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The first thing I noticed that day was the rose petals—scattered across the chapel stairs, as if I were stepping into a scene from a rom-com.
And then the sign next to the door: OPEN.
As if to make sure I didn’t hesitate, the door itself stood slightly ajar.
It reminded me of my dad’s first church, which he always left unlocked, just in case someone needed its shelter.
Someone like me.
Since the end of February, I’ve been making a daily visit to the chapel. I recite the Metta meditation, the Lord’s Prayer, and the Serenity Prayer, along with a growing list of mantras. I begin each time the same way, repeating, May I be safe, happy, healthy, and live with ease—over and over, sometimes quickly, until the words begin to soften my jarred nerves and I can move on.
By the time I reach my own mantra list, beginning with the “Kripalu special”—May I be present without judgment—I hope I'm a different version of the one who entered.
A little patient.
A little kinder.
By the time I arrive at the final mantra—Thy will be done—I’m ready for my day.
A Bible sits at the front of the chapel, open to the world. Someone has been marking their chosen verses with a small cross woven from palm fronds. I began doing the same.
We have never met, yet we are in conversation.
One night, I saw a verse on Instagram and took a screenshot of the citation: Proverbs 3:5–6. The next day, I arrived at the chapel, and there it was. That very passage, marked in the Bible.
Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make straight your paths.
An invitation to surrender. Just like at the end of my meditation.
This is all in the universe’s hands anyway.
Stop gripping the wheel.
Isn’t there a kind of relief in that? Knowing it’s all part of something larger that we can't see?
I listened to a podcast recently with Anne Lamott and Neil Allen, and Allen said something that stayed with me: we have certain responsibilities as citizens: voting, paying attention, showing up. But that doesn’t have to be the entirety of our days. "I am not going to let the external world ruin my day."
I was sitting with all of this—the petals, the echoed scripture, Allen’s words, when I heard it.
A knock.
On the chapel window.
I turned. There, pressed against the glass, was the face of a squirrel. He looked directly at me with an expression that seemed pointed. Exasperated.
Then he dropped down, and all I could see was his tail, swishing back and forth, back and forth.
It was as if I’d landed in a Looney Tunes cartoon and the squirrel had gently bonked my head. I laughed out loud.
In the language of animal spirits, the squirrel is a teacher of balance. One who prepares for the future while remaining joyfully present. He gathers. He plays. He leaps. He trusts what he needs will be there, and he doesn’t carry the future like a burden.
Maybe he was making sure I got the message.
The future will come.
And when it does, I will meet it. Not with clenched hands on the wheel, but with something softer. Steadier. A trust that I am not alone in finding the way.
But for now, there are petals on the steps.
An open door.
And this moment...enough, exactly as is.
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