Willow Pond
What three wise dudes taught me about self-belief and letting go
I was sitting by a duck pond when I heard the frogs croaking in the sunset. The sound pulled me back to the valley, like a rope tied to my chest.
I was at Willow Pond again, beneath the old willow tree, surrounded by oak and madrone, their bark glowing red in the fading light. The valley ran out before me. Mountains held the horizon. Frogs began their nightly chorus.
I lived there for three weeks. Long enough to think I learned nothing. Long enough to find out later I had.
Mack owned the place—a cowboy farmer who understood that land can heal. He dreamed of a sanctuary where people would feel it the moment they arrived—safe, grounded, held. A place for community and family to gather and remember themselves. He asked me to help him build it. I said yes. The land was already doing the work.
“You gotta believe in yourself more, partner,” he’d say. We’d walk the vineyard rows or sit on the porch looking over the valley. He handed me books—rewiring the brain, become the person you imagine.
Mack understood patience. Grapes grow on their own time. You tend, you trust. He was trying to teach me that I was no different. That belief is the soil transformation grows from.
I nodded. I read a few pages. But I didn’t hear him. I was too busy fixing things and trying to fix myself. Too busy paying for a divorce and chasing a job to notice what was trying to root inside me.
Mack saw something in me I couldn’t see in myself. And because I couldn’t see it, I couldn’t receive what he offered.
Theo made candy in a small building down the hill. Little pieces of art—colorful, delicate, exact. He practiced Vipassana meditation. Ten days of silence. Ten days of learning you are not your mind.
“You should try it,” he said, eyes bright, like he’d found a secret door.
Most mornings I saw him wandering the property. Moving slowly between trees. Watching a bird. Touching a leaf. Completely still and somehow alive in every direction.
I remember thinking I didn’t have time for that. Now I know that was the problem.
These days, when I pause to feel the weight of my breath or the warmth of coffee in my hands, I think of Theo. He was trying to show me that presence isn’t something you create. It’s something you allow.
Zane was the chef. Surfer energy—easy, flowing, present. He moved through the kitchen like water—nothing forced, nothing wasted. He’d make pizzas so good they silenced a room. Thin crust, garden herbs, hot honey, tomatoes still warm from the sun.
He relaxed in ways I couldn’t. But he carried ease the way others carry tension. Effortless. Unapologetic.
I judged him. Too chill, I thought. How could he be so easy when nothing felt easy to me? But he was teaching me, same as the others—that life doesn’t need to be forced into meaning. You can’t force the wave. You read it, you ride it, and you trust it will carry you.
Now, when I eat a slice of good pizza, I think of Zane in that kitchen—stoned, barefoot, radiant. I’m learning that ease isn’t laziness. It’s wisdom. The art of letting excellence emerge on its own time.
I left Willow Pond after three weeks. I told myself it was the infrastructure we didn’t have. The timing. The money. All true. None of it the truth.
Months later, I finally understood: I left because I needed to focus on me. I wasn’t ready to build their dream because I hadn’t learned to believe in my own yet.
Mack, Theo, and Zane—they gave me what I needed, even if I couldn’t receive it then. They trusted the timing even when I didn’t.
Theo’s stillness, Zane’s ease—they rest on a foundation I didn’t have. You can’t be present if you don’t think you’re worth showing up for. You can’t relax into life if you don’t believe you deserve its softness.
Mack had handed me the key. I just didn’t think it fit my lock.
Now, in meditation, I’m picking it up again. Rewiring the old stories. Practicing belief. Learning what Mack tried to teach me—that who you think you are determines what you’ll allow yourself to become.
I dream sometimes of going back to Willow Pond. Helping them build what we started. A place where people come to breathe, to stand under the willow and hear the frogs, to remember what it feels like to belong.
But until that day, I’m building my own Willow Pond—quietly, wherever I am.
Every meditation is Mack’s lesson—belief over doubt. Every moment of presence is Theo—walking among trees, alive to simple things. Every act of ease is Zane—letting life taste good again.
I left Willow Pond because I didn’t think I could build something that beautiful. Now I know beauty isn’t a place. It’s a practice.
The wellness center was never meant to be built out there. It’s meant to be built in here—in breath, in stillness, in belief.
Three wise dudes on a vineyard tried to teach me the only lesson that matters: believe in yourself enough to build the life you want, one present moment at a time.
I was a slow student. But I’m finally starting to learn.