The Running Wave: A Celtic Journey Into Deep Peace

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Deep Peace: A Journey Home to Stillness

There is a moment, if you have ever stood at the edge of the ocean just before dawn, when the world holds its breath. The darkness is not yet gone. The light has not yet fully arrived. And in that thin, trembling space between the two, something ancient stirs. Something that cannot be named — only felt. A peace so deep it seems to rise from the earth itself, from the turning of the stars, from the breath of God moving over the waters.

This is where the story begins. Not on a stage or in a sanctuary, but on a shoreline, in the in-between.

The Ancient Roots of a Blessing

More than fifteen hundred years ago, on the wind-scraped islands off the western coast of Scotland and Ireland, a spiritual movement was quietly taking root. Celtic Christianity, as it would later be called, was unlike anything that had come before it. Where other traditions placed God at a remote and sovereign distance, the Celtic monks and hermits of the early medieval period felt the divine woven into everything — into the moss on stone, into the cry of the curlew, into the rhythm of the tide coming in and going out.

The monks of Iona, that small island off the coast of Mull where Saint Columba landed from Ireland in 563 AD, believed the world was thick with God. They called certain places thin places — locations where the veil between the human and the holy seemed almost transparent. Iona itself was such a place. Pilgrims have been walking its shores for over fourteen centuries, drawn by something they could not always explain.

It was from this tradition — earthy, luminous, deeply attentive to the natural world — that the great Celtic blessings emerged. They were not formal liturgies crafted in marble halls. They were prayers spoken over fishing boats, over sleeping children, over the dying. They were words meant to be carried in the body, not just the mind.

The blessing we now call Deep Peace grew from this soil.

A Pilgrim Sets Out

Let me tell you about a woman — call her by any name, because she is all of us at some point. She had spent years doing everything right. She had built her life with great care: the career, the relationships, the responsibilities. She was capable and admired and deeply, quietly exhausted.

One autumn she found herself standing in a field somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, watching the last light drain from the sky. She had not planned to be there. She had simply driven north when the noise inside her became too loud to bear. She had been looking, she realized, for a long time. Not for answers. Not for success or approval or resolution. She had been looking for peace. Real peace. The kind that doesn’t depend on circumstances being perfect.

That evening she stumbled upon a small stone church. Inside, a handful of people were gathered for an evening service. She sat in the back, unsure why she stayed. And then the minister began to speak words she had never heard before, but somehow already knew.

Deep peace of the running wave to you. Deep peace of the flowing air to you.

She felt something loosen in her chest.

Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. Deep peace of the shining stars to you.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she did not try to stop them.

Deep peace of the gentle night to you. Moon and stars pour their healing light on you.

What Peace Actually Is

We misunderstand peace, most of us. We think of it as the absence of trouble — as a kind of padded silence, a pause in the storm. But the peace described in this ancient Celtic blessing is something altogether different. It is not passive. It is alive.

Look at the images the blessing chooses: a running wave. Flowing air. The shining stars. These are not still images. They are images of constant, purposeful movement. The wave does not stop being peaceful because it is running. The air does not lose its gentleness because it is flowing. Peace, the blessing tells us, is not the absence of motion. It is motion in harmony with its own deepest nature.

The Celtic tradition understood this. To be at peace was not to be removed from the world, floating above its difficulties in some detached serenity. It was to be fully, rooted-ly present within it — moving like water moves, purposefully, without violence against itself.

And then the blessing turns. Having drawn us through the natural world — the wave, the wind, the earth, the stars, the night — it arrives at its center:

Deep peace of Christ, of Christ, of Christ, the light of the world to you.

For the Celtic Christians, this was not a sudden turn away from nature. It was the completion of what the natural world had been pointing to all along. Every wave, every breath of wind, every star burning in the dark — they were all, in some way, expressions of the same light. The same source. The same love.

Christ was not separate from the running wave. Christ was the deep peace that the running wave carried.

Coming Home

The woman in the stone church sat for a long time after the service ended. The minister left. The candles burned down. And she sat in the dark and felt, for the first time in years, that she was not lost.

She had not solved anything. Her circumstances had not changed. The weight of her life was still her life. But something had shifted in the way she was holding it. She had been gripping so tightly, white-knuckled, afraid to let go even for a moment. Now, just briefly, she had opened her hands.

Peace does not arrive like a conquest. It arrives like dawn — gradually, gently, until you realize the darkness has been replaced not by force but by light.

This is the invitation the old blessing has always carried. Not a command to feel peaceful, as if peace were a performance. But a pronouncement. A declaration spoken over you, like water poured on a forehead, like a hand placed gently on a bowed head.

Deep peace to you.

It is being given. You do not have to earn it or construct it or protect it. You only have to receive it.

And so the journey comes full circle — back to the shoreline, back to the edge where darkness and light meet and hold each other without fear. The wave still runs. The air still flows. The stars still burn their quiet fire in the deep.

And somewhere, in a stone church on a windswept island, or in a field at dusk, or in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday when the world is too loud and you are too tired — the ancient words are still being spoken.

Deep peace of the running wave to you. Deep peace of the flowing air to you. Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. Deep peace of the shining stars to you. Deep peace of the gentle night to you. Moon and stars pour their healing light on you. Deep peace of Christ, of Christ, of Christ, the light of the world to you. Deep peace of Christ to you.

May you receive it. All of it. Down to your bones.

Peace and ever good.

Understand your growing edge

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“Look well to the growing edge. All around us worlds are dying and new worlds are being born; all around us life is dying and life is being born. The fruit ripens on the tree, the roots are silently at work in the darkness of the earth against a time when there shall be new leaves, fresh blossoms, green fruit. Such is the growing edge. Look well to the growing edge.”

Howard Thurman

There are moments when the world around us feels raw and divided, when headlines and conversations seem to pull us apart rather than bring us together. In those moments I return to Howard Thurman’s words and find an invitation: to look for the small, persistent beginnings — the growing edge — where life quietly insists on renewal. Thurman’s lines are not a denial of loss; they are a map of hope. They remind us that endings and births travel side by side, that even in the shadow of decay there is an unseen labor preparing the next season.

Think of the growing edge as the slender green that appears on a branch after winter, or the first breath that follows exhaustion. As Thurman says, it is “the extra breath from the exhausted lung, the one more thing to try when all else has failed.” It is the steady, stubborn impulse that keeps us trying, learning, and reaching for what is better. This impulse is not grandiose or flashy; often it is quiet and humble — a neighbor listening, a teacher staying late, a community garden taking root in a vacant lot. Those acts, multiplied, become the scaffolding for something new.

 

Our world today bears many fractures — political rancor, social pain, environmental strain. Yet if we look only at what is breaking, we miss the synchronous birth of possibility. “All around us life is dying and life is being born.” If we pay attention to the growing edge, we can choose to live in alignment with that emergence. That doesn’t mean ignoring difficulty. It means placing our energy where life is being renewed: toward understanding, toward repair, toward building structures that invite flourishing rather than entrenching harm.

How do we tend the growing edge in the life we live? First, by embracing change instead of fearing it. Change is the canvas where new worlds are painted. Thurman’s vision encourages us to accept transformation as natural and necessary — to learn, adapt, and be curious about new perspectives. This openness creates the possibility of connection where division once stood.

Second, by intentionally looking for the positive developments that flicker into being. When we “look well to the growing edge,” we train our attention on those emerging efforts that point toward life: grassroots movements organizing for justice, teachers designing classrooms that foster belonging, neighbors organizing to protect a local river. These are the places where hope is not theoretical but practical. Thurman calls this “the upward reach of life when weariness closes in upon all endeavor.” Even a single upward reach can change the direction of a weary heart.

Third, by cultivating resilience. The growing edge is “the basis of hope” because it gives us evidence that renewal is possible. When we recognize obstacles as opportunities to grow, we reclaim agency. Speaking truth, showing up for others, and insisting on dignity in daily choices are acts that compound. They make us stronger and they signal to others that building anew is worth the struggle.

Fourth, by engaging in meaningful dialogue. When “times are out of joint and men have lost their reason,” Thurman suggests the incentive to carry on lives in relation, in listening and in sharing. Conversation done with patience and empathy can soften hardened positions and reveal common aims. It’s not always easy; it requires humility and courage to speak and to listen. But such exchanges often become the quiet work of the roots, preparing fertile ground for new leaves and blossoms.

I have to say without a shadow of a doubt there have been times in my life where I did not want to “engage in meaningful dialogue”. I even went so far as to decry the impulse to do so. How can you expect me to talk with “this person” for what they are doing around them?

It is HARD. It is WORTH IT!

Finally, by nurturing new leaders and ideas. “The birth of a child — life’s most dramatic answer to death” points to the profound power of beginnings. Supporting those who are starting — young people, marginalized voices, community organizers — replenishes our collective capacity to imagine and build alternatives. Their insights are often fresh because they are less encumbered by the constraints of what has always been.

History and daily life offer countless examples of the growing edge in motion: movements that transformed societies, technologies that reconnected people across distances, community responses to climate crises that turned despair into action. These all began as something small and persistent — a few people refusing to accept the finality of the old story.

There are challenges. Cynicism can blunt our sight; uncertainty can make us cling to familiar pain; idealism without grounding can falter. Thurman’s call — “Look well to the growing edge” — is precisely a remedy for these trials. It trains attention toward the life that insists on being born even in difficult soil.

So, when the world feels fractured, remember to look for the new leaves, the fresh blossoms, the quiet roots working underground. Tend to them when you find them. Join them when you can. In that practice, one extra breath at a time, we become participants in a larger turning — from fragmentation toward a renewed and shared life. Look well to the growing edge.

Folks, reading Howard Thurman is a life changing experience for those with eyes to see and ears to hear.

Peace and every good.

Hide-and-Seek of the Soul: Learning to Be Found…

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When I was a child, summer evenings meant the sweet, damp smell of grass and the soft thud of bare feet on the lawn as we played hide-and-seek until the light thinned to the color of my old side of our old house. I remember crouching behind brick walls in that ethnic area of Detroit called Hamtramck, my breath held, counting on my hands while my young friends scattered like leaves on the wind. The delight of being both pursued and hidden—of waiting in a secret pocket of the world until someone found me—stayed with me. That game was, in miniature, a schooling in the rhythms of life: the thrill of discovery, the quiet of waiting, the embarrassment and laughter when the hiding place failed. Beginning here, with that memory of hide-and-seek, helped me see how the hidden things of life are part of the same pattern we practiced as children.

One moment we are walking along, sure of our path, and the next moment something rises from below the surface—a memory, a grief, a joy so bright it takes our breath away. We jump, we scream, we wonder, we are grateful, sometimes all in the same moment. These small detonations and soft arrivals are reminders that we are alive. They are also invitations: invitations to pay attention, to name, to bear witness.

In spiritual direction, I have found that the time spent sitting with clients and listening to the story that unfolds usually brings about those hidden things that want to bubble to the surface. There is a kind of safety in the slow arc of attentive listening. As someone tells their story—staggering details together with ordinary moments, explanations scribbled in the margins—those tucked-away parts of experience begin to show themselves. A pause becomes pregnant with meaning. A stray tear draws out a knot of memory. An offhand joke reveals a wound. The directed space is not magic; it is relational and structured, and that structure matters. It offers permission to the hidden to be seen.

Why do hidden things remain hidden in the first place? Often because we have learned survival strategies that require us to ignore certain sensations or thoughts. We may have been taught that some feelings are inappropriate, unspiritual, or unwise to voice. We may fear the consequences of acknowledgement—shame, judgment, or a sense of being overwhelmed. Or we may be so immersed in the busyness of living—work, caretaking, the small daily duties—that we simply do not have the patience to notice the subtleties at work in our inner life. But life has a way of insisting. The hidden, like water, finds the path of least resistance. It leaks through in dreams, in somatic signals, in sudden irritations, in wonderings that won’t let us go.

When those pesky hidden things are asking to be seen, what do you normally do? Stuff them down, let them out, ignore them? That’s me, Ignore them! This simple question is an important litmus test for our way of managing interior life. Each of these options—suppressing, expressing, or ignoring—carries consequences.

Stuffing things down can be a short-term coping mechanism. It may allow us to function under pressure, to remain reliable for others, or to dodge the immediate pain of facing something difficult. But suppression is porous. Pain that is not metabolized finds another expression: chronic anxiety, irritability, sleep disturbances, or unexpected explosions of emotion. Over time, what we have buried can calcify, making it harder to access and integrate. Spiritually, suppression can feel like a closing off from the grace that often arrives when we name the truth of our condition. It can turn our inner landscape into a desert.

Letting things out—expressing raw emotion—can be liberating. A cry, a fierce conversation, an honest confession, a journal entry that spills secrets onto the page: these can unbind what was stuck. But unrestrained release without discernment can also cause harm. If the expression is directed at vulnerable others or enacted impulsively, it can fracture relationships and create new wounds. What helps is a tempered expression: naming what is present without launching it like a spear at someone else. Finding appropriate outlets—trusted friends, therapists, spiritual directors, creative acts—can channel release in healing ways.

Ignoring is its own form of avoidance, subtly different from stuffing. To ignore is too busy ourselves with neutral or distracting activities—scrolling, workaholism, noise—so that we do not have the space to meet whatever is asking for attention. Ignoring can feel safe because it delays the inevitable. Yet the hidden things have stamina. They may return more persistently or in altered forms. Ignoring is a passive collusion with fear.

So, what is the middle way? From the practice of spiritual direction and from the rhythms of contemplative life, a few patterns emerge that help make the hidden visible without being consumed by them.

  1. Cultivate a listening posture. Listening is not merely the absence of speaking; it is an orientation of attention. When you cultivate a listening posture toward yourself—pausing, closing the gap between stimulus and reaction—you give the hidden a chance to emerge. Practices that cultivate listening include silence, breath awareness, journaling, and prayerful attention. In a listening posture, you loosen the habit of immediate reactions and make space for discovery.
  1. Name gently. When something surfaces, name it as precisely as you can. “I am feeling afraid,” “I notice grief behind my anger,” “There is shame when I think about that conversation.” Naming is enacting a tiny liturgy of truth: you acknowledge a reality and thereby diminish its power to run you unconsciously. Naming need not be a full-blown analysis—often a brief, compassionate descriptor will do.
  1. Use trusted containers. Not every feeling needs to be told to everyone. Spiritual direction, therapy, close friendships, creative outlets, and ritual provide containers where the hidden can be explored safely. A good container holds both tenderness and truth. It helps you stay with a feeling long enough to learn from it without being overwhelmed.
  1. Practice curiosity, not judgment. Hidden things often come with a script—a voice that tells us we are broken, weak, or unworthy. Replace condemnation with curiosity. Ask, what is this wanting from me? How old is this pattern? Where did I first learn this response? Curiosity opens pathways of understanding that judgment seals shut.
  1. Attend to body and imagination. The hidden speaks not only through thought but through the body and imagination. An ache in the chest, a clenching in the jaw, a dream, an image that keeps returning—these are languages of the soul. Attend to them. They often carry the metaphorical shape of what’s needing attention. Let your imagination be a map, not a liar; test its images against gentle reality-checks. As an example, I tend to hold stress in my neck and at times becomes so painful that I cannot use one of my arms and when I check in with my body, I can usually find the reason.

When I think back to hide-and-seek on the lawn, I notice how the children’s version of the game allowed for a safe reveal. We knew, inherently, that being found wasn’t the end of the world—it was part of the play. That trust made hiding feel not like concealment but like a temporary, innocent withholding. In adult life we often forget that being found can be met with gentleness rather than punishment. Spiritual direction, friendships, and practices of presence restore that simple truth: the world, and the people we trust, can be safe places to be seen.

Reflections on life’s hiddenness inevitably led to paradox. The very things that surprise us—the sudden joy, the spontaneous grief—are both evidence of our vulnerability and of our depth. They remind us that life is not a list of accomplishments but a living relation. When we make room for these hidden things, they can become sacramental: ordinary moments that reveal deeper truth. A tear can be a doorway; an unexpected laugh can be grace.

In the end, how we respond to the hidden shapes the arc of our lives. Do we cultivate a posture of listening and curiosity, or do we keep building higher walls? Do we find companions who can sit with the messy reality of us, or do we continue a lonely performance? The invitation is simple and relentless: pay attention.

And so, I come back, as the sun sank on those summer evenings, to the hush of hiding and the laughter of being found. The child who crouched behind the hedge trusted that discovery would not be punishment but part of play; the adult who sits in a quiet room with a spiritual director or a friend can relearn that same trust. To let the hidden things surface is not to expose ourselves to harm but to return to a game we once knew well—the risky, delightful art of being seen. If we remember how play taught us that being found often brings relief, connection, and a burst of laughter, then perhaps we can meet our inner surprises with less dread and more curiosity. Hide-and-seek becomes a small theology: what is hidden will be found, and what is found can become fuel for deeper life. Trust the finding.

Eastertide: Living into Easter for Forty Days

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Today’s blog post is about Easter from a deeply methodist standpoint in the form of a sermon. As a spiritual director I felt with all that is going on in the world we could take a moment and breathe into a deeply felt practice. And yes, I know that some of my brothers and sisters do not practice this form of worship, thank you for reading, and, lastly for those of you that do not have an active faith, consider acts of kindness you can perform.

When I was a child, one of the greatest joys of Easter was not the church service—but the Cadbury chocolate bunny ears. I don’t know about you, but I could not wait for Easter morning: the thrill of hunting for hidden eggs, the bright colors winking from the grass, baskets overflowing with candy, and the small, necessary negotiations with my brother over the Peeps I didn’t like. It became a ritual I could not escape, one that shaped my expectations for finding hidden treasures. I learned to look for delight in the ordinary places; I learned that joy is often buried, waiting to be discovered.

For those of us who celebrate this holy week for a man called Jesus, and for brothers and sisters from other traditions who know how important this time is for Christians, I want to offer a few thoughts. Do you think we might have missed the point? We faithfully observe Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and finally Easter Sunday. We come to our respective places of worship, we sing the hymns, we share the sacrament, we kneel and we weep and we laugh. But then—when the baskets are put away until next year, and in my case the last of the chocolate bunny has met his end—what do we do with the days that follow?

Eastertide. The church calendar gives us a word for the season we so often forget: Eastertide, the fifty days from Easter Sunday to Pentecost. Within that season is another mark: the forty days after Easter—the days in which the risen Christ we believe in continued to appear among his disciples, teaching, encouraging, healing, and preparing them. Luke, in Acts 1:3, tells us that Jesus “presented himself alive to them by many proofs” and “appeared to them for forty days and spoke about the kingdom of God.” Forty days—long enough to be formative, not a mere moment but a way of life being reframed.

Think for a moment of the bunny ears. As a child I associated them with surprise and delight; they trained my eye to pay attention to the small, hidden places where joy could be found. But if Easter for us is only the morning we find the chocolate, if that joy is only the counter of an Easter Sunday, then we have turned a lifetime into a holiday. We have reduced a movement of God—into a seasonal confection. Jesus does not show up for one photograph and then leave. He walks with the disciples for forty days and more; he breaks bread, he opens scriptures, he commissions them to go out. This Easter life spills over into ordinary days.

This is the pastoral point I want to leave with you: Easter is not an event to be consumed. It is a reality to be inhabited. The forty days after Easter are practice sessions. They are an apprenticeship in what it means to live in the knowing of Christ. The early church did not celebrate Easter and then go back to business as usual. They kept the feast. They lingered in the light of Jesus until their habits, their affections, their deeds, were reshaped.

What does that reshaping look like? Allow me to name a few practices—simple, Methodist (me being Methodist), and practical—that can help us live Eastertide as more than memory.

  1. Keep the feast of the Jesus. The Wesleyan tradition talks about “means of grace”: prayer, scripture, the sacraments, fasting, and works of mercy. During the forty days, make a habit of coming to the table. Let the sacrament of Holy Communion remind you that resurrection is a feast to be shared.
  1. Read these Easter stories slowly. Don’t rush past the Easter narratives as if you know how they go. Re-read Luke 24, John 20–21 and Acts 1. Hear the bewilderment, the fear, the doubts of the disciples. Notice how often Jesus invites them into ordinary things: eating fish, walking on the road, opening scripture. We are invited into this relationship not as a leap into fantasy but as a transformation of the everyday.
  1. Practice visibility and testimony. The early disciples were given the task to witness. But witness is not merely verbal proof; it is a life that reflects the truth of the faith. This Eastertide season, decide on one way to make faith visible: meals with a neighbor, forgiveness offered where resentment lingered, a note to someone who is lonely, a visit to someone in prison, charity given without fanfare. Let your life be an Easter basket for others.
  1. Re-learn to look for hidden things. The chocolate bunny ear was hidden to be found—and that shaped my anticipation. Similarly, Jesus revealed that God hides grace in unlikely places: in failure, in loss, in hospital rooms, in apologies. Train your eyes to find the small, bright things of God. Keep a journal for forty days in which you note one “hidden treasure” you noticed each day—an unexpected kindness, a phrase of Scripture that struck you, a sunrise you had not seen before. By the end of forty days, your instincts will be reoriented toward noticing God.
  1. Tend to doubt honestly. Thomas’s doubt is part of the story (John 20:24–29). The forty days included questions and skepticism. Methodism, for all its joy, has room for honest uncertainty. Bring your questions to God. Bring them to your community. The Easter story is not weakened by doubt; it is made credible by a God big enough to meet us in our honest, messy searching.
  1. Remember the promise of mission. The forty days end in a commission. The Christ prepares his followers to be sent. The direction is outward. Our discipleship, formed in Eastertide, must lead us into the world with mercy, justice, and love. Easter is always an announcement that something new has begun; it calls the church to participate in God’s new creation.

And finally, let us talk for a minute about ritual and memory. The practice of an Easter egg hunt—hidden treasures, bright colors, baskets—wasn’t a failure as ritual. It taught me to expect joy. But if we do not let that expectation reach beyond candy, if we do not allow it to inform how we look at the poor, how we treat our spouse, how we speak to our children, then the ritual has become a trap. The chocolate bunny taught me how to search. The Christ teaches us where to look in the broken, the overlooked, the hurting—and in those places we find the glory of God waiting, like an egg, for discovery.

So, if you find yourself this week putting the baskets away and wondering what to do next, I invite you to spend these forty days as if your life depends on it—because it does. Begin with small things: a daily prayer of thanksgiving for one surprising thing you noticed; one act of mercy each week; one conversation about faith with someone who does not belong to the church; a regular reading of the Easter narratives. Practice being a people who not only celebrate an event but live a new life.

We believe that Christ is risen. This is not an idea to be tucked away in a corner like last year’s candy. It is the force that calls us out of the habit of fear, despair, and selfishness. It is the promise that our old life will not have the last word. And it is a call to spend the next forty days—and the next forty years—looking for and making visible the hidden treasure of God’s kingdom.

Jesus, you appeared to your disciples and walked with them in ordinary days. Walk with us these forty days. Open our eyes to the hidden places where you hide your grace. Teach us to feast, to witness, to forgive, and to love. Shape our expectations so that we look for you not only on high festival mornings but in the faces at our table, in the poor at our gate, in the breaking of bread each day. Send us forth with Easter joy, and fill us with the Spirit of surprising, steadfast love. Amen.

Go now my friends, with ears attuned to the small, bright things of God—and with baskets ready to give away what you have been given. Alleluia.

Lungs Over Blame: Finding Breath Between Head & Heart

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Lynette shared that I needed to read some of John Rodels stuff the other day as he wrote a poem about the brain divorcing its heart. I could not help myself and this reflection flowed from that moment. She was right I needed to read it and so do you!

His Facebook link is below.

This a long post and I appreciate your reading it.

The poem…….

my brain and
heart divorced

a decade ago

over who was
to blame about
how big of a mess
I have become

eventually,
they couldn’t be
in the same room
with each other

now my head and heart
share custody of me

I stay with my brain
during the week

and my heart
gets me on weekends

they never speak to one another

– instead, they give me
the same note to pass
to each other every week

and their notes they
send to one another always
says the same thing:

“This is all your fault”

on Sundays
my heart complains
about how my
head has let me down
in the past

and on Wednesday
my head lists all
of the times my
heart has screwed
things up for me
in the future

they blame each
other for the
state of my life

there’s been a lot
of yelling – and crying

so,

lately, I’ve been
spending a lot of
time with my gut

who serves as my
unofficial therapist

most nights, I sneak out of the
window in my ribcage

and slide down my spine
and collapse on my
gut’s plush leather chair
that’s always open for me

~ and I just sit
until the sun comes up

last evening,
my gut asked me
if I was having a hard
time being caught
between my heart
and my head

I nodded

I said I didn’t know
if I could live with
either of them anymore

“my heart is always sad about
something that happened yesterday
while my head is always worried
about something that may happen tomorrow,”
I lamented

my gut squeezed my hand

“I just can’t live with
my mistakes of the past
or my anxiety about the future,”
I sighed

my gut smiled and said:

“in that case,
you should
go stay with your
lungs for a while,”

I was confused
– the look on my face gave it away

“if you are exhausted about
your heart’s obsession with
the fixed past and your mind’s focus
on the uncertain future

your lungs are the perfect place for you

there is no yesterday in your lungs
there is no tomorrow there either

there is only now
there is only inhale
there is only exhale
there is only this moment

there is only breath

and in that breath
you can rest while your
heart and head work
their relationship out.”

this morning,
while my brain
was busy reading
tea leaves

and while my
heart was staring
at old photographs

I packed a little
bag and walked
to the door of
my lungs

before I could even knock
she opened the door
with a smile and as
a gust of air embraced me
she said

“what took you so long?”

~ john Roedel

There is a quiet brilliance in the poem you wrote, John:  a person whose head and heart have divorced, who passes the same accusatory note between them each week, who finds solace with a grounding gut and finally acceptance at the threshold of the lungs. It’s a compact, visceral image of what many of us I think feel individually—and what our culture looks like collectively: divided, exhausted, and out of breath.

This post translates that metaphor into a diagnosis of our current cultural shape and as I try to offer three practical action items any individual, workplace, or community can take to begin repairing the rupture.

The cultural symptom: head vs. heart, repeating blame

The poem’s most striking detail is the ritual of blame. The head reads the future and warns of danger; the heart catalogues the past and grieves its wounds. They cannot be in the same room. Instead, each week they pass the identical note to the other: “This is all your fault.” That single image feels painfully familiar in public life: institutions who prioritize risk management and metrics versus communities whose identity is built on memory and moral recall. Instead of conversation, they trade blame. Instead of repair, they escalate.

Hmmmmmmmmmm, sounds familiar…

On a societal level this shows up in several ways:

  • Politics and media that reward constant forecasting of doom or perpetual moral cataloguing.
  • Institutions that respond procedurally to crises without the emotional (one of my big beefs) labor needed for repair.
  • Online ecosystems that amplify immediate outrage and punish rather than slow down and reconcile.

The poem isn’t merely about individual distress; it’s a model for the cycles that wear down trust in workplaces, neighborhoods, civic institutions, and digital communities. The result: people feel split, defensive, and alone forced to manage their past and future without a shared present. More to think about here then just reading it and moving on to the next sentence.

The needed counterweight: lungs (and the role of the gut)

Two quieter figures in the poem are the gut and the lungs. The gut—an unofficial therapist—listens without pontificating. It recognizes how exhausting it is to be lodged between memory and anxiety. Its prescription is surprising: go stay with your lungs. The lungs don’t erase the past or deny future risk. Instead, they insist on the present: inhale, exhale, and be here now. Ekhart Tolle would be proud.

For a culture, the lungs are the practices and spaces where people slow down together: restorative conversations, shared rituals, community centers, deliberative forums, even workplaces that deliberately schedule time for presence and listening. These are not merely therapeutic niceties; they are the conditions for social repair. Without them, head and heart will continue their duel—and we will continue to exhaust ourselves passing notes that say, “This is all your fault.”

Three practical action items to help a culture breathe

Below are three concrete, scalable steps individuals, organizations, and local communities can take to shift from repeated blame toward shared presence, repair, and resilience.

  1. Create mandated “breathing rooms” in decision processes What it is: A formal pause or cooling period before punitive or irreversible actions—especially public accusations, disciplinary decisions, or high-stakes announcements. During the pause, parties must engage in structured listening and fact-gathering, and an impartial mediator facilitates initial dialogue. I have found that this works well and worth a try.

Why it matters: Rapid, punitive responses often deepen wounds and prevent context, nuance, and reconciliation. A short pause reduces performative outrage and gives people space to explain, listen, and recalibrate.

How to implement:

  • Organizations (companies, schools, nonprofits) adopt a “72-hour breathing rule” for major personnel decisions and public statements: no final action or public posting for 72 hours after allegations surface.
  • Workplaces appoint a small pool of trained mediators or restorative facilitators who can convene confidential listening sessions during the pause.
  • Digital communities and moderators apply a temporary hold on amplification (no trending tags, no top placement) until a brief review and mediation step has occurred.
  1. Invest in local “lungs”: community spaces for listening, repair, and presence What it is: Neighborhood-level, low-barrier spaces and programs dedicated to relational work—restorative circles, grief and memory sessions, deliberative salons, and facilitated story-sharing. These are not primarily political organizing centers; they are places to practice civic breathing.

Why it matters: Trust is rebuilt through repeated small interactions. When people practice listening and mutual storytelling in neutral settings, civic relationships strengthen and collective memory becomes reparative rather than weaponized.

How to implement:

  • Cities, libraries, and foundations fund pilot hubs (use underutilized rooms in libraries or rec centers) for monthly restorative circles that bring diverse neighbors together around guided prompts and shared meals.
  • Schools integrate restorative justice and deliberative practices into their teaching, so young people learn presence and conflict navigation early.
  • Employers sponsor offsite or on-site “presence labs”: short, guided sessions where teams practice listening, reflection, and shared breathing exercises to improve empathy and reduce reactivity.
  1. Rebalance incentives: measure relational outcomes, not just output What it is: Shift institutional metrics so success includes relational indicators—trust, reintegration rates, reduction in repeated harms, and quality of civic participation—in addition to efficiency and throughput.

Why it matters: What organizations measure is what they prioritize. If institutions reward speed, headlines, and punitive action only, they will continue to incentivize head-only solutions. Relational metrics direct attention to repair and long-term stability.

How to implement:

  • Philanthropic funders and boards require pilot programs to include qualitative evaluation of trust and reintegration (surveys, follow-ups, case studies) alongside quantitative performance data.
  • HR and leadership KPIs expand to include measures like “percent of resolved conflicts with mutual agreement,” “employee-reported psychological safety,” and “community reintegration success rate.”
  • Journalists and platforms adopt editorial policies that prioritize follow-up reporting, context, and restorative perspectives, reducing the incentive for immediate sensational headlines.

A closing invitation everyone: choose the lungs without abandoning heart or head

The poem’s final image—walking to the lungs and being met with a warm entrance—feels like an invitation rather than an escape. The lungs do not ask us to forget the past or ignore the future. They offer a place to breathe so that heart and head can eventually coexist without tearing us apart. For organizations and communities, this is a practical aim: preserve and respect memory and expertise, but build more places where presence, listening, and repair is the default

If you lead a team, a neighborhood group, or a school board, try one small experiment this month: a 72-hour breathing rule for any controversy; a one-hour restorative circle; or a change in how you track outcomes to include relational metrics. These are small structural moves but with outsized effects: they make it harder for blame to become a ritual and easier for people to find the shared present.

We cannot legislate empathy, Lynette and I found this to be true with our time at 6 Seconds, but we can design systems that make it easier to breathe together. The poem’s final line— “what took you so long?”—is not a rebuke. It’s a gentle reminder that the lungs have always been there. We only need to practice going home to them.

Thank you, John, for this wonderful look into our human journey.

Poem by John Roedel and go to his Facebook here to see other exciting posts

Unexpected Pause: Pain, Rest, Recover, Return Now

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Good morning. I’m sorry I’ve been quiet for the past two months — I meant to be here, typing away, sharing thoughts and stories the way I usually do. But life had other plans. I went in for a routine medical test and, in one of those cruel ironies, my pancreas got mad.

If you’re like me, you probably didn’t know an organ could “get mad.” I sure didn’t. The word itself sounds almost childish, but the reality is anything but. When a pancreas flares into pancreatitis, the pain is immediate and absolute. I’ve experienced aches and illnesses before, but this was different — an intensity that made you question the limits of what your body can endure. Even in the hospital, when morphine and oxycodone were available, the medication only took the edge off. It felt like the center of me had become a furnace.

Because of that flare, everything stopped. Not metaphorically: everything. For seven weeks, the schedule I had carefully built — the morning coffee and email routine, the midday writing sessions, the calls with spiritual direction clients and my partners at the Spirit of EQ — simply ceased to exist. Work, social life, health routines, the daily rituals I thought were indispensable: all put on hold while survival became the singular task.

I want to be candid about what that felt like. For someone who makes a living by showing up consistently — as a writer, content creator, and consultant — the idea of stopping is terrifying. My identity is wrapped up in output. My inbox is where I measure my value, my calendar is where I feel important, and my projects are how I track progress. When pain crushed me into stillness, it pulled those metrics out from under me. At first, I panicked: deadlines loomed, Spiritual direction clients waited, opportunities risked slipping away. But panic didn’t help. It only exaggerated the discomfort.

Slowly, the more honest and human response came into focus: survival, rest, and acceptance. The body’s demand was nonnegotiable. I had to let go of the notion that productivity is the only valid form of presence. I had to unlearn the belief that my worth is tied to output. That was a humbling lesson for me being an “8”

There were practical repercussions I hadn’t fully anticipated. Projects stalled. Communications delayed. I felt the guilty twinge of disappointing people who relied on me. But what surprised me most was how people responded. Clients and colleagues sent messages that were less about deadlines and more about “Are you okay?” Strangers who follow my work left notes of concern. It reminded me that work is woven into a network of relationships, and in times of crisis those relationships are what truly hold us together.

Being forced to stop also uncovered something liberating which was perspective. With the daily noise quieted, I had room to reckon with what really matters. It’s cliché to say an illness is a “wake-up call,” but that’s the word I keep coming back to. How often do we live at a pace that demands constant forward motion, assuming there will always be more time to be present, to rest, to heal? The pancreas’s outburst demanded attention and recalibration. It singled out an uncomfortable truth — I had been ignoring signals my body sent for a long time.

I’m not sharing this for sympathy. I’m sharing it because so many of us carry on until something forces us to pause. Whether it’s illness, burnout, family emergencies, or an industry shift — the unexpected is always waiting around the corner. My pancreatitis taught me some concrete lessons I want to pass on, especially to anyone who juggles work that depends on consistent presence.

First: listen to your body early. It’s easy to dismiss minor aches or persistent fatigue as “just stress” or “too much coffee.” Early attention to those signs could prevent escalation. Second: build buffers into your work. Have a plan for delegation, automate where you can, and communicate clear expectations with clients and collaborators. When you’re forced to stop, having these buffers reduces the burden of the pause. Third: accept that rest is not failure. It’s strategy. Recovery is work too — it requires dedication, patience, and sometimes painful humility. Fourth: allow support in. Pride can isolate you, but asking for help is not weakness. It’s how communities are built.

On a day-to-day level, my recovery has been a process. There were hard days when even reading a sentence felt like too much. There were small victories: a clear afternoon without stabbing pain, the first walk to the corner store, the first paragraph that didn’t terrify me. The support of medical professionals, family, and friends has been indispensable. So has the quiet practice of noticing incremental improvement. If you’re going through something similar, I recommend keeping a recovery log. Record the little wins. They add up to the larger arc of healing.

Coming back to work has been tentative. I didn’t come back with a grand announcement; I started by answering a few emails, then writing short posts, then rebuilding the bigger pieces of work. There’s a new rhythm now — one that includes built-in breaks, earlier bedtimes, and a willingness to pause when something feels off. My calendar has a new hygiene: time blocked not for tasks but for rest. It strikes me as profoundly sensible and weirdly subversive in a culture that valorizes busyness.

This experience has also shifted my relationship to my audience and clients. I write because I love the exchange: ideas moving between minds, a moment of resonance. But I now recognize that sharing should be sustainable, not sacrificial. I can still aim for consistency, but not at the expense of health. Vulnerability has its place. I plan to be more transparent when life forces me to step back. Part of the job is not only producing work but communicating honestly about the human realities behind it.

Finally, there’s the question we all face after an interruption: What’s next? For me, it’s a reorientation rather than a restart. I don’t intend to abandon the work I love. I will continue writing, consulting.  But I will do it with new boundaries, with more attention to signals from my body, and with humility about what I can control. The unexpected will come again — that’s a certainty — but now I feel better equipped to respond.

If anything, I hope this short hiatus and the story behind it reminds you to consider your own buffers and boundaries. Pain and illness are indiscriminate teachers; they do their hardest work when we least expect them. My pancreas got mad and taught me how to listen. Maybe yours will teach you something different. Either way, the takeaway is the same: choose recovery as a form of resistance to a culture that celebrates constant doing. Choose health as a professional strategy, not an afterthought.

Thank you for sticking around. I’m back, grateful, and slowly finding my footing again. If you’ve had similar interruptions, I’d love to hear how you navigated them — the practical steps, the emotional adjustments, and the small rituals that helped you find your way back.

Dismantling the Inner Empire

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Today for the day after Christmas I want to write a blog that talks about the Spirituality of Christ. In recent years, the troubling realities of living in the world that has come home to roost on many of us. Being one of the only worlds superpowers what is ours to do? As a country that bases its whole existence on democratic foundations, what is ours to do.When Christ came to us his message was simple, Love and non-violence.

( Democratic foundations are the core principles and structures ensuring rule by the people, including popular sovereignty, individual rights (freedom, justice, equality), rule of law, free & fair elections, checks & balances, and an engaged civil society, all working to create accountable, inclusive governance and protect against tyranny. These foundations rely on active public participation, independent institutions, and transparency to build trust and uphold democracy and have nothing to do with political parties)

 

This disintegration of the world’s foundations today provides us with a profound moral and spiritual decision, just as Jesus talked about for his entire life. The four cornerstones of our internal empire as talked about by many wisdom teachers throughout history are—political, economic, military, and ideological power—which serve to enslave our very spirits and how we look at other communities. These communities can be and are not limited to any color, political persuasion, gender, and so forth. And while the first three cornerstones impose harsh realities on the very bedrock of our personhood, it is the ideological power that is the most insidious, shaping and distorting the minds and spirits of both the outside of us and inside of us What Jesus is talking about in his ministry is about the Roman empire, and using that example how we were to live our life’s. This example of course was not limited to the Roman empire because all world superpowers throughout history have acted like this. Jesus came to us in a time when the Romans happened to be in charge.

This moment in history calls for critical self-reflection. We have been indoctrinated by the very forces that uphold the American Ideal, taught to prioritize profit over people and individualism over interdependence. Such values lead to a disembodiment of God’s love, creating an inner empire in each of us that must be dismantled and rebuilt. Those of us calling ourselves Christians, (and others as well) are called to respond with clarity and love, embodying values that reflect the teachings of Jesus.

The Four Cornerstones of the Inner Empire

The traditional Inner Empire is built upon four cornerstones: supremacy, privilege, hatred, and fear. Each of these elements contributes to the dehumanization of both us and others.

  1. Supremacy: This cornerstone embodies the belief in our inherent superiority over others. It fosters division and alienation, leading us to view others as less than ourselves.
  2. Privilege: This refers to the unearned advantages we often take for granted, which we protect or ignore at the expense of     marginalized communities, see above. Recognizing our privilege is essential for fostering empathy and understanding.
  3. Hatred: Hatred manifests as active hostility toward others or even parts of ourselves. It creates barriers that prevent us from experiencing authentic love and connection and understanding.
  4. Fear: Fear drives us to protect ourselves at all costs. When we fear losing control, status, or safety, we build walls that isolate us from others and from God’s love.

Understanding how these cornerstones corrode our souls is crucial. The question then arises: what can restore our souls?

The Cornerstone of Restoration

In Matthew 21:42, we read, “The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.” This verse speaks to the transformative power of Jesus, who was a tekton—a builder in the truest sense. As a day laborer, Jesus understood the intricacies of construction, not just of physical structures but of the spiritual and communal foundations we need to thrive.

To rebuild our foundation, we must adopt four new cornerstones: humility, responsibility, compassion, and connection. These practices can help restore our humanity toward ourselves and others, paving the way for a world where, as Pope Francis states, “land, lodging, and labor” are accessible to all.

  1. Humility: This cornerstone allows us to see one another as equals, fostering deep reverence and openness. It reminds us of our shared existence in the vast cosmos, where we are all stardust.
  2. Responsibility: Embracing responsibility means being accountable for our actions and becoming stewards of one another and the land. It encourages us to act with integrity and care.
  3. Compassion: Compassion nurtures empathy, love, and benevolence, enabling us to tap into God’s tenderness for the world. It invites us to extend grace to ourselves and others. Have you ever considered that everyone in the world is doing the best they can with what they know and what they know is not what you understand.
  4. Connection: Perhaps the most vital cornerstone, connection teaches us about radical solidarity and belonging. It reminds us that when one group suffers injustice, we all suffer. Our sacred interconnectedness calls us to action.

A Call to Courage

 

My parents went to see MLK in 1961 at Cobo Hall in Detroit and came home and said, we are moving to the inner city, the real inner city. My brother and I freaked out. What did that mean for our lives, our friends and what we had come to think of as normal. So, in and around June of 1962 we moved to Highland Park just off Woodward on Massachusetts Ave and settled in for a life changing experience. Now it was not going to be all bad I thought as there was a public library and Howard Johnsons at the end of the street where a chocolate milkshake could be had now and then with the right amount of change from bottle collecting. But then reality set in, I Iooked around and saw very few people that looked like me, (white) and was not sure how to act at 10 years of age.

I tried to make friends and was looked at with suspicion and caution which at the time did not understand, because look at me, I am a very nice guy. Then the beatings started because I was told this was not my place to be. And while those beatings were not fair or just, I had a choice to make at those moments, was I going to hate or love. Luckily my parents taught me to see the dignity in each person and separate actions from intent. So, I had a leg up on many others and friends, those years molded my soul to see beyond the veil and embrace all of life.

When we want to dismantle the inner empire, we must have the courage to shake the very foundations of our spiritual world. By examining our entitlement, privilege, and positions of power, we can rediscover our true understanding of self, others, God, and the planet. This process requires vulnerability and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths.

Creating the world we desire begins with ourselves. We must dismantle the inner empires we have built brick by brick, belief by belief. The empire within must fall so that solidarity, justice, and love can rise.

As we embark on this journey of transformation, let us remember the words of Joanna Arellano-Gonzalez, cofounder and Director of Spiritual & Theological Formation with the Coalition for Spiritual & Public Leadership. Her work emphasizes the importance of spiritually rooted community organizing, reminding us that we are not alone in this endeavor. Together, we can build a more just and loving world.

In conclusion, the call to dismantle the inner empire is not just a personal journey; it is a collective one. By embracing humility, responsibility, compassion, and connection, we can restore our souls and create a society that reflects the values of love and justice. Let us rise to this challenge, for the world we want to see begins within us.

This blog was inspired by the writing of Joanna Arellano-Gonzalez who is a cofounder and the Director of Spiritual & Theological Formation with the Coalition for Spiritual & Public Leadership, a spiritually rooted community organizing coalition in the Chicagoland area. Visit their work at csplaction.org.

Seven Decades, A Journey of Learning and Sharing

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Today, I thought I would take a moment to talk about myself, a topic I don’t often delve into with much depth. As I sit here, fingers poised over the keyboard, I find myself reflecting on the reasons why people write blogs. Is it to share knowledge, to connect with others, or perhaps to leave a small mark on the world? Truthfully, I wonder if my reasons are much different from those behind the wonderfully written blogs that populate the vast expanse of the internet. So here it is, a glimpse into my journey and the motivations that drive me to write.

In my seven decades of life, I’ve learned a few things. Most of these lessons have come from the mistakes I’ve made—those missteps I vowed never to repeat, only to find myself stumbling over them once more. It’s a humbling experience, realizing that despite our best intentions, we are all fallible. Yet, it’s through these very mistakes that I’ve grown, each one a steppingstone on the path of self-discovery.

This quest for understanding led me to seek out numerous trainings, each one a beacon of hope in my search for answers. I became a spiritual director and companion, a Master Certified Coach (MCC), a Narrative Enneagram teacher, and an emotional intelligence coach with Six Seconds, among other roles. Each title represents a chapter in my journey, a testament to my insatiable curiosity and desire to understand the human experience.

At the end of the day, what truly matters to me is working with other people. But let me be clear—it’s not because I believe I have all the answers. Far from it. Rather, I hope that, for some, I can be a light that illuminates their path, even if just a little. It’s a privilege to walk alongside others as they navigate their own journeys, offering support and guidance where I can.

The purpose of this blog, then, is to explore the issues that affect our society, to write about the things that impact us as a community. My hope is to offer insights, hope, or simply information that might resonate with someone out there. In a world that often feels fragmented and disconnected, perhaps these words can serve as a small bridge, connecting us through our shared experiences and understanding.

As I reflect on my life, I am reminded of the importance of community. We are, after all, social creatures, wired for connection. It’s in our interactions with others that we find meaning and purpose. Whether it’s a conversation with a friend, a shared moment with a stranger, or the simple act of listening, these connections end up being the threads that weave the fabric of our lives.

In my work as a spiritual director and coach, I’ve had the privilege of witnessing the resilience and strength of the human spirit. I’ve seen people overcome incredible odds, find healing in the face of deep wounds, and discover joy in the most unexpected places. These experiences have taught me that, no matter how dark the night, (dark night of the soul) there is always a glimmer of hope on the horizon.

One of the most profound lessons I’ve learned is the power of vulnerability. It’s in our willingness to be open and honest, to share our struggles and fears, that we find true connection. It’s a lesson I’ve had to learn time and again, as I navigate my own vulnerabilities and insecurities. But each time I choose to be vulnerable, I am reminded of the strength that lies in authenticity.

As I write this, I am filled with gratitude for the journey that has brought me here. It’s been a winding road, full of unexpected twists and turns, but each step has been a valuable part of my story. And while I may not have all the answers, I am committed to continuing this journey of learning and growth, both for myself and for those I have the privilege of working with.

I want to thank you for taking the time to read these words. Whether you’re a fellow seeker on this journey of life, or simply someone looking for a moment of connection, I hope you’ve found something here that resonates with you. As we navigate the complexities of our world, may we continue to seek understanding, to offer kindness, and to hold onto hope. After all, it’s in these small acts that we find the true essence of what it means to be human.

And since you joined me on this reflective journey today. I wonder If these words have resonated with you, and if so, I invite you to become part of this ongoing conversation. Share your thoughts, experiences, or questions in the comments below. Let’s build a community where we can learn from each other, support one another, and shine a light on the paths we walk together. If you know someone who might find value in these reflections, please share this blog with them. Together, we can create a ripple of connection and understanding in our world. Subscribe to stay updated on future posts, www.spiritofeq.com/blog and let’s continue this journey of growth and discovery side by side.

Embracing Our Ancestors: A Living Legacy of Strength

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In the confusion that many of us find ourselves in modern life, it’s easy to become disconnected from the past. We often find ourselves so focused on the present and the future that we forget to look back and appreciate the rich tapestry of history that has shaped us. Yet, as Steven Charleston, Choctaw elder and retired Episcopal bishop, points out, our ancestors are not just figures of the past; they are a living source of strength and wisdom that can guide us through the challenges we face today.

Charleston’s words remind us that the struggles we encounter are not unique to our time. Our ancestors faced their own battles—fear of illness, heartbreak, family conflicts, and the looming threat of war. They lived in a world where corrupt politicians held power and natural disasters struck without warning. Despite these challenges, they persevered, driven by love, faith, and an unwavering determination to carry on. You can know this to be true, as you are here now, smile.

This resilience is a testament to the human spirit. Our ancestors walked through life’s storms with courage and grace, refusing to succumb to despair. They found ways to navigate their grief and struggles, drawing strength from their communities and their beliefs. Their ability to endure and overcome is a powerful reminder that we, too, can rise above our difficulties. But, please make no mistake, they were not always happy, they had lives just like ours.

In many cultures, honoring the ancestors is not just a quaint tradition but a vital part of daily life. It is a way of acknowledging the sacrifices and achievements of those who came before us, recognizing that their experiences and wisdom continue to shape our lives. By connecting with our ancestral roots, we gain a deeper understanding of who we are and where we come from. Consider that many people are very interested in the genealogy websites that track your roots. What can we find out about those investigations?

I wanted to see where I came from so my brother and I with our families traveled to the upper peninsula of Michigan to a little mining town called Copper Harbor. We found graves from when the area was first settled after the copper ore was found. We stopped to see the frame homes that the boards which made up the outside skin of the home. It seemed to lack the ability to form a seal to keep the frigid wind out. With no insulation, and a small potbellied stove to warm that 3 room home. Snow from lake effect sometimes was 345 inches a year. We then went down into the mines where the copper was pulled out of the earth with little more than hand tools in the beginning. I had no idea of those roots of my heritage; I was stunned into silence. The air closed around me as I thought thinking, feeling, grateful for the heritage that was my past. I knew that those miners, and the women who supported them were all stronger than I ever understood and that strength was in my blood, yes, in my blood and I know now, without a doubt that I have the strength to live my life on my terms. Thank you, Ancestors!

The stories of our ancestors are woven into the fabric of our identities. They are the foundation upon which we build our lives, providing us with a sense of belonging and continuity. When we take the time to learn about their lives, we discover the values and lessons that have been passed down through generations. These stories offer us guidance and inspiration, helping us to navigate our own paths with confidence and purpose.

With this knowledge I am proud to talk about where I came from and what it means to be a Vaive.

In today’s fast-paced world, it can be challenging to find the time to reflect on our heritage. However, doing so can be incredibly rewarding. By exploring our family histories, we can uncover the rich tapestry of experiences that have shaped our families and communities. We can learn about the triumphs and trials of our ancestors, gaining insight into the resilience and strength that have been passed down to us.

One way to connect with our ancestors is through storytelling. Sharing stories about our family’s past can be a powerful way to keep their memories alive and to pass on their wisdom to future generations. These stories can be shared around the dinner table, at family gatherings, or through written accounts that can be preserved for posterity. By keeping these stories alive, we ensure that the legacy of our ancestors continues to inspire and guide us.

Did you know that most things we read from long ago were first passed along to each generation as a story told, most often around tables while eating? That narrative is the most engaging way to share information.

Another way to honor our ancestors is by participating in cultural traditions and rituals. Many cultures have specific practices that are designed to honor and remember those who have passed on. These rituals can provide a sense of connection and continuity, linking us to our past and reminding us of the enduring strength of our heritage. Whether it’s lighting a candle in memory of a loved one, participating in a traditional ceremony, or simply taking a moment to reflect on the lives of those who came before us, these practices can be a meaningful way to honor our ancestors.

In addition to personal reflection and storytelling, we can also draw inspiration from the broader historical context in which our ancestors lived. By studying history, we can gain a deeper understanding of the challenges and triumphs that shaped their lives. This knowledge can provide us with valuable insights into the resilience and determination that enabled them to overcome adversity. It can also help us to appreciate the progress that has been made over time and to recognize the ongoing struggles that we must continue to address.

As we reflect on the legacy of our ancestors, it’s important to remember that their strength and resilience are not just relics of the past. They are qualities that we can cultivate in our own lives. By embracing the lessons of our ancestors, we can find the courage and determination to face our own challenges with grace and resolve. We can draw on their wisdom to navigate the complexities of modern life, finding hope and inspiration in their enduring spirit.

Like my brother and I going up to Copper Harbor we found that our ancestors are a living source of strength and wisdom that can guide us through the challenges of today. By honoring their legacy, we were able to see a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place in the world. We can draw inspiration from their resilience and determination, finding the courage to face our own struggles with hope and faith. As we navigate the complexities of modern life, let us remember the enduring spirit of our ancestors and the lessons they have to offer. Together, we can carry their legacy forward, finding strength in their timeless wisdom.

Building Empathy in Politics

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Building Empathy in Politics: A Path to Understanding and Compassion

I wanted to step into this arena because I think it is important to talk about. I do NOT in anyway think one group is better than another and this is not meant to be an endorsement of a group. Being a MCC, Master Certified Coach with ICF, the International Coach Federation, gives me a slightly different perspective using empathy and in an era marked by political polarization and divisive, destructive rhetoric. The need for empathy in politics has never been more critical! Empathy—is the ability to understand and share the feelings of others and of your own feelings, as 6 Seconds likes to say—can serve as a bridge across ideological divides, fostering dialogue and collaboration. This blog post while talking about a tough subject explores various empathy-building activities designed to enhance understanding among people you know and yourself. It can be used in team building, family conversations and other communities, encouraging them to step into the shoes of others and appreciate diverse experiences and backgrounds. By cultivating empathy, we can promote non-violent interactions and create a more compassionate political landscape.

The Importance of Empathy in Politics

Politics is often viewed as a battleground where opposing views clash, leading to hostility and misunderstanding. However, at its core, politics is about people—individuals with unique experiences, values, and aspirations. Empathy allows us to connect with these individuals on a human level, transcending ideological differences. When we practice empathy, we open ourselves to understanding the motivations and fears that drive others, paving the way for constructive dialogue and collaboration. YES, I know that doing this type of perspective is hard or even impossible from where you stand now. I can promise you that if you practice empathy you will be able to heal relationships that you thought were broken for ever. So please look at these activities with me and see which one may work for you……..

Activity 1: Role-Playing Scenarios

Role-playing is a powerful tool for enhancing empathy. By stepping into the shoes of others, you can gain insights into different perspectives and experiences. Here’s how to conduct a role-playing activity focused on political issues:

1.Choose Scenarios: Select relevant political scenarios that highlight differing viewpoints. For example, you could role-play a town hall meeting discussing a controversial policy, such as immigration reform or climate change.

2. Assign Roles: Divide the people into groups and assign them roles representing various stakeholders—such as community members, policymakers, activists, and business owners. Encourage them to research their roles and understand the motivations behind their perspectives.

3. Facilitate the Discussion: Allow each group to present their viewpoints in a structured discussion. Encourage participants to express their characters’ feelings and concerns authentically.

4. Debrief: After the role-play, hold a debriefing session. Ask everyone to reflect on their experiences. What did they learn about the perspectives of others? How did it feel to advocate for a viewpoint different from their own?

Through this activity, everyone can develop a deeper understanding of the complexities surrounding political issues, fostering empathy for those with differing opinions.

Activity 2: Active Listening Exercises

Active listening is a crucial skill for fostering empathy. It involves fully concentrating, understanding, and responding to what others are saying. Here’s a simple exercise to enhance active listening skills:

1. Pair Up Participants: Divide everyone into pairs and have them sit facing each other.

2. Set a Timer: Assign one person in each pair to speak for three minutes about a political issue that matters to them. The other person should listen without interrupting.

3. Reflect and Respond: After the speaker finishes, the listener should summarize what they heard, reflecting back the speaker’s feelings and concerns. Then, they can ask clarifying questions to deepen their understanding.

4. Switch Roles: After the first round, have participants switch roles and repeat the exercise.

5. Group Discussion: After both rounds, bring everyone back together for a group discussion. Encourage everyone to share their experiences. How did it feel to be listened to? What insights did they gain from listening to others?

This exercise not only enhances empathy but also builds trust and respect among individuals  and groups, creating a more open and understanding environment.

Activity 3: Perspective-Taking Tasks

Perspective-taking tasks challenge participants to consider issues from viewpoints different from their own. This activity can be particularly effective in political discussions, where entrenched beliefs often hinder understanding. Here’s how to facilitate a perspective-taking exercise:

1. Identify a Controversial Topic: Choose a political issue that elicits strong opinions, such as healthcare reform or gun control.

2. Research and Prepare: Assign each person to research the topic from multiple perspectives. Encourage them to explore articles, interviews, and personal stories that represent various viewpoints.

3. Group Sharing: In small groups, have each person share what they learned about the different perspectives. Encourage them to discuss the underlying values and emotions that drive each viewpoint.

4. Reflect on Common Ground: After sharing, ask participants to identify common values or concerns that emerged from the discussion. What do they all care about, even if they disagree on solutions?

5. Personal Reflection: Finally, encourage everyone to reflect on how this exercise impacted their understanding of the issue. Did it change their perspective? How can they apply this empathy in their daily lives?

By engaging in perspective-taking, you can cultivate a deeper understanding of the complexities surrounding political issues, fostering a culture of compassion and respect.

Practicing Empathy in Daily Life

Building empathy in a workshop or group setting is just the beginning. To create lasting change, you must practice empathy in your daily life. Here are some strategies to encourage ongoing empathy-building:

1. Engage in Conversations: Encourage contributors to engage in conversations with people who hold different political views. Approach these discussions with curiosity and a willingness to listen.

2. Volunteer in the Community: Volunteering for local organizations can expose participants to diverse experiences and challenges faced by others. This firsthand experience can deepen their understanding and empathy.

3. Reflect on Interactions: Encourage everyone to reflect on their daily interactions. How do they respond to differing opinions? Are they open to understanding others, or do they dismiss opposing views?

4. Share Stories: Create opportunities for participants to share personal stories related to political issues. Storytelling can humanize complex topics and foster empathy among listeners.

5. Model Empathy: Encourage the group to model empathetic behavior in their communities. By demonstrating compassion and understanding, they can inspire others to do the same.

 The Impact of Empathy on Relationships and Community Dynamics

As you cultivate empathy, you will likely notice positive changes in your relationships and community dynamics. Empathy fosters trust, respect, and collaboration, creating an environment where diverse voices are heard and valued. When individuals feel understood, they are more likely to engage in constructive dialogue and work together toward common goals.

Moreover, empathy can help reduce conflict and promote non-violent interactions. In a political landscape often characterized by hostility and division, empathy serves as a powerful antidote, encouraging individuals to seek common ground rather than focusing on differences.

A Call to Action

In a world where political polarization seems to dominate the conversation, the importance of empathy cannot be overstated. By engaging in empathy-building activities, individuals can develop a deeper understanding of diverse experiences and foster a culture of compassion. As we practice empathy in our daily lives, we can create a more inclusive and respectful political landscape.

Let us commit to stepping into the shoes of others, listening actively, and embracing the complexities of our shared humanity. Together, we can build bridges across divides, promote non-violent interactions, and cultivate a more compassionate society. The journey toward empathy begins with each of us—let’s take that first step today.

Peace and every good to you…

Jim