At a playdate the other week, one of my sons hit another kid. The playdate wasn’t with just one other family; a whole big group of us was there.

Sometimes, when something like this happens, I have a moment of, “Okay. How do I handle this situation calmly but effectively, in a way that makes me look like a good mom?” I didn’t know the others well, so this response may have been even more likely–normally.

That day, though, wasn’t a normal day. That day I was “in the zone.”

In You’re Getting Closer, I discuss this phenomenon–this state of continuous meditation, during which everything you do feels inspired. That morning, I decided this would be one of those days; I’d listen for guidance on what to do–even the little stuff.

And so, when I saw what happened, I knew without hesitation what to do. I talked to my son, and gave him the choice to either apologize or to leave the playdate.

Then, we left the playdate.

It’s so, so nice to have that feeling of clarity, of knowing exactly what to do and how. I don’t have it nearly often enough.

A while back, I resolved to learn how to accept what is, give up compulsiveness, in order to become more, you know, Buddhist monk-like. The only part of this resolution that stuck, however, was cleaning my house less often.

I don’t consider this a success.

• I wouldn’t wash my clothes every time I wore them.
• I would collect beautiful garbage everywhere I went and use it to make amazing art pieces.
• I would never negate a compliment.
• I would never argue.
• I would never defend myself.
• I would someday “walk the earth,” stopping only to sleep in hotels and eat at restaurants.
• I would sip coffee all day.
• I would eat stir-fry every day.
• I would never wear a bra. Ever.
• I would never say “yes” to things I didn’t really want to do. (That includes sharing my food.)
• I would never be in a hurry.
• I would spend more time digging in the dirt.

Right now, I’m sitting in a comfy spot on our playroom floor, drinking coffee and watching the baby eat baked apple slices. It’s morning and all the noises are soft ones: distant bird calls, faint refrigerator whirring, the sound of my hand sliding across this paper. Soon, my older son—the not-so-quiet one—will wake up. And all I can think is, Am I ready?

What can I do with this precious hour before the real work begins? What feels most useful, most inspired? Should I meditate a while longer? Read a book? Get some writing done? How can I best “go with the flow”?

In You’re Getting Closer, I talk about my daily effort to live in The Zone—to do only what feels most inspired. Times like these, though, I can’t seem to figure it out, not even when it’s quiet and calm. How, then, will I be able to do so the rest of the day, when distractions (like my older child) are everywhere?

Going with the flow sounds easy enough. But it sure takes a long time to learn.

This is the librarian who now hates us.

When a friend of mine mentioned her love of the library recently, a idyllic image came to mind. There was a mother, there were two happy children, and there were three large piles of loved books.

I really should take my kids, too, I thought. It’s time I stopped slacking off. So, I packed us up and off we went.

There was screaming. There was peeing. And there was a dramatic parking lot escape. And the next day, all I had to show for it was a pile of books in the trunk of my car that would soon have to be returned . . . to the library.

Last time I compare myself to anyone ever again. Last, I tell you. Maybe.

1. I cannot handle parenting more than two children under the age of five at once.
2. It’s perfectly okay to admit that you can’t handle parenting more than two children under the age of five at once.

1. A difficult three-year-old is almost twice the work of an easy baby. Added bonus: they don’t nap.

2. A fireman costume layered over a bathing suit layered over regular clothes and topped with a motorcycle helmet is appropriate attire for every occasion.

3. Television isn’t nearly as bad for kids as I used to think.

Science.

Recently, I posted a summary of a great book called 10% Happier: How I Tamed the Voice in My Head, Reduced Stress Without Losing My Edge, and Found Self-Help That Actually Works–A True Story by news anchor Dan Harris. In it, he says that just maintaining the meditation discipline is enough; it’s not necessary to actually feel better afterwards. Sitting down, coming back, trying again is “the whole game.”

Sometimes, meditation is just hard work.

I like this idea, and yet … I kinda hate it. Esther Hicks always harps on the importance of finding a good-feeling place. Feeling good, grateful, etc. helps us manifest what we desire, after all. If there’s a day in which meditation isn’t doing this for me, shouldn’t I spend my free time on something that does? Like going for a walk in the woods, or playing volleyball, and doing it in a meditative frame of mind?

What do you guys think?

Recently, I wrote about a book called Autobigraphy of a Yogi by Paramhausa Yogananda. The book is, more or less, a litany of miracles and gurus the author witnessed firsthand—and it is quite lengthy. My first reaction: how did one fairly normal young man growing up in India meet so many enlightened masters in one lifetime? I mean, granted, he was training to be one, too. But seriously.

My conclusion, which may or may not be true, was that at least at the time the book was written, India was a culture of belief. Even people who were without the author’s fanatical, wholehearted search for God (like his brother Ananda) believed strongly in omens, predictions, etc., as evidenced by the stories in the book. Therefore, more miracles actually occurred.

This reminds me of the beloved Indonesian guru in Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love. His parents told him his whole life that he was spiritually gifted, so he just never questioned it. As a result, he became a very intuitive miracle worker.

There is, and was, and always will be, a whole lot to be said for simple faith.

What do you think? Does more faith mean more miracles? Or are there the same number of miracles happening either way, but when less faith is present more of them just go unnoticed?

You know how you sometimes meet those old people that look so serene and Mother Teresa-like and all? And you think, I want to be like that when I’m old, instead of one of the crochety complainers.

Well, ever since starting my spiritual practice of acceptance, I’ve begun to suspect something. I suspect that the difference between the saints and the complainers is that the complainers are still always trying to fix things, whereas the saints have somehow learned to merely observe and love.

I think there is a single word behind their stunningly beautiful eyes.

It is “accept.”

Seth, Abraham, Kryon, Archangel Michael … these are just a few of the many spirit entities to be channeled for the benefit of the individual and the masses. And yet, reading them kinda makes you wonder: do these guys and gals really know everything?

Here’s the thing: they never say they do. They just say they know a lot more than us. In one oft-repeated spiritual analogy, each spirit, whether human or otherwise, is a drop of water in the large ocean that is God, the All-That-Is. Their knowledge, while vaster than ours by a long shot (temporarily) is still limited by their unique perspective (as well as certain limitations of the channeler).

So let’s love our spirit guides. Let’s honor our channeled entities.

And let’s not take them too, too seriously.

Continuing with my spiritual practice of acceptance. It has seriously rocked my world. With all of my complaints, desires, wants, hungers, etc. etc., it was hard to really feel-know what I already knew-knew about how awesome my life really is.

By accepting what is, even if I don’t love it so much–as Eckhart Tolle says, knowing that what is happening right now is perfect for my growth and evolution because it is what is happening right now (paraphrased)–I am able to enjoy what is when I do love it.

The day after starting this practice I got a massage and a facial. I spent the following beautiful, sunny morning at a park with my kids, the afternoon taking a nap, and the evening writing. And I was actually able to enjoy it all rather than obsess about every detail of those moments that wasn’t absolutely “perfect” (those face chemicals hurt, right?).

I feel like all of this time I thought I was an adult, I was really still just a kid. Now, I’m accepting what is.

Maybe I’m a real grown-up now.

I have to admit that one of the parts of the book 10% Happier: How I Tamed the Voice in My Head, Reduced Stress Without Losing My Edge, and Found Self-Help That Actually Works–A True Story by news anchor Dan Harris that really sold me was his oh-so-taboo comparison of Eckhart Tolle and Deepak Chopra. Now, before I get into this, let me just say one thing: I don’t personally agree with his assessment of either (in their entirety). I think both Tolle and Chopra are probably super awesome human beings. That said, as someone who doesn’t consider himself a mystic or even particularly spiritual, Harris has a fascinating perspective to share.

First, Harris tells of an interview in which Chopra became super defensive and competitive. He contrasts this with Chopra’s own declaration that, as an enlightened person, he is pretty much always calm and happy (forgive me if the wording here isn’t perfect). Meanwhile, Tolle makes the opposite impression. Tolle’s calm, detached mannerisms change not a whit after the cameras are off and the interview is done. He doesn’t even show nervousness during the interview or beforehand.

The conclusion Harris comes to: Chopra isn’t quite as even-tempered as he says he is. And Tolle just might be a little crazy. After all, if he’s as sincere as he seems, that means he actually believes all that kooky stuff he says about being enlightened.

For the record: I’m a Tolle kinda girl.

I love(d) breastfeeding.

Here are a few of the highlights of my day:

• I dropped my second debit card into an unreachable place in my car, then misplaced a third.
• My one-year-old spilled a plate of marinara-soaked asparagus onto my lap and the floor. Then I ate it off the floor.
• I walked past three soggy diapers on my kitchen floor numerous times without picking them up.
• For over an hour, my three-year-old repeated the word “booby” and tugged at my shirt as I lay in the fetal position on the floor.
• Both my kids pooped in a park where there was no bathroom. My three-year-old then refused to be changed in the grass or to go with me to the car to get the baby’s diaper. When he finally followed me to the car, I put them both in with poopy diapers. On the way home the baby fell asleep. In poop.
• I fell asleep during sex.

But I still took my jog, so I’d call the day a success.

This week, I began a new spiritual practice: acceptance. It’s weird to me that I’ve never made this a deliberate thing before (in fact, I’ve been pretty terrible about it altogether). This, in spite of:

• Eckhart Tolle’s admonitions to see that everything that is, is perfect;
• Buddhist admonitions to prefer nothing over anything else;
• Esther Hicks’ admonitions to offer no resistance;
• “What we resist, persists,”
• Jesus, A Course in Miracles, and countless others bringing the same message; and, of course,
• That damn serentiy prayer.

Acceptance, y’all. It’s the new meditation.