Tending the Sacred Thread: From metrics to mycelium—reclaiming the deeper reason we do this work.

Lately, I’ve been tangled in the weeds—strategy, structure, timelines, metrics, spreadsheets.
All the unsexy bits of the work I do.
Necessary, yes—but rarely nourishing.

Between my role as a Fractional CMO and the behind-the-scenes effort of birthing a new vision, I’ve been spending more time inside Google Docs than inside my own imagination.

And here’s the thing: helping others pull a dream from the imaginal into reality is one of my favorite things to do. 
It lights me up.
I’ve built a career on guiding others through that journey.
But doing it for myself? That’s different. That’s where the resistance lives. The fog. The push-pull between clarity and overwhelm.

Still, the vision is there.

Let me share a glimpse of where I’ve been wandering lately in the imaginal realm:

The marketplace is bustling—sunlight glinting off colored fabrics stretched above open vendor stalls. Aromas of spice and sweetness drift through the air. Laughter echoes as children dart between baskets of fruit. Women are bartering with gleeful precision. It’s alive. Vivid. Vibrant.

But just off to the side—through a simple archway—there’s something different. A quieter space. A courtyard shaded by trees, with a fountain bubbling at its center. Here, small groups gather: one circle is sharing stories and laughter, another is stretching together in slow, deliberate movement. In the corner, a few vendors quietly work through a supply issue with mutual care and creativity.

This courtyard isn’t for customers—it’s for the ones who make the magic. 
A sacred pause. A place to remember why they began.
To reconnect. To recalibrate. To root down before returning to the bustle.

This is the heart of the vision I’m building. 
Not just content or community or coaching—but a courtyard.
A sanctuary for sacred work.

And yet… bringing that kind of space into a digital landscape?
It’s hard.
It’s vulnerable.
It’s slow.

Some days, translating what I see so clearly into words and systems and offerings makes me feel like I’m trying to sketch a cathedral with sidewalk chalk.

So I took a step back.
Not out—but deeper in.
Into the mountains.
Into the woods where the water runs clear with spring’s generous rains.

I wandered to the patch where, every year, I look for a single Lady Slipper. Just one.
But this time, the whole forest floor was scattered with them.
A bloom of grace.

 

And that—that was what I needed.
To remember the threads.
The ones that hum between everything—trees, plants, mushrooms, animals, humans.

The web of connection is real.

But it’s hard to feel when we’re wrapped in the noise of everyday life.
Harder still when we try to build from disconnection.

It’s easy to blame “modern life,” but the ache for silence, for belonging, is ancient.
The Desert Mothers and Fathers felt it.
They went into the wilderness not to escape, but to remember.
To hear the finer music.
To return, changed, and begin again.

What follows came through as I walked beneath trees older than memory, alongside streams full of rain and renewal…

Sometimes I wonder—what if we moved through the world truly remembering that we are all one?
No enemy. No algorithm. No audience. No “other.”
Just different expressions of the same heart.
The same soul, turning slowly toward itself.

I know that sounds like a line from a greeting card—or maybe a scene from Doctor Who, with the Ood, those hive-mind aliens.
But I don’t mean it like that.

I mean—what if it’s actually true?

When I’m in nature—whether I’m here, in these ancient Pennsylvania mountains, surrounded by birdsong and the electric green of May—or across the world in the African bushveld, where elephants and lions move through the dust without hurry—there’s no doubt in my body about the interconnection of all life.

The circle of life isn’t a metaphor.
It’s an ecosystem—living, breathing, adjusting in real time.
Thousands of quiet relationships, woven together.

And when I’m in those places, I tune in differently.
I notice more. I listen better.
To sound. To smell. To presence.
To the way the world moves when we’re paying attention.

But connection isn’t limited to wild places.
Even in my own backyard, I feel it.

Someone recently asked me how my gardens always look so lovely.
The truth? They don’t.
Sometimes they droop. Sometimes they struggle.

But I notice. I stop. I listen.
Is it too dry? Too shaded? Too sunny?
What do they need to thrive?

Sometimes I intervene—adjust light, water, care.
Sometimes a plant just isn’t meant for this ecosystem, and it’s gently let go.

Recently I came across a study that found plants could recognize the return of their primary caretaker—responding visibly and favorably to familiar presence.

We’re not the only ones who respond to connection.
We’re not the only ones who know who loves us.

And when we begin to see all of these interconnections—not as ideas, but as reality—something shifts.

It changes how we move through the world.
How we speak to it.
How it speaks back.

Not because of karma or cosmic reward systems,
but because we are all part of the same fabric.

If that’s true—then how we build things matters.
Not just what we build, but how we build it.

A business built on extraction
extracts from the person building it, too.
Every transaction without tenderness,
every pitch without presence,
every time we pretend not to care when we actually do—
it leaves a mark.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how easy it is to get lost in the weeds of building something,
To chase the next metric or milestone, and to forget that we’re not just here to grow something scalable—
we’re here to tend something sacred, in right relationship with the whole.

Because maybe your offer isn’t just something you sell.
Maybe it’s a ritual of return.
A quiet act of gathering what’s been scattered—
in yourself,
in your people,
in the wider web we belong to.

I don’t have it all figured out.
I’m not trying to sound wise or profound.

I just keep coming back to this question:

What if there is no other?
What would change?

I don’t have the answers.
But when we ask the questions that matter—and listen, with the whole of ourselves—the world begins to whisper back.

That’s how we begin.
That’s how we remember and return to what’s real.

This space is for remembering—together.
If something in this piece spoke to you, I’d love to hear what it opened.
What questions are you asking these days?