death, the shifting is part of the plan when you live in the sands of time. I watch myself tumbling through life, eternally in pursuit of something steady, only to find myself tossed to the wind again and yet ever held in Grace's expansive net. It’s best to cultivate a bit of detachment as we attempt to navigate this world as a mirage, a facsimile, a whirling mass of thoughts and stories and emotions that come and go too fast to pin down. Just keep going. No feeling is final.And even in the roundabout of life and death, we somehow remain essentially the same. Even as everything cycles around us, even in all the changes, the soul is eternal. And Spring has arrived, and I am eight.I am eight.I am eternally eight years old and boiling with frustration and longing as my cycling sisters circle me, beautiful blurry banshees swarming, seducing, and dismissing me as they weave around our front yard. Like human sailboats on wheels, gliding in and swiftly sailing out and down the block and back again, and I, the monkey in the middle, am trying to grasp them like slippery kite stings, I have no luck.“Let me on,” I scream. “Please, take me with you!” They crane their heads back at me with sweaty smirks they scream. “No, Maureen, you're too big!”How can I be too big when I feel so small? “You need to learn to ride on your own. Use the black bike, they shout as they move off again. Watching them go fills me with dread. Knowing I will be left for good. I will never catch up. I will always be the kid sister, forever left behind.The black bike is in the garage; it has a silver banana seat and half of a ringer. The top part is missing, and you can see the gears. The spokes and chain are rusty and reluctant, and the metal moans as I pull it up and shake it from its winter slumber. The moan is chilling in the dark garage, and the bike is heavy, awkward, and laden with cobwebs. I want to give up before I even get it to its wheels. But the howling of my sisters like distant train horns reminds me of my mission, and I use all my might to steady and then straddle the bar between my legs. With my pointed toes, I slowly tip-toed my way to the front yard. Once in the safe view of my sisters, I attempt a running start, hoisting my body onto the seat. Immediately, I see things I could not see from the earth; the higher view gives me a flicker of confidence as my feet search for the peddles, my hands grip the handlebars, and I am off. But with no understanding of how to stop, I steer toward the hedges, hoping to break my speed. In I go, gulped up by branches and bramble, swallowed whole. I unweave myself from the thicket, howling at the bloody scrapes on my legs and hoping to stir some pity in my sisters. They pull up, squinting with skepticism and concern. Drawing in Oscar-winning accuracy, I plead, “I need help.” Maggie climbs off first. “Come on, Erin,” she says. “You hold her on that side, and I’ll get her from this side. Then we run. Maureen, you pedal and don’t stop.”They do their best to keep me up as I tilt back and forth like John Boy Byrnes after he has spent too much time drinking wine with my father, the Giant. Maggie screams, “Pedal, pedal!” in my ear, her heavy breath on my cheek, her shaky arms holding me steady. I push down hard as the metal creaks and whines back at me. Clenching my gut, standing up straight, putting all my weight into it, we are a slow-moving three-headed beast. Jiggling and jangling down the block like a glass jar full of rusty nails.Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.“Good job,” Erin mutters. “Keep pedaling,” Maggie repeats.I will my legs to move faster. We pass the Tracy’s house, and the Gostils’. But by the time we get to Bananie’s house, Maggie lets go and falls to the grass. Erin quickly follows. I slow to a stop and jump my feet to the earth so as not to fall over. And I imagine what Nadia Comaneci must feel like to stick a landing.Maggie looks at me, then down at the Bananie’s driveway. It’s a short, steep hill leading to the street, a stone wall holding back their property, protecting cars and offering us a perch to peek into the passing traffic.She stands and steers me and the bike to the top of the driveway. Erin jumps up, too, but watches from the safe distance of the grass. “You’re not supposed to ride in the street,” she reminds us.We don’t even look at her because we know the rule and have already decided to break it.“When you have to stop, use your feet because the brakes don’t work so good, okay?” She waits for my buy-in.I nod, breathe, and stare at the steep drive to the street below.“On the count of three, I’m going to push you off, down the drive, and into the street. Ready?”Again, I nod. We check that no cars are coming, and then she begins to count. I stare at the silver banana seat between my legs and the tips of my toes, trying their best to hold my balance. I think I should pray, but “Three!” is called, and she pushes me off, and the bike takes flight right into the path of an oncoming car. It has come out of nowhere and is charging like a bull, horn screaming, air rushing up at me so hard I can hardly keep my eyes open, like holding my face too close to a fan. My hair stands up; my skin wiggles on the bone. My feet flail on either side of the bike.In the blur of watching my life end, I hear Maggie screaming, her voice high, her words are odd sound muffled and mangled beneath the blare of the horn. And I know I will soon join them. The driver flashes before me, his white knuckles clutching the steering wheel, his wide eyes shocked and angry. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to be a witness to my own death. I hold to the handlebar like a jackhammer over the loose gravel. Her voice comes again, but this time, I can hear her.“Turn the wheel! Turn the wheel!”Without thinking, without knowing, I pull the handlebars toward the curb. The bike hops and pops over cracks and potholes, my teeth bang together, and I know I am going to die. I open my eyes one last time to see his face, his mouth open and yelling as he tugs on the wheel. I close my eyes again and hear the screeching of tires, and then, instead of a crash, I feel a warm whoosh. A blast of hot and holy air shoving me toward the curb. My feet find the pedals. I begin pumping. My knees shake, but I keep pedaling.At our driveway, I turn the wheel, the bike bumping over the walkway. At the yard, I toss it to the ground and collapse into the grass, listening to my heartbeat pounding against the earth. Boom, boom, boom. My heart, my beating heart, telling me I am somehow still alive. This thought releases a dam, and tears spill from my eyes like spring sprinklers.My sisters come running and fall beside me. I press my face into the dirt so they don’t see my tears. I don’t want them to call me a baby.Erin pokes my side to make me laugh, but I am not so ticklish. “You’re probably part cat,” she smirks.“Cat?” I ask, looking up at her.“Yeah, cats have nine lives.” She stops speaking when she sees my tears. I lay my head back down and think about Tom from Tom and Jerry—how he always gets back up after being hit with a frying pan or smashed by a boulder.I don’t think I am part cat. I know it’s my sisters. It’s always my sisters. Every time, without fail, flying in like superheroes, they catch me, warn me, cover for me, and protect me. They are the ones to count on, the sure thing, who steer me in the right direction and guide me from the mouth of death. I have nine lives, but not because I am a cat, but because I am a sister.Maggie pulls a blade of grass and smiles down at me. “Now you know how to ride.” I turn my face back to the earth. I am not convinced. “You should probably stick to the sidewalk till you get a little better.”Uncle Harry’s car pulls to the curb, and the girls take off to get in one more ride before dinner. I swatch them mount the bikes like horses, smooth and fierce, they ride the wind.This time, I am not so envious. This time, I don’t chase after them. I’ll stick to the sidewalk, walk, or watch from the stoop.The Giant slams the car door and passes by me. I move in his shadow as we make our way to the house. At the front door, he turns to me. I think about telling him about the car and the horn and how I saw death. But my dad is so tall. Will my words make it all the way to his ears? Besides, it’s hard to wrangle my thoughts so I just stare up at him as he brushes his chin and says, “Don’t leave that bike on the grass.” I nod and turn back as he makes his way into the house.We will have only a few more years till my mother passes from breast cancer, but he must have heard the rumble on the tracks. Between my near-death and her complete transition, we will face a thousand shifts and changes. "Let everything happen to you—beauty and terror.Just keep going.No feeling is final."—Rainer Maria RilkeDeath does not come alone; it ushers in a new chapter, but not before convincing us of its permanence and that we will live forever in darkness. And yet, Spring returns again and again. We rise stronger, more tender, and better informed.We are not spared from fear, but we are held within it. We are not promised safety, but we are given strength. We fall, we rise, we ride. Again and again. Ever seeking to find ourselves, to lose ourselves, to find ourselves once more.“Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,the world offers itself to your imagination,calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—over and over announcing your placein the family of things.” -Mary OliverMay this remind you that no matter how lonely or out of sorts you might feel at any given time, you, too, have a place in the family of things. And Spring is here again. Love, MaurPS: Leave a comment. Subscribe and share. Lately, I have felt an odd calling, a pressure, a Guidance to do three things. It began with one, but once I followed through, the list grew. And then there were two, and now three. As always, I find myself on a “need to know” basis with my Higher Power. And I have a feeling there will be more steps to come. But the first call was to bless my house. I shared this in my last Substack, complete with a prayer. The second was to open my home, which I also did, welcoming gatherings like Moon Circles and Sound Healing. Now, a few retreats are on the calendar. The third? “Find the altar.” If you’re anything like me, your home may already hold a thousand little altars.I love creating them. A trip to Trader Joe’s for fresh flowers, a few candles, a shell, a statue, a bell, a book—and suddenly, an altar appears. The pressure lifts… and yet, the prompt remains: “Find the altar. Find the altar.” In stillness, I realize it’s not about creating altars but discovering them everywhere.Could this blooming mushroom be an altar? A plate of food, a box of berries, the stoop full of friendship, the teacup, the bath, the Buddha? Perhaps everything is an altar.What we approach with reverence takes on the essence of the holy.This Sunday at SpeakEasy (10:30 am CT), we are discussing Altered States and how to access them. If interested, click the link and register for the Zoom info. Every other year, I host retreats on Madeline Island. This summer, we are back with more revelations, inspirations, and liberations. There is a link below for more information and to hold your spot. These fill up fast. These retreats are a weaving of creativity, recreation, spiritual practices (based on A Course in Miracles), and the mythology and archetypes of The Maiden Voyage. This is your invitation to step into your spiritual sovereignty, awaken your creative fire, and rewrite the narrative of the Divine Feminine. Surrounded by nature’s beauty, immersed in ritual, and guided by deep wisdom, you will find the clarity, confidence, and inspiration to rise. Click the link to find out bout dates, times, and availability. DESSERTA community member sent me this video, and I liked it. It made me feel hopeful. So, enjoy dessert. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

Donny Robertson gave me my first Valentine. It was a cherry red, heart-shaped lollipop etched with white letters that read,  “Be mine.” In sixth grade, romantic gestures were like Big Foot sightings. We’d heard the stories, but no one had actually seen them. So I wasn't put off when he handed me the lollipop with an awkward shrug and said, "My mom packed this in my lunch. Do you want it?"Donny's mother had packed him many treats over the years, Ding Dongs, Devil Dogs, Yankee doodles, and cool ranch Doritos. I had lusted after his lunch snacks all year. But He had never offered me any of those. So when he handed me this Valentine, my first real Valentine, pretending that it meant nothing, I froze. It was a snapshot, an out-of-body experience, and somehow I knew, and I knew that he knew, and all that unspoken knowing made my heart swell. Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication.Donny had a sharp, swift, and slightly raunchy sense of humor, especially for a 6th grader. Word on the street was that he had spent some time in public school and got tainted by those "pagan" kids. Well, it paid off. He was not scared, safe, or stunted. He was a real live boy. Whose blue humor made me laugh. That honking, toothy, and overexposed laughter that would have surely been stifled if I had grown up with selfies, Facebook, Instagram, and Zoom.  But in the days before social media, I was free to laugh my ugly, awkward laugh, and his humor won my heart.  At home, my mother was losing a bitter battle with breast cancer. So amid this nightmare, Donny's kindness and off-color jokes were a daily vacation from hell. I never believed that Donny, the cool, popular kid, had a thing for me. He was loud and charismatic, and I was skittish, shy, and slow on the uptake. Two years later, his admiration was confirmed. The eighth-grade dance was a big deal. When I first got there, I wasn't sure why. The event took place in our school gymnasium. We all stood around looking at each other the same way we did in gym class, but this time dressed in our Sunday best, under lowlights, and to the soundtrack of 80's love songs. The girls clumped in bunches, and the boys hung around the circumference of the dance floor, rocking from side to side and pecking their heads to the drum solos. As the night unfolded, we got more comfortable. After a particularly energetic and sweaty song, I went to the girl's room to wipe my face and was shocked to hear, "Donny Robertson likes Maureen?" It came from a group of popular girls, delivered with disgusted disbelief like they had discovered a turd in the toilet. Maureen? Gross! Even I was shocked.On the dance floor, Donny approached me, took my hands, and started to dance. It was the type of dance where you swung each other around, spinning out, spinning in, rocking back and forth, all with minimal eye contact. In the rare moment when I caught his glance, I wondered if my eyes were as animated and enthusiastically lit as his.And under the blaring music and mood lighting, everyone else faded into nothingness, and all that was left was the bold, beautiful boy and the awkward and unsuspecting girl. Their bodies twirled, tucked, and twisted in what felt like a pre-choreographed movement like we had been born for this. moment. Every once in a while, I would catch sight of his sparkling blue eyes, sweaty dark hair, and pirate’s smile bursting with mischief and possibilities. The day after our graduation, Donny approached me again. "I am having a party back at my house, and everyone is going. Do you want to come too?" Again, he shrugged like this was all normal like we had done this a thousand times before. I showed up in a floral sundress and Candes high heels. Sandra Dee from the knees up and Sandy from the ankles down. I was still on the vine and hadn't yet fully ripened. At the party, the other girls spoke too loud and fast and laughed too hard. They grabbed each other and huddled in hives of whispers that would erupt in volcanic screams. If I stood too close, I'd be a casualty of their hot gossip.  I felt myself shutting down. I found a chair in the hallway and put myself in time-out. I needed to be still; I had no words for what would later be called social anxiety.After a while, Donny found me and asked why I was sitting alone. I shrugged. So he sat, we talked, and he made me laugh again. It felt like a rescue, a reassurance. A reassurance I didn’t know I needed. After eighth grade, I went to an all-girls private school, and Donny went to the local public high school. In the spring of my freshman year, my mother transitioned, and life changed forever. I never saw Donny after his house party.  But I never forgot his kindness and beauty. On September 11th, I watched with the world as the unimaginable happened. And then it happened again. And then, thanks to the news machine, it happened over and over until we couldn’t watch it anymore. On September 12th, my brother Jimmy, another young man with enthusiastic eyes, would get a call. He and his firehouse were being called over. Those were my sister’s words, "Jimmy got called over." I knew what it meant. He was headed to ground zero to help dig through the death and ruble. My sisters also shared that when our kid brother arrived at the barge that would shuttle them to the site,  Jimmy and his team pushed to the front of the line. When he met up with the Captain in charge, Jimmy informed him that his team should go first. The Captain asked why, and with the confidence of a motherless Jersey boy, Jimmy explained, "Cause my guys are the best."My brother, along with a tribe of thousands of first responders, would step into hell. His team was responsible for digging things out. The instructions were that if they came across any paraphernalia that was cop or fireman-related, a helmet, a badge, or a belt buckle, they were to halt the work and call over the foreman. Who would decipher what unit it belonged to, and those men and women from that unity would carry out the remains of their co-workers. There was a code of order amid the chaos, a raw ritual punctuating the confusion. My brother would carry many things out to be assessed by the foreman and many stories back to us. Most of these stories we wished he didn't share and hadn’t seen. Then came the day he carried a story that would change my relationship with the fallen towers."Hey, Maureen, you know who worked on the 105th floor of the North Tower?""Who?""Donny, remember Donny Robertson?"At that moment, I saw the building fall one last time, as though it was the first time, all over again.Donny was 35; the newspaper said, "His family and friends were the most important thing to him in the world. He told the jokes, picked up the tab, and called the car service. If you were his friend, he'd ensure that he cared for you. There was a loyalty that went almost beyond friendship."When I read those words, I know exactly what they're talking about. The article said that he had a wife and four kids and that it was hard to find a photograph of Donny for the prayer card for his memorial Mass. There were no pictures of him without a child climbing on him. The family had to crop him out of a family reunion shot to get a photo without a small arm or leg draped around him.Mr. Robertson could always be found with a smile on his face and ready to offer an encouraging word. Yes, I thought as I read the words, they got it; they saw him too. Twice a year, I think of him, on September 11th and Valentine's Day. I think of us. Two scrappy, enthusiastic dancers twirling each other around the gymnasium.I think of how that relationship gently crept into my life and slowly faded out, hovering only long enough to help me through a particularly rough patch. And each year, when making my way through the candy isles at Walgreens, my eyes inevitably fall on the bag of those heart-shaped lollipops with the white writing that says, Be Mine. All these years later, my heart still dropped a little because although it could have been passed off as a casual crush, in the grand scheme of things, the courage it takes for a 6th-grade boy to offer a valentine to a gratefully awkward young girl is the same courage it takes to do all the good stuff that life would have us do. Even the small stuff that you want to pass off as nothing. I knew, and I knew that he knew, that it really meant everything. In honor of love, do something brave today. Like sign up for dance class, write a love note, or subscribe to your favorite writer’s substack. :-) Love, MaurSHOPLooking for a good book? This nifty LINK will take you to my author page on Amazon.Story SalonAs a reminder, paid subscribers meet every Monday from 3:00 PM CT to 4:30 PM CT for our Story Salon. Come hang out with other creatives, storytellers, and writers and workshop your stories, sermons, and standup, or listen. Either way, stay lit!DessertThese are a few images that bring me happiness. My husband’s unconditional love for our son. Our daughter’s love for art. My love for hot chocolate and awesome dance moves. Love comes in all forms and flavors. Love, Maur This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

My life is filled with things that have been given up on, given away, or passed down. My car is secondhand, my house has sheltered many before me, and even my thoughts and beliefs are often borrowed and mindlessly regurgitated—not all of them, but some. You could say not all my thoughts are all my thoughts.I am a secondhand Rose. I love recycled goods—things that have been pre-loved. Worn-in jeans and broken—in leather, mix-matches china and other objects that carry the imprint of a life before mine.I love people that way, too. Those who've been around the block a few times and wear their wrinkles like badges of experience. The ones with a weathered look that says, Oh yeah, I've been places, I've done people, I've got stories.I don't trust the overly manicured, sanitized, and shiny—the synthetic, surface-level scripts. The mundane doesn't just bore me; it gives me a spiritual migraine and makes me want to pull it into the cloakroom and fill its pretty little vapid head with dirty jokes and sage wisdom that'll make its toes curl.Too much shallow, surface-level talk can crush a soul and drive a person mad. We yearn for awkward angels and artisan, offbeat exchanges. Most of us crave—or at least appreciate—the dusty bookshop, the mom-and-pop coffee shop, the secondhand treasures draped in floral, forgotten patterns with chipped edges, slight imperfections, and a soul.I come by this naturally. I grew up with five older sisters—every piece of clothing a hand-me-down, every toy pre-chewed, every bit of wisdom hard-won.I have always been a pirate, prowling thrift shops and backyard sales. If I'm honest, this is my true religion—I rescue things. Especially if I spot a statue of the Blessed Mother lurking among a cluster of Hummels and coffee mugs stamped with sayings like "There's a chance this could be vodka" or "World's greatest stepmom." She's coming home with me.My quest for color has led me to all kinds of treasures.When I lived in L.A., garage sales were legendary. People would discard the most incredible things. Once, I bought the Catwoman costume worn by Michelle Pfeiffer's stunt double.It was awesome. I wore it for Halloween and then sold it at my garage sale—this was before the days of Facebook Marketplace. I could've made a pretty penny off that suit, but I surrendered it for a few bucks to the next curious Catwoman waiting for her costume.There's something oddly satisfying about passing things along, setting them free, and keeping the cycle going.Because the alternative? That can be devastating.When I Googled the open-ended phrase, "Hoarding can cause…" the results were grim: health problems, cancer, a fire, mold, dementia, PTSD, anxiety, and bed bugs. Sounds like the bad news buffet, right? Better to let that s**t go.I know it's not easy because we get attached. We think something must have value just because we see value in it. But it doesn't—it really doesn't.Do you know those things in your home that were once valuable but no longer spark joy? You look at them and think, "I should sell this and make some good money." And then it sits there—for years—taking up space.Sometimes, you catch yourself thinking about Marie KondoBut you don't do anything. You think about her. And that thought leaves you feeling heavy, incapable, wishing you could be as ruthless as Marie Kondo.Instead, the item that should have been shipped to the Salvation Army or put out on the curb is saved for another 100 years.With the thought, I could sell that on eBay or have a garage sale.And then, one day—on your way out the door to drop stuff at Goodwill, the stuff you really, really, really don't want—you spot it.And you realize, yeah, this has to go. I am never going to sell it on eBay. I have never sold anything on eBay. Why did I think I would? I am never going to have that garage sale.Besides, garage sales are a pretty odd practice, when you think about it. I've had a few.They require you to stand in your front yard or driveway with all your s**t—all your failed plans on display, all your discarded things: a broken ukulele (once hoped to be the instrument of your rockstar dreams), unopened Zumba tapes, a 1,000-piece puzzle that's missing half the pieces, a half-finished knitting project of a scarf that ended up looking like the map of New Jersey. And you're supposed to stand there with your cold mug of coffee and sell that s**t as if you still believe it has value.That just seems kind of rude, doesn't it?To you, to the item, not to mention the new owner. I could be overthinking it.It's not that I want to dissuade anyone from hosting a garage sale—because I love going to them. They allowed me to meet people who would never otherwise let me into their houses, and they gave me a chance to forage for what I consider real gold, second only to abandoned Marys. Stories.You can find them if you look. At the last sale I attended, I got this ring. It's a silver band with a small fake diamond, and on either side of the stone were two names: Olivia and Brandon. These were not the names of a designer—they were the actual names of two people I don't know.I bought the ring at a garage sale hosted by Olivia's brother. I asked him, Is this ring real?He said, "I don't know. It was my sister's, and she doesn't want to talk about it."I was so intrigued. I had to buy it.The only information I could pull from the reluctant brother was that Olivia was 16 when Brandon gave her this promise ring.A promise ring is the perfect thing to find at a garage sale.Because it's such a bad idea, to begin with. To try to get someone to promise they will love you forever when you're 16?It's promises like these that make keeping promises f*****g hard.So I spent ten bucks on that ring.He wanted five, but I insisted it was worth more.And I could not, I would not—devalue this symbol of unrealized love.My daughter, who was with me, thought I was crazy, but I was mesmerizedby this promise ring that was given in love to a girl who, in the end, could not keep a promise. I loved it. I loved the idea of wearing a broken promise ring. There was something so human about it.Something that said, Look, who are we kidding? We're only humans, fickle, funny, inconsistent people.The ring was a true sign of self-preservation and courage. It's not easy to give up what you no longer love, and when we settle, we live a lie and give up our chance at reality.That's what that ring represented to me. All the ways that 16-year-old Olivia stayed true.It made me think of all my lucky breaks that came because someone had broken their promise.I wouldn't have half my wardrobe if someone hadn't given up. If someone hadn't abandoned their dream of being a painter, I wouldn't have a cabinet of art supplies I never use! If someone hadn't abandoned their faith, I wouldn't have an army of ceramic Marys.If all the women who dated my husband hadn't given up on him, I wouldn't be married to him; we wouldn't have our kids. In the end, all rejection is redirection. That saying is, of course, borrowed from someone wiser than me.So much of what we cherish started as someone else's discarded thing, abandoned dream, or lost cause. We are all currently caring for someone else's leftovers. And we should be grateful to them. Raise a glass to all the brave Olivias.We are currently in the year of the snake. It's time to shed, baby. Get your Marie Kondo on and be ruthless about letting go of what no longer serves you.Everything deserves to be loved as if they are the pirate's first pick at the booty call.I held onto the broken promise ring for a long time. I had big plans for it.I thought I would bring it to Voice Box, the storytelling show I produce monthly at FitzGerald's. I imagined a contest—I'd ask the audience to tell me what happened with Olivia and Brandon, and whoever had the best story would wear the ring.Instead, the ring sat on my dressing table for years. Then, one day, while cleaning out my jewelry box, I gave up. Out, it went to the Goodwill, along with all my single earrings and broken pins. At that moment, I joined Olivia and Brandon in the quiet acceptance that not everything is meant to last. Sometimes, plans bloom only in our minds. All those beautiful promises—to love forever, cherish, learn the ukulele, finish that puzzle, lose weight, finally speak Spanish—all the things we swear we'll do but don't.Maybe that was the karma of the ring—to travel from hand to hand, dashing hopes and teaching lessons, reminding us that sometimes it's better to be present than promised.Who knows what happened to Olivia and Brandon? Who knows what will happen to any of us? It's all so shifty and fleeting. Maybe the only promise worth making is to do whatever you need to do to stay true to your fickle, funny, and ever-evolving self—even if it means breaking a promise.LOVE, MaurSHOPLooking for a good book? This nifty LINK will take you to my author page on Amazon.AnnouncementOur February Voice Box show is Canceled. Cathy is touring with Deep Purple! We will return in March with an amazing guest artist, Scott Tipping.Story SalonAs a reminder, paid subscribers meet every Monday from 3:00 PM CT to 4:30 PM CT for our Story Salon. Come hang out with other creatives, storytellers, and writers and workshop your stories, sermons, and standup, or listen. Either way, stay lit!DessertThese are a few images that bring me happiness. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

In a world screaming in pain from fears and fires, “thoughts and Prayers” have become the equivalent of spiritual shadow puppets. I get it. It’s an odd defense for complacency, a tone-deaf trope. "I am going to pray for you" can be borderline offensive. “Don’t bother,” replies the tired world. "I don't need your intentions. I need interventions. I need your prayers to grow some legs, cook me a meal, hand me a pair of socks, and live simply so that others can simply live."Thoughts and Prayers" is an empty, easy way to wash our hands of suffering, which is a shame because I’ve seen the extravagant miracles that can come from the power of prayer. The first time I saw someone use prayer to connect directly to God. I was maybe six, in church with my family. We were supposed to kneel in prayer at some point after the Eucharist. This meant I would kneel, rest my head on the wood, take in the smell of crushed cloves, and wait. I didn't know what prayer was, and I was not sure what more was supposed to happen.And then I heard a whisper, a breathy, earnest little whisper. I peeked over at my sister Erin, who was just two years older than me. Her eyes were closed, and she was speaking to someone. I tried not to eavesdrop because I knew it was a private conversation. But it was my first realization, my initiation into the idea that prayer could be a casual and common connection to God. That we could talk to God.I had been immersed in “Glory be to the Father,” “Hail Mary's,” “Our Father's who art in heaven.” I thought prayers were just a string of words you recited to get the words right, but there was no discernible impact or implication.My sister Erin was and is an exceptional role model for two reasons.* 1: She does all the hard stuff, all the brave stuff, all the stuff that you could not pay most people enough to do. She does. She has always cared for the least among us.* 2: She does it with a sense of humor—a rare, refreshing, unearned happiness. So when I saw her speaking to some invisible presence, I intuitively knew that this was where she was getting her chutzpa from, and I wanted in.And I began to entertain a relationship with this thing called God.Not long after that, the book Are You There, God, It's Me Margaret ran like wildfire through our neighborhood, it seemed every girl had read it. Prayer became a play to tell God your problem and suggest a solution. Especially if your problem were something you would never ask a parent or peer about. “Have you thought about it, God? About my growing, I mean. I’ve got a bra now. It would be nice if I had something to put in it.” -Judy Blume, Are You There God it’s Me, MargaretAs I grew, my relationship with the power of the word matured. Many years later, in another church in California called Agape, I watched a woman walk to the pulpit and set fire to prayer in a way that broke my mind and told me that she was on a first-name base with God. As soon as the service ended, I found her and asked her what she had done. I was an actress, and I knew how to deliver lines, but she had carved consciousness and lit up the room from an internal switch; she had given me a peek into a palpable present-tense spiritual authority that shook my roots with fear and fervor. Was this allowed? She was a woman. As a kid, I had asked the nuns if girls could be priests. Their eye widened, and their brows furrowed. The question was hardly worth an answer; we girls had a physical disability, our vaginas had cockblocked us from the pulpit. And so, instead of becoming a priest, I became an actress, and off I went to Hollywood to tell stories that could change people’s lives for good. I ended up playing prostitutes, dead girls, and reporters reporting on dead girls and prostitutes, but that is another story. Now, here I was with a firm grasp on the coattails of a woman who had dared to go where I had seen no woman go before, to the pulpit, and again, I wanted in. She told me that she was a prayer practitioner. I asked how long it took her to become that, and she said five years. Five years.I let that land on me as I stood before this formidable Goddess, this well-anchored, well-appointed older black woman and her patient husband who were making time for me, this thirsty little white girl, looking for answers after church. At that moment, I knew two things for sure.* One: with all I had, I knew that I wanted to be a prayer practitioner. * Two: I knew that being a prayer practitioner was something I could never be.I could not imagine devoting five years of my life to studying prayer. I had a lot going on; I was hustling for my acting career, running a kid’s entertainment business that I worked on the weekends to pay the rent, and raising my son as a single mom. Five years was not in the budget. She took in my defeat, smiled softly, pulled up her bag, nodded at her husband, and left the church. And although it felt impossible to get to where she was. I would find I was wrong about one of those sure things.It did not take five years; it took ten. I took the slow path. But I got there. After ten years of classes, practicums, and panels, I became a prayer practitioner. For the past two decades, the giving and receiving of prayer and council have benefitted every area of my life in immeasurable ways.Looking back at my six-year-old self in church, my 27-year-old self in church, and my 36-year-old self in church, who finally reached the goal of being a prayer practitioner, shows me that despite learning so much, prayer still has much to teach me, so I continue following the river.I wanted to end this post with a story and an invitation. If you want to see the full sermon, click the video below. But for now, here is a story of our dessert fathersAbba Lot went to see Abba Joseph and said to him, "Abba, as far as I can, I say my daily prayers. I fast a little, and I pray and meditate. I live in peace as far as I can. I purify my thoughts. What else can I do?" Then "the old man stood up, stretched his arms towards heaven. His fingers became like ten lamps of fire, and he said to him, "If you want, you can be all flame."And so my friend, there is fire to be had, fanned, and felt. We can empower the fire as Saint Teresa of Avila, the Spanish mystic, empowered her baptism of fire when she said, "Burn from me all that is not God."When the desert father suggested that we be ALL Flame, it does not mean your prayers will be on fire; they may be. It does not mean you will use prayers to serenade or seduce desired outcomes from the shadows. Again, you may. It might not be that you are suddenly powerfully articulate, golden-tongued, prophetic, and poetic. It certainly could happen. But what WILL happen is you find something more valuable. You move closer to becoming ALL Flame.The fear of spiritual fire is justified. We have been told and sold a firey pit called hell. We have gotten burned, physically and emotionally. We’ve watched fire level whole towns in LA, Hawaii, and many other places worldwide. Flames call our attention, clarify, and cleanse us.Flame can also be humble. At the National Cathedral prayer service for the inauguration this past week, Bishop Marriane Edgar Budde demonstrated humble truths, peacefully pacing and asking instead of demanding mercy for the less fortunate. We could not see the fire beneath the gentle approach, but we can be sure it was there as it caused a holy hail storm, which is what fire does. One flame of truth can make people stand up and take note, whether you agree with what she said or not. There was power in her words, which landed like soft rain on a thirsty world."A thousand candles can be lighted from the flame of one candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. " ― GandhiSo we will approach a year of prayer, and I promise, it will not be what you think. It doesn't have to be a blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones: Just pay attention, then patch a few words together and don't make them elaborate, this isn't a test, but a doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak. - Mary Oliver, ThirstPrayer is what you create from love. So, what are you creating in the name of Love? Answer this question, and you will move from "thoughts and prayers" to an embodiment of the fierce flame of a living prayer.Love, in its essence, is spiritual fire. — SenecaI invite you to lean into the fire of prayer this year and stay spiritually lit.Love, MaurSHOPLooking for a good book? This nifty LINK will take you to my author page on Amazon. AnnouncementOur February Voice Box show is Canceled because Cathy is touring with Deep Purple! We will return in March with an amazing guest artist, Scott Tipping. Story SalonAs a reminder, paid subscribers meet every Monday from 3:00 PM CT to 4:30 PM CT for our Story Salon. Come hang out with other creatives, storytellers, and writers and workshop your stories, sermons, and standup, or listen. Either way, stay lit!Love, Maur This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

Tomorrow night marks the First Voice Box Story & Serenade 2025, and the theme song is Times They Are A-Changing. Life is like a river that refuses to be stagnant. So, how do we navigate it all? Will we go with reluctance and rage, shaking our fists to the heavens and demanding an explanation for the changes occurring that were not on our vision board and, therefore, seems like a horrible injustice?Or will we toss ourselves into the Void with empty hands and fierce expectations? Will this be the year we fly, or will we just continue to die?Time is not waiting for you or me. The times, they are a-changing. And we were born for this moment.Change is constant, which is uncomfortable for the soul seeking security and some steady ground.So, we hope to offer you a little consistency with a sweet reminder that we will be here for you at Voice Box every second Tuesday of the month. We invite you to make this your creative home, where you meet with yourself and your tribe and chart your creative course. Use Voice Box as your creative catalyst, a labyrinth and laboratory for your stories and soul songs.Come for the laughter and the creative inspiration. Come for the head-banging bops and the heartbreaking truths that connect us. Remember, Voice Box is your incubator of awesomeness. Dare to create something that makes you feel raw, rare, and breathless. Living in your genius is the greatest gift you can give the world. So lean toward your North Star, your limitless self, your genius. Because two things are not going to change:1: The clock will not stop ticking, and time will not stop changing.2: Cathy and I are NOT going to stop betting on YOU.You can accomplish whatever you set out to do. We invite you to make this a monthly event and part of your creative movement. Even if you don’t get up on stage this year, take the theme song, write a story, and share it with your friends pre-show or post-show. Grab a table in this room and make it yours. Bring snacks, show up, and chart your creative course, one magical month at a time. We are believers in dreamers, spinners, and weavers; your heart song is safe in this community.And it all starts tomorrow night at Voice Box Storie & Serenade. We will have a powerful lineup of storytellers. PLUS the musical glue of our show is the amazing Cathy Richardson! (If you’ve been under a rock) Richardson is an American singer, songwriter, actress, and narrator from the Chicago suburbs of Illinois. She is the lead singer for the band Jefferson Starship and her own Cathy Richardson Band, and has performed the Janis Joplin parts for Joplin's former band Big Brother and the Holding Company, along with playing the role of Janis in the off-Broadway hit Love Janis. Her voice will drop your jaw.This month’s StorytellersNancy Solomon joins us for the first time! Nancy’s been a member of the Goodman Theatre’s storytelling program since 2018. She is grateful for the joy, structure, and connection she feels with the storytellers in her group and throughout Chicago.Lacy Coligan is an ARTIST | MUSICIAN | and CRAFTER OF EXPERIENCELover of stories, music, and art. You are going to love her story. Al Chase is a gardener and dog lover who has taken a few back roads and had the scars and stories to prove it. Kathryn Brown has been featured on the front page of the ‘Wall Street Journal’ for her famous seminar ‘The Art & Science of Flirting’, New York Times as a Relationship expert. She will surely seduce you with her story.Gary Doherty is a retired social worker who writes heartfelt memoirs about his life in Illinois, including college experiences, family memories, and humorous fiction. He enjoys sharing his work through readings at coffee houses, restaurants, bars, and churches, where he’s built a loyal following.OTHER EVENTSMoon Mná Monday Night (Full Moon Gathering)Dear Sisters of the Moon,You were born for this moment. Tonight, under the radiant glow of the Full Moon, we gather to illuminate our inner truths and embrace our brilliance. Together, as Celtic Moon Mná, we step into a sacred space to show up, pay attention, and honor the courage to bet on ourselves.This is a powerful time to connect with your community, to glimpse a vision of your greater good, and to celebrate the beauty of your role as the builder, creator, and architect of your life.Whether you join us in person or online, know that your presence adds light to this magical night. Let's harness the energy of the Full Moon to dream boldly, share openly, and shine brightly—because your brilliance is best seen in the dark, under the comfort of the moon, and in the company of friends.See you tonight!Love,MaurFebruary 3rd, 7 pm Story Event: Let Me Tell YouI will be up at the Mic alongside Errol McLendon, host of Let Me Tell YouNorth Berwyn Park District 1529 S Harlem. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

Happy New Year! Here, we are at the threshold, in the blank slate of what will be. The new beginning and the letting go of the old. But this is not just what happens at The beginning of a year.  This is happening all the time. We are always taking in and letting go. We are all on the eternal Hero’s journey, leaving the ordinary and being called to the adventure. This is not a choice; this is life, it’s like a river that refuses to be stagnant. But we do get to decide how gracefully we will navigate these changes. Will we row row row the boat gently down the stream? Will we go with reluctance and rage, shaking our fists to the heavens and demanding an explanation for the changes occurring that were not on our vision board and so, therefore, are a horrible injustice? Or will we suit up and show up to our lives on life’s terms and attempt with a tumble and a twinkle to toss ourselves into the Void with empty hands?Basically, Will we be pushed by pain or pulled by vision? The optimal way is to make no plans. A Course in Miracles tells us, A healed mind does not plan. Place the future in the hands of God. This is the optimal suggestion, but it’s not what we do. We are curious cats and want to know what the year will bring for us. We want to make plans, and we want God to produce those plans, and we want God to do it now… or actually yesterday.Enjoy the talk and find out more at MaureenMuldoon.com and SpeakEasySpiritualCommunity.com This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

TwixmasThere is something enchanted and oddly dreamy about the time between Christmas and New Year’s. The year is yawning and ready to bow out. It’s full and drunk and weaving its way to the exit as we sway in the liminal space between inertia and anticipation. Here is the timeless beat between inhale and exhale. Here in the threshold, the reverent pause, the lovely lull, this magical time of imaginings and transition. If we pay attention, we will be granted a vision, a peek into the possibilities. .In Norway, this time is called Romjul, meaning “not strictly bound by the rules of a holiday.” The word suggests a sacred interval—a room carved out in the year where the usual rules do not apply.For the British, it’s Boxing Week. In Ireland, this time builds toward Nollaig na mBan, or Women’s Christmas, celebrated on January 6, when the holiday season finally closes with a day of rest and celebration for women who carried the weight of its preparation and celebration.Some call this time Twixmas,” a clever portmanteau of “betwixt” and “Christmas,” No matter what you call it, the soul is seeking a grace period. There is a strong pull to be still and listen up; the veil is thin, and omens, signs, and symbols are plentiful.Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.As the world moves at a slower pace, this is a perfect time to “vision,” a practice designed by Rev. Micheal Beckwith as a guided meditation focused on four questions. This practice activates our intuition and helps gather themes for the year ahead. It is less of a vision board; it’s more of a surrender to the still, small voice of the soul. So that we can set intentions and imagine possibilities. The spirit of Twixmas invites introspection and renewal.So, I invite you to take some time to settle down and listen up. If you want to experience the visioning process, join us at SpeakEasy on January 6th at 4 pm and on Zoom as we walk you through the simple prompts that can assist clarity and discernment for the year ahead. Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Invite to Wake up Together with Miracles LIVE 365LINKS TO CONNECTThis is a free week of Miracles. Join us to see if this is a good fit. If you miss a day, you will receive a link to the recording to help you stay on course.A Year of Miracles: if this program sounds like an answered prayer, sign up and expect miracles.Details, Testimonials, and how it works.LOVE, Maur! Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

Oh Holy Night was a censored song, yet it found a way to move past the restrictions and regulations to become the first song ever to hit the airways. This is a story about how impossible things are never really all that impossible. The story was recorded for SpeakEasySpiritualCommunity.com, where we meet every Sunday at 10:30 am CT to trend tough, tender, and truly impactful topics. Feel free to join us and add your thoughts. You can find out more about my teaching and speaking engagements at MaureenMuldoon.com This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

As a struggling young actress, before the days of branding, I found a teacher who gave me a peek past how I saw myself and how I was being seen. His name was Sam Christiansen, a modern-day marketing mystic for artists and creatives. Christiansen believed that our essence isn't something we acquire but rather our inherent identity, intrinsically linked to our purpose. He offered a program of communal assessment through questions and answers and recorded interviews, promising that if you knew who you were and what you brought to the party, you could be more helpful and work smarter. At the end of the program, we were granted a visitation with Christiansen. We gushing groupies gathered in his office. After reviewing all our interview footage, Christiansen went around the room and decreed each person's essential purpose based on their overall essence. When it was my turn, he declared, 'You are here to wake people up from nightmares.'My heart sank. I wanted something different. Nightmares? The whole idea frightened me. No pun intended. Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.I am not sure if Sam was psychic, but a short decade later, I had surrendered playing parts and began living my purpose of waking people up from nightmares—quite literally. It slipped in slowly despite my reluctance. For the past ten years, I’ve woken up with groups of individuals seeking freedom from their fears. The spiritual wake-up call began as a very simple offering. After a series of talks that I gave at a Chicago Spiritual community, I invited the members to join me on a morning call for 21 days, during which time I would walk them through the first 21 lessons of A Course in Miracles. It was a bit of a whim, a fun little sample, nothing more. Over a hundred people signed up, and off we went on our 21-day adventure.Once we hit day twenty, the group asked to continue for the whole series of lessons, 365 days. This sounded crazy to me. Who the hell gets up every day to practice spiritual principles together? What did they take me for a zealot? When I sat in stillness and asked if I should agree to take people on a daily morning pilgrimage for 365 days, I received a clear five-word answer. Do you have better plans? I did not. That 21-day experiment has rolled past ten years of waking up every day together, moving through the lessons of A Course in Miracles. Every day, Christmas, New Year, birthdays, and death days, through devastations and celebrations, it’s a daily and delightful practice of meditation, contemplation, and application that moves people from living in lack and limitation to living in love. Love. Over the years, we’ve added more calls and facilitators to handle the additional calls, we’ve gone international, and the membership has grown—all from 21 days. For the past decade, hundreds of members have found their way to our program, and 70% of our members return year after year. For my part, I am still just waking people up from nightmares one day at a time. “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you. ~The Gospel of ThomasI have come to find that nightmares are simple blocks to love, comprised of two things: grievances that distract us from living in our genius and fears that prevent us from living in our brilliance. But there is a systematic way to move past these illusory step-sisters and return to your true essence of love. I have found that way to be A Course in Miracles. Studying 'A Course in Miracles' has offered me a beautiful view of life. But it is not an easy book; you don't read it. It's less of a book and more of a baptism. You more or less eat the book one noble nibble at a time. Slowly acquiring a taste for Truth. But know that once the book comes to you, it is yours. It will travel with you like a patient dog waiting for you to remember yourself.So, as we move into 2025, I invite you to take a sincere journey into love and begin to awaken a softer, stronger, more sacred version of yourself. We begin again this January 1st. Below are a few links. One allows you to try out the community for a week free. The other is a way to sign up; the third is a page that provides additional testimonials and details. Miracles LIVE 365 helps us release the blocks to the awareness of love’s presence and live in peace and purpose. So I hope you don’t have any better plans. Whether you join us or not, may 2025 find you waking up to love. Love, MaurIf you have comments or questions, feel free to share; otherwise, check out the free week, and I’ll see you in the morning!LINKS TO CONNECTThis is a free week of Miracles. Join us to see if this is a good fit. If you miss a day, you will receive a link to the recording to help you stay on course. A Year of Miracles: if this program sounds like an answered prayer, sign up and expect miracles. Details, Testimonials, and how it works. Virtual EVENT!LIVE EVENT!Voice Box Stories and SerenadeIt’s a story. It’s a song. A Serenade. A surrenderA place to be heard. And to hear about the current human condition.Where folks like us come to connect, spin, weave, and unfurl.Where a story leads to a song, and a song leads to a story.And the beat goes on and out and up andWhere your feet tap to the rhythmYour head nods in agreement.And your heart pounds in anticipation for the chance to share your VOICE.Voice Box is the happiest night of the month. Join us for a soulful night of story and song with the iconic Cathy Richardson and a powerhouse lineup of storytellers. TICKETS for our holiday show on December 10th at 8 pmDessertIt’s a good time to confess your stories and share your songs. For paid members, we have a Virtual Story Salon that meets every Monday at 3 pm CT on Zoom. We gather to write and share our writing. May 2025 have you outside your comfort zone, where the magic is happening. Love, Maur Substack is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com/subscribe

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.comEpisode Overview:In this first part of a two-part series, we explore the biblical characters of Mary and Martha, often seen as archetypes of contemplative and active lifestyles. We delve into the importance of "Mary Mindfulness," or the practice of stillness and reflection, and how it can enrich our lives.Key Points:The Eternal Tug-of-War: We discuss the internal conflict between our active and contemplative sides, symbolized by the dynamic between Mary and Martha.The Gift of Stillness: We explore the benefits of slowing down and tuning into our inner wisdom.Mary Mindfulness: We introduce the "Mary Mindfulness" concept and how it can help us cultivate peace, clarity, and deeper connections.In the sea of action and agitation, I encourage you to tuck in with the content and conversation. You can always add your thoughts. You might want to explore your own vantage point through a short meditation or journaling. But remember that both awareness and action are always helpful if navigated with a peaceful purpose. I have been more of a Mary in my life, so I look forward to moving into my Martha and implementing her script.1. Show up.2. Pay attention3. Tell the Truth. Which we will cover in part 2 of this series.

Liam knocks on my office door. “Mom, do you want to go see a movie?” I’m in the middle of writing about spontaneity versus structure and want to keep going, but I also know he’s 24 and moving out in a week. I close my computer and spontaneity wins.We get into the movie for free because Liam works there. He loves movies and has seen The Wild Robot twice already, but he wants to watch it with me. We settle into our seats with popcorn and drinks. The Wild Robot is about a robot caring for a baby goose. The robot’s task is to teach the goose to forage for food, learn to swim, and eventually fly, but being mechanical, the robot is woefully unprepared. The baby goose faces challenges—he’s the runt of the litter, his wings are too short, and flight doesn’t come easy. He’s ostracized by the other geese for being a weirdo with a weirdo mom, and the theater feels like it’s shrinking.Liam is beautiful, clever, and energetic. He is also the reason we had to put a fence around our yard—he wanders.At preschool, he doesn’t sit still. The teacher takes it personally. I want to explain, “No, he’s good. See, he isn’t being disobedient; he just wanders.” There is too much stimulation for him to stay still—he needs to move to process it. This was before we knew the term "Asperger’s," later included in the autism spectrum. I understand his process because I’ve had to learn to manage my own distracted tendencies.In second grade, we sit in a therapist's office. She hands him paper and markers and asks him to draw a house before turning her attention to us. We are nervous young parents who feel like we are in the principal's office. She tells us that putting Liam on medication is the responsible thing to do, like getting glasses for poor vision. My young husband leans into it. He is a cancer survivor who has been saved by pills and protocol. I am not convinced, so I try to tell her that Liam is fine, that he’s good, and that he doesn't need pills.She points to our son. His picture takes up several pages. There are houses and buildings, planes and people, and parks. “Typical children will draw a house, not a whole city.” We do the "responsible" thing.When we move from California to the Midwest, the pills make little impact. I watch as my son, who already stands out, becomes the target of playground teasing.“Liam is wearing skinny jeans!” a girl shrieks over and over, punch-drunk on schadenfreude. Flapping and fluttering through the sixth-grade social circles, she seems to levitate each time she shares the news with a new cluster. Her hands wave in excited circles as she joyfully juggles these hot coals of gossip.“Liam is wearing skinny jeans!”A hard knot forms in my throat as I scan the crowd. Every other boy wears crisp beige khakis and a blue button-down, their hair neatly parted and flat to their heads. They look like little businessmen going off to work. Meanwhile, Liam wanders, weaving in and out of the groups, never landing anywhere. His long black legs, androgynous skinny jeans, and spiky blonde hair make him look like some exotic peacock prancing on the playground. Perfect target practice for the accusations of insecure pre-teens. His mother—me—hasn’t gotten the memo. But Liam is oblivious, carrying on a conversation with himself, blissfully unaware of the social suicide I have unintentionally subjected him to.Watching him wander the playground is like watching a puppy among wolves or a drunk stumble through a minefield. Yet he remains blissfully unaware. His hands move expressively as he talks to his invisible audience, conducting some private performance. It’s almost mesmerizing how committed he is to his bubble of happiness. “Liam is wearing skinny jeans!” She squawks, and I see red. My first instinct is violent—I want to chase that hideous Henny Penny of a child down, choke her off, and take her head to the asphalt. I am shaken by my rage and my brutal fantasy.My second instinct is to silence her with a fierce glare and shame her into shutting the f**k up. I see myself moving into bargaining, advocating for his kindness, spouting the splendor of his spontaneous dance moves that animate his body whenever he hears music. I want to tell her about the rare and stunning pride that swells when he sees that his solo dance party has inspired others to join him till the whole room is dancing. “Did you see that, Mom? Did you see what I made happen?” “Isn’t that a worthy offering?” I want to ask her. “Don’t you see the value there? Don’t you see his goodness?”My third and final instinct is to do nothing, surrendering my need to convince the world of his wonder. My rage turns to embers, and I sit smoldering, quietly accepting my son. This rare and wonderful bird will always be an outsider. It isn’t about the skinny jeans or the spiky hair—it is something far less sheddable.For the next ten years, he remains on the fringes of society. I read books and scan the horizon for answers, often wondering if my own ADHD makes me the worst possible mother for him. If I had been more focused and grounded, I might have figured it out sooner—enrolled him in the right clubs, found the right therapy, and given him the tools to belong.There are also days when I come to my senses and see the errors in my thinking. I have prioritized belonging over just being. Liam has mastered what I strive for. He belongs to himself. He will never walk the world with the masses. He will always fly solo. He will always see the world from a magnificently fresh perspective, from a kind heart, and a surprising and refreshing sense of humor.On the screen, the robot in the movie enlists a flight coach, who tells her, “Where his wingspan ends, his heart will make up the difference.” I smile, and then I cry. I had not realized how long I had waited to hear these words. I look over at my son, who wipes his eyes with his sleeve, and then he looks over at me. Between us floats a thousand rivers of truth, too precious to be pressed into words.But I know what I have always known and will always know for him. He is good.If you’re looking for a great movie, check out The Wild Robot. If you liked the story, please share and subscribe. If you would like to join the conversation live, head over to SpeakEasy Spiritual Community for our Sunday morning gatherings at 10:30 a.m. CT. It’s where the prodigal daughters do church. Love, Maur This is a public episode. 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American Her-StoryBy Maureen MuldoonIf I tell you of my heart,I should tell you of my home,The places I have lived,And the land that I have roamed.Through the trauma and the dramas,The triumphs and the grief,It's the truth I'll be confessing,In hopes of some relief.See, my heart is not an organ,It's the address where I live,The tribes in which I travel,The things I can't forgive.Like the lack of understandingAnd compassion and decor,While America goes weepingLike a two-buck jilted w***e.In the land of milk and honey,With its sunny apple pie,Little hands were in the White House,Serving porn and lies.I was feeling all conflictedAnd evicted from my flag,'Cause it didn't seem to noticeThat my child was in drag.And he needs to use the bathroom,But he doesn't fit the box.So he's painted like a demon,And he's hunted by the Fox.He's not trying to be a problem.He just needs to take a piss.No one's welcome to the men's roomwho's not male or white or cis.And the common man is restless,And the news does not seem sound.When we're building walls and runningAll the good folks out of town.And I can't blame my CountryTill I tell you of myselfAnd confess my own infringementsLike a good elf on the shelf.Of the salty shore of Jersey,Springsteen Country I was raised,where we were born to runIn the good old USA.But we learned to keep a distance,Smirk like sly comedians.For the boys who wouldn't be brokenWould be bullied into men.On the playground where the sissyWould be tortured in pure violence,And my Christian heartWould learn to grow a tolerance for silence.And I raised my hand in question'Cause I thought it made no sense.How could God not love Her children?Why would God put up a fence?I felt my good blood boilWhen I thought I'd seen enough.But church bells rocked me back to sleep,See, the king was in the buff.And the hands that sought protectionThrough confessions never heard,Were the same hands pressed in prayerand ordained worthy of the word.How strongly they admonishjust to amputate the truth.Forgive me, Father, I have sinnedAnd find no comfort in your booth.But you don't represent my stories,And you've clocked me in your myths,Where I am cast as w***e or virginTo negate my other gifts.And your Gods have all been male,Like the presidents and popes,And the female wage is shy of truth,And justice has no hope.If you want to show compassion,How 'bout we start with that?How 'bout we teach the childrenThat a pussy is a cat?Still, soothe your sister's sorrowsAnd say, "Please don't pick your scabs.Let's ride it out; it's no big deal,So your body's up for grabs."And then we all remember,'Cause the memory is there,The glance, the gaze,Unwelcome ways got tangled in our hair.The moment we were branded,that summed us up as game.Not whole and holy woman,But two boobs, a hole, and shame.But cover cost for the viagraTo ensure you come correct.Withhold her pills, deny her thrills,And leave her with the check.Send hearts filled with dictations,Though she's still illiterate.Underwires, boost them higher,Make some money off that tit.Post her face in all the tabloids,Burn her daily, brand her twice,And ensure it doesn't matter'Cause she's nasty and not nice.Point the finger over thereWhere education is withheld,And the threat of rapeAdorned the scape and lives unparalleled.But let's not take a tally here.Let's just drink, and all get drunk.When suffering depression, dear,Blame it on the time of month.Let's not take a true assessment,Let's not hold it up to light.Let's not be too bold, for we've been told,We do not have the rights.Don't put lipstick on a dead girl,Don't string up your pretty prose.And pretend you're doing somethingTo relieve her of the blows.But when I vote,I'll cast my arrowTo protect my shifty fate,So the owner of my bodyIs no longer for debate.Raising daughters with the confidenceto feel that she is ableIs a joke if we've leftno empty seat about the table.Raising daughters to have courageAnd to truly find her voiceIs drained of all validityWhen she has not the choice.And if you want the truth,You'll need to knowThe places where we live,You need to know the traumaOf the f***s we did not give.You will need to look still deeperTo the words you didn't sayAnd the roles that were forbidden,The inequality of pay,The constant degradation,The branding and the burn,The higher educationNever offered, never earned.From a country of warmongersWho still fear our bloody show,We've landscaped our mother's natureTo ensure she will not grow.In a land of opportunity,Her script is sealed with vows,And the beat, it goes on banging,To the slaughtering of cows.So my sweet, my dear, my Valentine,My fellow countrymen,It's not the type of love noteYou were hoping I would send.But our rivers all run red,And our children are all blue.And You've made a lot of promisesBut haven't yet come through.And I got a funny feelingThat the ceiling won't be smashed,And the house will go on burning,Leaving nothing in the ash.And we'll buckle from the weightOf our own domestic violence.Where we once stood brave,We will surely fall the silenced.But before we all hit bottomFrom the weight of all the lies,Here's a supersize of truthBeing served without the fries.Though the her-story has been twisted,tampered, broken down, and hacked,There's a swelling of a new one,And it says, "We won't go back."So we're gathering in packs,And we're taking to the street,And we're linking arms in unityAgainst the madman's tweets.And she is rising like a sun,And she's brilliant, and she's bright.And she's coming 'round the bend,And she's gonna make it right.She is stronger now than ever,She's gathering some steam,Has been trained for just this hour—You can hear her engines scream.And the Dalai Lama notes,As he bowed his head in sermon,"Let this broken world be savedby the modern Western woman."From New Jersey to Atlanta,To the sunnyside of Queens,To the studios of L.A.And the whole Las Vegas scene.From the noble tower of WillisTo New Orleans Masquerade,And the 50 states of disgraceWhere a woman is underpaid.You can hear her humming softly,You can hear her closing in.She will rise, oh don't you worry,She will sanctify our sins.And the old will surely crumble,And the flood will wash it down,'Cause she will not be persuadedWhen they lay their money down.And she does not come with fear,And she does not beckon war,And she does not seem to answerIf you call her b***h or w***e.She is meeting in the back room,And her counsel is divine.Arise, my sister and my brothers,Arise, let's go, it's time.From the mountains to the prairies,To the oceans white with foam,Arise, my dear America,It's time to save our home.Love, Maur This is a public episode. 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