Somewhere between the salty security line and a surprise upgrade to first class, I remembered: I know how to do this.
I’m newly inspired to not just survive the “neuro-noise” of air travel, but also how to keep the muscles of creativity, attraction, curiosity, (and the flexible little tendons that conjure a whole life out of playful possibility) in better shape.
Neck crooked, body extra-sensitive, tarmac delays, seat snafus, and yet—I found myself peacefully entranced in a cellular prayer, a focused interior beam consisting of awe and longing toward what’s been and what’s becoming.
As we reach the calendar halfway point of this year, six months of intentional displacement stretch behind Eric and me like sand marking a path we can't quite see but somehow trust.
The irony settles gently now: where everything once felt solid and defined, we've learned to find treasure in the spaces between certainty.
As we packed up our most recent “space-between,” we found ourselves smiling at the giant die crocheted with love (and thick chenille, no less!) by Eric’s teenage daughter. We received this, a Christmas gift she crafted for us, with a beam of quiet prophecy before we began our New Year’s journey of deliberate, humble renewal.
Twenty cubic inches of hand-stitched silliness.
We had exactly that much room left in the well-packed car the night she handed it to us, and we laughed as we carefully slid it in: the final charm that made no practical sense. You can't sit on it. Or roll it. There’s no resting your head, feet, or beverage on it. There’s no opening it to store things inside.
It serves no purpose beyond aesthetics, beyond love, beyond the pure ridiculousness of its existence. Perhaps that's exactly why it matters so much right now.
Our favorite practice? How to turn breakdown into play, how to mine possibility in what seems wasteful or lost. When linear progress fails us, play becomes the fertile ground where new forms of meaning take root.
Eric shared an early-parenting story of playing Go Fish with his daughter in the park, using comically large cards that forced strangers to erupt in smiles as they passed. They took themselves quite seriously in complete surrender to absurdity that transformed an ordinary afternoon into legacy.
Now, looking at this giant die after months of rearranging our minimal curation of belongings, I recognize it as part of that same lineage: a testament to the importance of what cannot be justified by utility alone. Stubbornly beautiful and completely useless.
Eric and I have been taking note of our progress so far. We’ve navigated storage units and temporary spaces with deliberate slowness, weighing objects for resonance, not pure function. We’ve created opportunities to miss and crave what once felt essential—to rediscover our most natural ways. Not because we had to, but because something in us recognized the necessity of staying nimble, undefined. A willingness to live unmoored. A trust in the awkward rhythm of constant (un)becoming.
We’ve practiced the wisdom of pruning: trimming the good to make room for the great, especially in a world drunk on excess.
There's something deliciously subversive about this—turning less/loss into creative play, letting breakdown become the raw material for what wants to emerge.
We’ve been asking, What makes something valuable? as we moved through hotel rooms and borrowed spaces, through the rituals of unpacking and the choreography of repacking our carefully curated things.
Now settled in our new summer-season territory, I’m reminded: the most precious things we carry often serve no purpose—except to remind us to stop asking what purpose things serve.
That kind of lingering lives in the quiet redesign of self that comes from next-level receiving—trusting the unknown long enough to let it reshape us. It lives in our steady breath for strangers, and the simple care we offer ourselves as we roll the dice again. And again. And again.
Maybe that's why I keep finding myself in gratitude for this strange pilgrimage—not because our wandering has a defined destination, but because presence itself matters. Sometimes the most important thing we can offer is our complete attention, our willingness to host both beauty and uncertainty, devastation and divinity, without turning away. To stay ever-open to a life that contains both play and loss, knowing that neither negates the other.
In a culture that mistakes accumulation for abundance, we’ve come to believe in the beauty of less—the fertile emptiness where ridiculous, love-soaked talismans (like a twenty-inch crocheted die) don’t just take up space, they mark the beginning of a new kind of story.
A story where meaning isn’t measured by utility, but rather, how fully we’re willing to live in creative curiosity. One where courage shows up in every ‘light’ choice despite the weight of the world.
This week, I’m holding a quiet awe for the process alive in so many of us…
Those building their own renewed versions of home. Those making their own tough life edits. Those who let their tears fall without comment or cleanup.
Those breathing life into their own particular, bizarre, and beautiful stories of accelerated embodiment. Those learning that sometimes the bravest thing is to let life completely rearrange you.
Those who've discovered the generative kink of turning breakdown into play—who know that when forward momentum fails, sideways movement and creative mess often birth the most unexpected treasures.
Those who know that love is the only utility that matters.
We know how to do this!
We’re rolling our cosmic dice, listening for the symphonies of Source, and adjusting our lives to meet the ever-expanding light. Not because it's practical or purposeful. Not to be reasonable or efficient. But because this, too, is how we honor what it means to be alive—in all its beauty, all its uncertainty, all its wholly (holy) uselessness.
In love,
*Rae
Follow along on IG for my summer shenanigans: HERE and HERE »
Lately, I’ve recommitted to a practice called The Contemplation of the Triple Flame. It’s simple. Every 3 hours, at the top of the hour, pause for just 3 minutes. There is a rhythm to this trinity that is transformative, if you stick with it. (6am, 9am, noon, 3pm, 6pm, 9pm, for example)
I use the wonderful free app (which sends reminders) and I add in our Aeloure candle—the same way I used a simple taper candle when I was first introduced to this ritual.
I focus on the flame (real or imagined) and bring it into my belly as I breathe. The app times the practice. I especially love the “OM” guided setting—I enjoy toning as I breathe to help my nervous system relax even more deeply than when I am in silence.
I highly recommend giving this practice a spin—a commitment, a gift to yourself. For these three minutes, try to be in your complete presence, bringing your attention to your navel center, your network of life force. If you’re curious to hear one of my favorite teachers explain in more detail, watch this 9-minute video » and let me know how you’re liking it by replying to this email, commenting, or send a DM.
This one has history, hunger, and heat. Perfect timing as half the country melts into an extra-hot holiday week. For bodies craving a slow burn that matches the thick air, this classic track delivers.
It doesn't enter a room, it glides in with a gaze that holds a whole childhood and the deepest kink in the same look. Believe in Me is velvet-wrapped masculinity—confident, devotional, undone in all the right places.
A longtime Aerosha favorite—use with caution *wink*
(PS, comment or send me a note with your favorite memories with this beat!)
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