In last week’s blog, I shared that on the night I was contemplating suicide, I had a mystical experience.
Curled up on the floor, exhausted from trying to hold everything together, I experienced what I can only describe as a moment of grace. It felt as if I was being wrapped in a love that did not judge, did not rush, did not demand anything of me. In that stillness, I sensed - with surprising clarity - that my life was not over. That I was allowed to ask for help. That choosing to stay was still an option.
That night became a turning point.
In the years that followed, I searched for language to understand what had happened. What had intervened when I was prepared to leave this life? What had invited me to stay?
My curiosity led me into churches, temples, books, and conversations.
I began attending Sunday services at my best friend’s Presbyterian church. When I didn’t quite find the answers I was seeking there, I began spending time at a Zen Buddhist temple.
For nearly a year, I was there three days a week.
One evening after work, I took yoga classes that incorporated meditation. Another night, meditation classes that included gentle yoga. And on Sundays, I sat in silent meditation with the monks who lived at the temple, followed by a Dharma talk - the Buddhist version of a Sunday message.
Then one Sunday morning, something extraordinary happened.
While sitting in deep meditation, I lost all awareness of my physical body and of the room around me. In my mind’s eye, I saw a luminous spiral - warm, glowing, pulsating with a steady rhythm.
Although I could not feel my body, I felt my soul.
Infinite. Boundless. Interwoven with everything and everyone.
There was a deep knowing: the truth of who we are is love. Infinite love.
I have no idea how long the experience lasted. Seconds? Minutes? Time dissolved. But when the head monk chimed the singing bell, our cue to return our awareness to the sangha - the room - and to our physical bodies, my first thought was, Nooooo…
I was in such a state of bliss that I didn’t want to leave it.
For hours afterward, I was giddy. Grinning. Almost childlike in my joy. The experience was unlike anything I had known before. And although I have since reached beautiful, peaceful states in meditation, nothing has ever quite matched the intensity of that morning.
When I left the temple that day, I was speechless.
So I did the only thing I knew how to do when words failed me.
I went to Michaels and bought canvas and paint.
For years afterward, I painted spirals.
They became a signature motif in my work. In the early days navigating the Denver art scene, I was even nicknamed “Buddha Girl” by fellow artists.
But the greatest gift of that oneness experience wasn’t the spiral paintings themselves.
It was discovering that painting could become its own form of meditation.
A way to quiet my monkey mind.
A way to soothe my anxiety.
A way to reconnect with something deeper than my fear.
Painting became a doorway - back to that inner stillness. Back to guidance. Back to the subtle wisdom that lives beneath the noise.
When I paint, I am listening.
And over time, I realized something profound: the same spaciousness I touched in meditation is available in small, ordinary moments - if we make room for it.
That’s why meditation remains an integral part of my self-care and creative practice today. Not because I’m trying to recreate that one extraordinary experience. But because I’ve learned that even five quiet minutes can shift the tone of an entire day.
A Gentle Invitation
If you’ve never meditated - or if it feels intimidating - may I offer you something simple?
Set a timer for five minutes.
Sit comfortably. Close your eyes.
Place one hand over your heart.
Notice your breath.
You don’t have to empty your mind.
You don’t have to “do it right.”
Just notice.
Five minutes a day may not sound like much. But small, steady practices create ripple effects. Over time, they soften anxiety, sharpen intuition, and reconnect you to your own inner wisdom.
You don’t need a temple.
You don’t need monks.
You don’t need a mystical spiral.
You simply need a willingness to pause.
And who knows?
Something beautiful might unfold from there.
Create boldly.
Live beautifully.
If this reflection spoke to you, you're welcome to stay connected.
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Wander a little further through the garden...