That which is above is like that which is below, and that which is below is like that which is above.” — Hermes Trismegistus

As Above, So Below

The cosmos speaks in patterns, and so does the earth beneath our feet. When we listen, we hear the same truth echoed at every scale: life is relationship. From galaxies spiraling through space to roots weaving through soil, from ancestral memory to city streets — all are threads in a single fabric.

Our culture has long been guided by separation, reduction, and profit. Yet this old story is wearing thin. A new story is calling — one that remembers the univocity of being, the unity of Creator and creation, the sacredness of soil, body, and star.

To live this story is not to abandon science, art, or progress, but to re-enchant them — to let numbers become poetry again, to let architecture breathe, to let community be rooted in love and reciprocity. It is to return, with humility, to the wisdom already inscribed in the patterns of nature and the songs of the cosmos.

“As above, so below” is not only a mystical phrase. It is a practical compass for how we might build, love, and belong. To align with it is to let our cities, our stories, and our lives become maps of the soul — radiant with the remembrance that we are, and have always been, part of one living whole.

Field Notes: The Feminine Dance of Essence

Embracing the clarity of my inner vision, transcending the confines of man-made titles and hierarchies. When walking, simply walk, when sitting, simply sit, and when observing, merely observe, allowing your inner essence to flourish. Exist as a human being, rather than a human doing.

Field Notes: Live as the Seed of the World to Come

When greed shouts loud

and violence shakes the ground,

remember—

the river keeps flowing,

trees keep reaching skyward,

and seeds split open in the dark

to begin again.

Empires rise and fall,

but the Spirit endures.

The spirit in you,

the spirit in us.

Answer the onslaught not with despair

but with living contradiction:

Generosity where greed takes root,

Compassion where violence reigns,

Truth where lies seek shelter,

Beauty where the world forgets wonder.

You are not alone.

Beneath the noise,

a quiet renewal stirs.

What bends may yet be remade.

What breaks may yet be healed.

Hold steady.

Trust the cycle.

Live as the seed of the world to come.

Field Notes: A Blessing

May balance steady your steps,

may love flow as quiet strength.

May beauty infuse your service

and joy ripple through your care.

May your soul remember its wholeness.

Field Notes; Trail Blessing

Through the Northern Kettle Moraine we walk,

among ancient ridges shaped by ice and time.

Each step carries us deeper into wonder,

each breath a prayer to the living earth.

Upon your crown, Jo, a butterfly has come to rest—

a messenger of lightness,

a reminder that even in change,

there is beauty, grace, and soul.

The forest bears witness to our journey,

the wind, the stones, the trees,

all keeping rhythm with our steps.

We are not alone—

the path itself walks with us,

and the soul of the world

guides us gently on.

Field Note: Muscular Hope

Embodied within the human experience is the challenge of integrating the past, present, and future—a task that demands courage. In this life, all things are transient; nothing is immune to change or death, whether it be natural cycles, societal structures, or personal relationships. We are currently witnessing a profound shift within our country, amidst a political crisis of unprecedented magnitude. Collective anxiety about our very survival as a species persists relentlessly, with no signs of abatement. Sadness, fear, anger, and confusion have become daily companions, sometimes bordering on the absurd.

Faced with these turbulent times, we have a choice: succumb to despair or redirect our focus toward the larger cosmic narrative of birth, death, and rebirth. This is not about spiritual bypassing but about embracing the opportunity to reimagine the stories we wish to live. To do so, we must prepare ourselves—armed with a creative vision of what regeneration might look like—before the dust of upheaval settles completely.

The old systems are faltering, weighed down by greed and driven by capitalist motives that exploit every remaining fragment of life. This is fueled by an obsessive consumerism that keeps us locked in a cycle of dissatisfaction and distraction. Our social fabric is built on a grid that favors transactional relationships over meaningful connections. Everywhere we look—on our phones, billboards along highways, in advertisements before movies—the message is the same: we're constantly being sold a dream of the party we're not invited to, heightening our sense of missing out and disconnection. This pervasive advertising culture amplifies our dissatisfaction, constantly whispering that happiness and fulfillment are just out of reach, fueling a sense of alienation.

Yet, amidst this chaos, what can give us muscular hope—hope that is active, resilient, and rooted in real action? Muscular hope is not the passive optimism that expects things to get better without effort. It is a fierce, embodied hope that arises from recognizing our agency and power to reshape our destiny.

Muscular hope stems from the understanding that true transformation requires intention and action. It invites us to nurture resilience through community building—supporting one another, sharing resources, and creating spaces of connection that stand in stark contrast to the isolating culture of consumerism. It calls for us to engage in regenerative practices—restoring the earth, cultivating local economies, nurturing arts and expression—that reinforce our interconnectedness and remind us that change is possible and necessary.

This hope is also rooted in the belief that every small act of kindness, rebellion, or creativity has the potential to ripple outward, sowing seeds of new possibility. It is about cultivating a mindset that sees setbacks as opportunities to learn and grow, forging resilience that is both mental and physical.

Muscular hope demands stand-up courage—facing fears, calling out injustices, and resisting despair with oftentimes quiet but persistent persistence. It is a collective effort that involves reimagining stories of abundance, sustainability, and shared destiny. Our collective capacity for compassion, innovation, and daring to dream anew can be a force as formidable as the crises we face.

In this way, hope becomes an active force—not a passive wish—but a muscular stance that sustains us through the long journey of regeneration. It challenges us to be fierce in our compassion, resilient in our actions, and unwavering in our belief that a better world is not only possible but within our reach if we stand together and act with courage and conviction.

Field Notes: Identity

I am the meeting place of sun and moon, the river where the masculine and feminine drink from the same source. Their currents move in my bones, my breath, my dreaming.

For six millennia, hands have twisted these living energies into chains —names carved into stone, roles sharpened into weapons, scriptures bent to the will of those who feared their own wholeness. But the old empire of domination is crumbling. The gate is opening.

We are becoming a species that remembers the spectrum —every shade of being, every pulse of desire, every voice of the body’s truth.The time is coming when no one will rule by severing,and no one will serve by erasing themselves.

We will stand as partners,woven in mutual strength,our differences braided into the rope that pulls us all toward the future.

Field Notes: “Holography of the Heart: Weaving Sacred Community Through Mutual Support and Vulnerability”

In the great unfolding of life, there is a sacred geometry beneath the surface—a hidden pattern not unlike a hologram. Each part contains the whole. Each voice, gesture, wound, and offering carries the imprint of something larger. When we begin to see with holographic eyes, community stops being a collection of individuals and becomes a living organism of mutual reflection and resonance.

A holographic community is not built—it is revealed. It emerges when people dare to be whole in front of each other. When we stop editing ourselves for acceptance and allow our joy, our confusion, our radiant weirdness, and our tender ache to be seen. Vulnerability is not weakness here—it is the key to coherence. Without it, we remain fragments. With it, we become sacred mirrors.

In such a community, support is not transactional, but relational. It is not, “I will help you because you helped me,” but “your well-being ripples through my being, because you are part of me.” Holistic support means we don’t isolate care into categories like mental, physical, or spiritual. We recognize that grief can live in the knees, that creativity can be blocked by trauma, and that listening—deep listening—is medicine.

To live holographically is to honor paradox. We hold both the personal and the collective. We learn that a single story shared with trembling courage can shift the whole field. We begin to ask: What becomes possible when everyone’s essence is allowed to shine, when nobody has to hide the truth of their becoming?

Sacred community is not perfect. It is not conflict-free. It is not endlessly harmonious. But it is honest. It is committed to staying present when it would be easier to run or project. It values repair as much as vision. It knows that what is sacred is not the absence of pain—but the presence of love inside it.

We are being called, in these times of unraveling, to remember this: We do not have to carry our burdens alone. The soul was never meant to heal in isolation. The great work of remembering ourselves—as Earth, as spirit, as story—is a collective rite.

And so we return, again and again, to the circle. To the fire. To the silence between words. We look into each other’s eyes and see not just a person, but a portal. We say not, “I will fix you,” but, “I will walk with you.”

This is the new holography:
Not etched with lasers, but lived in hearts.
Not projected, but embodied.
Not imagined, but practiced—one brave truth at a time.

Field Notes: Spider and the Web of Deceit

The Hidden Pact

The Spider thrived because the Web fed on collective denial. Those caught whispered, “This is how the world works. There is always a price for power.” And so, the Web thickened, cloaked by institutions that should have seen but chose to look away, dazzled by wealth and shadowed promises.

The Great Shaking

But one day, the Earth groaned—not in anger, but in sorrow—and the Web trembled. A Hawk of Truth swooped down, tearing open one corner of the Spider’s weaving. The light poured in. What was hidden could not return to darkness, for once people saw the bones caught in the silk, they could never unsee them.

The Spider Falls

The Spider was crushed—not by a single hand, but by the weight of its own deceit. Yet, even as it fell, pieces of the Web clung to the world. For the Web was not just the Spider’s, but woven from the unspoken desires of those who fed it.

The Invitation

And so, a voice rose from the silence:

“Shall you tear down the Web entirely, or only remove the Spider and leave the silk?”

It was a question for all who lived in the age of towers, screens, and secrets:

• Will you face your own shadows?

• Will you weave a new world with threads of honesty, love, and mutual care?

• Or will you wait for the next Spider?

Field note: Painting is love

“Painting is love—love that takes time, nurtured through patience and humility; love in attentive observation, and love for the unexpected, celebrating imperfection as part of the beauty

Field Note: Spirit of Fun, Dancing in the Sacred Play

We often picture spirituality as something still, solemn, or even heavy with wisdom. But what if the spirit also belly-laughs? What if laughter and delight are just as holy as incense and prayer?

Spirituality is simply how we show up fully alive, how we connect to something greater than ourselves—whether we call it God, the cosmos, the ancestors, or the great mystery. Fun is how life says “Yes, I am here and it feels good to be alive.” The two are not opposites. They are dancing partners.

Fun clears our minds of judgment, loosens our grip on control, and opens our hearts to wonder. It shows up in spontaneous singing, in belly laughter around a fire, in letting the wind mess up our hair as we run across a field. It’s sacred because joy itself connects us—to each other and to the pulse of creation.

What if a spiritual life didn’t just tolerate fun, but required it? What if delight was seen as devotion? Each moment of genuine laughter, each playful impulse, each time we let curiosity lead us is an offering back to life. The soul thrives on this kind of play because it remembers—life is not just a journey, it’s a dance floor.

Fun doesn’t make spirituality shallow; it makes it real, embodied, and sustainable. There’s a wisdom in play that invites us to trust life as it is, not just as we wish it to be. And in those moments—when joy and reverence meet—we glimpse the divine winking at us, saying, “Come on, loosen up. You’re already home.”

Field Note: The Robin Who Landed on the Chair Next to Me

A juvenile robin landed within a foot of me as I sat at our outdoor table, quiet and still.
No fear. Just presence.

Its soft feathers carried the awkwardness of youth, yet it stood steady, curious. I felt my chest soften and a warmth rise—like being trusted by something untamed and near to spirit.

What does it mean when wild things come close?
Perhaps the unseen is testing my stillness, teaching me how to belong without reaching, how to witness without needing to hold.

The robin hopped once, tilted its head, and looked straight at me—eyes dark as seed, shining. In that gaze, a wordless message:

Be gentle. The world is closer than you think.

My breath slowed. My body learned something it already knew but often forgets:
We are part of the same garden.

The Somatic Response to the Unseen, Playful World

There are moments when the body knows before the mind can name. A sudden breath catches, goosebumps rise like a chorus, or the heart shifts its rhythm as if responding to an unseen hand tapping a quiet drum. These are not accidents—they are invitations.

The unseen world is playful. It whispers through a rustle in leaves when no wind is there, the quickened pulse before stepping into something new, or the warmth in the belly when laughter emerges from nowhere. These sensations are the body’s way of translating mystery—an inner language that doesn’t demand logic but delights in curiosity.

Somatic responses are guides. They remind us that our flesh is an antenna, tuned to subtle energies and ancient instincts. The neck tingles, the chest opens, the feet feel drawn to one path over another. If we follow these sensations—not with fear but with wonder—we enter a dialogue with a world that is both intimate and invisible.

What if each shiver and softening, each ache and flutter, was an oracle?
What if we treated our body as a field notebook, documenting impressions of spirit not by thought but by felt sense?

To feel deeply is to play with the unknown. To listen somatically is to dance with the unseen. And to honor these moments is to join a wider, wilder conversation—one where presence itself is the sacred act.

• A rustle in the grass with no wind – my shoulders soften. Something unseen, curious, wants to play.

• The pulse in my hands before touching granite. The rock feels warm, almost breathing. My body says: stay here, listen.

• A low hum in my belly when a dragonfly hovers at eye level. A felt recognition—kinship with something ancient, winged, light.

• Goosebumps rise not from chill but from sudden knowing. The unseen brushes past, tender as a child’s hand on my back.

• A pause in my chest—the invisible world asking for attention, like a friend pulling at my sleeve.

• Feet root down into soil without instruction. The ground answers, and in my calves, a subtle vibration: yes, we are listening to one another.

• Play is the language of this realm. A flicker at the edge of vision. A breath caught in surprise. The body leans in, willingly, like an animal scenting something familiar yet beyond naming.

• Field note to self: trust the quiver, the ache, the joy that comes unannounced. These are coordinates. These are the waypoints on an invisible map drawn not on paper, but in nerve and muscle, in the quiet electric hum of being alive.

Unconditional love and Forgivenesss Meditation

Find your breath

Close your eyes and take a slow, deep inhale…

Pause… and gently exhale.

Again… inhale, feeling your chest rise…

Exhale, releasing tension and thought.

Let your body settle, like a lake becoming still.

Center in your heart

Bring one hand to your heart and feel its warmth.

Imagine a gentle golden light glowing there, soft and compassionate.

This light is the essence of unconditional love—already within you.

Open to love

Silently say to yourself:

“May I be held in unconditional love.

May I forgive myself for what I have done or failed to do.

May I release all hardness, fear, and shame.”

Pause and feel these words settle, even if forgiveness feels far away.

Extend forgiveness

Think of someone with whom you carry pain or resentment—start with someone easy, then someone harder when you’re ready.

Imagine them bathed in the same golden light.

Silently say:

“I see your humanity, your imperfections, and your beauty.

I release my grip on anger and blame.

May you be free. May I be free.”

You don’t need to condone or excuse—just allow the tightness to soften.

Universal love

Let this golden light grow, filling your chest, then your whole body.

Picture it spreading into the room, your home, your community, the earth, even to those you will never meet.

Whisper to yourself:

“May all beings be forgiven.

May all beings know unconditional love.”

Rest in stillness

For a few moments, just breathe.

Let your heart stay open, free of judgment, free of story.

Feel what unconditional love tastes like in this quiet space.

When you’re ready

Take a slow breath in.

Gently open your eyes.

Carry this softness into the rest of your day.

A Blessing for the Road Ahead

Today, I go with tenderness for myself.
I carry no burden of perfection, only the quiet bravery of showing up.

May the road be kind to my body.
May rest find me, even in strange places.
May I trust small comforts, slow breaths,
the steady companionship of my dog,
the familiar touch of my wife’s hand.

Where worry gathers,
may I gently lay it down.
Where fear speaks loud,
may I answer with kindness.

I am not alone in this.
The land beneath welcomes me.
The trees do not rush me.
The people need not be impressed.
Only met, only heard, only shared with.

I ask the spirit of this place:
show me what flows here.
Teach me how beauty lives in form.
Guide my artist’s hand in time —
but not today, not all at once.

Today, I am simply human,
beloved, imperfect, enough.

And so I begin.

Field note: For, Not Against

“For, Not Against”
I choose to fill my life and art
not with resistance alone,
but with an unshakable yes.

I paint what I love,
build what I believe in,
and live as if the world is already whole.

Each stroke, each gesture,
is a vote for beauty,
for healing,
for communities rooted in soul and soil.

I am for the becoming of humanity,
for freedom shaped by love,
for Earth reborn in wisdom.

This is my practice:
to create what I long for,
to embody what I bless.

Choosing “For” Over “Against”

In a world saturated with conflict and opposition, to live by what we are for rather than what we are against is a radical spiritual practice. It shifts the axis of our creativity from reaction to initiation. “Against” is often necessary in moments of moral crisis, but it tends to root us in the same field of energy as what we resist. “For,” on the other hand, calls forth life. It builds new forms instead of circling the old.

Rudolf Steiner’s vision for humanity was rooted in this generative impulse. His idea of the Universal Human and the threefold social order—cultural freedom, economic fairness, and social fraternity—was not a protest against broken systems but an active cultivation of living possibilities. He saw the human being as a co-creator with spiritual worlds, able to shape the future through moral imagination.

When we orient toward what we are for—beauty, ecological harmony, soulful design, community infused with care—we participate in what Steiner described as spiritual freedom: the capacity to act out of inner initiative, not external compulsion. In this way, life itself becomes an art form, and art becomes a field of invocation, summoning into being what is not yet but longs to be.

For me, this means my paintings, my design practice, and my daily life all serve as living affirmations. They become pictures of the possible, expressions of love for what wants to grow rather than a mirror of what you wish would die away. In doing so, you embody Steiner’s call for humanity to awaken to its creative, spiritual essence and participate consciously in the evolution of Earth and soul.