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On the show
From 11 epsHosts
Recent guests
Recent episodes
Narrated Essay: Entering the Estuary
May 12, 2026
7m 58s
Narrated Essay: The Finch's Song
Mar 23, 2026
4m 44s
Narrated Essay: Deconstructing the Caterpillar
Feb 22, 2026
6m 33s
Narrated Essay: The Baring Season
Jan 25, 2026
5m 51s
The Poet of Dawn is the Poet of Darkness: A Talk with Mary Oliver Biographer Lindsay Whalen
Jan 18, 2026
1h 00m 53s
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| Date | Episode | Topics | Guests | Brands | Places | Keywords | Sponsor | Length | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 5/12/26 | ![]() Narrated Essay: Entering the Estuary✨ | yogameditation+4 | — | Salomé Institute of Jungian StudiesQuarterlife: The Search for Self in Early Adulthood | Ballymaloe HouseIreland | yogameditation+5 | — | 7m 58s | |
| 3/23/26 | ![]() Narrated Essay: The Finch's Song✨ | naturegrief+4 | — | — | — | wildlifeemotions+5 | — | 4m 44s | |
| 2/22/26 | ![]() Narrated Essay: Deconstructing the Caterpillar✨ | metamorphosistransformation+4 | — | — | — | caterpillarchrysalis+5 | — | 6m 33s | |
| 1/25/26 | ![]() Narrated Essay: The Baring Season✨ | authoritarianismmental health+4 | David KeplingerLindsay Whalen | The Sun Also Rises | — | authoritarianismmental health+5 | — | 5m 51s | |
| 1/18/26 | ![]() The Poet of Dawn is the Poet of Darkness: A Talk with Mary Oliver Biographer Lindsay Whalen✨ | Mary Oliverbiography+4 | Lindsay Whalen | Penguin PressCUNY Graduate Center+1 | — | Mary OliverLindsay Whalen+6 | — | 1h 00m 53s | |
| 12/14/25 | ![]() Narrated Essay: The Secret Title of Every Good Poem✨ | retreatyoga+4 | — | — | County CorkBallymaloe House | tendernessretreat+4 | — | 6m 56s | |
| 11/25/25 | ![]() Listening into Wholeness | Parker Palmer✨ | listeningvocation+4 | Parker Palmer | Center for Courage & RenewalNational Educational Press Association+5 | — | listeningvocation+5 | — | 55m 30s | |
| 10/24/25 | ![]() Narrated Essay: These Fleeting Temples We Make Together✨ | retreatyoga+4 | — | Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters | IcelandBallymaloe House+1 | retreatyoga+5 | — | 9m 09s | |
| 10/14/25 | ![]() Awareness That Blesses | Meditation Teacher Nolitha Tsengiwe✨ | meditationsilence+4 | Nolitha Tsengiwe | Dharmagiri Retreat CenterSpirit Rock+1 | — | meditationsilence+4 | — | 51m 24s | |
| 9/25/25 | ![]() Narrated Essay: When the Forest Stirs✨ | adulthoodhuman development+4 | — | — | — | adulthoodvulnerability+6 | — | 8m 45s | |
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| 9/16/25 | ![]() All We Get To Carry | Poet Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer✨ | griefpoetry+4 | Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer | Emerging FormThe Poetic Path+7 | — | griefpoetry+5 | — | 56m 18s | |
| 8/19/25 | ![]() Gem Tactics with Shawn Parell & David Keplinger | Welcome to The Guest House, a commonweal meditation on the complexities and creative potential of being human in an era of radical change. In Season Two, cohosts Shawn Parell and David Keplinger are exploring what Emily Dickinson called "Gem Tactics," the practices by which we polish our creative engagement with life.These conversations and contemplative writings are offered freely, but subscriptions make our work possible. Bless us algorithmically by rating, reviewing, and sharing these episodes with friends—and please become a paid subscriber if you’re able. Thank you!Poet David Keplinger joins The Guest House, and together we hold the doorway open to Gem Tactics—this season’s title—a term borrowed from a lesser-known Dickinson poem that refers to those small, faceted moves of inner cultivation that reveal the shape of a life.In the first episode of our second season, we trace the filament between practice and mystery. Our talk initiates an exploration of how we live, why we listen, and what it means to accompany and be accompanied in a time when so much is unraveling. This is the scaffolding of what’s to come: a season shaped less by expertise than by earnest inquiry, less by answers than by wholehearted questions.Resource Links* Check out David’s meditation and essay on our season title - Gem Tactics: Why We Practice.* More from David - book releases, workshops, mindfulness talks, upcoming events, and more.Website: Davidkeplingerpoetry.comInstagram: @DavidKeplingerPoetrySubstack: Another Shore with David Keplinger* More from Shawn - free audio meditations, upcoming events, retreats, monthly essays, yoga classes, and music alchemy.Website: Shawnparell.comInstagram: @ShawnParellSubstack: The Guest HouseTogether, we are making sense of being human in an era of radical change. Your presence here matters. Bless our work algorithmically with your hearts and comments, and by sharing this post with a loved one. Paid subscriptions make this work possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 42m 57s | ||||||
| 7/18/25 | ![]() Narrated Essay: Hold It Up Like a Telescope | Love tenderizes everything. I tell myself this upon waking, when darkness gives way to dew and even the desert becomes supple again. Love tenderizes everything. I repeat it at dusk, as we sit on the portal and the sky swirls above us. I tell myself this when my daughter rests her head on my chest with a sigh, and murmur it like an incantation in moments when my heart feels cracked and crusted over, when the world’s roughness scrapes against my senses.Love tenderizes everything.Take, for example, Andrea Gibson’s “Say Yes.” I have carried this poem like an olive branch since my early twenties. It begins with the physics of resonance: “When two violins are placed in a room, if a chord on one violin is struck, the other will sound the note. If this is your definition of hope, this is for you.”I remember the heaviness I carried back then—the sense of distance I felt from myself and every other living thing, except for those few magnificent friends and family members who stayed near through that long, shadowed season. Yet somehow, the poet’s voice—two violins, a shared note—evoked the earthly harmonies of life, even then. Those lines nested inside me, tending to the wounded place as only poetry can: with its small sticks, feathers, and flickers of song.Grief is never singular. Like love, it layers in harmonics above the baseline of our existence. A father’s voice saying hi, sweetie, carries the ache of a future absence braided into today’s loving presence. There is grief for the unraveling of our ecological sanity and safety; for the unnamed burdens children carry, and our longing to keep them well and near. Sometimes there are wisps of sorrow for the unwritten books and furniture of that other life—the one I did not choose. There is grief, too, for the relentless rush of time, for how we quicken away from our bodies’ native pace.And then there are the most visceral reminders of our fragile, mutual keeping—the incontrovertible losses that stun with their seeming impartiality, confronting us with the vulnerability of a life that was just here but is no longer.Today, again, the world rushes in—unpredictable and uncertain. Thankfully, for this moment, I can adjust to a gentler lens. My body settles into the bruise, albeit tender to the touch. I want to tell everyone how needful it is to be kind, how we depend on love, and then I want to share the delight of a child who has just discovered raspberries fruiting on their vines.The weight of love—its 10,000 joys and 10,000 sorrows—shapes the day into something bearable and even, at times, beautiful. And in the wake of Andrea’s passing, as their words—earnest, luminous—seem all at once everywhere, startled into the air like a murder of crows in an open field, I find myself bowing to the gift of yet another poem that undoes me and then puts me back together again.“every time i ever said i want to die”by Andrea GibsonA difficult life is not lessworth living than a gentle one.Joy is simply easier to carrythan sorrow. And your heartcould lift a city from how longyou’ve spent holding what’s beennearly impossible to hold.This world needs thosewho know how to do that.Those who could find a tunnelthat has no light at the end of it,and hold it up like a telescopeto know the darknessalso contains truths that couldbring the light to its knees.Grief astronomer, adjust the lens,look close, tell us what you see.Together, we are making sense of being human in an era of radical change. Your presence here matters. Please consider sharing this post with a loved one. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 5m 11s | ||||||
| 6/18/25 | ![]() Narrated Essay: In the Realm of the River | The sound of flowing water soothes most nervous systems, but particularly those acclimatized to the desert, and particularly upon waking. I have struggled with sleep disturbances for most of my adult life, so it’s rare for me to experience the weight and metabolic satisfaction of a good night’s rest. But twice last month, I found myself receiving what we can call river medicine: first while visiting friends at their cabin in the Pecos Wilderness, and again east of Aspen, Colorado, while teaching at Beyul Retreat, a guest ranch along the Frying Pan River, a tributary of the Roaring Fork River.River medicine is like this: surrounded by tall, sappy pines, I found myself one early morning in the atmospheric valley between sleeping and waking, an integrative field of frequencies and forms. You know the place. Even now, I do not know for certain: did the river, by some charm of consciousness, stream into my dreamscape and stir me awake? Or was it the dream that pulsated forward into the matrix of a new day? What I can say is that I felt a bright, hydrous intelligence moving in ripples and waves through my body—clarifying and tonifying, calming neurons and glial cells in their watery beds, clearing layers of baked-in tension like grit loosened from a soaking pan. And for a time, I floated above the push of the day, appearing and disappearing and reappearing to myself.In the wake of hours that followed, to my delight, I noticed a quiet reverberation—an elemental answer quelling a wordless, needful thirst.Science offers a partial explanation for this. Water has a high dielectric constant, meaning it reduces the electrostatic attraction between charged particles, which helps substances like salt crystals separate and dissolve more easily. I would also propose that water’s properties of solubility, absorption, and transmission apply to its natural ability to clean and balance the bioenergetic forces of being human.When a river twists and turns, it releases negative ions into the air. Microscopically, this process is dynamic—even violent. Molecules spill over rocks and tumble forward, rushing and colliding, breaking apart, and thereby transferring electrons and charging the surrounding air. But I find comfort in this science of fluid revitalization. New, more supportive structures can form when old ones give way, pointing to how, beyond turmoil and devastation, we too can hope for vital transformation.Years ago, I read a New York Times article called “Where Heaven and Earth Come Closer,” in which journalist Eric Weiner wrote about “thin places,” locations where the gap between the ordinary and extraordinary—or, better yet, transordinary—thins out.“Thin” seemed to me a strange choice to describe where the air thickens with meaning. But Celts and early Christians held that a small but distinct distance, like three feet, separates heaven and earth—and that distance dissolves in “places that beguile and inspire, sedate and stir, places where, for a few blissful moments [we] loosen [our] death grip on life, and can breathe again.”Many a thin place has been built by human hands. Early in my career, I worked for the United Nations Foundation in collaboration with UNESCO’s World Heritage Centre, and developed the sensible habit of visiting the most treasured cathedrals, temples, and sanctuary sites wherever I found myself in the world. Jama Masjid in Delhi, Sacré-Cœur in Paris, Tirta Empul in Bali, Newgrange in Ireland, and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem: each has a distinct energetic signature that lives in my memory, a resonance born of its purpose and the accumulation of countless prayers that infuse the surrounding air.But thin places are more often found than made. Mountains, canyons, coral palaces—they are organic monuments to mysticism and ready reminders of our humble size before nature. As Weiner writes, “Thin places relax us, yes, but they also transform us—or, more accurately, unmask us. In thin places, we become our more essential selves.”In this sense, thin places evoke qualities of alchemy and revelation. In traveling to Beyul Retreat, I recalled how the Vajrayana Buddhist term “beyul” refers to hidden valleys believed to be sanctuaries blessed by enlightened teachers, places where the land itself is animate. A beyul holds the wisdom that rivers, trees, and even rocks are not objects but mandalas — living altars, ineffable and intricate in their aliveness.Aptly named, Beyul Retreat is a place where the boundary between perception and imagination feels more permeable. The land electrifies with new growth as summer approaches: dandelion confetti bursts open in the meadows, aspen trees shimmy, and fresh sage scents the air. Each morning, as the river’s murmur moves through the valley, calypso orchids bloom in the shade while the pointed ears of silver fox pups perk up from behind cool, wet stones.In the imaginal realm of childhood, there are many such beyuls, many thin places. There are fern groves and swallow lairs, stars nestled in apple cores and galaxies in lightning bugs, and lobe-handed sycamore leaves at the wild end of the yard.We tend to think of nature as speaking in symbols, but its directness transmits rather than approximates. “The world is not made of objects; it is a communion of subjects,” writes Stephen Harrod Buhner, author of Plant Intelligence and the Imaginal Realm. “To enter the imaginal realm is to give permission to the ineffable within us, to allow the world to speak through our senses, our dreams, our longings.”To commune is to listen with our whole body, to notice the most basic and vital exchange of breath and circumstance that underpins our existence. To allow for a metamorphosis of our attention. And when we realize the subjectivity of the world, we can discover strange and wonderful ways of joining the conversation. Like us, the aspens drink water and eat light. They have instincts and work to protect their lives. And did you know that the dark spots resembling eyes on the smooth, pale bark are scars left behind when the tree sheds lower branches that receive less sunlight? Look how this porous watchfulness is directed in our direction, how the forest offers us its attention.Together, we are making sense of being human in an era of radical change. Your presence here matters. Thank you for reading, sharing, ‘heart’ing, commenting, and subscribing to The Guest House. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 9m 49s | ||||||
| 5/22/25 | ![]() Circle of Visions: a Special Conversation with Mark Jensen | A Special Bonus EpisodeI’m so grateful to share this bonus episode featuring a special conversation I had last year with my dear friend Mark Jensen. It’s a rare and beautiful exchange that touches on healing, grief, and a mystical connection to the Earth—an invitation to listen and remember what truly matters.In today's episode, I’m joined by Mark Jensen, a seasoned practitioner in the healing arts with 40+ years of experience in vitalistic principled chiropractic, cranial work, myofascial release, plant medicines, Qi Gong and Dao Yin classes, somatic/movement teachings, and Earth-based practices that support a more embodied, connected and healthy life. He operates a private practice, teaches for nonprofits, and leads community classes and ceremonies.Mark's profound understanding and ability to blend mystical visions with scientific study make this conversation a treasure trove of wisdom and inspiration. Mark shares insights from decades of practice in the healing arts, including his conceptualization of the "circle of visions" and how attentional intimacy and communion with life’s intelligence can lead to profound healing. We delve into his deep connection with nature, the power of grief, and transformative experiences in his own healing journey. He also touches on the significance of holding space for joy amidst ecological and societal challenges.Episode HighlightsThe Power of Grief: Mark emphasizes embracing grief as a path to deeper love and soul connection.Ecological Despair and Healing: Insights on navigating ecological despair and finding healing through a greater understanding of the earth's intelligence.Visions and Spiritual Experiences: Mark shares transformative visions and spiritual encounters that have shaped his practice.Holding Dichotomy and Paradox: The importance of balancing the celebration of beauty with the acknowledgment of despair.Connection with Nature: Mark discusses his deep bond with nature and how it has guided and healed him throughout his life.The Role of Fascia in Healing: Insights into how fascia, the body's connective tissue, plays a crucial role in sensing and responding to the world.Community and Shared Grief: Community and shared experiences in processing grief and preventing despair.Mark Jensen“My journey began in Northern Minnesota and has carried me across landscapes, traditions, and thresholds of healing. Though trained in college and graduate school, my true education came from life itself—from births and deaths I was honored to attend, from those who entrusted me with their bodies, and from teachers across disciplines like Osteopathy, Daoism, Chinese Medicine, Herbalism, Deep Ecology, and land-based ceremony. The land has been my greatest teacher—from the plains of Oklahoma to the mountains of New Mexico, and now, back home to the shores of Gichigami (Lake Superior).I live in Duluth, Minnesota with my wife, artist Riha Rothberg, and our cat Gus. I continue to teach healthcare practitioners and maintain a private healing practice rooted in presence, ecology, and transformation.”Resource LinksLearn more about Mark and how to engage in his offerings, courses, and events at marksjensendc.comSubscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.Shawnparell.com - Check out Shawn's website to sign up for 5 free meditations, join Shawn’s email list for monthly field notes and music alchemy, and learn more about her work and upcoming events.Stay connected with Shawn on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 43m 37s | ||||||
| 4/26/25 | ![]() Narrated Essay: When the Maple Turns Again | Springtime in North Carolina is gorgeous. It can’t help itself. Perhaps it’s oblivious to—or in radical disagreement with—the brokenness of our times. Either way, the azaleas burst into riotous bloom, the crepe myrtles frill themselves in defiant pinks. In the mornings, birds trade secrets across the creek, their calls carried on air perfumed with fresh dew on pine needles to the back porch, where I sit in my mother’s rocking chair.This is the place where one branch of my family has put down roots. An invisible wheel exists here among us, with smaller wheels—wheels within wheels—turning persistently through the seasons. It’s also the place where a beloved uncle passed last autumn, just as the maple outside his bedroom window flared into auburn light. In his final days, we watched that tree together and recounted long-forgotten stories. I remembered a visit to First Street in Rumson, when he swung me onto his shoulders and walked down the street. I remembered how the curves of his shoulders hummed beneath me as he laughed. How tall I felt then, how near to the canopy of trees; how the world suddenly seemed bigger and closer, and I, more a part of it—alive to everything, and everything alive around us.Memory can work like this—the way light filters through leaves or a scent pulls you backward. In a recent conversation with Krista Tippett, musician Justin Vernon (better known as Bon Iver) said, “I thought I was done being surprised… but there are things behind things behind things.” The layers accumulate, folded under the weight of time, only to surface in time, unbidden yet strangely familiar.Now the maple is green again, its leaves doing what they were made to do when touched by springtime light. Its roots drink in a soft rain. Some layers remain hidden, or slip away, only to circle back, as though time itself were not linear, but folding in on itself like fabric. And I think about how you have entered the mystery now, and maybe you are humming in some new, unknowable way.Practice—call it “mindfulness” or whatever name feels right—is an agreement to be touched by the world, by the nature of our aliveness. David Abram called it “a kindredship of matter with itself.” We learn to live in reciprocal communion, even unknowingly, and discover within ourselves gradually more tonality, more steadiness, more truth. When we plant ourselves in this moment, and notice the ways we are thirsty, and then return again and again, we begin to sense that our lives are not just motion or mechanism, but part of some deeper listening—not just hub and spoke, but spiraling motion.Hope, too, is a force of nature. It arrives unannounced. Here’s another chance, another season. The word numinous comes from numen—a Latin term that means both “a nod of the head” and “divine will.” Now spring has found its fulcrum, and with a quiet nod toward resurrection, it invites us to reach for something like joy, whether or not we feel ready or agree with time’s assessment.Springtime is not a promise. It’s a presence. A tilt in the wheel. A shimmer in the unseen. A reminder that aliveness is not always sweet or simple—but it is, still, ours.Together, we are making sense of being human in an era of radical change. Your presence here matters. Thank you for reading, sharing, ‘heart’ing, commenting, and subscribing to The Guest House. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 4m 43s | ||||||
| 3/20/25 | ![]() Narrated Essay: Knitting Undercover | Today is the Vernal Equinox. We’re promised incremental victories of light. But early spring is no darling — not here in the high desert. Here, she can be chafing and mercurial; she can show up in sputtering, immature fits and freezes; in mean winds that would cut down the most tender and flower-faced among us without reason.Earlier this week, the sky howled and turned the color of mud at mid-day. Cell phones blared out public safety warnings. Dust agitated at every seam.What’s a nervous system to do? Have mercy on the tender-hearted, Lord — on the dream of apricots and cherries, and the boy at school pickup who is rubbing and rubbing his nose against the back of his chapped hand.Like you, I am learning to find refuge. I am learning to take shelter in the soft aliveness of my body; remembering in adulthood what came so easily and imaginatively to my younger self — how to build a fort, how to tuck into a small world of my own making.So, I gather a reading light, a ball of yarn, knitting needles, and a poetry collection, and I tent a wool blanket over my head to hole up for the duration.One thing I know for sure is how a poem can serve like the keel of a boat, offering stability and resistance against sideways forces. A poem — a few words that, when linked together at an angle just so, can carry us into and beyond their meaning. And so it is with this needfulness, under a blanket in my living room, that I come to Wordsworth’s “Lines Written in Early Spring,” a meditation he wrote in 1798 on the joyful, interwoven consciousness of nature — a “thousand blended notes” of birdsong — and humanity’s grievous failure to remember its place under the canopy of all things.In the grove where the speaker sits, twigs “spread out their fan,” flowers “enjoy the air,” and Nature, personified, is a force with a “holy plan.” But human beings, the speaker laments, have lost the splendrous sensibilities of spring: “If such be Nature’s holy plan / Have I not reason to lament / What man has made of man?”It occurs to me that man has done many good things with his hands. I am thinking now of a live performance of Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2, or the sweater that Wendy-from-the-yarn-shop just masterfully knitted, or the perfectly packaged mini-waffles my friend Ted brought back from a recent trip to Japan.But much of the time, we get things at least half-wrong. Like seed-creatures, we struggle to find our way upward through hard ground. We move too quickly, unaware of our conditions, and make mistakes. We forget to pause and remember the purpose of our unearthing. And we forget the interweave, the garden of our original belonging.So, I’m teaching myself how to knit. Novice that I am, it’s awkward work. It’s near-in. I tink (a new word for me, a semordnilap that refers to the act of un-stitching) almost as often as I knit. I struggle to position my hands, to maintain the right angle, I poke around and lose count and then I have to begin again.And in all this seeming progress and unraveling, as I return to mistakes embedded long ago, a new pattern — peaceful and even elegant — is steadily emerging. Oh, nervous system, dear friend. I am un-stitching and stitching myself back together again. I am braiding threads of myself into an artwork of my own making, which is weaving me back into something greater than my own making. And when the thing is ready, I will hold it up in wonder. I will hold it to my cheek.Together, we are making sense of being human in an era of radical change. Your presence here matters. Thank you for reading, sharing, ‘heart’ing, commenting, and subscribing to The Guest House. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 5m 31s | ||||||
| 2/13/25 | ![]() Narrated Essay: Endurance | Found amidst the twisted metal and ash of a family’s home in the Pacific Palisades is a pottery shard with a single word inscribed upon it: love.It’s a clay piece no wider than the palm of your hand, a remnant from a serving dish that a daughter made for her mother, who displayed it in the bungalow where she lived for forty-seven years until one recent day when a black-plumed terror tore through the neighborhood, and it burned to the ground.For Diana, the one who first taught me how to love. Thank you, Mama. Happy Mother’s Day, 2011. Your loving daughter, Lisa.Little remains after a fire. Not the for nor the who nor even the you. In the yard, a wind sculpture spirals upward in the stunned calm of a new day. Stone chimneys stand, only they are no longer chimneys but landmarks by which neighbors orient themselves amidst the rubble and scars of their former lives. A clay murti still sits demurely on the mantle. It is a metaphor, if not a miracle — how the heat melted away its glaze and revealed the form beneath.And love, in all its blessed unlikeliness. Having passed through the inferno of its creation, having withstood as the house wailed and collapsed around it, this small and necessary gift is discovered atop a charred pyre as though placed there, liberated, message intact.City skies are painted on linear scraps and framed by buildings. The desert sky is like this: giant, unmitigated, persistent. To live well in the desert, you must look to the opening above the narrow frame of your life. You must consider how light moves across the sky, how gods shift their bodies over the landscape, then bow and tuck themselves behind the night until the sun rises again the next day.Azure is beautiful but can also be unyielding. The earth firms and softens according to the seasons. Slow water eases; gentle water eases. Fast water flashes off the hard earth and floods the arroyos. And if the water does not come — if the days are brittle and the future unknowable — we are thirsty for it.When the ground dries, we feel it in our joints. The sky lifts — quiet, strange. We ask for water. Lord, quell our bodies and minds. Lord, irrigate our hearts. Lord, make us watertight.Then, the birds come looking for water. We give them water.Mary Oliver writes:I tell you thisto break your heart,by which I mean onlythat it break open and never close againto the rest of the world.A poet finds a way to say what must be said when it must be said. A poet is made of poppies and daffodils, yes, but also of unflinching metal. Forged in fire, quenched in water, a poet is like a sword meant to wield, cut through, and rise again.Metal cannot help but conduct warmth. Metal cannot help but have luster, for it reflects the sun's light. Metal has solidity, a high melting point, and sharpness. It houses its own shadow, like most earthly things. So, when metal writes about lead, it knows a thing about it. And when metal says —Here is a story to break your heart.Are you willing?You are willing.Steadfast comes from the Old English stedefæst, meaning "firmly fixed, constant; secure; enclosed, watertight; strong, fortified." It first referred to English warriors in the 10th century who stood their ground, weapons readied, unyielding to Viking invaders.And here is one more reminder of the determination of love. In Portuguese, the word resistencia is a false cognate. You’d think it means resistance, but no — resistencia is closer to endurance, to the practice of withstanding. Resistencia refers to that which is unbreakable.To endure is to show up in the ways that most reflect who we are and what we love, to continually orient ourselves, even amidst circumstances we would not choose. When the instinct is to burn, to endure is to carry water instead.Become a paid subscriber for $6/month to access monthly yoga + meditation practices exclusively for The Guest House community. Practices live or via recording at your convenience. Next gathering soon to be announced! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 5m 57s | ||||||
| 1/23/25 | ![]() Narrated Essay: Steadfast | STEADFAST(Inspired by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer’s “Wordlessly”)The way the pericardium holds the heart,the pond holds the murk, and fish,the bowl holds the porridge my child eatsits steam rising to hold her face —and morning cups the day,the way day cups the nightin a great, persistent mystery, the socket holds the gaze.your palm holds my hand, your silence holds, “I’m here” — our bodies hold the ache of how the world could be, how the world could be holding how it is.- Shawn ParellTogether, we are making sense of being human in an era of radical change. Your presence here matters. Thank you for reading, sharing, ‘heart’ing, commenting, and subscribing to The Guest House. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 1m 30s | ||||||
| 12/29/24 | ![]() Narrated Essay: Anchoring in the Drift | Dear friend,I’m writing today from a quiet harbor in the West Indies where, for the past few years, my family has come to rest during the liminal week between Christmas (or this year's portmanteau, Christmukkah) and New Year’s.In the final days of 2023, in an essay about thresholds and time, I described an overlook I like to walk to here on the island of Grenada — a cliff at the top of a grassy knoll from which water shimmers into a circular horizon. So much has changed since then, a reminder of how the business of time is to change.If I could, I would tie the gentleness of this place with silk ribbon and dispatch it across the sea in every direction. Nearby, a kindly breeze rocks a resting child in her hammock. My father whispers in my son's ear, laughter buoying up from their bellies as kids scamper barefoot across the thick green lawn and a pot of fresh mint tea rests on the table, its fragrant steam unfurling in the air.In this place of warbling, white-breasted flycatchers and shading palm fronds, of lilting afternoon voices filtering through muslin curtains, a certain fatigue I can no longer ignore lays its hands calmly on my shoulders. For months, I’ve been brushing aside signals of this heavy tenderness, but now my mind and body settle into them. I begin to wonder about the texture and tone of this fatigue, about its intentions and layers and causes. I watch a ripening calabash tree and imagine what it might feel like — not good, not bad, but simply laden.I am beginning to re-learn the science and art of rest. I get slower and quieter, simplifying my days by shoring up against the instinct to do, fill, get, and rush. I visualize silk-ribboned gentleness delivered by tiny boats of breath to my nervous system. My mind loosens, and I remember a childhood lesson from my father, who has spent most of his days on or by the ocean, on re-finding equilibrium when feeling sea-rattled: relax as much as possible, breathe deep, and fix your gaze on the horizon, kiddo.And gradually, my bones begin to feel their weight again.How many of us carry a quiet knowing, unnoticed or avoided, until stillness brings it into view?My mind drifts to “The World," a poem by William Bronk that my friend Jess Lazar introduced to me this past year.I thought you were an anchor in the drift of the world;but no: there isn’t an anchor anywhere.There isn’t an anchor in the drift of the world. Oh no.I thought you were. Oh no. The drift of the world.—The WorldIt is a sorrowful, even devastating poem, but Bronk’s revelation also carries benevolence. The brimming honesty of “I thought you were...” “but no” reflects and comforts my grappling at the precipice of this new year. Truth be told, I have moved between hope and apprehension, promise and disappointment, acceptance and fear — and it’s exhausting. I’m learning to find a more nuanced, intentional way of leveling my gaze amidst the world's drift.“The World” is hopeful insofar as its author reaches outside the confines of his one lonely boat to connect with us, his readers. The drift of the world is unrelenting and amoral, he intimates. We are human and, therefore, subject to attachments, grievances, foolishness, and all the rest. Our anchors moor us in their brevity, and our lives, too, shimmer with wakefulness. It’s all so precious and immutable, yet we can tap into unexpected harbors and safe ports, not despite but because of and given the facts.Rumi reminds us, “Your deepest presence is in every small contracting and expanding, the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated as birds’ wings.” We are of the nature to wake up. We are of the nature to let go. “I thought you were an anchor in the drift of the world; but no….” Looking out over azure water, I’m reminded of how life emerges and regenerates from these tidal rhythms — we expand, we contract, an ocean falling and rising again from within.Together, we are making sense of being human in an era of radical change. Your presence here matters. Thank you for reading, sharing, ‘heart’ing, commenting, and subscribing to The Guest House. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 5m 40s | ||||||
| 12/19/24 | ![]() Mud, Mess, and Metamorphosis: a Conversation with Poet James Pearson | In this insightful conversation, I’m joined by poet James Pearson to explore personal growth, vulnerability, and the creative process. The discussion centers on themes of transformation, wholeheartedness, and navigating life’s difficult "winter seasons," a metaphor for the times of struggle, uncertainty, and rebirth. Pearson shares personal stories from his journey of self-discovery and healing, including the moments of asking for help that led to unexpected lifelines. Together, we delve into the wisdom found in nature's cycles and the power of messy, in-between times for personal growth.James reflects on his poetic work, particularly his debut collection The Wilderness That Bears Your Name. We discuss the idea of being "mirrored into existence" and the importance of human connection in helping us see and embrace our true selves. This conversation is both a meditation on the cyclical nature of life and an invitation to make room for uncertainty.Episode Highlights:* Wholeheartedness: The challenge of connecting to wholeheartedness during difficult, desolate times, and the courage it takes to ask for help.* Unordinary Emergence: Inspired by David Whyte’s concept of the hidden essence within us that emerges when we are invited and supported.* Mirroring and Connection: The importance of being "mirrored into existence" through human relationships and how communal reflection shapes our sense of self.* The Mud Season: The metaphorical season between winter and spring, where growth is messy but crucial.* Nature’s Lessons on Transformation: Lessons from Parker Palmer and Richard Rohr on the humility and grace found in life's messy, humbling experiences.* Reclaiming Authenticity: Facing existential crises and shedding old identities to make space for more authentic versions of ourselves.* Seeing Beauty in the Mess: Reflections on how even life’s "weeds" and imperfections hold beauty and significance.This episode is an invitation to embrace life's muddy seasons with patience, courage, and the willingness to see possibility in the mess.* Learn more about James and The Wilderness That Bears Your Name at Jamesapearson.com.* Connect with James on Instagram: @Jamesapearson* Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.* Shawnparell.com - Check out Shawn's website to sign up for 5 free meditations, join Shawn’s email list for monthly field notes and music alchemy, and learn more about her work and upcoming events.* Stay connected with Shawn on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice.* Join David Keplinger and me on January 24-25, 2024, for Mary Oliver and the Quest of Openness: "Are You Willing"?—a yoga, meditation, and somatic inquiry workshop hosted by YogaSource in Santa Fe. Drawing on his many years of friendship with Mary Oliver, David will help us explore themes of openness and willingness in her poetry. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 45m 32s | ||||||
| 12/5/24 | ![]() When Death Happens: a Coversation with Caitlin Rhoades | In this deeply moving episode of The Guest House, I sit down with artist and trained therapist Caitlin Rhoades to explore the intricate landscape of grief and death. Through her own experience of compound loss, Caitlin reveals how grief reshapes our lives, teaching us about love, resilience, and the priorities that truly matter. Together, we navigate the societal discomfort surrounding death, the somatic experience of grief, and the transformative power of facing mortality with openness and inquisitiveness.Whether you’re grieving a loved one, supporting someone through loss, or seeking a deeper comprehension of life’s impermanence, this conversation offers profound insights and actionable wisdom for embracing grief as a natural part of the human journey.Episode Highlights:Grief is universal: It’s not limited to the loss of a loved one but encompasses daily and situational losses.The physical impact of grief: Unprocessed grief can manifest in the body, requiring mindful approaches to healing.The need for cultural change: Open discussions about death can dismantle societal discomfort and deepen life’s appreciation.Grief’s nonlinear journey: Every experience of grief is unique, defying a prescriptive process.Support through presence: Authentic engagement with grievers means meeting them where they are, without judgment or quick fixes.Transformative potential of grief: Loss can deepen love, joy, and life’s clarity when approached with courage and intention.Creating space for grief: Normalizing conversations and providing safe environments for emotional expression is vital.Join us to explore how grief can be a powerful teacher and connector. Reflect on your own relationship with loss, and consider initiating meaningful conversations about death with your loved ones. Please subscribe, leave a review, and share this episode with anyone who might find comfort or insight in these reflections.Resource LinksYou can learn more about Caitlin’s work and ways to work with her at caitlinrhoades.com.Follow Caitlin on Instagram @caitlinrhoadesceramics.Check out the Getting Your Affairs in Order Checklist: Documents to Prepare for the Future from the National Institute on Aging.Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.Shawnparell.com - Check out Shawn's website to sign up for 5 days of free meditations, join Shawn’s email list for field notes and music alchemy, and learn more about her work and upcoming events.Stay connected with Shawn on Instagram @ShawnParell for live meditations and prompts for practice.I'm delighted to invite you to Gathering at the Hearth, a winter retreat in the Rockies co-led with Wendelin Scott, this February 21-24, 2025. Join us at Beyul Retreat near Aspen, Colorado, for a weekend of yoga, meditation, and rest in a serene, snow-covered sanctuary. Cozy cabins, crackling fireplaces, and nourishing practices await—space is limited, so reserve your spot today! Discounted rates when you sign up with a friend.Subscribe to The Guest House and never miss an episode filled with stories and insights that inspire, connect, and empower. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 49m 49s | ||||||
| 11/22/24 | ![]() Narrated Essay: Attention is Prayer | My grandmother's final gift to me was a rosary of fifty-nine blue stone beads around a silver-cast cross. It arrived in the mail one afternoon with a card that read Dear Shawn, Pray. Love, Gram like a wire sent from her hospice bed in Pennsylvania to my kitchen in New Mexico. What was the lesson my grandmother, at age 98, wanted to dispatch as she packed her bags for another world? With a grocery bag tucked under one arm and a baby on my hip, I read and reread the card, trying to decode her tremulous cursive and the white space around the words, their unspoken context. Like many women of her generation, my grandmother seemed preternaturally endowed with reserve and fortitude. She graduated from college, became a dietician, served in the military, and raised six children after the love of her life, the grandfather I never met, died in their forties. My grandmother wore rubber-heeled red sandals with cherry lipstick. She drove a van with handicap rigging for my aunt, who had cerebral palsy. We spent many childhood summers living under her roof at the lake. She would hand us exactly one dollar each for candy at the bodega on good days. With the point of an index finger, she instructed us to wash your hands, make your bed, unload the groceries, say your please & thank you’s. What my grandmother commanded, we obeyed — and on Fridays, she cooked bolognese. Sundays were for church-going. Mary Oliver humbly wrote, “I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention.” I didn’t know how to pray or pay attention, but prayer was the thread my grandmother followed through life’s uncertainties, so to church we went. I believe in one God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all things visible and invisible…. To appear good, I joined the murmur of the congregation as the priest in his white and gold vestments lifted a chalice above his head. I remember how the almost sweet scent of incense hung in the air, the hard feel of the wooden pew beneath me, the sound of men clearing their throats, and women singing in airy voices while flipping through thin pages in the book of hymns. I remember how mid-morning light would enter through the stained glass windows above us and calmly spread its wings. Since those days, I have learned to pray in four languages. I've made ritual movements with my whole body, sat still in sustained silence, sought refuge in poems, touched flowers, poured water, circled up, made altars, and joined in song. I've sweat through prayers on airplanes and in hospital waiting rooms and held vigil with gripped hands through long nights, repeating the most muscular prayer of all: please. I once watched an old woman for an entire day at Boudhanath in Kathmandu. She had worn deep grooves in the wooden board beneath her by anchoring her feet and sliding on her hands and knees, touching her forehead to the ground, murmuring om mani pädme hum, back and forth, forward and back, through countless repetitions.And though certain prayers have become friends, the specific form is less interesting to me now than the quality of concentration into which any prayer can invite our attention. “Attention” says the French philosopher Simone Weil, “taken to its highest degree, is the same thing as prayer. It presupposes faith and love. Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.” Prayer doesn’t require formal structure; it doesn’t even require words. It just asks for presence. Thich Nhat Hanh once responded to a question about the practice of prayer:This is the basic condition for the effectiveness of prayer. The one who prays should be truly there, established in the here and now, having a very clear intention, a very clear desire as to whom he or she will pray, and for whom he or she will pray. If the one who prays can put himself or herself in that situation, much has already been done. That person already has begun to generate the energy of prayer, because he or she is truly present in the here and now with concentration, with mindfulness and intention. If that does not happen, well, nothing will happen.A flame rises without human definition; prayer tends the flame. Prayer is any act that clarifies and concentrates the attentional channel between the one who prays and the direction of all prayer, which is up, which is love. Perhaps this is what Thich Nhat Hanh, who embodied and advocated tirelessly for peace, meant when he spoke of “generat[ing] the energy of prayer.” To be “truly [t]here” is to awaken to the groundlessness of any moment — to our dynamic, collective context — and to anchor ourselves in the living presence we can call by any name, but that does not demand one specific name. The Sanskrit word ishtadevata loosely translates as whatever facet of the divine you can recognize.For all of us still learning to pay attention, 14th-century mystic Meister Eckhart offered an assurance: “If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.” Thanksgiving is a complicated holiday. At best, it invites us to recognize the conditions that nourish and imbue our lives with goodness. This is no passive practice. When we feel re-sized by pain and disillusionment, when uncertainty wraps its cold fingers around our hearts, gratitude is the radical choice to acknowledge the blessed sustenance of our existence nonetheless. "To love life even when you have no stomach for it,” writes poet Ellen Bass. To notice the sun rising yet again. A friend's easy forgiveness. How light enters a room. A palmful of chestnuts. The almost sweet scent of cinnamon leaves. A finely shaped gourd. The way salt flavors a dish. A set table. Together, we’re making sense of being human in an era of radical change. Your presence here matters. Thank you for reading, sharing, ‘heart’ing, commenting, and subscribing to The Guest House. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 7m 25s | ||||||
| 11/13/24 | ![]() We Are The Great Turning: a Conversation with Jess Serrante | Today, climate leader Jess Serrante joins me in a heartfelt and insightful conversation on activism, emotional resilience, mentorship, and redefining hope in turbulent, uncertain times. Serrante recounts her path from activist burnout to Joanna Macy’s “The Work That Reconnects,” a practice built around gratitude, grief, and transformative action. We delve into “The Great Turning,” a paradigm shift toward sustainable and interconnected living, and examine the role of intergenerational wisdom and community support in overcoming despair. Drawing on her longtime friendship with Joanna and their recent conversation series, “We Are The Great Turning,” Jess shares insights that offer a roadmap for staying engaged in activism with purpose, resilience, and connection.Episode Highlights:Processing Emotions in Activism: Jess describes the emotional "soup" experienced by many activists after pivotal societal events and how acknowledging these emotions—whether numbness, anger, or sorrow—helps sustain long-term engagement.The Role of Mentorship in Activism: Jess reflects on her relationship with Joanna Macy, who has inspired her to navigate activism with grace and resilience through practices rooted in mindfulness and connection.Exploring "The Spiral" Framework: Jess explains "The Spiral" process—moving through gratitude, honoring pain, gaining new perspectives, and taking action—and how it supports emotional sustainability in the face of climate grief.The Power of Intergenerational Relationships: Emphasizing the role of elders in the activist journey, Jess shares how wisdom from mentors like Joanna has grounded her purpose and broadened her perspective on hope and resilience.Understanding “The Great Turning”: Shawn and Jess discuss the transition from the current societal model to a more sustainable, just paradigm, as described by Joanna Macy’s “The Great Turning,” and explore the role of individual and community-based change.Redefining Hope and Courage: The conversation shifts to the concept of “active hope,” where hope is redefined as a commitment to transformative actions rooted in love, courage, and an honest confrontation with grief.Building a Supportive Community: Jess stresses the necessity of finding a community to share in the journey of eco-activism, as collective strength and compassion are essential in facing global environmental challenges.This episode invites you to reflect on your own role in "The Great Turning" and offers practical insights and resources for nurturing a just, interconnected world.Resource Links1. You can learn more about Jess' work and ways to work with her at Jessserrante.com.2. Follow Jess on Instagram @Jess_Serrante.3. Join her newsletter at Jesserrante.com/subscribe.4. Subscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.5. Shawnparell.com - Check out Shawn's website to sign up for 5 free meditations, join Shawn’s email list for monthly field notes and music alchemy, and learn more about her work and upcoming events.6. Stay connected with Shawn on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 58m 51s | ||||||
| 11/1/24 | ![]() Original Love: a Conversation with Zen Master Henry Shukman | It was a honor to sit down with Henry Shukman—Zen master, poet, and author—to explore dimensions of meditation, mindfulness practice, and awakening. Our conversation centers around Henry’s profound insights into the nature of "original love," a concept he discusses in his latest book. Together, we reflect on the journey of how spiritual practice connects us to a greater sense of belonging and love.We delve into how spiritual practice, particularly mindfulness and meditation, can lead to transformative insights. We discuss the nature of awakening and the deeper connection we all share with the world around us. From personal experiences to philosophical reflections, this episode weaves together practical advice and wisdom for new and seasoned practitioners alike.Episode Highlights:The Essence of "Original Love": Henry discusses how love, beyond sentimentality, is an inherent force that connects us to all life.The Path of Awakening: Exploring the concept of kensho, a moment of non-dual realization where the boundary between self and world dissolves.Challenges of Spiritual Practice: Henry reflects on the difficulties of maintaining mindfulness and integrating awakening experiences into daily life.Spiritual Practice as a Journey: A deep dive into the structured progression of Henry’s app, The Way, which offers a path through mindfulness, support, flow, and awakening.Personal Stories of Mindfulness: We share personal anecdotes, including how suffering and challenges can inadvertently cultivate mindfulness.The Role of Community in Practice: Emphasizing the importance of support systems, we reflect on how mindfulness is not an isolated practice but one deeply connected to the collective.Poetry and Spiritual Insight: The episode ends with A.R. Ammons' poem, “Still,” capturing the beauty and interconnectedness of all life.Tune in for a rich dialogue on mindfulness, love, and the journey toward awakening. I hope this episode provides moments of inspiration for deepening your practice and reflecting on your own path of growth.Resource LinksTo learn more about Henry and his offerings, visit henryshukman.com.Order your copy of Original Love.Check out Henry’s app: The Way.Follow Henry on Instagram @henryshukmanSubscribe to The Guest House on Substack for regular essays, podcast episodes, and more.Shawnparell.com - Check out Shawn's website to sign up for 5 free meditations, join Shawn’s email list for monthly field notes and music alchemy, and learn more about her work and upcoming events.Stay connected with Shawn on Instagram @ShawnParell for live weekly meditations and prompts for practice. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit shawnparell.substack.com/subscribe | 57m 38s | ||||||
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