Love, Maur

Hi friends, It’s been a minute. I’ve been a little off my game, and honestly, there was a stretch where I wasn’t even on the field. In early April, someone I love found themselves in a situation that sent me on a crazy quest through a system I had no map for, no mentors for, and only a sliver of faith that I would find my way through. If this were the Hero’s Journey, this chapter would be the Supr...

I’m getting ready to wander from the known structures of time and responsibility, going off grid for a few days in the unscheduled flow of wanderlust. I am going to Ireland. Headed there for my daughter Billie’s Maiden Voyage to the Motherland, this time I go with the passport of a native, the visa of one who has returned, clinging tight to the souvenir I have acquired from the adventure of chasin...

Underneath It All The Tower or the Altar: Build it up or lay it down. A reflection on the Tower of Babel, the Binding of Isaac, and the shift from seeking to surrender. What looks separate… isn’t. In meditation, a forest revealed something simple and profound:trees may appear to stand alone, but beneath the surface they are connected—root to root, life to life, sustained by an unseen network. this...

Up on Madeline Island, darker days have settled in. The town has grown quiet, the water cold. Summer folks have flown off with the geese to sunnier shores, leaving the rest of us to navigate the dark. I was once among them. But this time, this year, I wait and witness as the light bows out early. In the remote solitude of Island life, traffic lights are replaced with stop signs, pulsing neons give...

This week in The Artist’s Way at SpeakEasy, we’re invited to connect with our Muse and create a piece of artwork that celebrates the Muse. The invitation makes my heart flutter. I’ve been digging through the remnants of my past as we prepare for our move to Madeline Island. Closing up a home that has held my family and me for the past fifteen years is no small thing. I’m swimming through an ocean...

My spiritual well-being cocktail is made up of three simple syrups: forgiveness, focus, and friendship. Forgive the fears, focus on the love, and find some good friends to walk the path home. Dr. Tererai Trent has been one such friend. Years ago, I was invited to attend the final filming of the Oprah Show. With visions of finding a car under my seat, I headed off to the show with my friend America...

Healing Has No Ceiling One summer when I was about seven, while spending a week with my cousins, I skinned my knee in such a hideous way that I couldn’t even bear to look at it. My Aunt Helen took me into the kitchen, propped me up on the counter, and began to care for the wound. I was terrified and traumatized, but her steady authority and focused care healed a part of me I didn’t even know was h...

Last year in Ireland, on the very first day of a retreat, Kathy Scott of Trailblazey asked a question that made me dig. The theme of the retreat was Homecoming , and it was geared toward fostering a reconnection for the Irish soul, as well as for all the other ways a person might need to come home to themselves. Her question was… "What are the gifts you don't confess to? What are the gifts you're...

Growing up, my family lived just up the block from the church, and everything we did revolved around our church and school. We never veered far from it, mentally or physically, and when we did, we could still locate its steeple even when we were blocks from home. It pointed to the heavens as a reminder of our potential and possibilities. To enter the church, you had to open these massive wooden do...

In times like these, it is easy to forget ourselves, to forget that Spring will come. The world's weight presses in, making us feel small, uncertain, and unsteady. My grievances seem to block the brilliance. And then Spring comes, slow and shyly, slipping in, waking us from the dream of darkness and devastation and returning us to peace. "Let everything happen to you—beauty and terror. Just keep g...

Donny Robertson gave me my first Valentine. It was a cherry red, heart-shaped lollipop etched with white letters that read,  “Be mine.”  In sixth grade, romantic gestures were like Big Foot sightings. We’d heard the stories, but no one had actually seen them. So I wasn't put off when he handed me the lollipop with an awkward shrug and said, "My mom packed this in my lunch. Do you want it?" Donny's...

My life is filled with things that have been given up on, given away, or passed down. My car is secondhand, my house has sheltered many before me, and even my thoughts and beliefs are often borrowed and mindlessly regurgitated—not all of them, but some. You could say not all my thoughts are all my thoughts. I am a secondhand Rose. I love recycled goods—things that have been pre-loved. Worn-in jean...

In a world screaming in pain from fears and fires, “thoughts and Prayers” have become the equivalent of spiritual shadow puppets. I get it. It’s an odd defense for complacency, a tone-deaf trope. "I am going to pray for you" can be borderline offensive. “Don’t bother,” replies the tired world. "I don't need your intentions. I need interventions. I need your prayers to grow some legs, cook me a mea...

Tomorrow night marks the First Voice Box Story & Serenade 2025 , and the theme song is Times They Are A-Changing . Life is like a river that refuses to be stagnant. So, how do we navigate it all? Will we go with reluctance and rage, shaking our fists to the heavens and demanding an explanation for the changes occurring that were not on our vision board and, therefore, seems like a horrible injusti...

Happy New Year! Here, we are at the threshold, in the blank slate of what will be. The new beginning and the letting go of the old. But this is not just what happens at The beginning of a year.  This is happening all the time.  We are always taking in and letting go. We are all on the eternal Hero’s journey, leaving the ordinary and being called to the adventure. This is not a choice; this is life...

Twixmas There is something enchanted and oddly dreamy about the time between Christmas and New Year’s. The year is yawning and ready to bow out. It’s full and drunk and weaving its way to the exit as we sway in the liminal space between inertia and anticipation. Here is the timeless beat between inhale and exhale. Here in the threshold, the reverent pause, the lovely lull, this magical time of ima...

Oh Holy Night was a censored song, yet it found a way to move past the restrictions and regulations to become the first song ever to hit the airways. This is a story about how impossible things are never really all that impossible. The story was recorded for SpeakEasySpiritualCommunity.com, where we meet every Sunday at 10:30 am CT to trend tough, tender, and truly impactful topics. Feel free to j...

As a struggling young actress, before the days of branding, I found a teacher who gave me a peek past how I saw myself and how I was being seen. His name was Sam Christiansen, a modern-day marketing mystic for artists and creatives. Christiansen believed that our essence isn't something we acquire but rather our inherent identity, intrinsically linked to our purpose. He offered a program of commun...

This is a free preview of a paid episode. To hear more, visit maureenmuldoon.substack.com Episode Overview: In this first part of a two-part series, we explore the biblical characters of Mary and Martha, often seen as archetypes of contemplative and active lifestyles. We delve into the importance of "Mary Mindfulness," or the practice of stillness and reflection, and how it can enrich our lives. K...

Liam knocks on my office door. “Mom, do you want to go see a movie?” I’m in the middle of writing about spontaneity versus structure and want to keep going, but I also know he’s 24 and moving out in a week. I close my computer and spontaneity wins. We get into the movie for free because Liam works there. He loves movies and has seen The Wild Robot twice already, but he wants to watch it with me. W...

American Her-Story By Maureen Muldoon If I tell you of my heart, I should tell you of my home, The places I have lived, And the land that I have roamed. Through the trauma and the dramas, The triumphs and the grief, It's the truth I'll be confessing, In hopes of some relief. See, my heart is not an organ, It's the address where I live, The tribes in which I travel, The things I can't forgive. Like...