Yesterday evening I was potting the plants for our deck, which is always a bit of an endeavor. We have a large space, and every year I try to fill it with containers—different pots and planters that become homes for whatever we’re growing that season.

I’ve been picking up plants over the past couple of weekends from local greenhouses, gathering what catches my eye. There are always a few favorites—double petunias, impatiens for the shade, coleus because they’re so hearty and dependable. But there are surprises too. This year I found a spectacular purple-and-green petunia that we think is called Picasso. I’d never seen it before, and I couldn’t go home without it.

So late yesterday afternoon, as I do every year, I gathered everything together—the plants, the pots, the soil—and then I sat down, took it all in, and felt a familiar wave of confusion. Now what? Which plants go in which pots? Which ones belong together? How much soil will I need? Where do I start?

For a few minutes, it all feels overwhelming. And then, just as predictably, I get up and start sorting. These three will go well together. The coleus plants always go in the square copper planters. The double petunias belong in my parents’ pedestal planters.

Some things I know from year to year, and others I figure out as I go. Before long I’m digging in the soil, making a mess, and seeing a plan as it all comes together.

It didn’t hurt that it was a beautiful evening. Bob was working nearby, finishing the stone edging around a flower bed, and Bubble was wandering around, sticking his head out over the edge of the deck so he could track any activity below. The fields behind us were bright green, and the sun was lighting up the redbud trees and the iris that just started to bloom.

One of the reasons I love potting plants is that it’s meditative. You can feel the power in the fragile roots, the sustenance in the soil, and the certainty that these plants are designed to grow and expand. Even the leggy zinnias will crowd their pots before long.

At some point as I worked, I heard this:

All of God’s children are finding their way home.

It floated into my mind, seemingly from nowhere, and it wouldn't go away.

I didn’t know the reason, but there it was. And so it became the focus of my meditation.

I don’t always use the word God. I know it can be a loaded word for people, and I often say Spirit, or Creator, or Divine Love instead. But in this case, God was the word. All of God’s children are finding their way home. So as I kept planting, I found myself thinking about what that really means, and about all the different lives unfolding around me.

I thought about the people Bob and I met yesterday at garage sales in Winterset—people talking about loved ones in the hospital, cruises they’re planning, a grandson with learning disabilities, a silver tea set purchased in California 65 years ago by a woman who was just starting her career. People were eager to share glimpses of their stories about the full range of life’s journey.

All of God’s children.

I thought about a friend who has a brilliant transgender granddaughter who has been bullied, and the love that surrounds her anyway. I thought about my own transgender great-nephew, so creative and sensitive, finding his way in a world that doesn’t always make space easily for that kind of spirit.

All of God’s children.

I thought about the parents who are saying goodbye to children—at any age, for any reason—and how that changes their world, from deep loss to letting go.

All of God’s children.

I thought about the writers I’m working with right now, the memoirists who are putting their lives on the page, writing about trauma, confusion, abuse, incarceration, questions of identity—and the courage it takes to bring those stories into the light.

All of God’s children.

I thought about the small tree frog that made its way onto the deck among the plants, and how I nudged it along so Bubble wouldn’t find it. And I thought about the raccoon who would probably come in the night and dig into some of my freshly planted pots.

All of God’s children.

And even—this is the harder place for me to go—I found myself thinking about our elected officials and the decisions being made that affect every single person on this planet. I thought about the fear that must live underneath those decisions, and the peace that comes in knowing that love is the only antidote to fear.

All of God’s children.

When I finished planting what I could for the day, I stood back and looked at the pots. The robust, fully flowering Picasso. A puny coleus—the runt of the litter in a four-pack of plants. The hot pink geraniums—the showgirls of the plant world—still waiting to be potted. The understudy sweet potato vines that look unassuming now but will grow to six feet or more by next fall.

“Welcome,” I said. (Yes, I really do talk to them.) “I’m glad you’re here. Thank you for the beauty you bring to this place. I hope you thrive. This is a place where you can flourish.”

All of God’s children are finding their way home.

So today, on Mother’s Day, I’m thinking about all of it. The women who had dreams of how we would grow. The places we’ve been planted, the sustenance we’ve received.

There are billions of women on this planet who have given birth to God’s children, delivering us to this magnificent and confounding world, hoping we’ll thrive and flourish.

And thanks to them, every day, we are finding our way home—to love over fear, to understanding over judgment, to peace over conflict.

Home to the sacred within us all.

Happy Mother’s Day.

With blessings,

Deb

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Just a reminder … The Writer’s Miracle Method will be here in five months!

The book is available here for pre-order. I can’t wait to introduce it to you October 13!

“A WORLD OF YOUR OWN” IS A READER-SUPPORTED PUBLICATION. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

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A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 80 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting on our porch swing, thinking about what I want to share in my Substack column in the coming months.

What could I do to freshen up my column—to create something new and hopefully helpful?

I’d just written a column about downsizing my office, so the word “decluttering” came to mind. And then these words floated in: “As I find more peace in my inner home, I need less and less in my material one.”

Huh.

I opened up Canva, created a little meme with those few words, fiddled with the type fonts, and thought, “Well that was fun.”

Then I thought of other words. “Healing.” “Peace.” “InPowerment” (a word my guides gave me a year and a half ago, right after the presidential election:).

I sat on that porch swing for a couple of hours, fiddling and playing with single words and definitions.

And now I can’t seem to stop.

It feels like a kind of word game. Think of a single word, and listen for the rest.

I’ve always loved moving words around. Bring in a new one, back off on another. Shuffle them around. Find a more robust verb. Read them out loud. Hear them as music. Sculpt them into something beautiful or arresting.

Today, for instance, I was working with one of my writing mentees. She had about 770 words in a piece she wants to read in the memoir class I’m teaching, and we needed to bring it down to about 500. So we went through it together—sentence by sentence, word by word—taking out anything extraneous, tightening everything that could be tightened.

It was like giving the piece better posture and a tailored suit.

She learned a lot. And I had fun sharing the pleasure of editing.

It makes me think of the years I spent happily copyediting and copy fitting magazine articles, which also felt like a game to me. How do you take a five-inch story and turn it into a three-inch story? How do you keep the heart of it, while letting everything else fall away? How do you get rid of a “widow” or “orphan”—typesetting language for a single word that appears on a line by itself at the end of a paragraph or top of a page?

It was some of the best writing training I could have had.

And now, these little memes feel like an extension of that.

Our attention is such a rare commodity these days. We’re all moving quickly, scrolling quickly, thinking quickly.

If people are generous enough to give me their attention for even a few seconds, I want to make those seconds count.

So if you bump into these little Notes in your Substack feed, you’ll know where they came from—somewhere between a porch swing, a lifetime of loving words, and the joy of saying just enough.

And if you feel called to click on the little heart below them, please do.

Maybe “heart” will have a meme of its own one of these days.

Blessings,

Deb

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From readers to writers

I got to spend last Saturday with the lovely people pictured here—writers, friends, and fellow Summiteers, which is what we call our Story Summit community.

We gathered at the DSM Book Festival in Des Moines for a panel on something we have all personally experienced: making the leap from reader to writer.

There’s something special about being in a space like that—surrounded by people who love books and are starting to hear that quiet voice: Maybe I have something to say, too.

The festival was held in the neighborhood where I grew up, hosted by an independent bookstore called Beaverdale Books. When a petite and soft-spoken dynamo named Alice Meyer first opened the store, it was at a time when independent bookstores—and even the big chains—were closing their doors. But she had a different vision: support local authors, build community, create a place where stories could live and breathe.

And she’s done exactly that. The store isn’t just surviving—it’s expanding. In fact, they just doubled their space. It has become a true community pillar.

Which is an important reminder: Wherever you are, support your local bookstore. Support your library. These places matter more than ever.

As for our panel, we talked about what it really means to become a writer—and one of the most important things we shared is this:

Being a writer is so much bigger than writing a book or a screenplay.

It might be a Substack column. A podcast. A memoir. Your family’s stories, written down so they’re not lost. It’s about giving form to something inside you that wants to be expressed.

Of course, we also talked about rejection, because every one of us has experienced it—more than once. Probably more times than we can count.

But the writers who keep going—the ones who stay curious and open—those are the ones who build a life in writing.

There’s no single path from reader to writer. But there is a moment when something shifts. When reading is no longer enough, and you feel the desire to step into the story yourself.

If you’ve felt that… you’re already on your way. And if you’d like support, please let me know. Story Summit Writer’s School will help you find your path.

And if you’re looking for more writing and spiritual support…

The book is available here for pre-order. I can’t wait to introduce it to you October 13!

“A WORLD OF YOUR OWN” IS A READER-SUPPORTED PUBLICATION. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

UPGRADE TO PAID

A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

Many years ago, a healer advised me to move at least one piece of furniture in the house every six months or so. “It helps change the energy,” she said. “It renews things. Refreshes them.” I’ve never studied Feng Shui, but I understood what she meant.

I’ve been thinking about her words lately, because a few months ago I changed things up without really intending to.

It was January, and I was spending hours each day on The Writer’s Miracle Method to meet my mid-January deadline. One Saturday I brought my laptop from my downstairs office to the living room, set up a card table in front of the fireplace, and never went back.

The fireplace makes a great backdrop for Zoom classes. And, of course, through the winter, it offered a kind of coziness—along with a cup of tea and a blanket—that feels like it’s embedded in a writer’s DNA.

But there’s more to it than that.

Over the twenty-five years Bob and I have lived here, countless classes, workshops, and retreats have centered in this living room. We’ve watched an entire generation of nieces, nephews, and grandchildren play here and grow up before our eyes. We’ve hosted family reunions. A friend once stood here and sang “O Holy Night,” and it feels like her high notes are still reverberating.

We hosted author and A Course in Miracles teacher Marianne Williamson for a house party in this room. I’ve counseled clients here. Problems have been solved here. Books have been conceived and birthed here. There have been card games and Christmas mornings and long conversations that changed lives.

There is good energy in this room, with its vaulted ceiling and huge picture windows.

There are angels in this room.

Downstairs, on the other hand, I have a spacious room that has long been my official office. It’s filled with books and files, a large desk my ex-husband bought for me in the early 1980s, and a computer desk I bought for myself after the divorce.

I have my mother-in-law’s recliner. Artwork a friend painted in the 1990s. My mother’s antique sewing machine table, which I’ve never used but can hardly look at without seeing her there, bent over quilts-in-progress for the last thirty years of her life.

My “real” office overlooks our backyard, the hosta bed, the grove of trees, and the hills beyond our house. It has an adjoining bathroom and kitchenette. For more than two decades, I’ve spent hours there every day.

“Time to make that long commute,” I’d say to Bob after breakfast, before I headed downstairs to start my day.

“Watch out for traffic,” he’d say.

In that office, I have what feels like acres of space. Reading corners. Favorite photos. Keepsakes from around the world. Gifts from friends and readers. Framed covers of my books. They’re all things I’m grateful for and once thought an office should be.

And yet for the last four months, I’ve been working at a card table in the living room, looking out over the front field, with nothing but my laptop, my phone, a handwritten to-do list, a legal pad, my calendar, and my A Course in Miraclesbook. Oh, and a pen. And a pencil.

And I’ve discovered that’s all I need.

I have spaciousness of a different kind. Not square footage, but portability. Detachment. The spaciousness of less stuff.

Meanwhile, my actual office has become a parking lot for Christmas decorations, then Easter decorations, along with stacks of papers I once thought I needed and no longer do. Several printed drafts of The Writer’s Miracle Method sit on that expansive desk, along with receipts from 2025, neatly paper-clipped after tax season, still waiting for a place to go.

My writing life now is relatively paperless and remarkably light. It’s almost shocking to realize how much of modern life exists in conversations, emails, texts, videos, Word documents, and PDFs that never become physical objects at all. How much of what matters now moves without touching anything concrete. How much can be created without shelves, drawers, cabinets, or clutter.

How little I need to create more than ever before.

So…whether or not I return to my former office, I’ll be rearranging the furniture there.

I’m hoping my mother’s sewing machine cabinet finds a good home with someone in the family. It may be time to let the big desk—and its ties to another chapter of life—go. I need to clear the bookshelves, too, and decide what to do with the magazines that carry my byline from years ago. It turns out that memories don’t need as much shelf space as we think.

Recently a client showed me a room she had emptied of hobby supplies, leaving only a desk, a chair, and a file cabinet. What once might have looked sterile to me now looked like peace. Liberation.

So I’m letting a lot of things go.

As I find more peace in my inner home, I find that I need less in my material one. I once considered a physical room the epicenter of my achievement, productivity, history, and identity. But it became cluttered. Not just with stacks of unfilled papers, but with outdated identities, emotional weight, old definitions of how life should look.

So, I get to make room for what’s new—not in a room, but in consciousness. A different kind of Feng Shui.

Seems I no longer need my office to create my inner life. I simply need my mind to reflect it.

Sending blessings,

Deb

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Thank you to Susan Eaton for inviting me to be a guest on her Embodied Holiness Podcast.

I met Susan at our Story Summit Her Spirit retreat last August, and I immediately knew we’d have A LOT to talk about. She’s a pastor, author, wife, mom, gardener, podcaster, and so much more, and she brings light to everything she does. She’s one of those people who just lights up every space they’re in, even though—or because—she’s had her own share of challenges and sorrows in her life.

So when she asked me to be a guest on her podcast to talk about some of the principles in my book Be the Light that You Are, I was really honored. And when it came time to record it, I discovered all over again how much we have in common, and how much I enjoy her curiosity and compassion.

You can listen to the podcast here. And if you’re looking for peace, comfort, hope, and inspiration, please check out Susan’s other podcasts and books.

The Writer’s Miracle Method will be here in six months!

I finished up my copyedits for the book earlier this month, and in the next couple of weeks, I’ll get the first page proofs, which is such an exciting stage for an author. For the first time, I’ll see exactly how the book is going to look when readers open it up.

As a reader, you may not pay a lot of attention to page design, but it’s an art for sure. Choosing the right font, the right leading (the space between the lines), the right shaded boxes—even the width of the margins—can make or break the reader’s experience with the book. And I can tell you from the preview I’ve seen, the designer at St. Martin’s did a beautiful job.

The book is available here for pre-order. I can’t wait to introduce it to you October 13!

“A WORLD OF YOUR OWN” IS A READER-SUPPORTED PUBLICATION. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

UPGRADE TO PAID

A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

Once a month through Story Summit, I gather with other women via Zoom for We See You, We Hear You—a two-hour writing session that has become a space of deep connection.

The ground rules are simple: Listen to the writing prompts, write for five minutes, share if you want to. The experience is not about craft, but about celebration of expression in a space where everything is confidential and women feel safe and supported.

I co-facilitate these sessions with writer, friend, and Summiteer Stacey Powell, and often during the writing windows, I’m tending to logistics—checking the time, making sure everything is flowing, stepping away for a moment if needed. But last week was different.

Stacey offered this prompt:

What do you do when the chatter in your head becomes too much? How do you calm those vibrations?

Instead of moving on to the next task, I wrote. And when I finished, I shared what had come through.

It’s raw, the way I wrote it. That’s the thing about writing in five minutes. Sometimes it’s polished, sometimes it’s rough. It doesn’t matter. it’s real and arises from a place we sometimes haven’t touched for a while. Or ever.

A couple of women in the group encouraged me to share it here. So I’m following their instructions.

I’m offering this piece to you with the same spirit in which it was written—in a moment of stillness, in response to the noise we all sometimes carry. My hope is that it meets you there, and offers something simple but powerful:

A way back to calm.

When the chatter in my head gets to be too much, I’m tempted to calm the vibrations by talking. I talk to Bubble our cat. I talk to my husband Bob, to friends, to family members.

But I don’t want to contribute to the chatter, to fill up more space—to fill up psychic space, the space between words—with worry or angst or anxiety.

And so I listen to a different voice, and I listen with different ears.

In my mind’s eye, I take myself to the Chalice Well in Glastonbury, England, and listen to Jesus and Mary.

I walk through our yard and listen to the grass.

I listen to the crabapple trees in our yard, including the one we transplanted from my sister’s yard after she passed away.

I listen to my guides, to the heartbeat of God within me.

I listen to the moths and hummingbirds.

And I listen, listen, listen to my Self, my capital S self, the one who knows that nothing is ever lost….and that I can stop at any moment—even in the middle of the fiercest storm—and be grateful.

Grateful to be here, to have made the journey, to have the adenture, to be in relationship, to be loved, to love.

I listen to what matters. I shift my focus from the chatter. I value what is valuable rather than what has no value. I remember who I am and the Divine Love I’m made of.

And I feel the essence of joy rising in and through me once again.

In this vein of calm, here’s a meditation that came to me last week during one of my A Course in Miracles classes. Usually I send recordings of meditations, but one of the women in the class asked for a transcript, and I thought I’d share it with you too. You can do it as a meditation or read it as a poem.

Close your eyes.

And… take in that first big, big breath.

And let it out with a sigh.

Taking another big, big breath.

And let go.

And one more time, big breath in…

Exhale.

And let yourself feel that natural, automatic sense of relaxation.

Giving up… your body, and this physical world.
Which can sound so extreme and scary to the ego.

But in this moment, you have full permission
to detach from anything and everything physical.

Knowing that you are safe.

And not only are you safe,
but as the energy of love and might that you are,

You are all of who you are.

You are part of this vast universe
of liquid Love.

And you are beyond
any of the limitations of this world, and of bodies.

You are in a place of Divine freedom.

And this awareness of yourself is who you have always been.
Who and what you will always be.

It is available for your awareness at any moment,
no matter what’s going on in the world.
No matter what’s going on in your body.

It is accessible to you at all times
when you practice selective remembering,
selective hearing,
and selective thinking.

This is what we are called to do in this moment, more than ever.

As this world keeps ramping up,
as external things in this world keep changing more and more quickly,
as we are surrounded by more and more information, even more instantaneously,

We are called upon by Jesus, by God,
by Divine Love, angels, Holy Spirit, guides, to be selective.

We never came here to absorb everything that this world wants to throw at us.

We were never here to take on that pain
and to carry it with us.

We didn’t come to judge ourselves or others.

We came here truly to be that energy of light.

And to feel it.
To stand tall and proud and strong in it.
To claim it for ourselves. To know it is our true identity.

No matter what anybody else thinks or does or says.

And to be so selective in our thoughts, our words, our actions—what we pay attention to—

That we choose to feed our own peace.
To brighten our own light.
To nourish our own ability
to be Love.

That’s what we came here for.

And so, in this moment, just feel yourself more than you ever have before as that pure energy and light.

Regardless of what may be going on in your life,
or where your ego wants to take you into this world.

Focus. Give yourself the gift of focus
and commitment to say,

This is where my mind is going.
This is the lens I’m seeing through.
These are the words I’m choosing to speak.

Words that affirm who I am.
Thoughts that confirm my well-being,
my power, my presence as a conduit for Divine Love.

I’m going to rise above this physical world,
the ego world,
and allow myself just to float,
to glide, to fly, to soar
in the world of spirit.

Knowing that whatever I touch, whatever I think about,
whatever I turn my attention to, wherever I send my blessings,

Everything that is touched by my energy of Love
will be better,
will flourish,
will be healed.

Because I am that conduit, that agent
for Divine loving energy.

And wherever I bring that energy and let it shine,
everything is touched by it.

Let yourself make a commitment to yourself,
your guides, angels, Holy Spirit,
and to Divine Love—

Your commitment to this energy,
to your spirit and soul,

That you, as Love, will lead with Love.
Be a leader of Love.
Be led by Love.

If there’s anything that you are most grateful for in this moment, go ahead and express that to yourself.

And know that you can come back to this commitment—
this powerful presence that is so light and joyful,

The greatest power in the world,
the likeness of Love.

And you can choose it, you can select it, you can be it.

You are it in every moment, because it is the truth of who and what you are.

Let yourself feel that expansion within you.

Now take in a big, big breath.
Let it go with a sigh.

Take in another big, big breath.
Let it go.

One more time, big breath in.
Exhale.

Sway gently from side to side.

And slowly, and as you’re ready, come back to your space.

And open your eyes.

On this day and every day, step into the presence within, into your spiritual signature of Love. There you’ll find your calm. Your power. And your joy.

With blessings,

Deb

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“A WORLD OF YOUR OWN” IS A READER-SUPPORTED PUBLICATION. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

I’ve been in something of a funk the last few weeks. Honestly, this is the longest stretch I’ve had in a long time of feeling disconnected—from my higher Self, from my own sense of joy.

And the interesting thing is, I don’t think it’s a mistake.

I could point to outside reasons: the war in Iran, the passing of my sister-in-law, the many friends who have had loved ones die recently—almost every day, hearing of someone’s deep loss.

But I know better than to stop there. I know that it’s never something outside of me that’s creating the heaviness. It’s my own perspective. The lens I’m looking through.

So I’m using everything I know and teach, and it is helping. But it’s also reminding me of something I don’t always want to remember: Sometimes the best we can do is to sit and wait.

Every year around this time, something in me grows restless. There’s this sense of pent-up energy, like I’m a plant underground just about ready to push up through the soil.

I can feel something new stirring. There’s movement. But it’s not time yet.

And that space—the in-between—creates its own kind of tension. My ego wants to take charge and get moving. And another voice says, quietly but firmly, not yet.

It’s not that the disturbances are causing the fear. The fear is creating the disturbance.

I realize what I’m being asked to do in moments like this is not to fix the world, but to release my grip on trying to control it.

That brings me back to something I wrote in The Only Little Prayer You Need:

We spend an enormous amount of energy trying to control our relationships, our jobs, our health, our finances, our To Do lists—essentially, the world around us. Not only is this exhausting, it keep us trapped in chronic fear that if we let up, things will fall apart. And what happens if everything does crumble around us? We feel guilty. We think we’ve failed. The spin cycle of fear goes into hyperdrive.

This is why pivotal moments of “letting go” often come at a time of crisis. We may face a life-threatening illness, divorce, bankruptcy, or other life-changing circumstance. Or may be we just get to the point where we realize we’re not large and in charge, and we’re weary from pretending we are. At these moments, we may finally turn to God and ask for help.

There’s a wonderful passage in A Course in Miracles about the reason we fight so hard for the illusion of control—and what we discover when we finally surrender. It says, “…you believe that without the ego, all would be chaos. Yet I assure you that without the ego, all would be love.”

Right alongside that, there’s another line from A Course in Miracles that I come back to again and again:

We don’t know anything about anything.

I take comfort in that line every single day.

Because yes—we have information. We have opinions. We have perspectives on what’s happening in the world. But when it comes right down to it—what things are for …why events happen … why people die … why wars are fought … why seemingly bad things happen to good people—we don’t have a big enough picture to truly understand.

And that brings me peace.

It doesn’t mean I ignore the world or stop caring. But it does soften my view. It’s so easy right now to slip into anger, frustration—even despair—over all the things we can’t control.

But that simple reminder—that I don’t know everything, that there’s something larger at work—gives me another place to stand. Not a place of indifference, but a place of trust. And sometimes, even when that trust feels just out of reach, it’s still the most peaceful place available.

So here’s another thing…this may seem completely out of the blue, but one of the greatest joys of writing is connecting seemingly unrelated thoughts, so here goes…

When Mama Cat (a stray who adopted us years ago) was still alive, she and Bubble (our younger tabby who showed up in a thunderstorm) used to play tag in the evenings while Bob and I watched TV in the family room.

Bubble would hide behind the oak door, waiting. And when Mama Cat walked into the room, he would do leap right over her and swat her with his paw. You’re it.

Now that Mama Cat is no longer with us, I’ve become Bubble’s playmate. When he gets in a playful mood, I run around the dining room while he hides under the table. And when I come by, he darts out in front of me.

There’s no leaping or swatting anymore, but you can tell he loves the element of surprise.

Apparently … I have become a cat.

And somehow, even that—this small, slightly ridiculous moment—reminds me:

I don’t have to figure everything out. I don’t have to control everything. My ego mind’s insatiable drive to make sense of it all, to have answers for everything—it’s never going to be satisfied. And what a relief that is.

Instead of trying to solve the whole world, I can return to something much simpler. I can come back to my Self.

So if you’ve been feeling a little heavy, a little disconnected, and you’re not sure why, you may just be in that underground place. Something is gathering and getting ready. And it’s okay if it’s not time yet.

You may be right on the edge of something becoming visible. Just like a hosta that’s about to pop out of the ground. Or just like Bubble’s tail when he “hides” under the table.

It’s okay to be still. It’s okay to run around the dining room. It’s okay to not have the answers.

Today’s heaviness will give way to the light again, guaranteed. Because you will always come back to your Self eventually. And the light will be there, waiting for you as always.

With blessings,

Deb

Hey! (I’m saying that in a very peaceful way:)

I’m thinking of three things I want to do through the rest of the year that I think might be helpful, and I’d love your input.

1. I’d like to devote one Substack column a month to answering your questions about anything related to writing, spirituality, A Course in Miracles, and life. Would that be helpful? Please let me know in the comments or drop me a line at deb@debraengle.com.

2. I’m thinking of offering my InPowerment program again this summer. I had a great response when I offered it for the first time last fall, and some of the people who took it have been asking for me to do it again. If you’re interested, please get in touch or say so in the comments section.

3. Once The Writer’s Miracle Method comes out October 13, I’ll offer live Zooms five days a week so we can do the 30-day program together. This means that, every weekday for the month of November, you can hop on a Zoom with me and others for about 20 minutes, and we’ll go through that day’s Miracle Meeting together. I’ll lead you through that day’s guided meditation live, along with the journaling prompts. I’ll help you start your day with your Higher Self as a basis for your writing so you can get past any fears that keep you stuck. You can pre-order the book here. And I’ll get details to you as we get closer.

And don’t forget the Beginning Memoir class that starts Tuesday, March 31. If you want to write your story, where do you start? How do you structure it? How do you decide what to include and what to leave out? How do you keep going? I’m really good at helping you with all those things so you can get your story out of your head and onto the page. It matters.

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A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

I may never have had the pleasure of meeting you, so pardon my questions, but I want to know what wakes you up in the middle of the night. I want to know how you felt the first time you caught a fish. I want to know who your first kiss was, who broke your heart, and how you healed.

Tell me about the biggest sky you’ve ever seen, or the moment a stranger helped guide you out of a tight parking space. I want to know about the time you stood on top of a hill or a mountain or a stage and sang at the top of your lungs.

Tell me what your safe space was when you were a child. And who your safe space is now that you’re an adult.

I want to know about the best piece of pie you ever ate. The person who betrayed you. The time you couldn’t pay your bills.

The moment you remembered that you are magic.

I want to know these things about you.

But even more than that, I want you to know them about yourself. To me, that’s why memoir matters.

This morning, I had the pleasure of talking with Ryan Benz, author of an inspiring and deeply satisfying memoir called Wander, in which he tells the story of quitting his corporate job and finding new meaning in his life by walking the Appalachian Trail.

Ryan is going to be one of our guest instructors for the Story Summit memoir class I’m teaching, which starts next week, and our conversation has stayed with me all day.

At one point, he talked about the most important quality of memoir—one that was mentioned over and over again in reviews of Wander, because it’s what readers are hungry for. Here’s what he said:

We’re all living lives that feel more complicated than ever—faster, fuller, sometimes like a whirling dervish we can’t quite step out of. To pause and make meaning of our lives while we’re still living them is one of the greatest ways we can honor ourselves—our experiences, our relationships, the moments that shape us. The ones that make us cringe or want to hide, and the ones that make us feel prouder than we ever thought we could.

There is no such thing as an ordinary life.

I want to know about yours.

My conversation with Ryan this morning reminded me why this is so important.

Memoir is a portal into both the magnificent and the mundane—into everything that matters in your life. And if we’re wise, we take time to put it on paper.

I’ve had a lot of reminders of that lately.

I’ve been writing the eulogy for my sister-in-law’s memorial service, which has led to conversations with family members and long moments of reflection about what she brought to the world through her particular way of being—her humor, her steadiness, her love. Telling those stories is our way of keeping people alive, generation after generation.

I’ve also been thinking about my dad, who passed away in 1989 at the age of 84. He was 52 years old when I was born, so two-thirds of his life had already unfolded before I was old enough to really know him.

He wanted to write a memoir.

He wrote one paragraph.

My mom gave it to me after he died. In those few words, he described being born in the age of the horse and buggy on a Missouri farm and living long enough to see men land on the moon and the rise of the technology age.

It was the perfect opening. A doorway into a life I will never fully know, because the end of that paragraph is where the story stopped. How I wish he had written the rest.

As Ryan said, young people today will grow up in a world shaped by artificial intelligence, by speed and scale and constant noise. But what we need—what we will always need—are stories written by human beings. Stories with a heartbeat. Stories that carry memory, meaning, and truth.

You have things to teach, to reveal, to heal, to sort out in your life. We all do.

And while it may feel intimidating to begin, there is no better way to enter that conversation than through memoir.

Here’s another half a minute with Ryan that I think says it all.

Your story could get someone through their next day.

So please. Start writing.

And if you want companionship and guidance along the way, I would love to walk with you through the memoir class.

With blessings,

Deb

P.S. If you’re wondering whether this class is right for you, you can book a time to talk with me here. I’m always happy to connect.

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“A WORLD OF YOUR OWN” IS A READER-SUPPORTED PUBLICATION. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

When I was twelve years old, my friend Ann and I launched a transportation company out of my parents’ garage.

It was called The Mini Hut.

Our business model was simple: neighborhood kids could pay us a nickel to sit inside a cardboard box while we pushed them down the sidewalk on an old cart.

In our minds, this was the beginning of a thriving small business. Possibly even a franchise.

It was the late 1960s, and Ann and I spent long summer days making things. We sewed beanbag frogs, spent hours poring over Butterick and Simplicity craft patterns, and wrote books and magazines for each other. If there was a way to create something out of almost nothing, we were ready to try it.

A year or two earlier, Pizza Hut had introduced an ad campaign with a jingle that went:“Putt, putt, to the Pizza Hut.” It was so catchy, it caught on fast—the equivalent of “going viral” today. Ann and I were inspired.

We found an old appliance box, turned it upside down, painted it white, decorated it with daisy decals, and painted “The Mini Hut” on one side. Then we cut out a couple of squares for windows and duct-taped our most excellent creation on top of an old cart my brother once used for his paper route.

We were ready for business.

For a nickel, neighborhood kids could take a ride in our Putt-Putt Mini Hut. And we’d even sing the jingle for them, which was not much of a bonus.

Unfortunately, our enterprise was less lucrative than a lemonade stand. Most neighborhood children wisely declined the opportunity to bounce down the sidewalk inside a hot cardboard box, which grew surprisingly warm in the Iowa sun.

On the bright side, we never upset the cart, no one was ever injured, and we never had to deal with liability insurance.

Still, it was a sad day when our transportation empire shut down almost as quickly as it started. We folded up the cardboard box and returned the cart to its place next to the shovels and rakes in the back of the garage. Instead of becoming the latest fad, The Mini Hut faded quietly into neighborhood history.

But the feeling of creating something from nothing? That stayed.

That impulse is still alive all these decades later.

It’s why I love writing. It’s why I love teaching writing. It’s why I have the joy of heading up a writing school.

Because I remember how satisfying it is to create simply for the joy of it.

Even when I’m writing about something difficult—as I am right now while preparing a eulogy for a beloved family member—the creative spirit still finds its own kind of satisfaction.

]A sentence finally lands the way I want it, or the perfect verb clicks into place, or a single sticky detail brings the story to a satisfying close. Something inside says, Yes. That’s it.

Creation feeds the soul in a way almost nothing else can. And we could all use some soul nourishing these days.

So here’s what I encourage you to do this week:

Find a new way to express yourself.

Write something.
Draw something.
Plant something.
Cook something.
Sing something.

Make something that didn’t exist before today.

I suspect you had your own version of a Mini Hut when you were a kid. A backyard business. A neighborhood newspaper. Some wonderfully impractical idea that delighted you enough to try it.

Whatever fun fueled you then, it still lives in you today. And it’s time to get acquainted with it again.

I’d love to hear about your creations in the comments.

Sending blessings,

Deb

When we create, we feel more peaceful.

On the first Wednesday of every month, I hold a one-hour group coaching session via Zoom for my paid Substack subscribers and my A Course in Miracles students. I always do a guided meditation, but this month, I did two, and I want to share them with you.

The first one is about finding the peace within, which is directly linked to creativity.

When we create, we feel more peaceful. When we’re peaceful, our creativity can flow. And in a world where there’s so much destruction, every flow of creativity—no matter how small—is a quiet vote for peace.

During the Zoom session, I got a request for another meditation I call The Posture of Grandeur, and I’ll share it below.

It’s one of the practices included in The Writer’s Miracle Method. When the book launches on October 13, you’ll see how this meditation fits into the larger context of writing and creativity.

And speaking of that…

After The Writer’s Miracle Method comes out this fall, I’ll lead a 30-day live program, meeting each weekday morning on Zoom so we can practice the program in the book together. Think of it as a way to begin each day anchored in creativity, peace, and purpose—and experiencing the miracle of shifting from fear to love.

More about that as we get closer.

In the meantime, don’t wait—use your creativity now. Because that same spirit that built a cardboard Mini Hut in a garage one summer afternoon is still alive within you.

And the world you’re creating is always a little brighter when you let it out.

It’s time to write your memoir. And I’d like to help.

I’ve learned over the years that everyone carries a story inside them. They just aren’t quite sure where to begin—or how to shape their life experiences into something meaningful on the page.

If that sounds familiar, I’d love to help.

On March 18, I’m offering a free webinar called Three Memoir Must-Haves, where I’ll share some of the essential elements that make a memoir work.

We’ll also talk about my upcoming six-month Beginning Memoir class, which begins March 31, and I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.

If you’ve been thinking, Someday I’d like to write my memoir, this may be the moment to begin.

Your story matters. And I’d love to help you bring it to life.

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A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

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Here’s the recording of The Posture of Grandeur from my Zoom session earlier this month.

This version takes you deep into a place of peace and the quiet power of Divine energy flowing through you. But once you become familiar with it, you can do a much shorter version—sometimes in less than a minute—any time you need it during the day.

All it takes is a moment to pause. It’s a beautiful way to reset whenever you feel irritated, anxious, or overwhelmed. I often use it before a difficult conversation, before writing, or anytime I feel myself slipping out of alignment.

Thank you for being a paid subscriber! Your support helps me continue these Substack columns, which are all about helping you create the world you want inside.

We get to do this together, and I’m so grateful.

This morning I woke up with a prayer/desire/mantra on my lips. Not a polished one, though it reminds me of the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi.

It’s very simple, just a quiet request:

Use me for peace.

Everywhere I look right now, I see the inclination toward war. Not only in nations and headlines. But in conversations, comment sections, and in my own worried, hurried ego mind.

And I don’t think we were made for that. Not in our minds. Not in our hearts. Not in this world.

We were made for Love.

When I feel myself getting pulled into fear—into the need to be right, to defend, to judge—I hear another prayer rising:

Help me remember the Love that made us.
Remind me who I am. Remind me who we all are.

Despite seemingly endless evidence to the contrary, I believe that this world, in its truest sense, was never meant for cruelty. It was never meant for hatred. It was never meant for one as beautiful as you to be diminished or dismissed.

When we lose our way, we don’t need sharper weapons. We need to remember.

What if, when fear rises, instead of asking,
“How can I protect myself?”
or
“How can I win?”

we asked,

“How can I help?”

What if when hearts hurt and old wounds surface, we became a safe space instead of a battlefield? A place where tidal waves still and tornadoes quiet. A place without judgment.

The world does not need more noise. It needs more refuge.

There is a treasure chest inside each of us filled with wisdom, compassion, clarity, strength. It may be untouched. Unopened. Still pushed to the back of the attic for another day.

But what if today is the day?

What if today we lift the lid and see what shines inside?

What if today we use our words—on the page and in the air—to speak of Love rather than fear?

Peace is not something we impose. It’s something we remember. This is not the time to rise with weapons drawn. It’s the time to rise with arms open.

And that means everyone. No one turned away. No prayer exclusive. No heart beyond redemption.

Violence is a vast forgetting. But one small thought can begin the remembering:

I am not here to change the world. I am here to change my mind about the world.

To see every act of fear as a call for Love. And to answer that call as best I can by listening within.

Ancient wounds met with a present Love. This is what we’re here for.

So today, I am praying again:

Use me well.

I’m wishing you a peaceful day.

Sending blessings,

Deb

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“A WORLD OF YOUR OWN” IS A READER-SUPPORTED PUBLICATION. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

I’m sitting in our living room in Madison County, Iowa, looking out over the wintry landscape that holds so much potential and beauty. Bare branches. Brown grass. A cloudy sky with a promise of blue beyond.

In just two short months, I’ll look out this same window at a triumph of green. Leaves emerging, grass waiting for its first mowing, hints of green in the field next door as the season’s crops break through the surface. And blue skies spliced with cloudy ones, alternating sun and rain.

Whenever I forget to love life, looking out this window helps me remember.

I forget a lot.

I forget that there are eight billion of us on this planet, all having our own unique experience. I forget that, like the alternating sky, I shift moment by moment between my cloudy ego mind that repeats endless cycles of storm and wind, and my higher mind, where there’s peace no matter what the forecast or climate.

I forget that I can change the world with my thoughts, and that I need to be mindful of them. I forget that the smallest act of kindness given to me twenty-five years ago still lives on, even though I’m sure the person who offered it thought absolutely nothing of it and has long since forgotten.

I forget that I, like all of us, have the power to create something truly beautiful in this world, and that it’s not complicated. I forget that every thought we think is felt, in ways we may not fully understand, by others around us. And that prayers of love and support heal hearts and bodies that are broken or grieving—and those thoughts cost nothing and can be offered in a second.

I forget that, even in moments when it looks like fear will overtake the world, love is always there. And while I don’t think love “wins,” because it isn’t a battle, I do believe love persists as the steady and real presence in our lives that never goes away, even when fear seems to dim it.

I forget in very ordinary ways. I forget when I’m in a hurry. I forget when I read the news for too long. I forget when I start worrying about things that haven’t even happened yet.

But oh, when I remember.

When I look out the window and into my own heart simultaneously and realize that I have a choice in how I see the world. Not as a glass half empty or half full, but from a foundation of knowing we are made of love, we are here for love, we are here to love. No exceptions.

And when I remember, I start to see it everywhere.

I see it when I talk with a friend I haven’t spoken to in years, and within minutes it’s as if we talked last week. Love, it turns out, doesn’t keep track of calendars.

I see it in quiet, steady kindness that keeps showing up, day after day, in ways that don’t make headlines or demand attention. And sometimes, when kindness holds its ground long enough, I see something else happen too: harshness softens, anger loses its grip, and what once looked like hatred or bullying begins to retreat.

Sometimes I see it in the most sacred way of all—in those moments when someone shifts right before my eyes from fear to love. It’s so simple you could almost miss it, and yet it feels like witnessing a miracle.

And when I can let that love flow through me—not clogging it with fear or dismissing it as undeserved—I notice small things again. The way light plays with the trees’ bare branches. The sound of the house settling. The quiet presence of another person in the room. The simple miracle of being here at all.

I know there are people reading this who carry deep regret. The kind that wakes you in the night. The kind that replays itself over and over, like a haunting nightmare that refuses to fade.

I’ve seen how brutal that self-blame can be.

I’ve seen it in Bob, blaming himself years ago for losing his son. I’ve seen it in a woman who lost a child to a drug overdose. I’ve seen it in a family member who feels responsible for a loved one’s fall.

I know how deep that pain goes, and how convincing the ego mind can be when it tells us we should have done something differently, should have seen it coming, should have prevented what happened.

And I want to say this—not from me, but from the Love that created us:

It was not your fault.

Everyone—all eight billion of us—is on their own soul journey, and there’s a bigger picture than any of us can see. We can’t always understand why things happen the way they do.

Please let yourself remember the love that you are. Focus on all the love you‘ve always been, all the moments of kindness you’ve brought to this world, not on one moment that wakes you from sleep over and over again.

Love yourself the way you love the person you think you harmed. Forgive yourself for not being able to control this complicated world and other people’s choices.

Let yourself live again.

Because when you remember, truly remember, you begin to see that love has never left you. It’s been there all along, steady as the seasons, quiet as the late-winter landscape outside the window, waiting for you to notice it again.

Every day is Valentine’s Day. Because this love is so much more than roses and chocolates (not that there’s anything wrong with those!).

This love is for real. It’s for all of us.

The love that I am celebrates the love that you are.

And I’m wishing a Happy Valentine’s Day to you today and every day.

With blessings,

Deb

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“A WORLD OF YOUR OWN” IS A READER-SUPPORTED PUBLICATION. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

I had three great surprises this week, all related to my new book, The Writer’s Miracle Method.

Surprise #1: It has a cover, as you see here. I have to tell you, I’m blown away by the intention that went into this cover art. The designer incorporated elements from my website, which was totally unexpected and feels very personal, like someone giving you a bouquet of your favorite flowers. And then…they matched the blue of the title and border to the blue cover of A Course in Miracles. It’s a subtle nod to the book that inspired me and feels like a great sign of respect.

Surprise #2: My manuscript, which I turned in two weeks ago, has moved on to the copyediting stage without any requested changes. Again, blown away. I’ve been doing this a long time, and my book manuscripts are typically clean. But this book has a lot of moving parts, so I was ready to jump into revisions. The fact that the manuscript is moving on exactly as it is? Wow. So, so grateful.

And Surprise #3: The book now has a release date.

It’s October 13.

My birthday.

Of all the days in the year, that’s the day this book will arrive in the world. A miracle in its own right. And miracles, of course, are the basis of the book.

The Writer’s Miracle Method is structured as a thirty-day journey (with a bonus day at the end) to address the universal self-doubts and fears we feel as writers, such as Who am I to think I can write? What if I’m not good enough? What if it’s too late for me?

Each day includes a story, along with what I call a Miracle Meeting. That’s a time you set aside to be quiet, to connect with Source, Creator, the Universe—whatever name speaks to you—and with your own higher Self.

Each Miracle Meeting includes:

• a guided visualization

• journaling prompts

• a personal pledge

• and a statement of the miracle for that day

According to A Course in Miracles, a miracle is a shift in perception from fear to love. So each day offers an opportunity to experience that shift.

For instance, you might shift your thinking from I’m not enough to I am an expression of Divine Love. Or from I’m afraid to begin to I am guided and supported.

That’s why I’m so excited about this book. It isn’t just about writing—it’s about living and creating from the highest part of who we are.

I recently led a workshop for some of our Story Summit members based on these ideas. Some had real breakthroughs, and many told me the session helped them feel much more peaceful.

That made me very happy.

The wiser part of us is peaceful, so when we feel the peace, it means we’ve connected with who we really are—the true writer within.

And there you go: the miracle.

I’ve felt guided to write this book for several years, but I think now is exactly the right time, when we’re looking for more peace.

And we each get to be a conduit for it—not only through our writing, but through our presence, our words, and the quiet way we allow peace to move through us, like a gentle breeze.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll share some “out-takes” from the book—pieces that didn’t make it into the final manuscript due to word count limitations. They’ll help you start incorporating the Miracle Method into your writing, and your life.

And, of course, I’ll share more fun surprises along the way.

Thank you for being part of this community and bringing peace to the world in your own way.

I’m sending you blessings for your life and your writing every day.

With love,

Deb

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In the coming weeks, I’ll share more behind-the-scenes stories, additional excerpts, and reflections on writing, creativity, and the inner life that sustains both.

To make sure you don’t miss anything, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. You’ll receive special offers and discounts as we get closer to the book launch, too.

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A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns

The other day I saw a post about Bad Bunny’s speech at the Grammys:

“The only thing that is more powerful than hate is love,” he said. “So, please, we need to be different. If we fight, we have to do it with love.”

In the comments section, someone asked: How do you fight with love?

This is just my opinion, but I’d say … you don’t. I think we have to take fighting out of the equation altogether.

Love doesn’t fight.

And yet, fighting is the language we’ve been taught. We fight back. We keep up the fight. We don’t lose the fight. We fight for our lives. The fight of our lives. It doesn’t matter if it’s cancer. Addiction. Prejudice. Intolerance. Neighbors. Oppression. Injustice.

If someone or something pushes, we push back.

I understand the impulse, and I’ve followed that impulse many, many times. But I’ve honestly never seen fighting win anything for very long.

And it isn’t the way of Love.

Years ago, in one of my A Course in Miracles classes, my friend Renee said something that stopped the room cold:

“Give up the fight.”

It felt almost heretical. Lay down the weapons. Trust that there’s power in peace.

Of course, this sounds ridiculous in a world smitten with fighting, where might over right is respected, outrage is rewarded, and attack and defense feel like the only options on the table.

No wonder world events and personal situations feel so complicated. When we see through a fighting lens, everything becomes an enemy or a threat. And the fighting mentality simply perpetuates the cycle.

So the real question becomes:

Who is going to call the truce?

If not you, then who?

I’ve learned that giving up the fight doesn’t mean being passive or approving of harm or injustice. It means refusing to let attack be the language that shapes your thoughts, words, and actions. It means choosing peace now rather than waiting for someone else to do or say the “right” thing first.

I also believe it means gathering with those who are also standing for peace—and shining that light outward. Being the beacon you want the world to be.

This came up powerfully in my monthly First-Wednesday group coaching session for my paid subscribers yesterday, where we talk about everyday life events from A Course in Miracles perspective. The conversation centered on a simple but radical question:

How can I make this situation better—without waiting for someone else to change first?

Part of the answer, we decided, lies in learning to truly see ourselves.

Not through the ego’s constant judgment, but through the eyes of Spirit. And through the eyes of those who experience us as a steady presence of peace, grace, wisdom, hope, and quiet joy—qualities we so rarely acknowledge in ourselves.

I asked everyone on the Zoom to think of a recent moment when they allowed things to be exactly as they were. Everyone had a hard time coming up with an example because of one word:

Judgment.

So much of our inner fighting lives there.

And yet, when we release judgment—even briefly—we remember that everyone our ego wants to fight with or for will ultimately lead us back to love anyway.

We can take the long road through conflict. Or we can be in peace and love right now.

In the end, it’s all love.

Sometimes the most powerful thing we can bring to a conversation, a gathering, or a difficult situation isn’t an argument or a solution—but our being. A quality of light. A willingness to listen. A calm presence that quietly says, I’m not here to fight.

This is what came up in the guided meditation I did during the Zoom session. It’s an invitation to see the essence of who you are—and what you bring to the world that you may not usually acknowledge. To see yourself as Spirit sees you. And maybe to lay down a few weapons you didn’t realize you were carrying.

You can listen to the meditation here.

And here are a couple of questions that might be helpful:

• Where might you be willing to lay down the fight—and choose peace instead, just for today?

• What qualities of love, peace, or quiet strength do others see in you that you’ve been overlooking?

I try to remember every day that love doesn’t have to fight. It’s the most powerful presence of all.

Sending blessings,

Deb

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As a thank-you to my paid subscribers, I offer a one-hour group coaching session on the first Wednesday of each month. These gatherings are supportive conversations grounded in A Course in Miracles, and they’re a great way to meet others who are interested in spirituality, writing—and the transformation that can happen through both.

If you’d like to join us as a paid subscriber, you’re warmly welcome. You can subscribe at the reduced rate of $80 per year by clicking here.

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“A WORLD OF YOUR OWN” IS A READER-SUPPORTED PUBLICATION. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns

Almost twenty-five years ago, when my husband Bob and I first moved to our acreage in Madison County, I took a walk each day with our dog Wolf.

He and I walked every day, no matter what the weather, and often in the hills behind our house. Some days, though, when the weather was bad or time was short, we stayed on our property and simply walked around our house over and over. We’d start down the steps from the deck, around to the north past the frog pond, east toward the highway, looping around to the driveway and back again.

Since the path quickly became monotonous, my goal was to see something different on every orbit. An unusual leaf on a tree, a rock I hadn’t seen before, a clump of violets, a squirrel sitting on the fence. Wolf was an excellent teacher, constantly sniffing out a new scent.

Like him, I was looking, my eyes wide open. I was alert, paying attention to find something different and notice what I hadn’t seen before.

I was amazed at how easy it was to see something new every time. Sometimes it was just a change in the sunlight, which cast a shadow on the ground differently than it had five minutes before. Or the bend of a flower’s petals caught by a breeze. But there was always something. A reminder that nothing stays static. Even if a rock seems unchangeable, the light and rain and snow that fall on it are not.

For a while, I picked up objects from my walks. A leaf, a pebble, a flower. I amassed a small collection, but then I realized those elements of nature belonged where I’d found them, and each moment of noticing had already served its purpose. I didn’t need to keep those objects, I just needed to delight in finding new ones.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that, in my daily life, I walk around a lot with my eyes closed or trained so fiercely on a screen or a word or a task or a belief—especially the ones I think can never change—that I miss what’s all around me. As a writer and a human, I need to keep them open to see differently. The walks around and around the house showed me why.

If I’m looking for peace, it’s in the pebble at my feet. If I’m looking for inspiration, it’s in the play of light through the trees. If I’m looking for comfort, it’s in the unending cycle of moments and days and seasons.

I can always find something new in my path today and tomorrow and the day after that. A new vision is there if I’m willing to look.

And if I keep my eyes open and continue noticing, my willingness to see differently will change what I look upon—just like the rain and wind and sunlight on the seemingly unchangeable rock.

We all get to shape the world we live in.

So keep walking, friends. Nothing stays the same for long.

With blessings,

Deb

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A NOTE TO MY READERS:I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

A few years ago, I witnessed one of the shortest and most memorable conversations of my life.

At a casual gathering, someone began to tear into a public figure. I didn’t disagree with what they were saying, and I don’t think most of the people there did either—including the host.

And yet the host quickly and very clearly said, “We don’t do that here.”

Five words. That was it.

He didn’t mean we don’t talk about this. He didn’t even mean I disagree with you. He meant, we don’t talk about people this way.

The energy in the room shifted to a neutral zone. It wasn’t about whether the public figure deserved respect or not, but about the power in each of us to choose. Will we be part of the nastiness or stand for something better?

The host’s five words spoke volumes: “You can express your opinions, but as long as you’re in my house, you’re not going to use them for attack, to make yourself right, or because you think it’s okay to tear down another human being.”

We don’t do that here.

Ever since, I’ve carried those words with me.

As our host showed us, you don’t have to shout those words for them to carry weight. And they don’t require force of any kind. In fact, the miraculous power of those five words is in the quiet clarity that cuts through the shouting and changes minds with sheer will. Those words wake us up to who we are.

Reducing each other to labels, insults, or enemies?
We don’t do that here.

Blaming others and taking no responsibility?
We don’t do that here.

Abusing others or staying in an abusive relationship?
We don’t do that here.

Using force to bend other people to your will?
We don’t do that here.

Threatening people because you feel small?
We don’t do that here.

Judging people for being judgmental?
We don’t do that here.

With so much allegiance to fear going on in the world, I understand people asking, “When will it end? But that’s a question of helplessness.

And you are not helpless.

The fear will end when we’re really done with chaos. But that means the phrase has to live in us first.

If I’m being rude, anxious, or wrapped in the story of being a victim, I have to pause and say, We don’t do that here.

If I see someone being bullied or catch myself being a bully, I have to step in and say, We don’t do that here.

If I’m beating myself up, replaying old mistakes, questioning my own worth, or feeling powerless, I have to meet myself with the same boundary: We don’t do that here.

A few people in positions of “power” don’t actually hold the power unless we agree to see it that way. Real power begins in the mind. And when enough minds choose Love over fear, the world has to follow.

The key is, this only works when it’s not rooted in fear.

If it comes from anger, it becomes another form of attack, and it invites more attack.
If it comes from fear, it becomes another version of defense, and it’s weak instead of strong.

But delivered with crystal clarity from the best part of who we are, those five words can move mountains, shutting down the battle altogether by standing in a place that doesn’t need to fight.

You have the authority. You can put it to use every day.

As countless people demonstrate, Love can look like driving immigrants to their places of work, bringing someone food when they’re struggling, taking care of each other’s children, or sending an encouraging text. And if someone threatens you for it, meet them with a calm, steady gaze and say, “We don’t do that here.”

To those who collaborate with Spirit, Love can also look like holding the presence of peace within you and radiating it out to wider and wider circles. If someone criticizes you and says, “You’re wasting your time,” meet them with Love and say, “We don’t do that here.”

If you’re angry, forge that energy into clarity. If you’re peaceful, let that peace become steady and unshakeable.

I’ve learned that, if you want things to be different, start in your own inner world. Switch to peace there. Then carry it with you wherever you go.

From that place—not in attack or defense, but in truth—look directly at fear, cruelty, and harm.

And say, simply and clearly, “We don’t do that here.”

With blessings,

Deb

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“A WORLD OF YOUR OWN” IS A READER-SUPPORTED PUBLICATION. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

When you sign up for Story Summit’s Write Your Debut Novel year-long program, you can attend the Okoboji Writer’s and Songwriters Retreat next September for free!

It’s an incredible opportunity, as you’ll learn in the video.

Here’s the link to all the details and registration for Write Your Debut Novel. And be sure to use this coupon code when you register: OKOBOJI.

That coupon code is super important, since that will enroll you in the Okoboji retreat as well as the Debut Novel program.

Write Your Debut Novel starts this Tuesday, January 20, so it’s one of those “act fast to reserve your spot” opportunities. If you have any questions, please reach out to me: deblandish@aol.com or Julie Gammack at juliegammack@mac.com.

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Good morning, 2026.

I didn’t stay up to meet you at the stroke of midnight, but I trusted you’d understand. There’s something very you about entering without fireworks or noisy crowds, without trying to have a big moment. I woke up more rested and ready for the start of our relationship. That feels like the right beginning.

I’ve found that, in all introductions, there are unspoken questions: Will we like each other? Will we click? Will we feel good about our relationship and our time together? And maybe the bigger one—What will we be celebrating together a year from now?

I’ve heard good things about you already. The investing forecasters say you’re steadier. The astrologers say you’re constructive and clarifying. Even my spirit guides have said good things about you, although—to be fair—they say good things about pretty much everything. Still, I take it as a good sign.

What I like most so far is your energy of invitation. Even though I’ve only known you a short time, you feel like a year that says, Keep going, you’re doing great. Go deeper. Trust yourself.

I can see that you also have a way of getting people to reflect on what they want. I like that about you. We all have a way of holding our breath a lot, waiting to see what will happen next and trying to guard against disappointment or worse. But you invite us to imagine what’s possible, and to consider how we might improve ourselves, how we might live a little more honestly, a little more awake.

So here’s what you’re inspiring me to say: I want to really get to know you—not in a frantic or fretful way, but in harmony. If 2025 was a year of listening—sometimes uncomfortably so—you feel like the year when listening turns into movement. Inspiration that’s steady, consistent, steadfast—that’s one of my favorite words, steadfast. One satisfying step naturally following another.

And look, I want to be clear. I know it’s not up to you to make me happy. That part is up to me. But I’m deeply grateful for all the ways you’ll give us time. Time to be together. Time to write. (We get to finish a new book together!) Time to heal. Time to work things out. Time to have fun. Time to understand each other better. And maybe—even if only every now and then—time to have a good hair day.

That’s a great gift. Priceless, really.

So hello, 2026. I won’t ask you to be perfect. I won’t ask you to be easy. Only this: help me tell the truth more clearly, love a little more lightly, and remember—especially when the noise gets loud—that the power we’re looking for has been here inside us all along.

Welcome to you, and to all the adventures ahead.

With love,

Deb

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“A WORLD OF YOUR OWN” IS A READER-SUPPORTED PUBLICATION. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

A quiet Christmas afternoon. Fog has settled in across the fields around our house. The dinners are done, gifts unwrapped, thank you yet to be sent.

In my mind, I hear the words “A Christmas Triptych,” a story in three parts, and this is where it leads.

The Birth We Remember

A child born into ordinary circumstances—vulnerable and fragile, cradled in the most unlikely of places. Nothing about it looked significant at first glance. And yet we’ve spent centuries telling and retelling this moment, because somewhere deep inside, we sensed that what lay in that smallness was strength itself.

I’ve found that the promise of something coming doesn’t usually arrive with explanation. More often, it comes as a feeling—a deep knowing without words. We don’t fully understand it, but we lean toward it anyway. We make a little room. We watch and wait.

There’s something profoundly gentle about that kind of birth. To look upon what appears so tender, so breakable, and still recognize the power of the entire universe within it. To trust that what is most alive does not need to shout.

This is the mystery that calls to me.

The Birth We Forget

What’s easy for me to forget is that this story isn’t meant to stay outside of us.

Once a year, we pause long enough to remember what slips away the rest of the time—that we, too, are part of the mystery. That the same strength, the same light, the same possibility lives within us. Not as something we have to earn, but as something that’s already here.

Most days, I forget this. I get caught in old thoughts and old worries. I replay what didn’t go as planned or rush ahead to what hasn’t happened yet. And I miss the quiet miracle of simply being alive.

Christmas slows me down just enough to notice again. The stillness. The softer light. The sense that something is being offered without demand.

Rejoicing, I’m learning, isn’t a feeling that appears on command. It’s a practice. A willingness to say yes to the moment in front of us, exactly as it is.

The Birth We Choose

What I know now—perhaps more clearly than I once did—is that this birth is always available. Not once a year, but in any moment I’m willing to choose it.

It happens in the quiet moments—when I stop striving, when I loosen my grip on how things are supposed to look, when I remember the light I carry, even when I don’t feel especially radiant.

Today, that’s the choice I’m making: to rejoice not because everything is perfect, but because life is still unfolding and still new.

Maybe that’s enough for today. To notice what feels alive, make a little space, and trust the light that’s already there, always shining within.

This is my wish for all of us: To remember more than we forget, to rejoice in what’s being born in us moment to moment, and to choose the mystery and miracle of Christmas every single day of the year.

With love,

Deb

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“A WORLD OF YOUR OWN” IS A READER-SUPPORTED PUBLICATION. To receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber.

A NOTE TO MY READERS: I write “A World of Your Own” as a member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, which is led by Julie Gammack, of Des Moines. I’m honored to be part of this group, featuring the diverse voices of more than 70 professional writers and journalists across the state of Iowa. I encourage you to check out their columns.

Welcome to Week 12 of InPowerment—the final week of our three-month journey together. I want to begin by acknowledging the courage, commitment, and heart you’ve brought to this experience. You‘ve shown up—for yourself, for each other, and for the world—in ways that matter more than you may realize.

Whether you were here every week or moved quietly at you…

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Thank you to everyone who joined last week’s Zoom. For those who couldn’t attend live, here’s a short recap along with the recording link so you can experience the discussion and meditation in your own time.

We started by revisiting the principle of true empathy—not joining someone in their suffering, but holding ste…

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Welcome to Week 11 of our InPowerment journey.

We’re moving into the home stretch, and this week’s theme may be one of the most important of all—not because it asks you to do more, but because it invites you to be more of what you already are.

Last week we talked about InLightenment not as an achievement but as your natural state, something you were born …

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