Reflections to Spark Your Journey
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 One day, AnuBel followed a path she had never taken before.
It led her away from the open fields… past the soft hills… and toward a place made of glass and light. A tall tower stretched into the sky. Inside the tower lived someone she loved. Everything there was polished and precise. Ordered. Measured. Certain. It shimmered in its own way. And there was love between them. AnuBel stepped inside, her small lantern glowing softly. For a while, they sat together. And then, gently at first… something shifted. Her friend looked at the lantern. “What is that?” she asked. “A light,” AnuBel said, smiling. “It helps me see what can’t always be seen.” Her friend laughed, not unkindly. “You don’t need that here,” she said. “Everything that matters is already visible.” AnuBel tilted her head. She looked around. Everything was visible. And yet… Something felt missing. As they talked, her friend began to explain: “You should stay here,” she said. “It’s better. It makes more sense. Everything is clear.” AnuBel felt it then. Not in her thoughts… but in the quiet space inside her chest. A soft dimming. As if her lantern had been gently covered. For a moment, she wondered: Maybe she’s right… But then she looked down. The lantern was still there. Still glowing. Even if no one else could see it. And in that moment, AnuBel understood. It wasn’t that her friend didn’t care. It was that her friend lived in a world where only certain kinds of light were recognized. The tower needed everything to be visible. But AnuBel’s light… came from within moved in its own rhythm and revealed things that couldn’t be measured. Her friend didn’t hate the lantern. She simply didn’t know how to see it. And without knowing how to see it… she tried to replace it. AnuBel stood quietly for a moment. Then she smiled. Not to agree. Not to argue. But because she understood. She gave her friend a gentle hug. And without needing to explain… without needing to convince… She walked back down the tower. Out past the glass. Back into the open air. Back to where the unseen could breathe again. As soon as her feet touched the earth… Her lantern grew brighter AnuBel paused and looked back once. With love. Not to return… but to remember: Not every place is meant to hold every kind of light. And then she turned forward again-- her lantern glowing softly beside her. Lighting the path for those who are ready to see. AnuBel, LLC • AnuBel.com
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 When a “perfect little space” revealed a life that was too small
There was a time when I believed I had the perfect arrangement. A little studio in the backyard. A space of my own. My husband at the time had built it for me, and at first it seemed thoughtful — even generous. I think his intentions were quite good. My own office. My own little haven. A place to write, think, work, and create. It looked like freedom. Until one day, after the meter reader came by, everything changed. I wasn’t home at the time. Later, my husband told me the man had asked: “Where’s the lady in the box?” And something inside me went cold. Because suddenly, that charming little studio wasn’t a haven anymore. It was a box. And I was the lady in it. What made it even more surreal was what was happening around me. I was inside that box working — really working. On calls with executives. Managing real responsibility. Contributing in meaningful ways. And meanwhile, outside? Life was… casual. Loose. Free. His friends would come over, looking for him. They’d wander into the backyard, open the door without knocking, and interrupt me mid-call. “Where’s is he?” Just like that. No pause. No awareness. No respect for the fact that I was in the middle of something important. I remember sitting there on a call — a CEO on the line -- and the door swings open. The dog barks suddenly and loudly. “Where’s is he?” It was embarrassing. Disorienting. And honestly, a little humiliating. Because not only was I in the box -- I wasn’t even being seen as someone who mattered inside it. When I finally set a boundary -- when I said, please don’t come in here while I’m working -- everything shifted again. Not toward respect. Toward resistance. Suddenly it became: “Oh, we’re not allowed to go in there anymore because Jody gets mad.” And just like that, I wasn’t the professional holding a call. I was the problem. That’s the part people don’t talk about enough. When you’re inside the box, and you finally try to draw a line -- you’re often made into the villain for wanting basic respect. At first, the space had seemed like a gift. Quiet. Focus. Creativity. But over time, it began to represent something else: Separation. Containment. Invisibility. It’s amazing how long something can look like a blessing before you recognize the shape of the cage. I think many people know this feeling, even if the box looks different. Sometimes it’s a job that slowly consumes you. Sometimes it’s a relationship where one person expands while the other contracts. Sometimes it’s the role of being “the reliable one,” the one who holds everything together. In my case, I was the lady in the box. But I’ve come to see that boxes aren’t built for one kind of person alone -- only shaped differently depending on the life we’re living. That moment — “Where’s the lady in the box?” -- became a mirror I couldn’t unsee. Because once you see the box, you can’t pretend it’s a garden. Once you feel the walls, you begin to remember your own shape. Your movement. Your voice. Your life. I’m no longer interested in being the lady in the box. I’m interested in open sky. In movement. In mutuality. In a life where creativity is not confinement, and partnership does not mean one person disappears. Sometimes liberation begins with a sentence you never expected to hear. A strange question from a stranger at the door. A phrase that opens everything. And once it does… there is no going back. A gentle closing If you find yourself in a box — visible or invisible -- pause for a moment and feel the edges. Not to judge yourself. Not to rush your way out. But simply to notice. Because awareness is the first opening. And from there, even the smallest shift in truth can begin to widen into sky.  Lately I’ve been noticing something gentle happening in my life.
It isn’t loud or dramatic. In fact, it’s easy to miss. But it’s real. Small moments of kindness have been appearing — a thoughtful comment, a warm message, a neighbor’s smile, a friend reaching out just to say hello. Nothing extraordinary on the surface. Just small gestures of generosity and goodwill. And yet together they feel like little gifts. One evening as I was thinking about this, an image came to mind. I saw a path stretching out before me — soft and winding, like the Starlight Path. Along the edges of the path were small lights glowing quietly in the darkness. And then I understood something. Each light represented one of those moments. A kind word. A shared laugh. A neighbor’s wave across the street. A friend who listens with care. A creative idea offered freely, without competition. None of these lights were trying to be impressive. None were seeking attention. But together they illuminated the way forward. For many years, I experienced relationships differently. Much of the world — especially in business and achievement-oriented spaces — can feel transactional. There is often an undercurrent of competition, subtle jockeying for position, or the quiet question of who has the upper hand. It’s easy to slip into that pattern without even realizing it. But lately something has been shifting for me. The more I share my creative work — the characters, the stories, the playful wisdom of the Field Guide — the more I notice people responding with warmth rather than competition. Curiosity instead of comparison. Sweetness instead of strategy. And I’ve begun to see that creativity changes the energy between people. Story opens the door to imagination. Imagination softens the ego. And when the ego relaxes, something very human emerges — connection. That’s where friendship grows. That’s where neighborliness lives. It’s where people meet not as competitors or transactions, but as fellow travelers. And that, I believe, is what the Starlight Path really is. It isn’t a path we walk alone. It isn’t illuminated all at once. The path reveals itself slowly, one small light at a time. A kindness here. A conversation there. A creative spark shared freely. Each light helps us see the next step. And together, those lights form something beautiful — a quiet constellation of human goodness guiding us forward. A new way forward — together. Where have you noticed small lights appearing along your own path lately?  A reflection in nourishment, confusion, and the quiet courage of standing up.
Shadow Poopy squinted at the table. “She’s still sitting there.” AnuBel adjusted her lantern, its glow steady and warm. “She’s waiting for the entrée.” Shadow Poopy sniffed the air. “There is no entrée.” “I know,” AnuBel said gently. “Then why doesn’t she leave?” AnuBel’s wings shimmered softly. “Because she tasted something that almost fed her.” Shadow Poopy snorted. “Almost doesn’t nourish.” “No,” AnuBel replied. “But it confuses.” Not every relationship is meant to be a full meal. Some are appetizers. Light. Sparked with possibility. They awaken your senses. They introduce you to something new. You enjoy them for what they are. But you don’t build your life on them. Some are dessert. Sweet. Magnetic. Intoxicating. Full of chemistry and sparkle. You savor them. But you don’t expect them to sustain you. And then there are the confusing ones. The ones that begin like an appetizer -- with the promise of an entrée. There are hints of depth. Moments of nourishment. Future language. Occasional substance. Just enough to believe the full meal is coming. But the entrée never arrives. So you sit at the table… still hungry. Not because the other person is cruel. Not because you are unworthy. But because confusion feels like hope. And hope can keep you seated far longer than hunger ever would. Shadow Poopy tapped the empty plate with one small foot. “She knows,” he muttered. “Yes,” said AnuBel. “Her body knows.” “Then why doesn’t she stand?” AnuBel lifted the lantern a little higher. “Because standing means choosing clarity over promise.” Shadow Poopy softened. “That’s harder.” “Yes,” AnuBel agreed. “But it’s cleaner.” The most powerful moment in any relationship is not when you realize you are hungry. It is when you stand up. When you recognize what is actually being served. When you stop mistaking intensity for nourishment. When you release the idea that something deeper is “about to arrive” — and instead trust what is present. Standing is not dramatic. It is quiet. It is regulated. It is sovereign. The woman pushed her chair back gently. No anger. No resentment. No slammed doors. Just recognition. Shadow Poopy hopped down from the table. “What now?” he asked. “Now,” said AnuBel, her lantern glowing in the doorway, “she walks toward what feeds her.” The woman stepped into the light. Not to escape shadow -- but to carry its lesson with her. Shadow Poopy followed. Because what almost fed you is not your enemy. It is compost. It teaches you the difference between sweetness and sustenance. Between stimulation and nourishment. Between promise and provision. Maturity is not learning to hate the table. It is learning to leave it without bitterness. And sovereignty is knowing you would rather eat alone than live on crumbs. AnuBel did not reach for her. She simply held the lantern. And in that steady light, the woman could finally see: She was never starving. She was simply waiting at the wrong table. And she no longer needed to wait. If this reflection stirred something in you, AnuBel's world is a place where shadow becomes compost and clarity becomes creation. |
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