Possibility Doctor

Every year around this time, I seem to turn inward a little.

Maybe it's my birthday month. Maybe it's the shorter days and that first hint of fall in the air. Maybe it's because I'm already thinking about purchasing next year's planner, despite the fact that 2026 isn't over yet.

Whatever the reason, September has always felt like a season of change to me.

Do you feel a shift this time of year too?

I've been thinking about the people whose homes were destroyed in the fires here in Spokane.

There was an incredible outpouring of help in the immediate aftermath, as there should be. But rebuilding a life takes much longer than the news cycle.

What happens nine months from now? A year from now? 2 years?

By then, most of us will have returned to our ordinary lives. And that's okay. We have to live our lives.

But maybe we can remember.

Maybe compassion isn't only about showing up when something terrible happens. Maybe it's also about remembering later.

I don't have a profound answer to this. I'm still thinking about it.

Life can change very quickly.

One minute you're celebrating a new car with a giant yellow bow. A few hours later, you're wondering whether you need to evacuate your home.

I learned that day that I can be anxious and grateful at the same time. I can be concerned about what is happening and still laugh. I can know that other people are hurting and still enjoy a really good moment.

Maybe that's not denial.

Maybe that's just being alive.

What are you holding today that feels like two things at once?

It started as a perfectly ordinary Saturday. Highland Games with my daughter. A new-to-her car with a giant yellow bow. Lunch in North Spokane.

And then there was smoke.

By the end of the day, our neighborhood was under a "GO NOW" evacuation order. We had five cats between us, a go bag, a lot of uncertainty, and a decision to make.

I wrote about that day in this week's email, but the story turned out to be about more than the fire. Two weeks later, we drove through neighborhoods where dozens and dozens of homes were gone.

I've been thinking about what happens after the emergency is over, when the news moves on but rebuilding is just beginning.

And also about how we can still enjoy the giant yellow bow on the new car.

If you're already on my email list, this week's letter is in your inbox.

If you're not, we're going to fix that soon. Because apparently I have more stories to tell. DM me and I'll send you the link to the email.

We took this photo after we learned there was nothing more that could be done for sweet OC.

It's not a picture I ever expected to treasure.

But now, when I look at it, I don't see one of the hardest days. I see love. I see my daughter listening to that quiet nudge that something wasn't right. And I see one last chance to say goodbye.

Those are the moments that stay with us.

I used to think perspective came from reading another book or learning another spiritual principle.

Sometimes it comes from living an ordinary Saturday.

Sometimes it comes from realizing that the thing upsetting you at noon isn't the thing you'll remember years later.

Life has a way of gently reminding us what matters most.

My daughter and I found the perfect patio table and 2 chairs at an estate sale.

We put the little blue "SOLD" tape on it and wandered off to see what other treasures we might find.

When we finally made our way to the cashier, I looked up just in time to see "our" table and chairs driving away in the back of someone else's pickup truck.

As we walked back to the car, we discovered we'd both had the exact same thought: "We should have carried them up to the checkout area."

Neither of us had said anything.

Funny how those quiet nudges show up.

Have you ever ignored one... and wished you hadn't?

I used to think clarity came first and action came second.

Lately I'm not so sure.

Sometimes we receive enough clarity to take one step.

Then the next step becomes visible.

Maybe we don't need the entire blueprint. Maybe we just need enough light for the next few feet.

One little question changed everything: "What would make this better than it is today?"

Not perfect.

Not forever.

Just better.

I've been surprised by how often that question works—not just for landscaping, but for life.

For almost three years, I walked past this every day.

I kept thinking I'd figure out the perfect solution. A deck? A fountain? A meditation garden? I waited for clarity before making a decision.

Eventually, I stopped trying to solve the whole problem and simply spread black basalt rock over the exposed roots.

It wasn't the grand transformation I'd imagined.

But it was enough.

That little project reminded me how often I put my own life on hold while I wait for clarity.

Maybe you've done that too.

What if clarity doesn't always come first?

What if taking one small step is what creates the clarity you've been waiting for?

I'd love to hear - where in your life are you waiting for certainty before taking the next step?