A Small Teacher on the Trail: Presence, Boundaries, and the Energy We Carry Forward

It happened quickly.

A small moment on a desert trail—
the kind that could have easily been brushed off or forgotten.

But it wasn’t.

Because sometimes, the smallest encounters carry the clearest messages…
if we’re willing to listen.

I was out walking, moving through the quiet rhythm of the desert.
The kind of space where everything softens just enough for awareness to come forward.

And then I felt it.

A wasp.

Not nearby.
Not hovering at a distance.

It had landed directly on me.

In that instant, everything became very clear.

There was no rushing.
No swatting.
No reacting from fear.

Only presence.

A quiet, steady awareness of what was happening…
and what was being asked of me in that moment.

Because a wasp, as small as it is, carries power.

And not in an abstract way.

In a very real, immediate way.

The kind of power that asks for respect.
That asks you to be aware of how you’re moving, how you’re responding,
and how you’re holding yourself in the space you’re in.

So I stayed still.

Not frozen—
but intentional.

Present enough to feel…
without escalating the moment into something it didn’t need to become.

And eventually, just as quietly as it arrived…

it moved on.

That moment stayed with me.

Not because of what could have happened—
but because of what it revealed.

For a long time, my work asked me to move quickly between spaces.

Long stretches away from home.
Early mornings.
Late nights.
Extended time holding space within the rhythm of other households.

It was—and continues to be—meaningful work.

And I remain deeply grateful for the animals and families who have trusted me,
and who continue to walk alongside me during this time of transition.

But over time, I began to notice something important.

It wasn’t just the pace.

It was what the pace was carrying with it.

I found that it was taking me longer to recover in between assignments.

That the quick transitions from one space to another weren’t just physical…
they were energetic.

And without intentional space to reset, something subtle would happen.

Pieces of one experience would linger into the next.

The energy of one home…
the emotional tone of one environment…
the unspoken dynamics of one space…

would quietly follow me into another.

Nothing obvious.
Nothing disruptive on the surface.

But enough to feel.

Enough to know that I wasn’t always arriving completely clear.

And presence—true presence—
asks for something deeper than simply showing up.

It asks for a clean arrival.

That was the deeper boundary the wasp reflected back to me.

Not just “be careful.”
Not just “hold your space.”

But:

Be aware of what you are carrying…
and what you are bringing with you into each new moment.

Because boundaries aren’t only about what we allow or don’t allow from the outside.

They’re also about what we unknowingly carry forward.

The wasp didn’t sting.

It didn’t need to.

Its presence was enough to ask:

Are you here—fully?
Or are you still holding onto where you just were?

And that question has stayed with me.

Not just on the trail…
but in the way I move through my work, my spaces, and my own energy now.

There is a different rhythm emerging.

One that honors space between.
One that allows for reset.
One that supports arriving—not just physically, but energetically—clear.

Because when we don’t give ourselves that space…

we don’t just carry fatigue forward.

We carry energy forward.

And over time, that shapes how we show up in ways we may not even realize.

The desert has a way of teaching through simplicity.

Through small, precise moments that don’t demand attention—
but offer it.

This was one of them.

A small teacher.
A brief encounter.

A clear message.

Presence is not just about being where you are.

It’s about arriving there fully.