Greetings friends! This week, David shares reflections on his challenging journey with ritual and how he has been able to find benefit from redefining and reframing what really helps him in his quest to feel good. Thank you for spending some of your time with us.

-Mindy

Music and Breath

One of my most cherished memories is from very early in my life. I would sit on the floor near the closet in the baby’s room—a room that, while we lived in that house in Blanding, Utah, held a crib where first my sister and then my brother slept. I would pick one of my favorite records:

• Eagles Nest—I’m pretty sure this was the title. The album jacket was blue with 12 faces in squares, arranged four across and three down. My memory of this record is so distinct, yet I’ve never been able to locate it. I believe it was published by the LDS Church, making it likely a very limited distribution. We had it because my father taught religious school for the LDS Church on the reservation, first outside of Gallup, NM (where I was born), then in Mexican Hat and Montezuma Creek. We came off the Rez when we landed in Blanding, where we lived for around four years before moving to the Phoenix area.

• Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf, performed by Leonard Bernstein and the Philadelphia Philharmonic. This was a gift from my grandmother Margot, the only grandparent in my life. She was volatile, racist, and emotionally abusive, and yet she was often the only Christmas I experienced growing up in a one-income household—the single income being what one could earn teaching religious school for the LDS Church. My father even made up a song, sung to the tune of Davy Crockett, but with lyrics like:

  • "Born in Gallup, New Mexico; 

    Stuck out on the Rez under six feet of now; 

    moved to Blanding in a brand new house, still as poor as a little church mouse—-Davey, Daaavey…”

    And then sometime later, often hours later, he would belt out “Gonzalez!”

  • Peter and the Wolf had the same charm to me as my dad’s silly song—kind of sad and complex but simply executed and very kid-friendly. Darling, really.

• Antonín Dvořák’s New World Symphony, performed by the Berlin Philharmonic.

• Beethoven’s 5th & 6th Symphonies, performed by the Berlin Philharmonic.

• Peer Gynt Suites 1 & 2 / Pelléas et Mélisande, performed by the Berlin Philharmonic.

These were often played on our home turntable, but I was allowed to play them—carefully—on my little record player in my room. I would open the closet door, put my back to the wall, and close my eyes.

The tiny speaker would reverberate sound off the wall and out of the closet, wrapping my small self in waves of sound. Sound that brought me deep into my body. I would feel so good. My whole self would relax, and I could feel my breath deepen. My sinuses—constantly vexing me—would often open up after a couple of records.

Listening to music allowed me to breathe. As a young person, it was probably the most important path to feeling good.

I Knew You Didn’t Know That You Did That

I’ve written about the challenges of respiratory illness in my childhood and at least hinted at the difficulties of being raised by two people ill-prepared to raise one child, let alone six. I’ve come to see how much my allergies and respiratory issues—while likely endemic to this body—were made so much worse by the stress I learned to navigate through numbing and stimming as a very young child. Somewhere along the way—my memory is protective and fuzzy here—I learned to stim in a way that wouldn’t attract attention.

My sweet brother Adam never did learn this, and his journey with OCD has been devastating. My other siblings have fared in wildly different ways, from barely hanging on through strict routines to being an oft-unemployed Stanford Law grad without a home or connection to us.

For those who navigate OCD, ritual often carries a particularly unpleasant attachment. We usually refer to the mental and physical tics that consume so much emotional and psychological energy as rituals.

To combat the overwhelm that fills the OCD mind—facing the uncertainty and dread of the future—loops in behavior and thinking start to take root. It’s a maladaptive trait. This rumination felt like it originated from a hornet’s nest at the base of my skull. I could feel a hollow of energy welling up inside me, vibrating, churning, constant. Nowhere to shed the energy.

At some point, I started motioning in a fairly discrete gesture—a kind of pushing away with my hands, as if to physically push the energy overflowing inside of me out while also holding back whatever outside stimulus was triggering a cascade of anxiety inside me.

I was 44 years old when I realized this tic, this ritual.

When I shared with Mindy that I had recognized this gesture and what it meant, she gently grabbed my hands in hers, tears streaming down her face, and said:

"Oh, love. I never told you because I was pretty sure that you didn’t know that you did that with your hands."

Rituals that try to stave off emotions—rituals that seek to protect me by numbing me—quickly trigger an impulse to create routines that protect me from the experiences and sensations that trigger me.

I’ve become very mindful that I need to be intentional with routines in my life. They can easily take over, that hornets’ nest returns and it can only be kept at a dull roar by strictly following my routines—which never seem to be enough. There’s always a better way to do the routine. There’s always shame in breaking the streak of perfectly executed routines. There’s always a pit in my stomach, breath high and shallow in my chest, and waves of anxiety pouring off of me.

Bound by routine, I can’t breathe.

It’s like cords tightening around my existence, cinching me smaller, narrower. The aperture of my existence is getting smaller and smaller because only then can I predict the future further and further. It won’t be pleasant, but it will be predictable. 

As if I could control what I let in by making myself disappear.

Feel Good Being Alive

When I found running—like other lovely things in my life—I didn’t realize I had developed a practice. For all of my brilliance in seeing patterns, I do not see the patterns of my own existence as quickly as I see those in the world around me.

I call it a practice, but I think that’s for similar reasons to why I call tubers and legumes starches. It’s not because I was raised by gourmands steeped in culinary terminology. No, it’s because high-glycemic foods like starches are favorites of my diabetic father. And my dad on too many sugary or starchy foods was indistinguishable from someone intoxicated.

I like the term practices because it feels safe apart from rituals, which can be a tricky thing when you have a history of managing OCD. But I’ve come to reacquaint myself with the idea of ritual—something we do because the doing of it is so pleasurable that it is its own reward.

But I keep myself accountable. Rituals or practices that get me in my body, that help me to feel good being, that allow me to recognize and show up for the good that is—these are the zest of being alive.

Nothing compares to this very moment in terms of sensuous feeling and joy.

One of my favorite rituals is to kiss my friends. I have at least two observably straight men who will give me a kiss on the lips. One of them likes to remind me that he does not do this with anyone else. It doesn’t have to be a kiss on the lips. Sometimes, the kiss is a tiny peck on the cheek. Sometimes, a friend and I might share a momentary breath.

A moment of appreciating that it’s safe—right here, right now—to just be.

I’m coming to realize that the best rituals help me remember the joy of being.

They connect me with now.

They get me into my body.

When I’m stressed or preoccupied, my stamina for staying present diminishes. I’m learning to observe that.

I can feel the all-too-familiar Drill Sergeant lifting at the corners of my sanity, whispering: routine will save you.

But I know I’ll be better served by ritual.

If I feel tightness, I might put on a favorite track, tune into the music around me, or just listen to the rhythm of my own being—the sound of my heart pumping in my chest. Whatever it is, I can trust my breath. If it's deep, if my belly rises and falls, I’m here. And I feel good.

I let myself be.

-David/Gonzo

NEAT!

Stuff we think is neat enough to share! (David⚡️ & Mindy✨)

• Our youngest son has been observing the moon each night for school, and it reminded me of how amazing the night sky can be. A night under the stars is one of my favorite summertime activities, but maybe I can sneak a peak from our backyard at some of the good stuff coming up this month. ⚡️

• Oh MAN is this song juicy! If you enjoy it half as much as David and I did, you’re in for a treat. 🎶 ✨

• We just finished watching The Good Place with our 12-year-old twins. We’d watched it as it came out a few years ago, but it was really great to watch again. So much lovely commentary and heartfelt reflection on what it means to be human, the highs and the lows. 📺 ✨

• We started celebrating Darwin Day (Charles Darwin’s birthday, February 12th) about a decade ago. We observe it with donuts because I like the alliteration and usually try to watch one or two youtube videos to learn more about one of our favorite scientists. It’s fun to have reasons to celebrate and I hope it contributes to a family culture that our kids will remember fondly. 🍩 ✨

SOMETHING TO TRY

The Ritual of Breath & Sound

Rituals help us feel more alive by grounding us in the present moment. This week, try cultivating a ritual of breath and sound—a simple practice to deepen your connection to your body and surroundings.

Steps to Try:     

1.    Find Your Soundscape – Sit somewhere comfortable and tune into the sounds around you. It could be music, the hum of a room, the rustling of leaves, or even the silence beneath it all.    

2.    Sync with Your Breath – Inhale deeply, feeling your belly rise, and exhale fully, feeling everything settle. Let the rhythm of sound guide your breath.     

3.    Experiment with Layers – Try layering different sounds: play a favorite track, hum gently, or focus on the sound of your heartbeat. Notice what resonates with you.     

4.    Observe the Shift – After a few minutes, check in with yourself. Does your body feel looser? Does your mind feel quieter?    

5.    Make It Yours – Repeat whenever you need to feel present. Let it evolve into a ritual that works for you—whether it’s a morning reset, a pre-sleep wind-down, or a mid-day recalibration.

Bonus: If you feel particularly tense, add a simple movement—rocking, swaying, or stretching—to further integrate sound, breath, and body.

Why It Matters: This practice is about allowing yourself to just be—no rigid structure, no rules to follow, just a moment to notice what is. Let the ritual remind you: You can trust your breath. You are here. And that feels good.

PARTING

WORDS

PIC

That’s all for this week! If you’re into this, share this newsletter with all your friends. Connecting with new subscribers is magical! 🧚🏻‍♀️

DISCLAIMER: This newsletter is for educational and informational purposes only and is not intended as a substitute for professional medical advice.