It was 1:00 am and we had just arrived at the hotel after a long and tiring drive. The lone night clerk took care of our very late registration. There were lots of details we needed to know, such as how and where to park, if the parking ticket stayed in the car or not, and of course how to get to our room.

Yesterday, I moved my patronage to a new pharmacy because my old one had become too crowded and busy. Refreshingly, this new drugstore was as quiet as a library, just as I was told it would be. There was only one customer at the prescription counter, so I waited my turn to address the lady behind the counter whose eyes never left the computer screen in front of her. Without looking at me, she said "May I help you?" I said to her, “May I speak with you for a moment, please?” With her eyes still on the screen, she said, "Yes." Then I thought to myself, "Am I going to have to talk to the back of a computer screen if I use this drugstore?”

Once, several years ago, at an International Enneagram Association conference in San Francisco, I attended one of its many informative workshops. Like so many workshops, in the one I chose, after the lecture, there were breakout discussion groups. The discussion group in which I was placed had three people. One of the people in my group—a nice young woman, was concentrating very hard on what I and the other group members were saying. She leaned forward when we spoke and she spoke with great intensity. I observed that her eyes were intently looking into the group members' eyes. But there was one other thing that I noticed about this dear soul. She appeared to be exhausted.

In making the pivotal shift from ego to soul, all nine of the Enneagram energies require us to live in the now. The now is also called the present moment.

The Beloved is a pilgrim on the sacred road toward union with the Divine. With every step comes a deeper realization, a fresh revelation, and a gradual refining of the heart’s ability to love. Yet the journey is not without hardship. We stumble and fall. Storms drench us. Wounds reopen. There are seasons when life feels lonely, confusing, or painfully unfair.

Once we begin to recognize the Inner Critic for what it is, we no longer have to fear it. We can slowly disengage from its accusations, and endless fault-finding. As its voice quiets, something else begins to emerge within us — our Beloved selves. But what does it mean to live as the Beloved?

The inner critic does not merely point out our mistakes; it can become the constant soundtrack of our lives. It can whisper in the background of almost everything we do, finding fault with even our best efforts.

The inner critic is the opposite of the beloved. And we can be aware of both of these in ourselves. One of them is our real identity, while the other is a self-regulating mechanism that can harm us. 

The word “beloved” sounds like a romantic term in a novel. Indeed, the word is used in many contexts to refer to lovers and romantic relationships. 

What is the origin of our inner critic? And why would we carry its self-debasement and hurt with us everywhere? Why have we kept this unpleasant self-talk when it makes us feel so bad, so unworthy? The inner critic has been in us since our early childhood, when we developed it for our survival. It is part of what we call our ego, and we cannot do without it. The basis of the inner critic is the cautionary and punitive communication of our parents. Though their verbal warnings and even shaming were to keep us safe and accepted, we internalized their voices, only to echo them to ourselves. The inner critic is meant to keep us in line but can become a monster that completely distracts us from who we really are: the Beloved. 

The inner critic comes to us every day. It points out our shortcomings, deficiencies, and blunders. And regardless of what the Inner critic says, or the particular deficit it brings to our attention, there is an implied message: you are flawed and unacceptable. 

“Make yourself at home.”

We hear those words as guests, often a little unsure of ourselves at first. We don’t want to overstep, to assume too much, to cross invisible lines. But something shifts when the invitation is sincere. Our shoulders drop. We breathe differently. We reach for a glass without asking, settle into a chair, and move about more freely. For some of us it can mean opening the fridge without feeling like we have crossed a boundary. For a moment, what is not ours begins to feel like it could be. Hospitality makes that possible.

Sometimes, when someone dies, we say, “They’ve gone home to be with Jesus.” It’s a gentle phrase, softer than the blunt finality of “they’re gone,” and far more alive than “rest in peace,” which can feel like an endless, dormancy. “Going home” carries something better. It suggests movement, belonging, and a return, not an ending.

Every so often, only a handful of times a year, I find myself missing home. Not my home now, though I love it and miss it too, if I am away too long. I mean something older, deeper. I miss the kind of nurturance and affirmation that first taught me who I was. It is as a subtle yearning, an emptiness, a longing that’s hard to name, but it is for the warmth that once held me without question.

My English grandfather spent his life at sea. A merchant officer, he circled the globe through the Suez and Panama Canals, into the ports of Europe, Africa, Australia, New Zealand, South America, and India. The world was his oyster. And yet, after every voyage, he returned home.

I’ve been out of pocket lately… I have been moving, traveling, staying in motion. There’s a certain energy in that kind of life, but after a while, something subtle begins to slip. Without realizing it, I start to feel untethered… slightly unmoored. Not lost, but not fully grounded either. Something calls me back home. 

I stood at the kitchen window on a bright, sparkling afternoon and saw Lark on the patio, quietly reading, while our two dogs joyfully romped across the yard behind her. Something in the scene settled me instantly. I felt free… content, grounded… safe… at home.

I stopped recently at the house where I grew up—and at first, I hardly recognized it.

What was once a pristine, newly built neighborhood now feels worn, a little tired, softened by time. The streets no longer gleam. The homes no longer sparkle. Yet beneath that weathering, I could still feel a sense of home. I visited there many years ago, and the owner was there. She invited me to see the house. It was amazing to relive my childhood in one amazing visit. This time, no one was at home, so I took the liberty to walk around some of “my yard.” And all that was home enveloped me again.