The Culmination of an Obsession

The last three months have been among the most tumultuous of my entire fairly eventful life. I would not have wished any of this on anyone, and I can’t even articulate much about it at all right now.

I shared how a spontaneous and out of character Richard Marx obsession led me to synchronicities that reconnected me with an old friend and through an unfolding series of experiences, I think it’s safe to say I’m going to have more to share on that later.

For now, the concert came and went last weekend. I was pleasantly surprised at the show he put on. It was an acoustic show in a small theatre, intimate and quiet, and just what I needed.

I cried, in public, when he sang When You Loved Me, and I’ll be sharing soon about an experience of love I briefly held, the kind of love we only dream of in our physical lives…love that leaves a mark that cannot be erased through time or incarnations.

Back to the concert.

Last year, before I left my marriage, I bought a beautiful black floral dress. I knew it was for later, that I’d be wearing it when I was ready to reclaim myself. As I hit “purchase” on the tickets, I already knew what I would be wearing.

I wore the dress to the concert and was stopped multiple times with compliments. After the show, standing on a sidewalk, a woman and her mother turned to me. The woman told me how she’d meant to tell me in the venue how much she liked my dress. I thanked her and told her it was my first outing after leaving my marriage. Her mother took my hand, shook it, and they both said, “Congratulations!”

Say what you will about women, we are a tribe. It was a special moment of arriving, and I reflect on how I felt more support from those strangers than from anyone who knew me as I walked through that transition.

What happened next was the real purpose, I suspect.

Since my favorite beach house just so happened to be available for the two days following the concert, I booked it and spent the weekend in contemplation. It was a threshold moment and I knew the Megan who walked in was not going to be the Megan who left the Oregon coast.

I performed a consecration ritual, and as I sat in the hot tub overlooking the ocean a little later, I said out loud, feeling the weight of the words as I spoke:

This is the moment. This is the day the real work begins.

As I finished speaking, a mourning dove, the bird I traditionally see during transitions such as my brief marriage separation in 2023 and again when I moved in 2025, flew across my gaze from left to right.

And now, my friends, the real work begins.

I am going to share with you an ongoing series of posts that flirt with the mystical, the spiritual and, should I live to tell the tale, a pattern unfolding in real time that is going to demand of humanity a level of discernment I hope we are still capable of possessing.

Stay tuned, but with fair warning: the real work has begun. The content that skirted the edges of normal before is about to go on a journey that asks you to consider the truth of your reality in a way you may find deeply uncomfortable.