August 2025 — From Problem to Possibility

Notes on letting go of problem-solving, dreaming boldly, and receiving the sacred in the everyday.

I’m continuing my monthly updates to share what’s alive at the edge—across parenting, intimacy, and the unfolding of a life built from beauty, not problem solving. Here’s what’s taking shape

I’m exploring what life becomes when it’s no longer a problem to solve.

I just finished reading a book that shifted something foundational in me—The Path of Least Resistance by Robert Fritz, a former musician who created a company systematizing learnings about the creative process. His book put systems-oriented language to a quiet tension I’ve felt for years but never fully understood.

The core insight is this: most of us have been trained to relate to creativity through the lens of problem-solving. If something feels off—sex, parenting, business—we ask what’s wrong, what needs to be fixed, what’s in the way. Then we brainstorm. We try to solve for it.

But problem-solving and creation are fundamentally different systems. Problem-solving is reactive. It’s about removing what we don’t want. Creation is generative. It’s about bringing something into existence that doesn’t yet exist. One is about elimination. The other, emergence. And no amount of problem-solving or brainstorming could have enabled great artists like Beethoven or Mozart to create their masterpieces.

When we collapse the two—when we try to create from the energy of problem-solving—it doesn’t work. At least not in a sustainable way.

With problem-solving, the intensity of the problem dictates our motivation. But as we begin to address the issue, the intensity goes down—and so does the motivation. The system is inherently oscillatory.

That was a revelation. It explained the invisible loop I’ve lived inside so many times. Feeling inspired… then stuck. Getting clarity… then dropping off. Pouring energy into something, only to lose steam the moment the “problem” feels resolved. Even my last newsletter framed my exploration of service as what was in the way—a classic problem-solving frame.

And it wasn’t just creativity. I saw it in my relationship to sex. A little over a month ago, on Father’s Day, Kiki reflected that I’d been relating to sex as a problem to solve—and that the impact was that it made her want it less. I could feel the truth in that.

So much of my recent writing—beautiful as it’s been—was still rooted in metabolizing tension, in working through a problem that wanted to be resolved . It wasn’t coming from the clean current of desire.

And because sex is a mirror, I saw the larger pattern: I’ve been relating to life itself as a problem to solve. And once I decided to stop doing that, I could feel the floatiness of the past month—the disorientation of no longer having a “problem” as a North Star to orient around. I’ve gotten so good at problem solving and created so much beauty in my life from it, and it’s become clear that it’s time for a new way of being.

The book offers an alternative: create a clear, compelling vision for what you want. Come into deep contact with your actual present reality. And then let the natural tension between those two states become the path of least resistance for your creative energy.

That structural tension between vision and reality is what creates a truly sustainable system—one that doesn’t oscillate, one that consistently progresses.

And right now, I’m feeling genuinely excited to begin living from that frame—not just in my work, but in every part of life.

I’m dreaming into the masterpiece I want my life to be.

If I’m no longer orienting to life as a problem to solve, then what do I want to create?

That’s the question I’ve been living into—and it’s been waking something in me. Not just a new way of thinking, but a new feeling of possibility in my body, an aliveness, a spark.

I’ve started building what I’m calling a soul vision board (I’m using the canvas feature in Obsidian)—a place to dream into every area of my life as if it were a blank canvas. Not through the lens of problem solving, but of creating something beautiful. A life that feels like art. A masterpiece that only I could make.

When I’ve done similar exercises before, I realized there would be a subtle problem-solving energy, a slight pressure to figure my life out. And this time there just feels like infinite spaciousness. And the qualitative shift is soft but unmistakable.

I’m dreaming into partnership and sex, into fatherhood, into epic adventures and awe-filled moments in nature, into deep brotherhood, into living as the embodied divine masculine, into a life of passionate creativity.

And what I’m noticing is: this is a muscle I haven’t worked very much. I’m great at solving problems. I can see what’s not working and name what needs to shift. But visual dreaming—creating images in my awareness of the life I want to create—is something I’m only starting to touch.

So I’ve been practicing. And it’s bringing me to life.

I ordered a stack of beautiful coffee table books filled with wonders of the natural world—epic hikes, remote landscapes, glacial peaks, sacred ruins. Not because I’m actively planning a trip, but because I want to inspire new possibilities. To surround myself with images that awaken the part of me that remembers: I’m allowed to want this. I’m allowed to dream this big.

One dream that landed especially deep was this: investing in brotherhood and friendships that deepen over decades. It wasn’t something I would have named at first. But as I wrote it down, I could feel it in my body—the beauty of sitting under the stars in my seventies, surrounded by men and families I’ve grown with and loved for a lifetime, looking around and saying, What a life we’ve lived.

I want that. I want to live in a way that makes that future inevitable and creates the world that aligns with that dream.

There’s a new kind of fuel rising from this process, a new sense of zest and joy. And what I’m starting to see is that it’s not problem-solving or efforting that will carry me into deeper service—it’s this. This intimacy with what I truly want. This devotion to beauty. This orientation toward life not as a problem to solve, but something to paint with the full palette of my soul.

And that feels like thriving.

I’m tuning into the energy of fully showing up to meet life.

I recently had a challenging conversation with a friend—one that carried rupture, unspoken tension, unfinished truth. I was tired going into it. Ember is waking up throughout the night, and I hadn’t slept well for two nights in a row. And yet, I showed up. I sat in the fire. I listened. I took in his words and let them land.

But the next morning, as I reflected during tea, I could feel something subtle in my posture. I’d received the conversation in a soft, open way—but I hadn’t fully met it. My spine was a little sunken. My energy leaned slightly back. I hadn’t brought the full clarity and aliveness of my being. I hadn’t touched the exact place in him—in us—that the rupture had revealed.

And the truth is: I can.

With everything I’ve trained for—the medicine journeys, the years of inner work—I have the capacity to meet those moments not just with softness and receptivity, but with presence that penetrates. The kind that names the deeper layer, that speaks to the hurt beneath the anger, that reveals the truth behind the words.

And that requires a choice. A choice to bring an upright spine. A choice to lean into life, even when I’m tired. A choice to show up not just as someone who holds space—but as someone who shapes it.

Ever since Ember was born, I’ve shown up for tea every morning. It’s been my anchor. But now, I’m realizing that showing up is no longer just about consistency—it’s about how I show up. What would it mean to show up to tea with a fully upright posture, as a daily embodiment of how I want to meet life?

I just completed a three-day “Awaken Your Dom” training around embodying dominance. And one of the teachings that landed most was this: being a Dom is about your capacity to shape reality. It’s about being willing to fully take responsibility for what wants to be created.

They described the Dom energy as a combination of containment and penetration. And I could feel how much of my life has been devoted to the first. I know how to hold. I know how to listen. I know how to be with what is.

But now, something more is being asked of me: a fuller willingness to lean in, a penetrating of reality. It’s a transmission that says: this is what I’m here for. This is what I want to create. Not just for me—but for Ember, for my family, for the world I want to help shape.

This isn’t about force. It’s about truth. It’s about presence with a spine. The kind of presence that wakes people up—not by pushing, but by being so undeniably here that the world can’t help but shift around it.

And so the question I’m living into now is this: What does it mean to meet life with an upright spine?

Not just to show up for life. But to shape the world I want to live in.

I’m cherishing the golden stretch of morning with my daughter.

Most mornings lately, Ember wakes up between 6 and 7. And for that first hour or two before our tea ceremonies, it’s just me and her—making her breakfast, feeding her bites of yogurt and fruit, and playing, while Kiki catches up on sleep.

There’s a kind of quiet magic in that window. The world is still soft. And I get to be fully with her—her expressions, her sounds, her small hands reaching for the next thing she wants to try. Some mornings when I haven’t slept well, presence is challenging. Other days, it’s pure magic.

This past week has felt like a kind of explosion. She finally learned to crawl forward. We set up a Montessori Pikler triangle in our living room, and within days, she went from wobbly hesitation to confidently standing on her own. I could feel the shift in her body—more grounded, more capable, more here.

And it’s not just the milestones. It’s the moments in between—when she tries something and can’t quite do it, when she falls and starts to cry, when she looks at me, disoriented, unsure.

In those quiet morning hours, I get to be the one who says, It’s okay to be afraid. I get to show her, in every gesture, that she’s not alone. And in doing that for her, something is softening in me too.

Because there’s a younger part of me that never got that kind of holding. A part that was overly protected rather than allowed to explore. A part that was told something was wrong whenever I got hurt. A part that didn’t feel love when I was afraid I can’t.

And now, each morning, I get to rewrite that pattern—by simply being there, holding her through the fear, and loving her in the trying.

These days feel fuller and longer. Not in a draining way—but in a way that stretches time with meaning. When I get to be with Ember and dream into what I want to create, something deep in me settles. It feels like the shape of a perfect day. I’m living on purpose.

And I’m soaking it in, for however long it lasts.