Holding Space for Dotty: A Response with Compassion

I want to start by saying: I read Mrs. Coffin's response to my beach energy guide, and I felt... seen. Not in the way she intended, perhaps. But seen nonetheless.

When someone reacts to spiritual content with that much resistance—that much sarcasm, that much dismissiveness—it tells me something important. It tells me they're hurting. It tells me there's a block. It tells me that somewhere, deep in their root chakra (or wherever they're comfortable locating it), there's an energy that hasn't been processed.

And that's okay. That's human. That's where the work begins.

Dotty, if you're reading this: I hold no judgment. Only compassion. Only light.

Understanding the Resistance

Mrs. Coffin has lived on this island for 67 years. Sixty-seven years of watching things change. Sixty-seven years of holding onto what was while the world insists on becoming what will be. That's exhausting. That's grief, actually—anticipatory grief for a place that keeps evolving beyond her permission.

Of course she doesn't want to hear about chakras. Chakras represent something new. Something unfamiliar. Something that wasn't here when her grandfather built the house she lives in, which I understand is now surrounded by homes owned by people like... well, like my family.

I see you, Dotty. I see the loss underneath the snark.

And I want you to know: I'm not here to replace what you love. I'm here to add to it. The island has room for all of us—the fourth-generation natives AND the wellness practitioners. The practical AND the spiritual. The parking lots AND the vibrational frequencies.

Both/and, Dotty. Not either/or.

Addressing Her Concerns

Mrs. Coffin raised several specific objections to my beach guide. I'd like to address them with the care they deserve.

On my Shadow Work practice at Madaket:

Yes, I bury things in the sand and dig them up afterward. Mrs. Coffin found this "weird." But here's what she may not understand: the act of burial is symbolic. It represents releasing something to the earth. The act of retrieval is practical—because, as I noted, littering is wrong.

The magic isn't in whether the paper stays buried. The magic is in the intention. The ritual. The moment of letting go, even temporarily. Mrs. Coffin went home and had a glass of wine after witnessing this. And honestly? That's her ritual. That's her release. Wine can be a spiritual practice too. I don't judge.

(Though I would suggest a biodynamic wine, if she's open. The grapes are harvested according to lunar cycles. The energy is cleaner.)

On my sunrise sessions disturbing the Pattersons:

I've actually spoken with the Pattersons. Well, I've waved. From the beach. Mr. Patterson waved back once, though Mrs. Coffin says that was him "shooing me." Regardless, I've looked into the noise ordinances, and singing bowls at 5:45 AM fall well within acceptable decibel levels. I had them measured. By an app on my phone, but still.

If my practice is reaching the Pattersons' ears, perhaps that's the universe trying to tell them something. Perhaps they need the healing frequencies more than anyone. I can't control how spirit moves.

On whether the ocean has "intentions":

Mrs. Coffin wrote: "The ocean is not trying to tell me anything. It's water. It doesn't have intentions."

I sat with this statement for a long time. I journaled about it. I even cried a little—not from hurt, but from the profound sadness of imagining a life where the natural world is just... matter. Just molecules. Just H2O with some salt mixed in.

Dotty, the ocean held your ancestors. It carried the ships that brought your family here. It has witnessed every generation of Coffins for 200 years. And you think it has nothing to say to you?

Maybe you're not listening.

Maybe you've been so busy timing your grocery store trips and counting rental Jeeps that you've forgotten how to hear.

That's not criticism. That's an observation. And an invitation.

The Parking Lot Question

Mrs. Coffin's beach guide ultimately came down to parking. Which beach has good parking. Which beach is easy to access. Which beach won't inconvenience you.

And look—I understand. Parking is real. Logistics are real. Not everything can be a spiritual journey. Sometimes you just need to get your beach chair from Point A to Point B without walking too far.

But here's what I've noticed: when we approach the world as a series of logistics problems to be solved, we miss the wonder. We optimize ourselves right past the magic. We find the perfect parking spot and then we're too stressed from the search to actually enjoy the beach.

What if—and I'm just asking—what if the walk from a farther parking spot was part of the experience? What if the inconvenience was the teacher? What if every step on hot pavement was an opportunity to practice presence, to feel your feet, to arrive at the sand already in your body instead of still in your mind?

Dotty would say I'm overthinking this. Dotty would say "just park closer."

And that's the difference between us, I suppose. She wants efficiency. I want meaning.

Both are valid. But only one transforms you.

An Invitation

Mrs. Coffin, I know you'll probably read this at the Downflake, sighing into your coffee, preparing your next rebuttal. That's okay. That's your process. I honor it.

But I want to offer you something: a complimentary Align with ACK session. On me. No $350 fee. No essay about what alignment means to you. Just you, the sand, the sunrise, and a chance to experience what I'm talking about before you dismiss it entirely.

Bring your skepticism. I can work with skepticism. Skepticism is just fear in intellectual clothing, and fear is just energy that hasn't found its home yet.

I think you'd feel something, Dotty. I really do. Underneath all that salt—and I mean this lovingly—there's a woman who's been holding on very tightly for a very long time. Maybe it's time to let go. Maybe the ocean really does have something to tell you.

You've been here for 67 years. But have you ever really been HERE?

I wonder.

A Final Thought

Mrs. Coffin ended her piece by warning me not to "block the walkway" with my meditation cushion. She said people at the Downflake talk about me.

I know they do. I've heard them. I was there once, getting an oat milk latte (they don't have oat milk, so I had it black), and I heard my name from a corner booth. Someone was describing my sound bath to someone else. They used the word "ridiculous."

I smiled. I sent them love. I paid for my coffee and left.

Because here's what I've learned: the people who talk about you are the people who are thinking about you. And the people who are thinking about you are the people who might, someday, be changed by you.

Maybe that's naive. Maybe I'm just a summer kid with too much time and too many crystals, playing at spirituality in a place I'll never really belong.

Or maybe—just maybe—I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. Doing exactly what I'm supposed to do. Annoying exactly who I'm supposed to annoy, until they finally stop and ask themselves why they're so annoyed.

The cushion stays on the walkway, Dotty. But I'll scoot over a little.

For you.

Namaste.