April 2026 M T W T F S S 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30
walking group theme #145: name
I have not posted for over three years! Not sure where the time went other than into my day job and just life … but I sure am out of practice with posting to this blog and in many ways with writing in this form. Today’s teeny post will be starting small and dipping my toe back into the waters of blogging with something I’ve been exploring this month as I consider my ongoing place in the world and the world’s place in my life. No earth shattering truths but with so many pressing issues and complexities that call our attention this is one way of musing with myself. If this post speaks to you we are connected, and the circle of care continues, and with it the invitation to continue to care for yourself and for others. Given the dearth of story detail to expand the conceptual elements this post is musing on I’ve added some reflection questions you may wish to pause with and contemplate. So here goes…
I’ve been part of an online walking group for at least the past ten years. The group was started 145 months ago by my university friend Rosemary. The aim of the group is connection around walking or moving for 30 minutes a day, paying attention to the monthly theme, and then sharing associated photos and theme thoughts with others in the group. This month’s theme is NAME – choose 3 – 5 letters from one’s name, have them stand for what one needs to stay well, and add a word for each letter. So here are some thoughts on TRISH – a nickname given me by a friend in med school that stuck.
T for trust. A concept I have grappled with my whole life. Trust in myself. Trust in others. Trust in life and in the future – a future definitely outside my control that invites me to show up wholeheartedly for what unfolds. So grounding myself in trust this month, this year, once again, means valuing anew what I contribute to life, and to my work. It also asks to trust in the good will of others. Trust that I will rediscover my joie de vivre (a little battered these days) and continue on with what life has in store for me. [Reflection Question: What might it mean to trust in yourself and in others? How might that be expressed in a moment of engagement?]
R for rise. Rise with intention every day, every morning, as the new day dawns. Rise to the occasion. Rise with strength and kindness. Rise also depends on rest, on the capacity to nurture and nourish the life force within me that is needed, for me, for my beloved, my children, and my friends and colleagues. Important, also, to discern that which I rise or react to – taking time to breathe, gain perspective, and choose my response. [Reflection Question: What nurtures and nourishes your life force to both rest and rise?]
I for inquiry, for continuing to investigate and be curious at all moments, to nourish a capacity for complexity, flexibility, and not rushing to assumption. Back here to pause – pausing, breathing, investigating with openness and curiosity and taking the time needed to choose the response that feels most authentic and in sync with my being. [Reflection Question: What are you curious about as you pause, breathe, and feel into what might be arising for you this very moment?]
S for speak and for silence. Speak with courage. Speak my truth, not the truth – which I often wish to assume when I get stuck in my hubristic mindset – but truth that arises when listening deeply, to myself and to others and to the world around me. Speaking the truth is linked closely to silence, to presence, to cultivating the capacity to listen without the constancy of forward planning, the capacity to deeply trust (back to trust) that that which needs to be spoken will arise once the listening is complete. Listening in such a way invites me into being patient, into not striving each moment toward an unknowable future, and allowing the flow of life to unfold un-curated and un-controlled, perhaps even with attunement to the actuality of what is here, what is being said. When listening this way speaking the truth that aligns with my integrity and way that I wish to live into the future seems to naturally flow together. [Reflection Question: What might it feel like to speak with courage into the silence of being listened to in this way?]
H for hear/here. Hear, as in back to listening with presence (here) and intention before speaking my truth. And in the hearing being fully here, being present with a fullness of awareness that integrates the principles of beginner’s mind, patience, non-striving, acceptance of that which is already here. Investigating what is here with curiosity, letting go any attachment to controlling or judging the present moment that already is as it is, and trusting in my capacity to show up (at times speak up) for what needs doing with kindness and compassion and wisdom. [Reflection Question: How might showing up with kindness shift your perspective on one thing today that is challenging for you to be present with?]
What’s in a name? – quite a bit it seems including five interrelated elements that help me stay grounded – trust, rise/rest, inquiry, silence/speak, hear/here.
Thank you for reading.
*A little note about the photograph – I take a photo of the water reservoir near me almost every day to document the changing seasons around this one constant thing – a habit that nourishes me and continues to entertain my family and even a few friends. This was Sunday.
Let’s Begin Again
” Over the many years that I have cultivated a mindfulness practice, I have noticed a growing, embodied stillness that has aided not only me but also my patients during times of great suffering and challenge. I first noticed the capacity for steady stillness during times of crises while I was a medical student…”
Let’s Begin Again
I wrote this piece for the Mindful Practice monthly blog. A reflection on the value of steadiness and generosity in the face of difficulty. And the opportunities for all of us to begin again – titled so after a lovely poem written by a medical student and shared with this blog post.
Posted in courage, life, Life, stories & more, mindfulness
Tagged begin again, Desmond Tutu, generosity, Jon Kabat-Zinn, journey, Mindful Practice, mindfulness, steadiness, stillness
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The tulip trees are flowering
The tulip trees are flowering
In the back yard of my family home back in Germany stands a large tulip tree. My mother planted it sometime in 1994 after seeing one bloom in the US while attending my sister’s graduation in Iowa. So, this year, the family tulip tree is 27 years old – the same age as my oldest daughter. My mother’s love for all things flower and tree related found expression over the years in planting orange, lemon, and fig trees in our arid garden of Windhoek, Namibia, learning the Japanese art of Ikebana while we lived in South Korea, and then from time to time planting beloved trees back in Germany at the family home – including one tiny slip of a Gingko tree, that traveled the skies in a handbag and now takes pride of place in the family home front yard.
A tulip tree needs fifteen to twenty years of growth maturity until the first blooms arrive, and ours would have barely started blooming before my mother died – ten years ago. And just two years ago, on a visit to see my father in Germany, my aunt regaled me with a memory of him calling her one evening and raving about the surfeit of blooms on the tulip tree, in some way a message from my mother, and that she just had to come see it quick! I really had no idea – I imagined large trumpet like blooms, much like the Beaumontia grandiflora or Herald’s trumpet that grew as a large creeper all along the courtyard wall of our home in Namibia – what tulip tree flowers looked like. The year of the fabulous blooms, was the year my father died, shortly before the pandemic began. I am told that the past two summers, the tulip tree has not flowered. Perhaps even trees grieve.
Imagine my joy at discovering a number of tulip trees, and gingko trees, growing in the park near our home here in western New York State. A soothing balm for my soul whenever I feel a little low – a walk through the park, and visit with the trees, lifts my spirits and returns a feeling of belonging, family and home. The tulip tree is native to eastern North America and goes by the botanical name of Liriodendron tulipifera which originates from the Greek: Liriodendron, meaning lilytree, and tulipifera which means “bringing forth tulips”, alluding to the resemblance of its flowers to a tulip. Regular tulips, also a favorite flower, I’ve planted multiple bulbs of into our garden here this past year.
I have been feeling a little out of sorts and homesick lately, and especially tired these past weeks as the academic year grinds to an end, after eighteen months of constant engagement since the sudden abrupt move from in person to online teaching that included a summer graduate coursework learning online course development followed by an intense year of online teaching. An out of sorts that also ebbs and flows with the rhythm of my natural melancholia. Feeling into the newer rhythm of making a life for myself on this strange continent. A life and home far away from the other homes I have had. Away from my children – two of whom live on continents too far away to visit because of the pandemic. And away from my parents who have both passed and I can no longer ask the multitude of questions I find myself having these days. And of course, the tulip tree.
So, this morning, as the humidity of yesterday broke into gentle ground soaking rain overnight I took a walk in the park. A brief loop before my first morning zoom meeting of the day. As I rounded the last corner before heading down the last loop home, I discovered a tree alongside the road I had not fully noticed before. The tree caught my eye as it was covered with greenish yellow and orange flowers resembling short tulip cups. The large four lobed leaves with the top notch identifying this tree as a tulip tree. A wave of joy and recognition broke over me, and I imagined my parents smiling and nodding and agreeing with me that indeed this was a beautiful tree. A tree worthy of planting, of watching grow, of being overcome with joy and excitement when it blooms. Excited enough to go out for a second walk after my meeting, in the pouring rain, to find the other tulip trees in the park and commune with their blooms, and with feeling at home once again.
Posted in life, Life, stories & more
Tagged allow life to find you, being home, belonging, joy, tulip trees
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VaccineDay#1 and an aquifer of memories
My father loved to regale us with stories. Often at dinner time when everyone was present. He would tell stories from his childhood in Germany, his family, meeting my mother in Alsace, her family, or early memories from the 60s when he and my mother were in Mwanza, Tanganyika, where brother#1 was born, or when we had moved back to Oberwürzbach where brother#2 and I were born. More often than not these were lighthearted stories, ones that gently chided and taught us our family history. The less lighthearted ones were kept for more private times – always unexpected, the sudden release of a story, as if from an overflowing aquifer of stored memories. Two such stories bubbled to the surface of my memory today. Stories from my infant days in Oberwürzbach, from the days before, before the incessant travel carried me away, as if on a great wave, from the shores of my birth, never to return. Stories from a time of understated belonging, from before I had a sense of how important to me that feeling was, and how different from one of exile I came to know the feeling of my later life to be. A life of privilege that would become one of pilgrimage.
The first remembered story of today was one my father told often, and falls into the category of lighthearted, funny tales, even as it speaks of uncertainty and anxiety – the story of brother#1 visiting the village doctor to be initiated into that necessary rite of childhood – vaccination day. And asking the doctor at the visit, moments before the needle would go into his arm – ‘Doctor, doctor, does this hurt?’ My father would always chuckle when telling this tale. I was never quite sure why it remained so vivid a memory for him.
The second story I heard only once. A story my father told me after my mother died. Of him coming home late at night after a long day on the road, to find me standing up in my cot. Not because I was waiting up for him – I was far too young for such purposeful behaviour – but because it was easier for me to breath that way. And how he would walk about with me on his arm until my struggle to breath settled and I could go back to sleep. I have often wondered how long I had stood there, waiting, struggling to breath, and where my mother was? Probably asleep, tired out after long days on her own with three young children. Often alone as my father traveled far and wide throughout Germany selling engineering supplies – one time even inadvertently getting to see the Beatles play in a basement bar in Berlin before they were famous. She also spent hours with me at the hospital, sitting in an oxygen tent, hoping my breathing would improve. When in 1967, my family moved to Johannesburg, my father was hoping to get off the road, spend more time at home with his family, but also the doctor advised my parents that the dryer Southern African air would be better for my lungs. And that it was. I don’t remember struggling to breath as a child. I didn’t remember it at all until my asthma came barreling back down on me 20 years ago, like the great wave that had carried me out to sea, far away from the shore of my birth, returning and threatening to drown me, while I struggled to float and learn to breath anew. A story for another day.
Today, a year into this pandemic, these two memories erupted, colliding with one another, as I received my first shot of the Pfizer COVID-19 Vaccine. A moment of lighthearted bantering with the nurse who gave it to me, mixed in with deeper reflection as I sat out my fifteen minutes before I could go home. Be sure to get yours. In this way we protect each other from drowning in this great wave.
Thoughts on dying in two chapters
Take me home
He takes my hands in his, and at the same time waves them away in frustration.
He brings both his hands up, his arms shaky with effort.
He uses them to show us what he means. What he imagines we do not understand.
We are here, in this house, he says. Indicating to his left hand. Now closed over into a fist.
And I want to be in this house in front, he says. Indicating with his right fist, abutting it onto the left.
I am here (left). I want to be here (right).
He imagines we do not understand. Our reluctance to take him home to the front house is due to lack of knowledge he needs to help us regain.
In his dying desire to go home, to be untethered from this life, to be home in the old house, he has himself forgotten. Forgotten that it is no longer open to us, that others live there momentarily. Forgotten that he is no longer able, with his remaining physical strength, to make it to the house in front.
Eventually he lets go, collapses back into the pillows, and shakes his head at his children by the bedside. In his mind, we are ignorant of what he wants, in ours, deeply unable to fulfil his wish.
A sudden sadness envelopes me – after a lifetime of moving, of globetrotting, of engaging with curiosity everything the world had to offer, he truly is ready to go home, ready to rest in the silence of eternity.
A reframe was needed.
Dad, you are home. You are safe. We are all here with you. We love you. You can let go.
I don’t know if it registered. At half past midnight on the night he died I found him still efforting his fragile dying frame out of bed, willing himself up, and perhaps still determined, to get to the front house to die.
Something or someone there was calling to him, he never could say, but as his spirit soared free I imagined he passed through the front house to answer the call of whatever it was that drew him there.
And then all was quiet.
And an eternity of silence followed.
Tectonic shifts
How are you? they ask. So many people enquiring. Demonstrating they care. Showing that I matter. I am okay, I say, not really sure yet. Things are slow, and I am being slow with how the year unfolds. Slow with how quickly I venture out again beyond myself. I know this time is important. And not to be rushed. I am not so much feeling intense grief than rather large and deep tectonic shifts in how I now inhabit the world. Not much rippling on the surface, but deep ocean surges bringing their own tidal waves with them, in time.
With the death of my father, both my parents now, and having these past two years moved across the ocean to a new land, I feel cut adrift like never before. Somehow find myself completely disconnected from the ‘old countries of my soul’ and wondering about the land I now find myself standing in. It may finally be time to be a grown up, and step into my own creative power. But for now I often feel lost and sad. That too is okay.
Posted in Life, stories & more, Love & loss, grief & joy
Tagged being with dying, home, kindness, life, love, relationships
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FierceRising
Who am I
Who am I now
Who is this person I call me
Who is she
Is she the baby leaving the shores of her birth and first footsteps
Never to return to it again as home
Never to see the grandfather hanging onto the last breaths of his silicosis hardened lungs ravaged by cancer
Until she is safely deposited onto far flung shores
The one learning to substitute without thought the original language of her dreams
With the mother tongue of empire builders
Is she the toddler sitting on the Lombardy East wall
Smiling hello to anyone that passes
The young child paddling in the pool of the local convent play school
Lining up for the daily lunchtime soup
The one awakened in the night by an invisible hand suffocating her in the dark
Only to realise the sheet wrapped up under her pillow, the only thing holding her down
The one watching the nightly play of lights wandering the midnight bedroom hallway
Is she the primary school child running barefoot through the hot dry veld under the Windhoek sun
Growing up carefree in a world of friendship, athletics meets, flapjacks, Eisteddfods, sleepovers, movie night birthday parties
Swimming in the blue pools of privilege
Glistening against a darker background of Apartheid, Swapo, parent discord and depressive absence
Maternal attachment disrupted by pregnancy, hospitalisation, birth, illness, surgery, demands of new baby sibling
Relegated to school lifts home with parents attached to others
Afternoons distracted and enchanted by the treasure trove of costume sewing, of substituted warmth and care
Is she the one on the cusp of teendom transitioning through her land of birth
Out east, almost as east as one can go before being west
Transitioning out of childhood
Beyond the borders on the map
From innocence to a new land
Rendering her illiterate, culturally bereft, emotionally challenged
No ready guide points for this journey of identity and developing personhood
Negotiating the world between parental home and new frontiers bounded by hangukmal, GIs, new friends, school at the army barracks
The seashore not far from the front door not for sun bathing but walking
Arm in arm cobbling together unformed untranslatable sentences, ideas and questions
Is she the sporty teenager
Ahead of herself at school
Yet to discover how it is to fall
The youngest newly exposed to sexuality and drugs
A closeted Catholic upbringing never prepared her for this
The budding confident youngster stepping into an offered ride
Shamed for belonging to the nation of the Holocaust
Forever haunted by unfolding knowledge and the never to be forgotten spectre of suffering
And the ever present nonchalant brutality of humanity
Propelled onto a search for meaning, service,
A journey for the truth never to be found
Is she the teen at seventeen leaving her parent’s home
Traveling across another ocean eastward, to the west
Exploring the edges of loneliness, marginalisation, never quite finding comfort at the university by the star-spangled lake
Pulling up fresh pegs, starting anew on the continent of her childhood
Amidst the vibrant welcoming sounds and smells of a familiar land
Finally to have her eyes pinned wide open
To the exclusion, the bias, the hidden curriculum
Keeping out all who look unlike the ones occupying the ornate chairs
The student who rallies, falters, is lost along the way
Losing connection, a year here and there, almost herself to the depths of the abyss
Is she the one falling in love still unconsciously frozen by the fear
Seeking adventure yet sacrificing ideal to conformity
Finding death and loss amidst the beckoning transition points
Despite the joyous call of small hands, feet and sparkling curious eyes
Tugging persistently at her refusal to care
Her refusal to be called mother, until mothering finds her
The one lost in the cold loneliness of the internal tundra
Finally to thaw with the warmth of just one hand
The courageous one diving the deep well in search of the glittering coin
Thrown there long ago knowing one day to be found
She is woman
She does not break
She is fierce
She is unexceptional
She is here
hibernation and possible migration
So I haven’t written for awhile. My writing is taking on a new form and this blog will take a break for some time, perhaps be retired. Thank you for your faithful readership these past three years. It has been a journey;
still to be continued.
Take a risk, what is there to lose?
- A year for taking risks. For leaping into your own life, into your own unfolding future. When did you last risk everything for a chance to live your life, this life that the soft gentle voice whispering in the depths of your soul is calling to you with?
It’s a leap year. Meaning February has 29, not 28, days in the month. Since the time of Julius Caesar. In 45 BC he simplified the calendar opting for a 365-day year with an extra day every four years. Further refined later into the Gregorian Calendar we use today. If your being likes to breath in historical stories as mine does, it is further said that the month of February may suffer with the fewest days of the year as Augustus Caesar stole two days from February, adding to the tally of 29 days that was his given month of August so not to be outdone by his predecessor, Julius Caesar, who in July had a month with 31 days. And in the presence of a leap year is a tradition of women having express permission, enacted into law in Ireland sometime in the 1200s, to ask their intended to marry them on the 29th of February. Apparently in Scotland a woman with such intent had to wear a red petty coat. Perhaps giving the beau time to hide should she be spotted so clothed, was he not intending to accept. It is said a spurned request could be expensive with the man having to gift the woman twelve pairs of gloves should he decline.
So while this is not a post to uncover the wisdom of such actions it does raise the question of taking risks. Of challenging traditions. Of going against understood and accepted norms. Of course these days one may scoff at the thought of woman waiting until that one day in 1,460 days to propose, to ‘pop’ the question, giving men the other 1,459 opportunities to make that decision. To embark on that path. Although, come to think of it, one still does not see women all around us asking these questions. The engagement photos that circulate on the Internet are still 99.9% men asking women, same sex engagements aside. So what does it take to challenge tradition, take a risk, take a chance on being rejected, on getting the impulse wrong? And what would it take for you to be spontaneous and brave and step into a future of your own making? Especially if you have a chance of stepping into a completely different way of engaging with your life? Of not doing the expected.
So this leap month, in this leap year, perhaps consider being spontaneous and taking risks. Even small ones to begin with. Be courageous. Be curious about what it is that you may be putting off, not engaging with. What anxieties or fears, real and unreal, are holding you back? For me this is a month of staying close to that which I been putting off, that which I have not been turning toward. Being curious about these things, and even getting over some inherent residual procrastination that habitually resides in the month of January for me, and getting things done, started, engaged with. It does not need to be a large external journey but could be a quiet internal turning toward whatever it is that is calling me. Taking on this leap month in terms of taking risks and doing those things I would not normally do, or am held back from doing by habit or tradition or the multiple voices in my head. As Mary Oliver’s in here poem ‘The Journey’ below so beautifully articulates – But little by little,/ as you left their voices behind,/ the stars began to burn/ through the sheets of clouds,/ and there was a new voice/ which you slowly/ recognized as your own,/ that kept you company/ as you strode deeper and deeper/ into the world,/ determined to do/ the only thing you could do–/ determined to save/ the only life you could save..
We do not take risks in our lives for so many credible reasons that hold us tethered and then have regrets of not having done them. Our greatest regrets often are not the things we have done, but the things we have not done. So this month, be courageous. Do the things that have been put off. Take chances. Begin journeys. Forgive. Tell people you love them. Risk ourselves and our lives for love and the chance to live fully. We only have this one life. Take a risk to live it now and have no regrets doing so. Risk greatly and regret nothing.
And on this year’s Valentine’s Day don’t just say “Happy Valentine’s Day”. Say “I love you”. Not only to your partner, your spouse, your lover, but to your parents, siblings, children, friends, colleagues, and anyone who has had an impact on your life. Tomorrow may be too late. Take some more risks for the sake of your own lives and thank you for reading this post whether by intention or chance. I love you all.
By Mary Oliver
The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Posted in life, Life, stories & more, Love & loss, grief & joy
Tagged courage, leap year, love, Mary Oliver, no regrets, talk a risk, Valentins's Day
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Look left Watson
A Google search this morning using the words Sherlock Holmes “look left” came up with a scripted walkthrough of an online Sherlock Holmes game called ‘The Awakened’. A most apt falling into these musings. An awakening of sorts. An attending to and opening into the filtered view of the world that we inhabit daily. We unconsciously fall into routines of being, of doing, of following set paths and habits that take us to the exact same habitual places each day. But perhaps allow yourself at times to look left rather than just right, allow your gaze to hover, to wander, to have no purpose at all. Take time noticing your habitual surroundings, and allow yourself to be surprised by what you see, hear, feel, taste, touch. Perhaps you may even notice that statue you’ve been walking past for years.
I met up with someone this week who for years has been exiting the Baker Street tube station on her way to work. Many of us know of that the famed fictional detective Sherlock Holmes who was meant to reside at Baker Street and would not be surprised by a large statue dedicated to him there. This was the meeting point I suggested to my friend, for us to rendezvous at the statue. She asked, surprised: “What statue?” “Why the statue of Sherlock Holmes of course”, I answered. Silence and then incredulity followed. She had never noticed or known about the statue. Had always left the station in a hurry focused on the path ahead to crossing the road at the traffic light on the right of the tube station exit, and had not, in all those years, looked left. Looking left she would have noticed the statue, a larger than life replica of the fictional man himself.
This begs a question: how often have you arrived somewhere or have walked past something in your everyday life that you have failed to notice? How often have you not looked left? How unaware are you of your surroundings and what might you be missing out on? Now not having noticed the statue does not make a huge difference in my friend’s life but one may wonder what else has not been seen or become aware of by keeping her focus only on what she knows and is walking toward, not allowing the possibility for distraction, new seeing and perchance awakening to darken the threshold of her day. And she is not alone in this. We all are highly focused on our to-do list, on what we know to be true, loathe being disturbed by the uncertainty of change and the annoyance of disruption, are wary of starting a new conversation with our daily lives.
I attended a morning workshop with David Whyte recently who spoke eloquently about being in conversation with others and oneself, about the starting of new conversations, and with the starting of a new conversation of the necessity of first stopping the one we are already in. How often do we start a sentence or conversation or way of relating that may not be the most skilled for that moment finding ourselves too stubborn and embarrassed to stop and start again? How often do we stay with the habitual course because change challenges our comfort zone, even if we are unhappily settled in it? To start a new way of relating we need to first stop the way we are on, even mid sentence or mid judgement or mid action if need be. Pause and allow the unknown to creep in, waiting for a new conversation to arise. One that meets the power of this moment. Learning comfort and patience with silence, with stopping, with ambivalence, even with breaking promises if they serve old believes that have become untenable, supports the starting of new conversations. Starting a new conversation, awakening to the unnoticed requires a certain comfort with the unknown, with the messy chaos of creativity, with the un-explored path and the un-opened door, with looking left more.
This is my task for 2016. Paying attention to new conversations and staying still long enough within each of these moments as I awaken to what has not been noticed before. To look left more often and allow my focus to wander off the path.
What is yours?
livinglifewithpassion 