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A quiet afternoon at Pure Land Farms unfolds through tea, meditation, and a hillside walk beneath lengthening light. As daylight lingers later into the evening, small observations reveal how the body naturally responds to rhythm, warmth, and place.
We went to Point Dume expecting the hills to be covered in wildflowers. Instead, the bloom had not yet arrived. A few yellow blossoms had pushed through, some already curling in the early heat. This week’s journal reflects on arriving too early, the timing of natural cycles, and what remains when expectation falls away.
Spiritual life is often associated with peak experiences and profound insights. But what happens in the quieter weeks — when nothing remarkable occurs and daily life resumes its steady rhythm? In this reflection, explore how ordinary practice — rising early, sitting in meditation, tending to responsibilities — forms the real foundation of long-term growth.
From planting chile seeds and sipping Buddha’s Hand tea grown on the land, to sunset mantra meditation on the hillside and learning the craft of warm salt compress, an afternoon at Pure Land Farms offered a grounded reminder that healing begins with simple, elemental rhythms.
The Lake Shrine has a way of slowing the body without instruction. Walking paths circle the water, benches appear just when rest feels right, and silence settles without effort. This journal reflects on returning to the grounds after the fires, and how certain places invite presence simply by being what they are.
Some forms of leadership are almost invisible. This journal reflects on the quiet responsibility of holding space during a retreat. Preparing land, staying alert through the night, and offering steady presence so others can move safely through deep inner work.
Meditating in public means allowing the world to keep moving without stepping away from it. In this journal entry, I sat outside a café in Topanga and practiced stillness amid voices, footsteps, and passing cars, noticing what happens when nothing needs to be managed.
I left my phone behind on a hike through Red Rock Canyon and found my attention settling in unexpected ways. Along the trail, three quiet encounters and a silent payphone reshaped how I thought about presence, connection, and what it means to be reachable.
Removing my shoes did not add anything to the walk. It removed a layer. What followed was a quieter pace, a more attentive body, and a conversation with the trail that could not have happened otherwise.
What happens when you stop directing the moment and let something else lead? A walk with our family dog becomes a meditation on pace, control, and the unfamiliar relief of not being the one in charge.
Filming the Journey Through Meditation trailer didn’t unfold the way I expected. A sudden power outage pushed the whole project off course, forcing a scramble for generators, propane, and last-minute fixes. But as the day unfolded—ending in golden hour above the canyon—it became its own lesson in steadiness, resilience, and the heart of meditation itself.
Buying a bespoke hat in Topanga turned into more than a shopping trip. It became a small rite of passage — a way of stepping further into the unique culture of this canyon. From choosing the green felt to working with Enrico, the local Italian hat maker, the process was slow, intentional, and rooted in place. Here’s the story of how the hat came together and why it already feels like part of my everyday life in the canyon.
Brush clearance week pushed me harder than any physical work I’ve done in years. With a crew of four, we carved a fire moat along the western ridge of the property, uncovered an old protective cactus line, and cleared steep hillsides of chaparral. After losing my own home to a fire last year, this work carried a different kind of weight. The result is simple: a safer property and a quiet sense of relief.
I was very honored to attend my sister’s 30th birthday (what a milestone!) and give a short toast at her wedding. It allowed me to reflect on just a few of the things that I most love about spending time with her.
A day in Santa Monica brought more than just great lattes. From an Ayurvedic café inside the Proper Hotel to the mushroom-powered coworking vibe of Mudwater’s new space, I found not only focus—but a new wave of inspiration for what mindful workspaces and meditation communities can look like.
A night beneath the stars, surrounded by harp strings and crystal bowls, turned into more than just a sound bath. It became a seasonal ritual. At Butterfly Mountain’s geodesic dome in Topanga, Katy and I found ourselves immersed in vibration, nature, and stillness.
Meditation can happen anywhere. But the environment shapes the depth of the practice. In a Himalayan salt cave, sound and salt merged into a powerful experience of presence. It was a reminder that when the body feels supported, the mind follows, and stillness arrives more naturally.
Eight months after fire swept through Tuna Canyon, the hillsides are alive with new growth. What seemed empty has returned, not as it was before, but as something changed — and in that change, something beautiful. Renewal does not erase loss; it carries it forward. Like meditation, the canyon teaches us that presence is found in both the scar and the sprout.
Weddings are more than rituals of love — they are moments of presence, union, and awakening. Outdoors, surrounded by trees, ocean, or sky, a wedding becomes not just a ceremony but a meditation, drawing us into connection with each other and the living world.
This past weekend I traveled to Camden, Maine, for my sister’s wedding. Held in a small wooded outdoor chapel overlooking Casco Bay, the ceremony unfolded in fog and birdsong, surrounded by family and friends. It was a tender reminder that love, like meditation, invites us into presence — fleeting, precious, and unforgettable.
A simple sail off the coast of Maine revealed something timeless: meditation isn’t only silence and stillness. It’s being present in the wind, the waves, and the company we keep.
Watching Clarkson’s Farm, I saw how farming takes every challenge of property management and multiplies it — unpredictable weather, stubborn animals, steep costs — all demanding patience, grit, and a steady presence. 🌱
A summer night in Topanga: burritos from the taco truck, hot tea in hand, and Shakespeare under the oaks. Watching A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Theatricum Botanicum felt less like entertainment and more like a meditation
A beach day isn’t always just a beach day. In the chaos of late departures, crowded sand, and sunscreen in my eyes, I found a quiet teaching about spiritual devotion—and why our real temple might just be the messy, imperfect life we live every day.
When our chicken Rockstar laid her first egg, it was a moment of quiet celebration. After weeks of early mornings, feeding routines, and compost surprises, this little egg reminded me how presence and care truly pay off. In this post, I reflect on what backyard chickens are teaching me about mindful living, daily rhythm, and the sacred loop between effort and reward.
We’ve been working hard to bring a little more of Topanga’s creative spirit indoors. Our new consignment shop features handmade pieces by local makers—from stained glass and woven art to plant-based perfumes and honey straight from our retreat’s own hives.
At a recent potluck in Topanga, I found myself reflecting on how we build meaningful connection. My friend Justin led an authentic relating exercise that brought strangers closer in minutes—reminding me that presence doesn’t just happen on a cushion. It lives in how we show up with one another.
This week, I share reflections from a satsang (spiritual gathering) at Corazón Performing Arts in Topanga, led by Pandit Balmiki Sharma. We listened to devotional music, explored Vedic teachings, and sat together in stillness. It was a beautiful reminder that the path of meditation is also a path of listening—to ourselves, to teachers, and to the truth unfolding in the present moment.
This week, our retreat property hosted School of Lunch, a spirited culinary retreat focused on traditional, nourishing food. In this journal entry, I reflect on the joy, chaos, and meaning that unfolded—from pot-and-pan drumming to raw milk chugging—and what it taught me about the spiritual power of food and shared meals.
A quiet afternoon at Pure Land Farms offered a rare pause from momentum. Through garden walks, wind-pacifying tea, breath practices, and Tibetan self-healing rituals, the day became a lesson in balance, patience, and letting the nervous system settle.