The Guest House: "Gem Tactics"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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