Grief and Hope

love the earth

The heart that breaks open can contain the whole universe. 

Joanna Macy.

I was listening earlier to an interview with Clare Dubois (founder of Treesisters). She spoke about fear and grief, as she wept over the death of trees in Colorado and the devastation of our oceans. She said that fear points us in the direction of our greatest love, and that it is in surrendering to grief that we make our way into the heart of our love and find courage for our work in the world. I needed to hear that, needed reminding that it is in allowing my heart to break open, as Joanna Macy says, that I can engage with life fully enough to move into the world with purpose and energy.

There is so much tumult everywhere: people arguing over flags and anthems, news of corruption and abuse, leaders failing the people they are supposed to serve. It’s easy to be overwhelmed and to retreat. I leave you with more wise words from Joanna Macy. I hope you find in them an encouragement not to retreat, but to immerse yourself more fully in the world, with all its complexity, struggle and beauty.


Active Hope is not wishful thinking.

Active Hope is not waiting to be rescued…

by some saviour.

Active Hope is waking up to the beauty of life

on whose behalf we can act.

We belong to this world.

The web of life is calling us forth at this time.

We’ve come a long way and are here to play our part.

With Active Hope we realise that there are adventures in store,

strengths to discover, and comrades to link arms with.

Active Hope is a readiness to discover the strengths

in ourselves and in others;

a readiness to discover the reasons for hope

and the occasions for love.

A readiness to discover the size and strength of our hearts,

our quickness of mind, our steadiness of purpose,

our own authority, our love for life,

the liveliness of our curiosity,

the unsuspected deep well of patience and diligence,

the keenness of our senses, and our capacity to lead.

None of these things can be discovered in an armchair or without risk.



Surrealistic-Pillow-Project-1 - Copy



Someone I don’t know

has just received

“the yummiest homemade all natural peanut butter”.

(I can order a jar for thirty rand.)

Sam Harris (a neuroscientist)

has selected twelve books that everyone should read.

(I haven’t read any of them.)

Someone has shared a map of the world

showing “who every country thinks is most dangerous”.

A lot of the world is covered

in American flags.

Most of Africa is blank.

(Did someone forget to ask them?)

Bookstreet wants to know if I can pass

the Hogwarts Defence Against the Dark Arts Exam.

(probably not)

The Old Farmers Almanac

(there’s a missing apostrophe there)

has a list of common cooking mistakes.

Apparently J.K.Rowling has apologized for “Anti-Trump Tweets”.

(She’d reacted to a fake news report.)

Someone says vaccines are dangerous.

Musi says the parliament needs dissolving.

but the Horse Hippie reminds me that

“This Too Shall Pass”.

Positively Positive wants me to know that the way I make a fist

reveals my leadership style.


Do I love Elephants enough to sign this petition?

What do I think of this Bronco Riding Disaster?

And I need to celebrate #International Day of Friendship

by reading this article

on the 5 Types of Friendships You Need in Your Life


Time for the back button.

I’d rather write a poem.


I wrote this a couple of weeks ago. I was scrolling through my Facebook news feed and started writing down what came up. It was quite an eye-opener, seeing the posts ranged next to one another like that, in black and white. I wondered why I spend time allowing my mind to jump from one (mostly) meaningless piece of information to another. I thought about the evenings I’ve spent reading, with my cell phone off, challenging myself to focus on one thread of ideas, choosing to move deeply into words that require effort and concentration. I thought about how satisfying it is, and how the words and thoughts of others help me to reflect on my own life more clearly. Reading, writing, reflecting…these pursuits add texture and depth; they keep me from becoming lazy in my thinking.

But it’s not just Facebook. There’s Netflix, TedTalks, Whatsapp groups and a whole lot of other excuses to avoid engaging with meaningful work or real re-creation. I often find that it takes genuine mental effort to pick up a book (or tackle something that I’ve been avoiding) rather than hit the button for an app, check my mails (another distraction) or open Accuweather (because of course it’s necessary to know the exact temperature every hour).

I guess it’s unrealistic to expect that I will forgo these distractions completely, but perhaps I could make some rules for how and when to allow myself a trip down the rabbit hole. And I could think about how to use the technology more intelligently, rather than just falling into undetermined periods of time in which my mind goes into neutral.

I find that I am often anxious about the things I need to do, and diving into distraction is a way to escape that unease. But when I do what I must and get on with the scary things, I feel better. This has been a surprise. Fear is a good salesperson, telling me that if I do what I fear, that I will feel worse, or that something terrible will happen to me. Fear sells inertia, a promise that if I just bury myself in meaningless distraction or hide away from my life, the terror will go away. It’s a lie, but a convincing one. Only as I move into my life, through the discomfort and messiness, do I feel stronger and more empowered. I also experience more joy, and a capacity to see and love others. (Fear and anxiety will keep you trapped in your own mind.)

This is where distractions like Facebook become more insidious for me. They feed that lie. Every time I reach for my phone instead of doing the hard things, I am reinforcing the notion that whatever it is that I fear, is too much for me. I fall for the idea that I am not enough, that I am alone, that I should just give up and go home.

But I have been given capacities and gifts. I have work to do in the world. It helps to know that I am not the only who wrestles with uncertainty and the little voice that says I am wasting my time. Great men and women have battled anxiety, as have friends and family. I am not alone. I am not unique in this struggle.

So today I will get out of bed, open up my laptop, make some calls and venture into the tasks that seem overwhelming. And at the end of the day, I will curl up on the couch with a good book, and feel stronger.

A New Boat

little boat (2)

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

I’ve always liked this quote (frequently misattributed to Mark Twain, actually said by H. Jackson Brown’s mother). It stirs the adventurer in me and makes me want to go out and do Big Things. Unfortunately my natural uncertainty, and a tendency to question my intuition and ideas, has often stood in the way. This has changed over the last couple of years, and I’ve found myself trying all sorts of things. It’s been at times terrifying, and at times exhilarating. I’ve made some mistakes (lots of mistakes) but discovered that I am much stronger, more creative and a lot braver than I thought.

On Saturday Lisa Steyn and I will be doing a storytime launch of our children’s book, Granny’s Butterflies, at The Book lounge. (You can purchase the e-book on Amazon here.) We’ll be doing a reading of the story, and the book will be available to buy. There’ll also be a simple craft activity and snacks on sale. This is definitely one of those throwing away the bowlines moments. Part of me feels like running away, but another part of me is excited and looking forward to the day.

I came across this poem by Mary Oliver a few weeks ago, and it made me think. I’ve always been someone who loves order, structure and calm. I am learning that I need to live my life in a way that honours my essential need for ‘days that rhyme‘. But there is much I cannot control, and sometimes leaps of faith lead to unpredictable outcomes. I am beginning to appreciate that this can be good for me.

If I Wanted a Boat

I would want a boat, if I wanted a

boat, that bounded hard on the waves,

that didn’t know starboard from port

and wouldn’t learn, that welcomed

dolphins and headed straight for the

whales, that, when rocks were close,

would slide in for a touch or two,

that wouldn’t keep land in sight and

went fast, that leaped into the spray.

What kind of life is it always to plan

and do, to promise and finish, to wish

for the near and the safe? Yes, by the 

heavens, if I wanted a boat I would want

a boat I couldn’t steer.

Mary Oliver

A New Season

Your friend’s dishtowel strung over her faucet

was a sentence which could be diagrammed

while your tumbled life, that basket of phrases,

had too many ways it might fit together.


Naomi Shihab Nye (from New Year)


It’s hard to believe that it’s eight months since I last posted. I shared part of a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, and spoke of my need to make choices that would facilitate “an undiluted life”.  And just a couple of days ago, I came across the words quoted above, also by Naomi Shihab Nye, from her poem New Year. So much has happened since October, and that “quiet place in the swirl” is only now becoming a reality.

After my dad’s stroke in August last year, I found myself more and more off kilter. I had the sense that I was losing my grip on my ability to keep it all together. The strain of the year’s challenges and the knowledge that my sons were not going to be at home much longer weighed heavy on me. I longed for stillness, time to gather my thoughts, but I couldn’t seem to create the space needed for that stillness. I couldn’t give myself permission.

We had been looking for a new home, one closer to my horse, in the university town of Stellenbosch, where our younger son would be studying. All year we visited agents and kept a watch out on Gumtree, with no success. Eventually in November, we came to an agreement with a landlord for the rental of a property on the outskirts of the town, just a couple of minute’s drive from my horse, in the shadow of the Jonkershoek mountains. It needed lots of work, but I felt in my heart that it would be home. We set about putting our Parklands house on the market and headed into Christmas and New Year.

I wish I could say that the path has been smooth. It has not. Our home sold twice and both sales fell through. We decided to buy a flat that our son could use and that would serve as an investment, and almost lost that in the process. Our house finally sold and we set a date for moving across to Stellenbosch. I meanwhile had been living partly in Parklands and partly in the empty house in Stellenbosch. I spent time-with much help from my parents and aunt-fixing the house up and making it feel like home. It was a hard season. I felt disoriented and torn, and missed my husband and sons terribly. (Sleeping alone in a big house where the only furniture is your mattress, a couple of camping chairs and a small wobbly table can be somewhat depressing.)

We moved the just a few days before Easter. That weekend my horse fell ill and was rushed to hospital on Easter Sunday. I thought I would lose him. My parents’ car was written off on the Tuesday after that, following a minor car accident. On the Wednesday my mother-in-law was diagnosed with terminal cancer. It was a week of overwhelm.

I am only starting to feel grounded again. Our boys have settled into their lives away from us, and although I miss them, I am so proud of the way they are moving into adult life. They are out of the nest and flying. My horse has recovered, and I love that I can see him every day. My mom-in-law is approaching this moment in her life with grace and deep faith. She is a beautiful example to us all, and we are trying to make as many memories together as we can.

Amidst all of this my friend Lisa and I have completed our little children’s book and the first print run arrived a short while ago. This is exciting and daunting all at once. It’s wonderful to see the words and pictures come together on the page in a real book. Now comes the work of marketing and selling, not easy for two introverted creatives! But we have already found one bookshop to stock it, and will be doing a launch there soon. (News of that will follow shortly. Keep an eye on my newsletter and Facebook.)


A Quiet Place in the Swirl


Today I share not my words, but those of Naomi Shihab Nye, the third verse of a poem about her Uncle Mohammed. These lines speak to me of the need to make my world smaller. They remind me that even as I engage with life and responsibilities and relationships, I can make choices. I can choose to push distractions aside and attend to what matters. I can find that ‘quiet place in the swirl’, pursue the inner quiet necessary to live an undiluted life.


Maybe you had other reasons.

Maybe you didn’t go up the mountain because you were angry.

This is what I am learning, the voice I hear when I wake at 3 a.m.

It says, Teach me how little I need to live

and I can’t tell if it is me talking, or you,

or the walls of the room. How little, how little,

and the world jokes and says, how much.

Money, events, ambitions, plans, oh Uncle,

I have made myself a quiet place in the swirl.

I think you would like it.

Yesterday I learned how many shavings of wood the knife discards

to leave one smoothly whittled spoon.

Today I read angles of light through the window,

first they touch the floor, then the bed,

til everything is luminous, curtains flung wide.

As for friends, they are fewer and dearer,

and the ones who remain seem also to be climbing mountains

in various ways, though we dream we will meet at the top.

Will you be there?

Gazing out over valleys and olive orchards

telling us to sit, sit,

you expected us all along.

Naomi Shihab Nye (from For Mohammed on the Mountain)


Pursuing Wholeness

When your eyes are tired

the world is tired also.


When your vision has gone,

no part of the world can find you.


Time to go into the dark

where the night has eyes

to recognize its own.


There you can be sure

you are not beyond love.


The dark will be your home



The night will give you a horizon

further than you can see.


David Whyte, from Sweet Darkness



It’s been a long and sometimes difficult year, and I’ve often wished I could go and live in a small house alone somewhere, away from the demands and expectations of my days. I have a beautiful life, one that is full of good things and good people. But I am tired.

Over the past weekend I attended a workshop in which we engaged with horses, and then reflected on our interactions as a way of learning more about ourselves. At one point I tried to lead a horse to a patch of shade. When asked why I had chosen that particular place and what it represented for me, I said that it looked nice, comfortable and peaceful. I said that it represented rest. The facilitator smiled and said to me, “You need rest.”

I find it very difficult to rest. Even when I do have the opportunity to be still, my mind races with thoughts of all I should be doing. It’s hard to give myself permission to just be. There is a heaviness in me, a weariness that I am wary of indulging. I fear that if I stop all the thinking and doing, I will sink into that heaviness and be lost.

So I keep moving, and doing and accomplishing. This is not an entirely bad thing; being productive is an antidote to despair and self-pity. Caring for my family brings me joy, and coming to the end of the day knowing that I have completed my tasks and engaged in meaningful work is a blessing.

But I am beginning to think that there is a season for moving into the darkness, for allowing myself to settle into the places in my heart that need to speak of sadness and confusion. It is in reaching into those places that I find some of the wisdom needed to make sense of myself and my world. As David Whyte says, that darkness can provide a vision of a further horizon, one that is not clear in the wide open light and stimulus of daily life. God is in the dark places of my life, as much as He is in the light.

I end with some beautiful words from Rainer Maria Rilke:

So don’t be frightened, dear friend, if a sadness confronts you larger than any you have ever known, casting its shadow over all you do. You must think that something is happening within you, and remember that life has not forgotten you; it holds you in its hand and will not let you fall. Why would you want to exclude from your life any uneasiness, any pain, any depression, since you don’t know what work they are accomplishing within you?

(You can find Sweet Darkness in its entirety on the poetry page.)


Mind Skiddle

skiddle – to throw flat stones so that they skim on the surface of water (Galloway)

Robert Macfarlane in Landmarks


Did you ever skip stones as a child? We did; my father was a consummate stone skipper. He could make a pebble skitter across water seven times. I think my best is about four (although my stones sink about as often as they skip). There’s an addictive quality to the game, picking up stone after stone, trying to make it skip just one more time than the one before.

Earlier in the week, I imagined a stone in my hand, imagined the weight of it, cold against my skin. I pictured myself stepping forward and flicking it out into the water, watching it bounce and sink. And in that imagining, I noticed something. There are thoughts that I pick up, over and over again. I hold them in awareness, feel their weight, their familiar texture and shape. I throw them out and watch them dance and sink again beneath the surface of that awareness. I watch the ripples of those thoughts widen and run into other thoughts. Then I pick them up, and repeat the process. It’s comfortable in some sense. I can let my thoughts slide easily over the tracks I’ve created for them, but those tracks don’t lead anywhere.

There is another image I associate with stones: a cairn, a neat stack of small rocks created by people walking a path, to help others on the same path in finding their way. I wonder if I can put my stone thoughts to such use. Can I stack them with care, make a beacon for myself to follow so that they point a way forward? This requires effort. I must break with established patterns and leave the thoughts behind so that I can explore new territory, go somewhere I’ve not been before.

(On the poetry page you will find a poem that I wrote in reflection on this.)