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that we can know, with any reliable accuracy, whatever is fully and completely true about any given moment, situation, or circumstance. We then feel pressured to predict or control each and every possible consequence arising from this choice. But moving clearly into the next right thing does not necessarily bend to such logic. How can we, after all, know that a situation should work out this way or that way? Can we really know that we should have that promotion? Perhaps life has another, grander, more nourishing plan in mind. Can we really know that our child should attend this school over that one? Perhaps there are unknown variables that will reveal themselves later.
    In opening ourselves to the unknown, our choices may not find an authority within logic, reason, and accumulated evidence but rather in more subtle nuances of intuition, feeling, and sense. So rather than presenting themselves with bold, decided confidence, bolstered by facts and figures, our choices reveal with tender humility, in a soft, open palm. We may not know if we are choosing “correctly,” but we can begin to trust from where the choice arose. We can begin to trustthe expression of that living wholeness. And in that trusting, we can relax the frantic, frenzied striving for more, settling into the fullness and sufficiency of just this next right thing.
    Enough, then, is a verb, a conversation, a fugue, a collaboration. It is not a static state, something achieved or accomplished. It is relational, by nature unpredictable, punctuated by wonder, surprise, and awe. It may feel dangerous and inefficient. It demands we stay awake, pay attention to what is true in this moment, in our hearts, and make our choices always and only from that place. Then whatever we decide brings a sense of rightness and sufficiency, arriving with an exhale, a letting go, a sense that this, here, for now, is enough.

Seasons
    I stroll the narrow streets of my neighborhood in Santa Fe, a jumble of mostly small, old adobe houses, many with quietly magnificent gardens that occupy whatever space, large or small, is available to them.
    As we approach the summer solstice, the lingering light illuminates the blossoming of things that have, each in their own way, found their particular moment to gently, perfectly open to sun and sky, every bloom in its season.
    This cactus is already offering delicate yellow paper cups with brown bottoms, while another species awaits its now-dormant calling, only flowering later in the season.
    The roses bloom riotously everywhere in town, color and fragrance and petals filling the atmosphere with their abundant readiness. The hollyhocks, only slightly behind, explode upward from the soil to the top of the stalk, impossibly pink, yellow, deep blood red blossoms arriving pair by pair along each side.
    How do they know their particular moment? Each waits, quiet, still, dormant, apparently dead through winter’s cold, icy frosting. Yet each awaits its turn, one by one, for the just right alchemical light, temperature, angle of Sun and Earth, month, day, to hear its singular call, the one and only yes among athousand different million yeses that orchestrate life on Earth. What one particular yes spoken by God gives birth to this blossom, this day, this summer evening?
    How do we know the timing of anything? How do we distinguish the time of yes from the time of no? How do we hear the knowing of maybe, not yet, a little while, or simply let it be? A missed moment, a child taken from the womb too soon, a truth spoken too late, and all is lost. Yet note the precisely perfect, absolutely right moment of yes, and the galaxy explodes in wondrous fecundity that saturates all imaginable possibility with life.
    We deepen our recognition of the next right thing when we learn the timing of things, how they grow, how they each come into their season. There is a time for every purpose under heaven. A time to be born, a time to die; a time to plant, a time to reap; a