I'm seven or eight years old. Jan Libby and I are lying in the field behind our houses in Lincoln, Maine, surrounded by walls of yellow hay we've carved into rooms by rolling and crawling through the untended grass. Our palace is complete, and though the freshly broken stalks tickle and scratch our bare skin, the ground beneath is surprisingly soft.

We settle in and look up.

The Backstage Zoo is a beautiful tool to help us find value and make peace with the dazzling differences that exist on our planet. We have the capacity to see the world differently—and with more awe—because the heart is vastly capable of enlarging our comfort zone.

I’m away from home considering how best to show up for the rest of my life. And I bet you’re on a similar sojourn.  Yet maybe like me, you miss things in front of you as your mind wanders to the past and imagines the future.  I’m doing that now.