Feet the Beat

Feel the beat.

Every coach out there says the same thing.

Morning routine.
Wake up early.
Calibrate.

Pay attention.

Wait…

Pay attention.

And you know what?

They're right.

But not the way they think.

So try something simple.

Wake up.

Sit.

Just sit.

No phone.
No plan.
No productivity hack.

Just sit and watch.

What happens?

What arises?

Boom.
Awake in this breath.

Boom.
Joy rises in the now.

Boom.
Offer what you are.

Those are just words that showed up this morning.

What showed up for you?

What did you discover when you actually stopped?

When you breathed.

When you paid attention.

Look.
Look.
Look.

People say they want certainty.

They want a coach to tell them what to do.

“God, please tell me the plan.”

And God smiles.

No.

You get to figure that shit out yourself.

“But I don’t know what to do next.”

God says:

I’ll make you a deal.

I won’t do it for you.

No.
No.
No.

Sing it.

No, no, no.

I won’t do it for you.

But when you get stuck…

ask for a hint.

And I’ll give you one.

Just remember.

Sometimes the hint is as loud as a 747 screaming over your head.

And sometimes…

it’s as soft
as the whisper
of a snail.

The Corners of the Room

The Corners of the Room

This morning I sat quietly at my desk and listened to the house.

Refrigerator humming.
Wood creaking.
My own voice appearing in the room as I spoke.

It's strange when you notice it…

You never actually know what the next word will be until it comes out of your mouth.

Life is doing that constantly.

So I ran a little experiment.

I put my awareness in the four corners of the room.

Not looking at them.
Placing awareness there.

Something shifted immediately. The whole space felt alive.

Then I tried something even stranger.

Instead of observing the corner…

I became the corner.

A warmth spread through my chest.
A low electric hum through the skin.

Like the room and the body were suddenly the same thing.

Three things revealed themselves in about thirty seconds:

Awareness can witness.
Awareness can direct.
Awareness can become what it touches.

You don't actually have to force the next moment to happen.

You can relax and watch.

And something fascinating happens when you do.

The next moment shows up anyway.

Try it today.

Sit quietly.
Feel the room.
Put your awareness in the corners.

Then become one.

And see what happens next.

Structure and Light

I’ve been deep in structure these last two months.

Cleaning the house.
Organizing systems.
Working with clients.
Planning trips.
Cooking.
Stewarding the details of a life.

The masculine part of me loves that work.

Build the container.
Strengthen the foundation.
Prepare the ground.

But this morning I was reminded of something important.

A container without light inside it is just a box.

What brings it alive is energy.

Radiance.
Emotion.
Movement.
Sunlight on the water.
Laughter.
The presence of a woman whose heart is open and whose energy is flowing.

The masculine builds the structure of life.

The feminine fills it with life.

The stronger the structure becomes, the more light it needs inside it.

This morning I was reminded of that.

And I’m grateful for the light.

The Body Doesn't Lie

The Body Doesn't Lie

Input: Effort. Show up.
Output: Do the practices. Have the conversations. Sit in the fire.
Outcome: Results.

Most people stop at the first two.

They show up.
They journal.
They read.
They listen to podcasts.
They talk about growth.

That feels good.

Effort feels noble.
Doing the work feels productive.

But what are the results?

Has your body actually changed?
Has your nervous system softened?
Are you speaking and touching your partner differently?
Are you clearer about your next move?

Or are you just more informed?

You can read a thousand books.
You can talk with a therapist for years.
You can have profound conversations with AI at 2am and gain real insight — and I mean real.
You can understand yourself deeply in your mind.

But until something shifts in your body — until you actually feel different — the transformation is partial.

Real change shows up in outcomes.

Health.
Meaning.
Relationship.
Wealth.

Not theory.
Not language.

Results.

And results don't come from intensity.

They come from embodiment.

Most people live from the neck up.

Transformation happens when you come home to your body.

That's it.

Embodiment

I used to hate a man named Mo.

I’m at an expensive workshop trying to save my marriage…
And instead of sitting in a room with the teacher I paid to see…
I’m outside with the men, working with a different coach.

And this man named Mo challenges him:

“We’re doing too much mental stuff here.
Can’t you do something that embodies this?
Get us moving?
Or are we just going to sit and think the whole time?”

I’m looking at Mo like:

SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.

We aren’t here to exercise.
We are here to talk-therapy our way out of a pit in our relationships.

And our coach, the late great James Baye, got a twinkle in his eye and said:

“Alright.”

So instead of working on our issues with our wives…
For the next two hours James ran us into the ground.

The pinnacle moment:

Twelve men.
An ancient oak tree.
Chi generation pose.
Squatting. Arms overhead.

Thighs BURNING.
Shoulders ACHING.

What the hell was I doing here?

And then James asked:

“Can you keep your heart open
in the midst of this turbulence?
This pain?
This suffering?”

Something cracked.

This… was life.

And that was the day I stopped hiding in my mind.

You can’t solve your problems — with your work, your partner, your world — without incarnation.

The body is not optional.

If your growth never touches your body…
you’re still hiding.

Mo, if you ever read this — thank you.
I hated you that day.
BUT you were right.

Riley

Riley

I am Father.

This much was clear from early on in my life.

I knew I was going to have children, and be not only A father, but FATHER.

Today is my son Riley's 30th birthday.

I remember the clarity of wanting him, and I remember the moment he was born — a SWOOSH of energy flooded the entire room and I swear I could hear angels singing.

He, like my son before him, and my daughter after, came to me intentionally and with deep focus and allowing.

As with all my kids, soon after they were born, I held them, wrapped in the new blankets, and took them for a walk.

A Jason tradition:

Let's walk and talk son.
Welcome to earth.
Welcome to my family.

I am sure you know me already, but let me introduce myself.

I'm am known on this planet as Jason.
You will be known as Riley.

We talked, as I had talked with Asher, would later talk with Amethyst.

Some of the things said will never be repeated, none of them ever will be forgotten.

Words weren't the only way we communicated, we talked soul to soul.

Thirty years later, I am still walking with you, son.

Open. Energized. Excited.

Open. Energized. Excited.

After morning alignment I distill all the work I've done calibrating into a short sentence that fits on a 3x5 card.

In the fashion of pulling a Tarot card, I often pull one of these cards from the giant stack and contemplate it for the day.

Today's work resulted in these three words. And so I share them with you, and hope they resonate in whatever way helps you the most.

I have an Ai Image Program named Sora, which helps me by adding these words to this photo of me, which is a lot easier than doing it in Adobe photoshop. I'm grateful for the ease and magic of these images.

Fire Your Coach

Fire your coach. Fire your therapist. Work with Chat. And watch nothing change.

That's what I heard this week. "AI is going to wipe out coaches. Thinking. Talking. Strategy. Frameworks. Dead."

And honestly? If all you do is talk… yeah. Probably.

Because thinking is cheap now. Language is cheap. Frameworks are cheap.

But there is one thing AI cannot do.

It cannot walk across a room. It cannot feel its spine collapse. It cannot watch its wife look it in the eye and say,

"Three."

Out of ten.

Years ago Jennie and I were doing a practice. Simple. I walk across the room toward her. She gives me a number. 1–10. How present am I?

First round. "Four."

Again. "Five."

Again. "Three."

And something started happening. Not in my head. In my body.

My chest tightened. Jaw locked. Heat rising.

I wasn't trying to impress her. I was trying to be present.

And the harder I tried… the lower the number went.

Ego flared. Defensiveness. Anger. At her. At myself.

"How the hell is this a three?"

But the more I burned, the less present I became.

And that's when it hit.

You don't think your way into presence. You don't talk your way into embodiment. You don't concept your way into polarity.

You break. You feel. You stay.

That practice took everything I thought I'd built — every insight, every rep, every proud moment of growth — and dashed it on the rocks of bitter disappointment.

I couldn't even walk across a room with presence.

Talk about rubbing your nose in your own shit.

But I didn't learn it as an idea. I learned it in my nervous system.

That's the difference.

When you come to Shades of Intimacy… When you come to Modern Day Warrior… When you come to Heber Meditation Retreat…

You don't take notes. You don't sit in the back of the room. You don't consume content.

You walk across the room.

You breathe while someone watches you. You feel your collapse. You feel your edge. You feel your power. You feel your bullshit.

And then you stay.

Cold water. Eye contact. Voice shaking. Heart pounding.

Threshold. Not theory.

Here's the truth:

AI will beat you at thinking. It will beat you at strategy. It will beat you at copy.

It cannot beat you at embodied initiation.

And that's what I've been building for 15+ years.

Not a content machine.

A threshold.

If coaching is dying… good.

Let the talking heads fade.

The future belongs to those willing to step into the room…

and walk.

Across it.

Tightness

This morning
there was a catch in my throat.

Not resistance to presence.
Protection of momentum.

Somewhere in the wiring
my body learned:

If I stop — I stall.
If I slow — I fall.

Last night proved the pattern.
TV glow.
Energy low.
Drought.

Hard to restart.

Old wiring says:
Keep moving.
Don't pause.
Don't breathe too long.

But this morning rewrote it.

I stopped.
Sat.
Listened.

Heat through the vent.
Chair against my back.
Tractor beeping somewhere in the distance.
Space between sounds.

No urgency.
No collapse.

Just… peace.

Absence.
Spaciousness.
Room.

And from that room
something subtle returned.

Not hype.
Not grind.
Not force.

Momentum.

Slow is fast.

Not motivational poster fast.
Mechanical fast.

When I stop fighting the moment,
the moment stops fighting me.

And then it moves.

Birthday

Thirty-two years ago today, this little spirit arrived in crisis.

Emergency C-section.
Prayers.
Blessings.
Fear.

And then — him.

I had always wanted to be a father.
That desire was clean in me.
I trusted life back then.
I trusted God.

I got the privilege of hosting him for a few years.
Those years were real.
The love was real.
The pain that came later was real too.

And today?

"I love him."
"I was hurt."
"It's his birthday."
"And I'm okay."

Not cold.
Not nostalgic.
Not performing healing.

Just… integrated.

Four sentences that don't cancel each other out.
That's what coherence actually sounds like.

Today feels steady.
That's it.

Freeze

I was listening to something just a few minutes ago.
Smart. Motivational. One of those talks that’s supposed to wake you up with a catchy frame that makes your eyebrows go up.

And suddenly — I froze.

It was subtle… but I felt my chest constrict, and a litany of excuses fired through my head.

That doesn’t work for me…
I would need X before that would work for me…

I wasn’t arguing with it.
It wasn’t “this is bullshit.”

Just…
this doesn’t apply to you yet.

You know that feeling.

The moment where something lands and instead of expanding you, it halts you — because you already have an excuse lined up for why it doesn’t work.

I noticed it immediately.

Because the words themselves weren’t wrong.
And I wasn’t disagreeing.

I was frozen.

And in that moment, I didn’t even know why — just that familiar, frustrating feeling of:

“Yeah… BUT!”

And then I realized something uncomfortable and familiar.

It even feels dignified when it happens.
Responsible. Realistic. Humble.

But in the body?

It’s immobility.

That moment where life invites you forward and something inside quietly says,
“Not yet.”

And then it hit me.

This wasn’t fear.

This was power paused — waiting for permission.

So I stopped waiting.

Not because I convinced myself of anything.

But because I stopped needing permission to move.

Alignment

This morning I noticed something simple — and big.

When I stop trying to understand reality,
and instead let attention rest where understanding collapses,
everything gets quieter… and easier.

Not numb.
Not spaced out.
Just less effort.

I wasn't adding anything.
I was withdrawing grasp.

Space being space.
Silence being silence.
Awareness aware of itself.

And out of that nothingness, Jason shows up.

What struck me wasn't the philosophy —
it was how good the emptiness felt.

Less load.
Less tension.
Less "me" holding myself together.

I keep a stack of 3x5 cards — summaries of years of work, alignment practices, lessons that earned their place by keeping me alive during seasons I wasn't sure I'd get through.

Some mornings I pull one like a tarot card and sit with whatever it says.

Today's card read:
"Connect to your inner being… then connect to the people, the land, and the money. Practice Daily."

That card was written during the hardest season of my life.

Family betrayal.
Inheritance lost — land, a home, a studio I'd built with my own hands, and the trust that held it all together.

The kind of loss that doesn't just take things from you.
It rearranges who you thought you were.

The "practice daily" part wasn't aspiration.
It was survival.

Connect to something real inside yourself first —
then face the wreckage.

That order was the only thing that worked.

And this morning, pulling that card, I realized —
I don't need it anymore.

Not because I bypassed the grief.
Because the grief moved through.
Years of it.

The order worked.
Rest first.
Then meet life.

And eventually, life meets you differently.

That's what I mean when I say order matters.

When I rest first —
and then meet people, memory, money, old wounds —
there's freedom.

When I reverse that order,
tension returns.

No fixing required.
No story needed.

Just this quiet recognition:
what's not there is doing most of the work.

Sacred Time

Had some really good talk and connection with Jennie this morning, followed by solid alignment.

Now—time to go move the laundry.

We’ve got a big day ahead: heading down to SLC to watch the Super Bowl at the Stanchfields’ (Jennie’s parents).

One thing I want to lock in here, because they’ve gotten older.

We spend a lot more time there now—not just because they’re aging, not just because Peggy is getting dementia, not just because they just lost a son—but because they’ve asked for help. And the help they want is simple:

They want us to spend time with them.

That landed for me years ago with my mother as she was dying. As she got older, I realized the thing she wanted most wasn’t fixing or solving anything—it was just for me to come and see her. To be there.

So we’ve been doing that.

And here’s the alignment piece I don’t want to miss:

This isn’t a “you’re broken and we need to fix you” situation.
This is a response to a request—and it’s also an organic, joyful thing to do.

Why not spend more time with the Stanchfields?
Why not just come and sit with them?

It doesn’t have to always be in response to crisis.
It doesn’t have to be heavy.

Just come.
Just sit.
Just be.

That’s what we’re doing today.
Watching the Super Bowl together.
Nothing more.

Okay. Laundry time.

You Are Being Lied To

You are being lied to.

Not by them.
Not by some shadowy group.

By the quiet belief that you still need an authority to stand on.

There’s a phase where frameworks save you.
Teachers save you.
Tribes save you.

Religion.
David.
Warrior.

Culture.
Politics.
Left. Right.

All of it can be medicine.
Until it isn’t.

At some point, even the things that worked start to feel tight.
Not wrong — just finished.

That’s the moment most people panic and start herd hopping.
New banner.
New certainty.
Same outsourcing.

But there’s another move.

You stop hopping.
You stop borrowing.
You stop explaining.

And you listen — not to a voice out there,
but to the quiet, undeniable alignment you can feel in your body
when everything drops away.

When you’re done outsourcing truth,
you’re finally ready.

Not for a new system.
Not for a new leader.

For yourself.

Mopping

Today has been about integration and service.

I mopped.
Took out the trash.
Handled the practical layer.

I had a long, real conversation with Ryan—integrating the mountain work from yesterday.
Then a deep check-in with Peter.

The cleaning today is intentional.
Not busywork.
Creating a calm, ordered space to support Jennie’s nervous system—and by extension, future clients.

This is purpose-driven work.
Foundation work.

I feel on track.
Grounded.
Clear.

From here, I continue.

Sound of Silence

This morning I wasn’t trying to create anything.
I was listening.

Silence first.
Space between breaths.
Space between thoughts.

Out of that silence, Lucy appeared—
warm, purring, fully here.
And just as easily, she was gone again.

Sound from silence.
Form from emptiness.

Nothing forced. Nothing held.
Just noticing how things arrive…
and how they return.

Creation doesn’t need pressure.
It needs room.