There comes a moment—sometimes silent as a whisper, sometimes loud enough to rattle your back teeth—when life nudges you in a direction that may not win popular approval. As Henry David Thoreau put it, we must go confidently in the direction of our dreams and live the life we’ve imagined. It’s a curious thing, this inner calling. It rarely consults our committee of friends, family, or well-meaning critics before making its appearance. Most of us have felt it. That gentle but persistent tug toward something that feels deeply ours. And if we’re honest, we’ve also felt the hesitation that follows: What will they think?

I remember a time when I chose to honor such a nudge. I got a tattoo on my arm. Now, before you imagine a midlife crisis wrapped in barbed wire and flaming skulls, let me clarify. This wasn’t about rebellion or reinvention. It certainly wasn’t an attempt to affiliate with a biker gang. In fact, if my dear mother had still been around, she would likely have raised an eyebrow high enough to require oxygen. In her worldview, tattoos were reserved for pirates, outlaws, and perhaps the occasional wayward sailor.

And Yet, There I Was—Neither Pirate Nor Sailor—

Rolling Up My Sleeve With a Silent Sense of Certainty

You see, the act itself wasn’t the point. It was the commitment behind it. A tattoo, by its very nature, asks a simple but profound question: Are you willing to live with this choice as part of who you are—forever? No eraser. No “undo” button. Just ink and intention.

That’s not unlike our dreams. So often, we flirt with them. We try them on like jackets in a store—admiring them in the mirror but hesitant to purchase. Why? Because commitment changes things. It moves a dream from the realm of possibility into the territory of embodiment.

For me, the question became not whether to get a tattoo, but what it would mean. I wasn’t interested in decoration; I was interested in devotion. I wanted a symbol that would serve as a silent partner—a visual reminder of who I am and what I’m here to do. A compass! It would be a Compass Rose. Simple. Timeless. Honest. With its North Star angled toward my heart, it became more than an image. It became a mindfulness practice. A subliminal reminder, in moments of doubt or distraction, to return to my inner knowing. Not to the anxieties of the world, but to the stillness within. Not to the opinions of others, but to the truth that resides quietly beneath them.

And isn’t that what we’re all seeking? Guidance…

Not the kind that shouts directions from the sidelines, but the kind that arises from within—steady, and unwavering. The kind that reminds us that while advice may be plentiful, wisdom is deeply personal.

This doesn’t mean we ignore the voices of those we love. Their perspectives can be valuable, even fun and enlightening. But there comes a point when the final decision must pass through the sacred filter of your own heart.

THE TAKEAWAY: Your dreams are not waiting for permission. They’re waiting for participation. They are, in a sense, waiting for you to come true. And yes, there may be those who tilt their heads and wonder if you’ve lost your bearings. They may even use words like “impractical,” “unrealistic,” or my personal favorite, “a bit bonkers.” Let them. Every meaningful life has, at some point, looked a little peculiar from the outside.

So whether a “tattoo” is literal or symbolic, the invitation remains the same: trust what calls you. Honor what stirs you. And when the moment arrives, take a step—however small—in its direction.

You don’t need ink to remind you of who you are.

But you do need courage to live it.

Peace,

Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

George Carlin once joked that anyone driving slower than we are is an idiot, and anyone going faster is a maniac. If you’ve ever crept along in heavy bumper-to-bumper traffic, you’ve probably agreed—right before becoming, in someone else’s eyes, both at once. :)

Not long ago, I was part of that slow-moving ritual of “getting somewhere quickly by going nowhere at all.” The car ahead had a bumper sticker: “Honk if you love harmony.” Well, as a lifelong musician, I felt summoned. So I gave a gentle tap of the horn—a small offering of shared delight. The driver glanced back, smiled… and then offered a certain hand gesture that seemed a bit out of tune with her message. Maybe she’d forgotten it. Or maybe, like many of us, she’d misplaced it in the rush of the day.

That’s when a quieter thought arrived: what if the highway could be less a corridor of competition and more a moving monastery? A place to practice Presence instead of impatience, awareness instead of reaction. The car is not just a machine—it’s a mirror reflecting our state of mind. Consider how often we drive while being somewhere else entirely. Hands on the wheel, foot on the pedals, but thoughts drifting—replaying yesterday or rehearsing tomorrow. The body is present; the mind is scattered. We become absent participants in the drama of our own lives.

Then there’s that small glowing companion we carry everywhere; the cell phone. It promises connection and importance, yet often splinters our attention. “Just a quick glance,” we say, as if it can’t wait. But attention, once divided, rarely returns whole without great effort.

The invitation here isn’t just safer driving—though that’s a welcome side effect. It’s about how we inhabit each moment. The road simply makes the lesson harder to ignore. How often do we live this way elsewhere? Eating while scrolling. Listening while preparing our reply. Living, but only partially. Mindfulness isn’t another task to master. It’s an intentional return to what’s already here. When we bring full awareness to even the simplest act, something shifts. Life feels less like a problem to solve and more like an experience to be lived. Harmony isn’t something we honk and hope for; it’s something we notice when we’re present enough to hear it.

So Here’s a Small Experiment

The next time you get in your car, let it become a sanctuary. Silence your phone—not as punishment, but as an act of kindness to you and everyone else on the road.. Let the world wait. For a few moments, let driving be your only practice.

Feel your hands on the wheel. Notice your breath. Sense the quiet cooperation between you and the vehicle, like a subtle dance. When impatience arises—and it will—mindfully greet it like an old acquaintance. No need to argue. Just notice. And when judgment appears, labeling the “idiots” and “maniacs” around you, allow yourself a deep breath and a knowing smile.

You’ve met them before. Some days, you’ve been both.

When you reach your destination, resist the urge to rush out. Pause. Sit for a moment. Breathe. There’s often a quiet spaciousness waiting there—a reminder that peace was never absent, only overlooked. In that pause, you may rediscover something simple and profound: your own presence.

So yes, honk if you love harmony—lightly, if at all. But more importantly, become the harmony you wish to hear, not as an ideal to chase, but as a way of being to return to, again and again. Because the road doesn’t test us—it reveals us.

And if we’re paying attention, it teaches us how to arrive long before we reach our destination.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

Remember the old saying, “Those were the good ol’ days.”? Strange, how those words so often arrive late—like a letter delivered after we’ve already moved on. We spend our lives looking ahead, chasing what’s next, only to discover that what was sacred “back then” had been growing beneath our feet all along.

There’s wisdom in the idea that, like it or not, we are shaped by our mothers. Not only in body, though that alone is wonder enough, but in spirit… in tone… in essence, the invisible threads that weave our inner world together. The cadence of our thoughts, the way we reach for another, the way we guard or open our hearts—somewhere in all of it, there she is.

For some, that realization feels like a warm embrace. For others, perhaps more like a complicated knot. Both, in their own way, are invitations—calls to understand, to open more fully, to grow emotionally as well as physically. This Mother’s Day finds me standing in an old and familiar space—my ninth year without my mother’s physical presence. And yet, in a paradox that feels almost sacred, she seems more present than ever.

Memory Has Become a Kind of Sanctuary

The rearview mirror of life, once glanced at casually, now reveals a landscape rich with meaning. Moments with my mom that I once hurried through now linger, asking to be felt more deeply. Even the difficult ones—especially the difficult ones—have softened around the jagged edges, as if time itself has invited us to “look again.” And so I do—more often than I ever could have imagined. I see now that what I once resisted most often has refined me. What I misunderstood sometimes strengthened me. And what I took for granted… unknowingly shaped me.

My mom, Evelyn Jones, was my first spiritual teacher. I carry her in ways I never noticed before. In my resilience. In my tenderness. In my peculiar habits and half-explained preferences. (It turns out, even my stubborn streak has roots—though I prefer to call it “committed persistence.”) We are, each of us, living mosaics of those who came before us. Not replicas, but reflections—ever-evolving, ever-becoming. And gratitude… Ah, gratitude deepens in absence. It sheds its translucent skin and becomes something more reverent, more alive, more awake. It invites us not just to remember, but to recognize the plethora of gifts bestowed on us by the person we know (or knew) as Mother.

So wherever you are, Mom, may this knowing find you: your life continues in mine. Your love, in ways both seen and unseen, still shapes the man I am becoming 77 years after you birthed me. Thank you for the gift of life, and for the lifelong unfolding of it.

THE TAKEAWAY: To the mothers who walk among us now—steady hands, open hearts, often wondering if what you do truly matters—know this: It does. In ways that are quiet, invisible, and enduring. To the mother of a young boy who seems not to notice, who shrugs, who forgets to say thank you—take heart. He is noticing far more than you (or even he) may ever know. He is unknowingly gathering pieces of you with every passing day, storing them in the deep chambers of his being. One day, perhaps when you are no longer there to hear it, he will understand. And when he does, he will see that the rushed mornings, the shared laughter, the small acts of care, the moments of patience stretched thin—these were not just passing scenes. They were the good ol’ days. Not perfect. Not polished. But alive. Alive with love, with growth, with the sacred miracle of becoming.

So live those moments mindfully. Be present for them. Let them be as they are—messy, fleeting, and painful as well as joyful. Because in the end, it is not perfection that shapes a life. It is Presence. It is love remembered. It is the echo of a mother’s heart, still sounding long after the moment has passed.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,

There is a field. I’ll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,

The world is too full to talk about.

Ideas, language, even the phrase each other

Doesn’t make any sense. ~ Rumi

Rumi’s words paint a beautiful invitation to Oneness—and, if we’re honest, one we might try to schedule between emails and obligations, as if peace could be penciled in at 3:30.

Rumi’s “field” isn’t a place on a calendar. It’s something quieter and closer, just beneath the noise of judgment and the habit of labeling everything as right or wrong, good or bad. To enter this field, nothing is required except a softening. A willingness to loosen our grip on the certainty of always being right and step, even briefly, beyond the need to divide the world into sides.

And yet, we often cling to those divisions.

From that tension come familiar patterns: defensiveness, comparison, the “my way of the highway” mindset. The ego thrives here, turning disagreements into performances where everyone is certain and no one is listening. Just switch on the TV…you can see it everywhere—in conversations, in the news, in the constant stream of opinions. It’s easy to notice the conflict “out there.”

But this isn’t a failure. It’s an opening. It’s about the mindful transcendence of duality

The moment we truly see this pattern, we are no longer trapped by it. We can choose differently. Having opinions isn’t the problem—they add depth and variety to life. But when we hold them too tightly, they separate us. They build walls instead of windows.

Behind those walls, something simpler remains: a shared human desire to be witnessed—to be seen, heard, and understood. When we allow even a little vulnerability, differences begin to soften. They don’t disappear, but they lose their barbed edges. And in that softening, something shifts. We realize we don’t have to engage in every argument. We don’t have to prove anything to belong. Conflict takes two people to continue—but only one to begin letting it go.

This doesn’t mean staying silent or avoiding truth. It means choosing a calmer perspective. It means noticing when the urge to fight comes more from ego than from clarity—and deciding not to follow it. That choice creates a ripple effect. It changes how we speak, how we listen, and how we relate to each other. Subtle at first, like light changing at dusk—but nevertheless, real.

THE TAKEAWAY: Rumi’s field isn’t a place we reach once and stay forever. It’s somewhere we return to, again and again. A practice. A remembering. The pathway is simple: question your attachment to certainty and the “it’s my way or the highway” mindset. The bridge leading to Rumi’s field is awareness, and while it is a two-way bridge, moving together in the same direction at the same time proves we are less separate than we think.

We will still disagree. That’s part of being human. But disagreement doesn’t have to mean disconnection. We can hold our views without closing our hearts. We can speak and still listen. We can differ and still meet. This is what our world needs right now.

So if you feel drawn to that quiet, open space, pause.

Set down the need to win.

Step out of the argument.

There is really only One of us here.

Bring curiosity. Bring humility. Bring kindness. Maybe even a little humor about how tightly we hold on.

The field is already here.

Will you meet me there?

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

Have you ever noticed that there can often be a subtle temptation in life to appoint a villain for our unhappiness—a convenient character upon whom we can hang our discomfort like an itchy wool coat we’d rather not wear? News Flash: Happiness is an inside job. Wayne Dyer once reminded us that blame, though briefly satisfying, is ultimately a detour away from our own awakening. It keeps our gaze fixed outward while our peace patiently waits within.

Not long ago, I encountered a friend whose presence felt like a storm cloud in search of thunder. Before a word was spoken, his agitation filled the space between us. When I innocently asked, “What’s wrong…” his frustration poured forth: a coworker, he insisted, was deceitful, manipulative, a virtuoso of office politics. This individual, in his telling, had singlehandedly turned the workplace into an emotional obstacle course—yet somehow remained favored by leadership. My friend was indignant, certain of the injustice, and deeply affected by it.

Then, a Week Later, SOSDD—(Same Old Story Different Day).

The same story, the same cast, the same emotional intensity—on a loop. It was as if he had unknowingly subscribed to the Bad News Channel, a channel that only broadcast grievances. And there it was, clear as day: his happiness had been outsourced, handed over to someone who likely had no idea they were now the unsuspecting warden of his joy. We’ve all had our version of this. A lingering resentment, a mental replay of what someone said or did, a stubborn narrative that refuses to loosen its grip. It’s like chewing on a spiritual bone that offers neither nourishment nor release. The question is not whether we’ve experienced this, but whether we recognize the cost. While we rehearse the offense, who is it that suffers? Rarely the one we’ve cast in the role of antagonist.

I realized there was a subtle but profound shift available to my friend. What if, instead of me asking “What’s wrong?” I had asked, “Who’s the matter with you? Who have you given your peace away to?” Not as an accusation, but as an invitation. Because the truth is, no one can hold our happiness hostage without our consent. This doesn’t mean we deny poor behavior or abandon discernment. It means we reclaim authorship over our inner state. We begin to see that being right and being at peace are not always companions. In fact, they often part ways at the crossroads of ego and wisdom. And if we insist on traveling with both, we may find the journey unnecessarily heavy.

The Practice Is Simple

There is a practice—simple, though not always easy—that can help loosen the grip of resentment: blessing instead of cursing. When someone arises in your thoughts who seems to disturb your equilibrium, try offering them a silent benediction. Not because they’ve earned it, but because you value your peace more than your grievance. Consider, as well, that their behavior may be shaped by unseen struggles, chapters of a story you’ve not been privy to. Ah! A gentle call for loving kindness and compassion.

To bless another is not to condone their actions, but to acknowledge a deeper truth—that beneath the surface of every personality is a shared Essence, something whole and unbroken. When we choose to see that, even faintly, something within us begins to soften. And in that softening, we find space—space for compassion, for clarity, and yes, even for a touch of lightheartedness. After all, carrying resentment is tough work; setting it down can feel surprisingly like a vacation.

THE TAKEAWAY: So, who is “the matter” with you today? Whoever it may be, consider revoking their imaginary authority over your well-being. Your happiness was never theirs to manage. It has been, and always will be, an inside job—quietly waiting for you to return and claim it.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

When was the last time you really took the time to “no’ someone? Once, in a Relationship Class I was presenting, I gave a homework assignment which required them to commit to living one full week with a willingness to communicate exactly what they were thinking and feeling to those with whom they had any contact. This included saying “no” to family, friends, and even strangers when guided to do so. What I discovered was that many people are greatly challenged in their ability to be honest and transparent when it comes to saying what they really think to others. They are conflicted between what they really think, and their desire (need) not to risk the disapproval of others.

“The person who seeks all their applause from outside has their happiness in another’s keeping.” - Claudius Claudianus

One young woman who came back the next week and shared how she could really identify her need for approval and acceptance from others when she denied a request from a friend. She reported that while at first it was uncomfortable, it was also the most liberating experience she had ever known. She realized she had allowed herself to be held hostage in every relationship she had ever been in because she was addicted to approval from others. Buddha taught that attachment is at the root of all suffering. I wonder how many of us allow ourselves to suffer, being held in emotional bondage (or better said, emotional blackmail) by others, not because of their demands, but because of our own attachment to being loved and fear of rejection or disapproval.

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, “The only sin that we never forgive in each other is a difference in opinion.” William Penn said it even more succinctly: “There can be no friendship where there is no freedom. Friendship loves free air, and will not be fenced up in straight and narrow enclosures.” Are you free to have a difference of opinion with others and express it without fear? Can you say “no” without fear? And do you offer others the same freedom to say no to you without sending them on a guilt trip? If the very thought of that type of encounter makes your pulse race, perhaps it’s time to explore your ability to get to “no” others better.

Where do you start? Work at becoming comfortable in knowing that beyond your egoic self (which thrives on approval from others), there lies within you the presence of an Infinite power acting as your “soul” authority. While Spirit always operates from unconditional love, it never seeks approval from others. Oftentimes, saying “no” can be the most loving thing you can do for others and yourself. When you conduct your life from such a point of Self awareness, you know that if you are led to say “no” to someone, there will be no need to apologize, sell, or justify your position. Explain to them that you are not rejecting them, only their request.

THE TAKEAWAY: Know who you are and be free. In all your encounters with others, remember that it’s not so much what you say but how you say it. When someone requests something of you that does not find an authentic “yes” in your heart, simply breathe deeply and invite a conscious awareness of Spirit’s Presence to be felt within you. Let your words be filtered through that Presence, and you will discover the power and grace to say “no” in a way that is kind, loving, and unquestionably clear.

Let nothing be incomplete in your communications today, and notice how free you feel.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright 2026 ~ www.DennisMerrittJones.com

Worry is like a sneaky burglar. It slips through the darkest corners of the mind and steals the joy and optimism of tomorrow long before we arrive there.

~ When Fear Speaks … Listen, p. 45

WARNING: This question may reveal your age—do you remember the catchphrase beneath Mad Magazine’s Alfred E. Newman? “What, me worry?” There he was on every cover, grinning with that wide, toothy, freckled, carefree smile, quietly challenging us to consider the futility of worry. As an eight-year-old reading Mad Magazine, I didn’t get it. I was already so practiced at worrying that I didn’t even recognize it as a habit—let alone a choice.

Only later did I understand. Worry had slipped into the cracks of my thinking early on, becoming automatic. But as I grew more self-aware, I discovered something liberating: I could opt out. At any moment, I could choose differently. That’s when Alfred E. Newman’s simple motto began to feel less like a joke and more like wisdom. It’s a less-than-subtle warning about how seductive worry can be. After all, it’s a habit humanity has rehearsed for thousands of years. Life will always present us with a pile of “what ifs”—invitations to step into an imagined tomorrow where we have no control. But it doesn’t have to be that way.

While Worry Can Become a Habit, There Is a Cure

Managing worry is essential for a balanced, peaceful life. Here are a few grounded practices to help loosen its grip:

Live In “Day-Tight Compartments”

This mindfulness principle means focusing fully on today rather than borrowing trouble from tomorrow. Stay with what’s here now. It’s the only place where life—and your power—exists. Refuse to allow tomorrow to leak into today.

Use Awareness As Your Gatekeeper

Imagine a watchman guarding an ancient city, scanning the horizon for threats. Awareness plays the same role in your mind. When you notice worry arising, you create space to choose your response. You can ask: Is this something I can influence? If the answer is yes, take action. If not, practice acceptance. Worrying about what you cannot change only drains your energy and pulls you out of the present moment. Consider this: receiving a medical prognosis is one thing; obsessing over it is another. The same applies to major events like elections. Engage where you can—vote, participate, contribute—but don’t spiral into unproductive worry. Bringing concerns into the light of present awareness reduces their power.

Reframe Through Faith Or Perspective

Whether you define it as faith, trust, or alignment with something greater, anchoring yourself in something larger than yourself can ease the mental burden. Worry shrinks when you remember you’re not navigating life alone. Use practical interruption tools. Sometimes, a small physical cue can break the cycle. For example, lightly snapping a rubber band on your wrist when you catch yourself in negative self-talk can interrupt the pattern and redirect your thinking. The goal isn’t punishment—it’s awareness. From there, you can choose a more constructive thought.

THE TAKEAWAY: Overcoming worry isn’t about eliminating it entirely—it’s about changing your relationship to it. Through mindfulness, awareness, perspective, and simple tools, you can reduce its hold and reclaim your presence.

So try it: adopt Alfred E. Newman’s motto—“What, me worry?”—for a day or two. It’s a great affirmation. You may find it brings a sense of lightness, even a quiet Cheshire-Cat-like smile. And who knows? Others might start wondering what you’ve discovered that they haven’t. :)

Peace,

Dennis

NOTE: If this topic is of interest to you and you missed the launch of my latest book, “When Fear Speaks...Listen,” it’s available NOW on Amazon.com.

Ever find yourself wondering where you truly come from—not in the sense of a hometown or a family tree, but in the deeper, quieter sense of origin? The kind of wondering that doesn’t ask for an address, but for an awareness. A remembering. It’s a curious thing, really. Before you ever introduced yourself as a “who,” you were, in a sense, a “what”—an unshaped impulse of Being, a divine idea still warming itself in the mind of the Infinite. Long before personality arrived with its preferences, opinions, and favorite breakfast foods, there was simply presence: the simple, luminous “I AM.”

And here’s where it gets delightfully mysterious: something in you still remembers that. Science may speak of a universe ignited some 14 billion years ago from a singularity, a bursting forth of space, time, matter, and energy. Spiritual intuition might say the same thing in subtler language: from the great “No Thing,” something stirred and said, “Let there be… more of Me.”

And… there was.

Stars formed. Galaxies spiraled. Worlds cooled. Life emerged not as an accident, but as an unfolding expression of a Universe intent on knowing, expressing, and experiencing itself in ever more intimate ways. And then—just when you might think the story couldn’t get any more interesting—you arrived. And, you came a long way to get here! Not as an afterthought. Not as a spare part. But as a uniquely tuned expression of the whole cosmic symphony.

You Are, Quite Literally, Star-Stuff

Learning How To Recognize Itself In a Mirror.

Some spiritual teachers have called this recognition a kind of sacred reunion—the moment when what you are and who you think you are begin to shake hands and realize they’ve been on the same team all along. A mystical “marriage,” if you will, between the timeless essence of Being and the very human life of doing; the life you are living right now. It is less about becoming something new and more about remembering something ancient.

Of course, the soul must have a sense of humor. It chooses to explore this vast remembrance through the delightful complexity of forgetting—and remembering. You arrive, you learn, you adapt, you get slightly lost, you make lists, you search for meaning—and all the while, something within you whispers, “You are closer than you think.”

Every person you meet is also this same mystery wearing a different face. No two expressions of life are identical. The Infinite does not repeat itself; it innovates endlessly. You are a one-of-a-kind pattern in the fabric of existence, stitched into the Whole with intentional brilliance. And so is everyone else, even the ones who test your patience in traffic.

THE TAKEAWAY: This is why authentic living matters. To live in alignment with your deeper nature is not just personal fulfillment—it is participation in the Universe expressing itself as truthfully as possible through you. And when you honor that in yourself, you naturally begin to recognize it in others. Relationships become less about agreement and more about revelation—mirrors reflecting the One life looking back at itself from infinite angles. And if ever you doubt this, step outside on a clear night. Look up. The cosmos does not whisper; it declares. Billions of galaxies stretch across the dark like a thought too large for language. And still, within that vastness, there is a point of awareness now reading these words, wondering, remembering. You were not misplaced in time. You were placed exactly here. How cool is that?

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

When Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote, “Into each life some rain must fall,” he wasn’t predicting the weather—he was describing the emotional landscape we all share. His words point to a practice that sounds deceptively simple but is anything but: meeting life as it is, not as we wish it to be, isn’t always easy. The idea that April showers bring May flowers may feel comforting—that is, until we find ourselves in a torrential downpour—in a moment we’d rather escape, fix, or undo.

Yet every moment, even the inconvenient or painful ones, offers an invitation. Not to enjoy it, necessarily, but to be present with it. That distinction matters. Enjoyment depends on pleasure; presence requires awareness. While we naturally lean toward comfort, growth rarely arrives without some degree of discomfort. Life isn’t measured in years so much as in moments—brief, passing instances that arise, linger, and dissolve. Each one is like a guest at a gathering: some delight us, others unsettle us, and a few leave a mess behind. None stays for long. Still, we tend to remember the highlights—the milestones, the times when everything aligned. But more often, it’s the difficult moments that shape us most. The ones that stretch or unsettle us are not detours; they are the path itself. Pain, though unwelcome, asks questions comfort never does. The question is whether we’re willing to listen.

Avoiding life’s harder chapters doesn’t protect us; it narrows our experience. Wholeness comes not from selecting only the pleasant parts, but from allowing all of it—the fulfilled hopes, the disappointments, and the unknowns that never resolve. There’s a liberating freedom in acknowledging both what life has given and what it has withheld.

To love the moment, then, doesn’t mean liking everything about it. It doesn’t call for forced positivity or denial. It asks us to stop resisting what is already here

Few will disagree that resistance is exhausting and often futile. Acceptance, by contrast, creates flow and movement. It allows us to fully experience a moment and then let it pass, rather than becoming stuck inside it. The idiom, “This too shall pass,” endures for a reason. The good news and the other news is, joy and sorrow are equally temporary. At some point, the happiness we try to hold onto and the pain we wish away both move on. Remembering this doesn’t eliminate discomfort, but it does help place it in perspective. No feeling is permanent; no single moment defines a life. There’s even room for humility—and a bit of humor—in this. Life has a way of turning what seems undesirable into something meaningful. Like a garden enriched by compost (manure), growth often depends on what we would rather discard. It may not be pleasant, but it serves a purpose. What feels heavy now may be generously contributing to something far more worthwhile.

THE TAKEAWAY: When you encounter a moment you’d rather skip, remember Longfellow’s insight. Beneath the rain, something necessary may be taking shape. Stay with it. Breathe through it—not because it feels good, but because it matters—and you matter. To love the moment is to honor life in its entirety, not selectively. It is to recognize that this moment, exactly as it is, is the only place life truly happens. The challenge—and the opportunity—is to remain present, open, and engaged, trusting that even in the middle of a rainstorm, something meaningful is beginning to grow.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

Only Infinite unconditional Love could offer us a divine do-over; the freedom to choose and then choose again. - Encouraging Words - Essays That Prove Who You Are Matters

There is something sublimely radical about the idea that life is not a one-shot deal. We are conditioned to believe that missed chances are gone forever—like socks in the dryer or that one perfect parking spot we drove past. And yet, life—God, the Beloved, Infinite Intelligence, call It what you will—seems far less stingy than that. It offers us something far more generous: a steady stream of second chances, dressed up as ordinary moments.

The challenge, of course, is not that these moments are rare. It’s that they are subtle and we need to be present to notice them. They don’t arrive with fanfare or a push notification. They appear as what I like to call “sacred micro-moments”—those gentle pauses in the day when something within us whispers, “Look. Listen. Be here.” Miss them, and nothing seems to happen. Catch them, and everything changes.

The Beloved is a Master of Understatement

Recently, with the Artimus II launch, much attention has been given to the moon—rockets circling it, cameras capturing it, humanity once again gazing upward in wonder. It’s fascinating, really. The irony is, we’ll send billions of dollars into space to study something we can experience for free just by stepping outside and looking up. (The Universe must get quite a chuckle out of that.)

Not long ago, on a warm evening, I felt guided to take a walk beneath the night sky: No grand plan—just a quiet invitation. The air was soft, the breeze balmy, and there it was: a full moon suspended like a glowing reminder that beauty requires no announcement. And then came the surprise—a blue moon. Not blue in color, of course (the Universe enjoys poetry, not literalism), but rare nonetheless. The second full moon in a single month. An unexpected encore.

Now, I’ll admit something to you: I had missed the first full moon. Completely. It came and went while I was likely doing something extraordinarily important… like answering emails or deciding what to have for dinner. And yet, here it was again. Another chance. Another opening.

Getting A Divine Do-Over Is Not Difficult

As I sat there in the moonlight, I felt a quiet wave of gratitude. Not because I had done squat to deserve a second look, but because life itself seems rooted in generosity. It does not keep score the way we do. It does not say, “Well, you missed your moment—better luck next lifetime.” Instead, it whispers, “Here. Try again. I’m still here.”

This is the deeper invitation: not to wait for rare cosmic events to feel connected, but to recognize that every moment is, in fact, a blue moon in disguise. The opportunity to begin again is not occasional—it is continuous. Breath by breath. Choice by choice.

THE TAKEAWAY: The question then becomes beautifully simple: What makes you feel alive? Not what impresses others. Not what fills your calendar. But what quietly, unmistakably brings you into the present moment—where life is actually happening and waiting for you to show up to join the party. Whatever that is, as Hafiz admonishes, stay close to it. Not someday. Not when conditions are perfect, but now… and now… and now…

And if you forget? If you drift, miss the moment, or find yourself once again lost in the noise of “doing rather than being”? Well, take heart. The window is still open. Life, in its infinite compassion, is already offering you another do-over.

And yes—this one counts too.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright 2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

How do we embrace the ‘what is’ in a manner that allows us to respond to it proactively? The first step is acceptance. This does not mean we have to like “what is”—it means being willing to see the ‘apparent’ reality of the moment. ~ The Art of Uncertainty - How to Live In the Mystery of Life and Love It

There is a quiet kind of wisdom—a freedom that comes with accepting “what is” when the awareness arises that it’s beyond our control to change it.. The poet Longfellow once suggested that when it rains, the best course of action is to let it rain. It sounds almost too simple—until you notice how much of your life is spent metaphorically shaking your fist at the sky, negotiating with clouds that have no interest in your preferences.

Years ago, I was reminded of this truth by a most unlikely spiritual mentor: my dog named Master MacDoodle. One afternoon, I watched him sitting by the window, gazing out at a torrential downpour. Now, if ever there were a creature with a vested interest in fair weather—rabbits to chase, squirrels to interrogate—it would be a dog. And yet, there he sat. My Zen Dog. No visible frustration. No existential crisis. No inner anxiety or monologue lamenting the injustice of atmospheric conditions.

He wasn’t thinking, “Dang! This ruins my plans.” He wasn’t projecting into a sunnier tomorrow. He was simply… present. Rain was happening, and so he let it happen. When the sun returned, he would meet that, too, with equal enthusiasm and zero philosophical debate. In that moment, Mac revealed something profound: peace does not come from controlling conditions, but from aligning ourselves with them. This is not passivity; it is intentional participation in life as it unfolds. Dogs, it seems, are naturals at this. Humans, on the other hand, tend to complicate the matter.

We are meaning-makers, future-dwellers, and professional worriers. Our minds chase “rabbits and squirrels” of thought—unfinished tasks, imagined outcomes, replayed conversations—while our bodies sit in traffic or behind desks, quietly wondering if we’ll ever return. We postpone contentment, convinced it lives somewhere just beyond the next achievement, the next solution, the next version of ourselves.

But what if peace isn’t waiting for you in the next moment?

What if it’s quietly tapping you on the shoulder in this one?

Acceptance invites us back to the present moment. It asks us to notice: What is here, now? Not what should be, could be, or used to be—but what is. From that place of grounded awareness, our responses become more skillful, more compassionate, and, ironically, more effective. Resistance clouds perception; acceptance clarifies it. This doesn’t mean we stop improving our lives or addressing challenges. It means we begin from reality rather than argument. We meet life as a partner instead of an adversary. And yes, sometimes that partner shows up as a rainy afternoon.

So today, consider this mindfulnesss experiment: pause and notice what “is” in your immediate experience. Perhaps it’s stress, or boredom, or even joy. Instead of pushing it away or clinging to it, allow it. Approach it with equanimity. Breathe with it. Let it be as it is, just for a moment. You may discover that what you’ve been resisting is not nearly as powerful as the resistance itself.

THE TAKEAWAY: There will always be another moment, another condition, another “what is” arriving right on schedule. The question is not whether life will change—it will—but whether we will meet it awake or entangled. And if we find ourselves unsure how to proceed, we could do worse than to take a page from a dog’s playbook: sit by the window, watch the rain, and let life be exactly what it is.

Somewhere, beyond the great Rainbow Bridge, I suspect, MacDoodle would approve—with a wagging tail and absolutely no agenda.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

Have you ever paused—truly paused—to consider the quiet miracle and privilege of having a body? Not as an object to critique or compare, but as a living, breathing companion on your sojourn through the human experience. We might lovingly remind ourselves that this body is not merely something we “have”—it is something we are with, a sacred partnership between form and essence.

Your body is the vessel with which your soul touches the Earth. It is how you feel the warmth of sunlight, the embrace of a loved one, the steady rhythm of breath anchoring you to the present moment. It is, in a sense, your soul’s way of saying, “I am here.” And yet, like any wise companion, it speaks in subtle ways—through sensation, energy, fatigue, vitality. The question is not whether your body is communicating; it’s whether you’ve tuned in to listen to what it has to say.

Now, let’s get real—many of us have a complicated relationship with this “vehicle” we’ve been lent for the journey. If bodies came with user manuals, most would be buried in a drawer somewhere between expired coupons and old takeout menus. Instead, we either ignore the dashboard warning lights or obsess over every little rattle and squeak. Rarely do we simply appreciate the ride.

Imagine, for a moment, that your body is a one-of-a-kind automobile—custom-built, never to be replicated. Some of us feel like sleek, high-performance machines; others, perhaps more like well-loved classics with a few miles on the odometer. Mine is a 1949 custom-built, low-slung sports model. Personally, you might discover you’re driving something akin to a gently aging roadster—still reliable, a bit creaky on cold mornings, but full of character and stories. The paint may not shine as it once did, but oh, the places it has taken you.

And here’s a divine dose of wisdom: the “manufacturer,” in its infinite intelligence, did not make a mistake. This form—your form—was not randomly assigned or poorly designed. It is, in ways both obvious and mysterious, perfectly suited to your journey. Even the quirks, the limitations, the unexpected detours—they all carry within them invitations to grow, to soften, to awaken.

Perspective Is Everything

The quintessential question is: do you experience your body as a burden or as a blessing? The answer often has less to do with the body itself and more to do with the lens through which you see it. To accept your body is not to resign yourself—it is to enter into a conscious relationship of respect. To honor it is to listen when it whispers before it has to shout. To love it is to recognize that it has been faithfully showing up for you since your very first breath, asking for little more than your awareness and care.

THE TAKEAWAY: When you begin to meet your body with gratitude instead of judgment, something remarkable happens. The ordinary becomes extraordinary. A single breath feels like a generous gift rather than a given. The simple act of standing, stretching, or walking becomes a quiet celebration of aliveness. So today, perhaps you might try something different. Smile—yes, even if just slightly. Take a deeper breath than usual. Place your attention gently within and notice what your body is saying. Not what you think it should say, but what it actually offers in this moment.

Because this body, your body, is a rare and unrepeatable expression of life itself. There has never been another like it, and there never will be again. That alone makes it worthy of your curiosity, your kindness, your care, and your gratitude. And who knows? If you treat it well, it just might keep taking you on this extraordinary ride a little longer—no extended warranty required.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

This morning, as I walked along the beach beneath a sky already warming to the day, I found myself surrounded by a quiet parade of humanity. People moved briskly, as though the heat—or perhaps life itself—were in pursuit. A few wore easy smiles, but like zombies, most carried expressions that suggested numbness; as if they had somewhere else to be, something else to solve.

And it occurred to me: every one of these passersby is living a story I cannot see. Each person holds within them a private landscape of concerns, disappointments, hopes, and quiet battles. It brought to mind that enduring wisdom—be kind, be compassionate, for everyone you encounter is fighting a hard battle you may know nothing about.

A Story That Captures This In a Way Both Simple and Disarming:

Imagine a school of fish gliding along the bottom of a lake, suspended in their calm, underwater world. Suddenly, they notice a commotion above. One fish is thrashing wildly, leaping and splashing with dramatic flair. One of the onlookers scoffs, “What’s gotten into him? What a show-off.”

From below, the conclusion seems obvious. Yet what they cannot see is the small hook lodged in that fish’s mouth, nor the nearly invisible line pulling him upward. What looks like chaotic behavior is, in truth, a struggle for survival.

It’s not difficult to recognize ourselves in that school of fish. We move through life, and when someone’s behavior disrupts our expectations—when they seem rude, distant, irritable, or simply out of sync—we instinctively conclude and construct a story in our minds about who they are and why they’re acting that way. The mind is quick to label, often with very little evidence.

What We Don’t See Is the “Hook.”

It may be grief that lingers just beneath the surface, anxiety that hums quietly in the background, or pressures that have been building long before this moment. Yet instead of wondering, “What might they be going through?” we often default to, “What’s their problem?” Curiously, this habit doesn’t spare those closest to us. In fact, familiarity can invite sharper judgment rather than deeper understanding. We assume we know the full story, forgetting that even those we love are navigating inner terrain we may never fully see.

Centuries ago, Marcus Aurelius observed that if we are disturbed, it is not the event itself but our judgment about it. While we cannot control what we encounter, we can influence how we interpret it. This is where compassion offers another way. At its root, compassion means “to feel with.” It doesn’t ask us to fix, advise, or resolve. It simply invites us to be present—to allow another’s experience to exist without immediately labeling or dismissing it. Our mere presence says, “You are not alone.”

This isn’t always easy. “To feel” with someone is, at times, to brush against our own vulnerabilities. Judgment creates a comfortable distance; it can feel safer, more contained. But compassion, though quieter, is more powerful. It softens the sense of separation and offers something many people quietly long for: the feeling of being seen. We all want our lives to be witnessed; to be affirmed that we matter. And it need not be grand. Compassion lives in small moments—in the pause before reacting, in the choice to soften an assumption (judgment), in the willingness to consider that there is more beneath the surface than we can perceive.

THE TAKEAWAY: As you move through your day, perhaps you’ll remember the fish. The one who appeared foolish from below was, in reality, doing everything possible to survive. That shift in perspective may seem small, but it has a quiet influence. It changes how we meet one another, moment by moment.

And enough moments like that, gently lived, can begin to change everything.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026 - www.DennisMerrittJones.com

William Blake once suggested that if the “doors of perception were cleansed,” we would see life as infinite. Instead, most of us peer out at existence as though we’re squinting through a keyhole of a rarely opened door. It’s a bit like owning a beachfront home and spending all our time in the broom closet. Admirably tidy, no doubt—but we are missing the view.

At the heart of this curious predicament is a simple case of mistaken identity. We’ve grown accustomed to thinking of ourselves as human beings who occasionally stumble into spiritual moments—usually when the Wi-Fi is down, or the sunset is particularly cooperative. Yet the deeper truth is we are spiritual beings, continuously engaged in a human experience. Not sometimes. Always.

Somewhere along the way, we became so preoccupied with doing life—checking boxes, answering emails, reorganizing drawers that didn’t need reorganizing—that we forgot we are life itself. And life, when properly noticed, is not a to-do list. It is a living, breathing miracle unfolding from the inside out. Our experience of life, then, is shaped less by circumstances and more by perception. Perception is not a fixed fact etched in stone; it’s more like a mirror—occasionally foggy, sometimes distorted, but always reflecting the state of our inner world. Change the inner landscape, and the outer scenery begins to shift in quiet, remarkable ways.

When we begin to entertain—even gently—the idea that we are expressions of something infinite, something sacred, something profoundly intelligent, our perception expands.

The happy result is that when perception expands, behavior follows. We become a little kinder, a little more patient, and perhaps even a bit more amused by the human condition—especially our own.

Ancient wisdom traditions speak of the Three Miracles. The first: that anything exists at all. The second: that living things exist—plants, animals, ecosystems, humming along in intricate harmony. And the third, most astonishing of all: living things that know they exist. That would be you. Yes, you—the one reading this, possibly while sipping coffee or wondering what’s for dinner. Pause for a moment and consider that. The universe has, in some mysterious way, become aware of Itself…as you. That alone is a real mind-blower that invites us to take a deeper dive.

In addition to the visionary William Blake, philosophers such as Plato and Spinoza hinted at this interconnectedness long ago, reminding us that we are not separate fragments, but expressions of a single, living Whole. Yet, as Blake warned, it’s easy to retreat into the cavern of a busy, worried mind, where the vastness of life is reduced to a narrow beam of concern over deadlines, errands, and whether we replied to that text.

THE TAKEAWAY: So what’s the invitation here? Not to abandon your life and move to a mountaintop, but to gently shift your perspective. To remember that before every thought, before every role, before every accomplishment or worry—there is simply I Am. Not “I am busy,” or “I am tired,” or even “I am successful.” Just I Am. Period. Infinite Presence itself. Awareness itself. The silent observer behind every thought we’ve ever had. And here’s the mindblower: if we can observe our thoughts, then we must be something larger than those thoughts. Which means we are not confined to the chatter of our mind—we are the creative space in which that chatter appears. That realization alone can feel like opening a window in a stuffy room.

So take a few moments. Sit quietly. Feel your breath moving in and out, as naturally as the tide. Place your hand on your heart and notice its steady rhythm, faithfully keeping time without your supervision. Your body is performing a symphony of functions, none of which require your conscious effort. And then, gently ask: Who is doing all of this? Not as a question demanding an answer but as a doorway opened by curiosity and wonder. Because in that moment of awareness—when you realize that you are aware—you touch something extraordinary. Something vast. Something intimate. Something that, quite simply, is the miracle of you.

Amazing, isn’t it?

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

Have you noticed? Aging has a funny way of sneaking up on us. One day, we feel perfectly normal, and the next, we catch our reflection and wonder who invited that older person into our mirror. The strange part is, internally, not much has changed—we still feel like ourselves. That disconnect is part of the human experience: we age on the outside much faster than we do on the inside. Perspective matters. My eighty-year-old brother says that old age is like a slow march into enemy territory. My perspective is that we can see it as a slow decline, or as a natural, even meaningful, progression along the pathway of a life well lived. It’s not a march into enemy territory so much as a slow, inevitable glide toward the mystery of the “next yet to be.”

Have you noticed that as we “mature” physically, time, too, tends to speed up? The years pass more quickly than expected, but aging doesn’t have to be something we resist or resent. In fact, fighting it tends to make the experience more painful. Like it or not, the body is coming along for the ride—and it’s keeping score.

The real challenge is learning to accept change with

some degree of grace (or at least a sense of humor)

The body that once felt strong, flexible, and cooperative starts renegotiating the terms of its trajectory. Muscles complain, joints protest, and things simply don’t work the way they used to. Even a well-intentioned workout can feel like a reminder that our “equipment” has seen some mileage. Then there are the cosmetic surprises, too. Our hair begins to mysteriously relocate—less where we want it, more where we don’t. At some point, a few body parts that were located in the north slowly slide south, leaving us with the assumption that the universe must have a bent sense of humor. Again, perspective helps. As the saying goes, it still beats the alternative. Waking up with a few aches is better than not waking up at all.

Perhaps We Need To See the Aging Process As

a Badge Of Honor Rather Than a Punishment

Growing older takes a certain kind of courage. It asks us to face reality head-on while continuing to show up for life. That’s no small thing. One helpful shift is realizing that we are more than the body we live in. The reflection in the mirror tells only part of the story. Beneath the surface is something less affected by time—our spirit and soul essence; our personality, our memories (sort of), our sense of humor, our way of seeing the world. That deeper “you” doesn’t wrinkle quite so easily.

Balancing the awareness of our spiritual nature with the temporal fragility of the human condition is the practice of a lifetime. Our physical body is merely the delivery device that allows our soul to touch the earth. When we can remember that it’s nothing more (or less) than a temporary, carbon-based, biodegradable, disposable vehicle in which we traverse the human condition, we are more easily able to transcend our attachment to it.

THE TAKEAWAY: What our body looks like now and how it functions is secondary to the fact that we’ve been blessed and honored with the privilege of using it for as long as we have. With this awareness, irrespective of how old we are, no matter how many miles are on the vehicle, we can look into the rearview mirror and smile with a grateful heart, knowing old age is not a slow march into enemy territory; it’s a necessary glide path to the next great “yet to be” ...and that is a beautiful thing.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

Have you ever felt like you were walking through a dim hallway of grief—caught between the ache of loss and a quiet, distant hope? In the past few years, I’ve lost both parents, an older sister, dear friends, and my beloved dog. Through these losses, I’ve come to understand that grief can feel like both a burden and a strange kind of gift. It hurts deeply, yet it also seems to whisper, “You’re not alone—and there is something here you are meant to move through, not around.”

“Grief changes shape, but it never ends.” ~ Keanu Reeves

Grief is profoundly personal, and it doesn’t truly end. Over time, though, it changes. It softens in some places and deepens in others. The goal isn’t to overcome or silence grief, but to learn how to live with it—how to let it exist without letting it consume us. When someone we love dies—whether human or animal—it leaves behind a space that feels impossibly empty. And yet, that space can become something sacred: a place where memory, love, and Presence continue in a different form.

It can help to think of grief as a kind of rite of passage, one that arrives in waves. Each wave asks us to recognize and remember what has been lost—something unique, irreplaceable, and deeply woven into the fabric of our lives. In honoring that loss, we also begin to understand how profoundly that relationship changed us. Grief, in this way, is good because it becomes a thread that still connects us to those we love. It is not only pain; it is also evidence of the perpetual love that endures beyond physical presence.

At times, grief can feel isolating. But that sense of separation is not the full truth. The love we’ve shared does not disappear—it remains continual, carried in memory, in feeling, in the quiet moments when we least expect it. When grief rises, it can be seen not just as sorrow, but as a gentle reminder of that ongoing connection. In a way, it brings our loved ones close again.

It’s also important to remember that grief isn’t limited to physical death. We grieve any meaningful loss—a relationship, a home, a job, a sense of identity. These experiences deserve the same compassion and acknowledgment. When we allow ourselves to feel them fully, we create space for healing and growth. Part of that healing often involves re-engaging with life, even in small ways. Sometimes, reaching out to others—offering kindness, support, or service—can bring unexpected lightness. It can seem as though we are never as full of ourselves as when grief pays us a visit. Serving—or giving to—someone else can remind us of who we really are and help us rediscover our purpose for being on the planet. It can also be a way of honoring those we’ve lost, carrying forward the love they embedded in our hearts.

THE TAKEAWAY: With the proper perspective, the extent of our grief can serve as a good reminder that grief and love are inseparable. The depth of one reflects the depth of the other. As we move through our own journeys of loss, may we listen for the quiet reassurance beneath it all—the steady, compassionate voice of the One that reminds us: “Hey, you are not alone.”

Peace, Dennis Merritt Jones, DD

PS. If you know someone who is grieving, if it feels appropriate, please pass this message on to them.

Copyright © 2026 - www.DennisMerrittJones.com

“Too often, we miss out on opportunities in this life because we are too busy waiting for them to fall into our lap that we miss them tapping on our shoulder.” ― Daniel Willey

Have you ever stumbled into an opportunity that wasn’t really in your lane, but saying no might’ve meant missing out on something unforgettable? That happened to me back in 1974. I had just graduated from college with a BA in music and was dreaming of writing, performing, and recording my own songs. Then, out of nowhere, I answered a newspaper ad from a woman named Rose Baker. She was writing country music lyrics and wanted to collaborate with a musician. Not only that—she was offering $50 per song. Bingo! My first paid songwriting gig? That got my attention fast.

Now, here’s the twist: my musical training was in classical music. Country music wasn’t just outside my comfort zone—it was in a completely different zip code. (Imagine Pavarati singing “Your Cheatin’ Heart”—that was me.) But when the opportunity presented itself, I thought to myself, “YES! What the heck do I have to lose?” was the only thing to say. While it was a stretch for me, it still felt juicy. So I met up with Rose and wrote music for two of her song lyrics. Around the same time, I met a guy named Lee Hester at one of my gigs. He became a loyal fan and friend—and then offered to finance and help produce a recording of the songs. Once again: “YES! What the heck do I have to lose?” was my mantra. Next thing I knew, we were in a recording studio launching a brand-new venture called “Merittorious Productions” (yes, the spelling was on purpose… sort of).

The songs? “Just See You Through” and “Where Did All the Fire Go?” And let me tell you—they had every classic country heartbreak cliché you can imagine. The guy in prison, lost love, sorrow… it was all there. The only thing missing was a dog, a pickup truck, and a train wreck on a rainy night in Georgia. Honestly, they were probably the worst songs I’ve ever recorded.

But here’s where it gets fun.

Rose—God bless her little heart—was from Oklahoma and seemed to know every truck stop manager along Route 66. She packed up a big box of 45 records and hit the road, stopping at truck stops from California to the Midwest. At each stop, she convinced managers to put our record on their jukeboxes. Of course, they all said yes. What I admired about Rose was her tenacity; she never settled for “no” as the final answer.

Well, it worked!

Truckers started hearing the songs—and then calling country radio stations while on the road to request them. Before long, our little project had cracked the Top 40 on several country stations across the Heartland. But. I wasn’t Elvis…yet.

Just like that… dream realized. I even joined ASCAP. And then, just as quickly as it started, my country music “career” came and went—but not without leaving a lasting mark. Over the years, I lost touch with Rose, her husband Jerry, and Lee. But I’ve never forgotten their kindness, generosity, and passion—for music and for taking chances on something new… or someone new.

And that’s really the point of it all.

THE TAKEAWAY: Sometimes life hands us an opportunity—something unexpected—something out of our lane that doesn’t quite fit our plan. In those moments, it might be worth saying YES and asking yourself, “What the heck do I have to lose?”

As it turns out, I had nothing to lose—and everything to gain. New friendships, unforgettable experiences, and a story that still makes me crack a smile 50 years later.

True story. I’ve got the record to prove it. 🙂

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

Have you ever considered that practicing “Reverence” isn’t applicable only in church? To live with reverence is to recognize that we stand, always, upon sacred ground. Not sometimes. Not only when conditions feel peaceful, orderly, or “spiritual.” But always. Reverence is not reserved for temples, rituals, or a quiet hour on a Sunday morning—it is a way of seeing, a way of being, a way of remembering.

And yet, it is so easy to forget.

There are moments when life appears cluttered, chaotic, even harsh. In those moments, the mind steps in as judge and jury, slapping labels on everything it encounters: this is good, that is bad; he is worthy, she is not; this belongs, that does not. These labels, though habitual, quietly veil the sacred. They do not change reality—they only obscure our perception of it.

The call to reverence never ceases. It whispers beneath the

noise of judgment, patiently inviting us back to a deeper seeing

The spiritual teacher Ernest Holmes understood this well. It is said that he would sometimes dine with a simple vase of weeds placed upon his table. Not roses. Not carefully curated beauty. Weeds. Why? Because he recognized something profound: the sacred Life flowing through the weed is the same Life flowing through the rose. The difference lies not in their essence, but in our perception.

This insight points to a deeper truth: there is but One Reality, expressing itself in countless forms. And that Reality is not distant or hidden—it is present here and now, in the ordinary as much as the extraordinary. The sacred does not wait for perfection; it reveals itself through Presence.

To live with reverence, then, is to cultivate the eyes to see—to look beyond appearances and into essence gently. This is not a practice mastered in a moment, but one unfolded over a lifetime. It asks us to pause in the midst of our busy thoughts and remember: what I am seeing is more than it appears. Even in moments of distraction, even when we feel disconnected, something within us remains whole, intact, and inseparable from the Source of all life. Reverence is the act of returning to that knowing.

When we begin to see this way, something shifts. The ordinary becomes extraordinary and luminous. A conversation becomes more than an exchange of words—it becomes an opportunity to encounter the divine in another. A meal becomes more than nourishment—it becomes communion. Even a fleeting moment becomes a doorway into the eternal.

And perhaps most importantly, we begin to include ourselves in this sacred vision

For many, it is easier to see sacred beauty “out there” than to recognize it within. We are often our own harshest critics, layering judgment upon judgment until the truth of who we are becomes obscured. But reverence invites a different approach. It asks us to stand before ourselves—just as we are—and gently release the labels we have clung to. What remains, when all judgment falls away, is something quietly radiant. To live with reverence is to see that radiance everywhere—in a weed, in a stranger, in the mirror.

A Simple Affirmation Can Anchor This Awareness

“Everywhere I go, I behold the sacred, expressing itself in countless forms. What I see in the mirror is not separate from the One—While I am not all It is, It is All that I am.”

THE TAKEAWAY: If the image of a vase of weeds does not speak to you, try something even more immediate. Stand before a mirror. Look gently. Begin to peel away the labels you have placed on the one gazing back at you. Beyond the stories, beyond the judgments, beyond the roles—something sacred is shining. Can you see it?

So whether you find yourself gazing upon a field of weeds or into the depths of your own eyes, pause…and remember:

This, too, is holy.

To recognize that… is to live with reverence.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

“The question of reincarnation is meaningless when we accept the fact that at some level we have always been and shall always be; it’s what we do today with who we are that matters.” ~ How to Speak Science of Mind

I remember a moment in one of my ministerial classes when the topic of reincarnation sparked a passionate debate. Our teacher listened, then asked a simple question that silenced the room: Did it really matter? Like the sweet fragrance of incense, his question lingered—gentle, persistent—less a demand for an answer than an invitation to a deeper conversation.

Perhaps life is not a circle, endlessly repeating, but an upward spiral—expanding, deepening, becoming. Not a return to what has been, but a movement toward what has yet to be realized. Still, we ask: Will we come back? Beneath that question lies a deeper longing—to know our lives matter, that our presence is not a casual happenstance without meaning.

But meaning is not found in the promise of another life. It is found here.

If this life is all there is—if the final breath is simply lights out and a closing curtain—then how sacred does this moment become? How precious each word, each kindness, each quiet act of love? The ordinary becomes eternal not because it lasts forever, but because it is lived fully, consciously, now.

And if life continues—if the soul moves beyond this world, carrying the karmic imprint of all it has known—then what we are today becomes the soil of what we will become. Not as reward or punishment, but as resonance. As the echo of our own consciousness moves forward into the mystery.

In either case, the invitation remains the same: be here now.

So many live as though life is elsewhere—just ahead, just beyond reach. They trade the miracle of this breath for the illusion of tomorrow. But tomorrow never truly arrives. It is always this moment that holds the doorway. This quiet, often overlooked moment is where eternity meets time. Here is where our lives are shaped—not only in grand gestures, but in small, unseen choices: love over fear, presence over distraction, truth over convenience. Each choice a brushstroke. Each intention an offering.

Whether our lives ripple forward through generations or into dimensions beyond comprehension is secondary. The miracle is that they ripple at all—that we are here, capable of shaping something unseen through what we do and who we are. What we leave behind is more than memory; it is presence—a warmth, a kindness, a way of being that lingers.

So perhaps reincarnation is not the point.

Perhaps the point is incarnation—to fully arrive in this body, this breath, this fleeting and luminous moment. To live so that when it is time to let go—whether into silence or into something new—we can do so with a quiet knowing: I was here. I lived. I loved. And that was enough.

In the end, eternity is not something we enter later. It is something we touch each time we choose to be fully alive now.

THE TAKEAWAY: The real question is not whether we return, but whether we have truly arrived. Have we shown up with willing minds and open hearts? Have we lived our highest intentions? Have we allowed ourselves to be more than our fears? Will the planet be a better place tomorrow because we were here today? When the final moment comes, what will matter is not where we are going, but how fully we have lived. Why? Because, regardless of where we end up, that karmic imprint travels with us.

So, be here now. Not later. Not in another lifetime. Now. May we cease living for tomorrow, today. For what we do with who we are now is the only eternity we can ever truly touch.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com

“Will I use the power of my presence, my actions, and the words I speak to lift and love those I share this part of my world with?” ~ The Art of Abundance

Have you ever spoken words you later regretted? Who hasn’t, right? Words, once released into the world, can’t be unspoken. They are like eggs dropped upon the kitchen floor—fragile, final, and impossible to put back into their shells. This simple truth invites us into a deeper inquiry: How am I choosing to show up in the sacred space between my thoughts and speech?

Each of us has known the quiet ache of wishing we could take back something we’ve said. A sharp remark spoken mindlessly in haste, a careless phrase born of distraction, a judgment delivered before understanding had a chance to bloom. When mindful, these moments are not failures; they are invitations—gentle nudges calling us back to Presence.

To live mindfully is to “remember to remember.” To pause, even briefly, and witness the subtle formation of thought before it becomes word. In that pause lies our freedom. Without it, words tend to spill out unconsciously, often fueled by emotional currents such as anger, excitement, or fear. And when they do, they can wound—sometimes deeply. For proof of this, we need look no further than certain political leaders who carelessly weaponize their words.

Yet This Same Power, When Held With Awareness Becomes a Force For Healing

Words are not merely sounds or symbols. They are carriers of energy, infused with intention. A single sentence, spoken with kindness, can uplift a weary heart. A moment of sincere acknowledgment can restore dignity. When love shapes our speech, our words become instruments of connection, bridges between souls.

The Paradox:

The Very Tool That Can Harm Can Also Heal

When we slow down—when we allow our inner landscape to settle—we begin to notice the immense responsibility and privilege we hold. We realize that every interaction offers a choice: Will I speak from reactivity, or will I respond from Presence? Will I contribute to harmony, or add to the noise?

Mindfulness asks us not to be perfect, but to be aware. To become the observer of our own inner dialogue. To notice the tone, the intention, the subtle motivations behind what we are about to say. In doing so, we step out of autopilot and into conscious living. Consider, for a moment, how our words shape our world. Not just outwardly, but inwardly as well. The language we use influences our relationships, our emotional state, and even our sense of identity. Words do not simply describe reality—they participate in creating it.

THE TAKEAWAY: Today, you might ask yourself a simple yet profound question: Are my words aligned with the kind of Presence I wish to embody? There is an ancient wisdom that reminds us to engage the mind before setting the mouth in motion. This is not about restraint born of fear, but about expression guided by awareness, compassion, and kindness. It is about honoring the space between stimulus and response, where wisdom quietly waits. And yes, there will still be moments when words fall short of our highest intention. When they do, let them humble you, not harden you. Let them deepen your commitment to living more consciously, more compassionately.

Words spoken really are like eggs broken; we can no more unspeak our words than we can unbreak an egg. Mindfully activating the ancient admonition, “Put mind in gear before putting mouth in motion,” is the mark of a wise and conscious being. The good news is you’ll have fewer omelets to make.

Speak, then, as if your words matter—because they do.

Peace, Dennis

Copyright©2026—www.DennisMerrittJones.com