Month: August 2026

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Don’t Help Me. Please.

I was driving home with my daughter when we noticed a large snapping turtle crossing the roadway. 

It was a tiny back street lined with a small pond on one side and the forest on the other.  As we drove by, he settled down just a foot into the road. Hanging out there as if it were a rest stop.  Right in the path of the cars cutting through our neighborhood at rush hour – blowing through the stop sign in order to cut a moment from their commute.

“Not happening!” I said as I pulled the car over.  

“We are moving that turtle before he gets crushed,” I declared.  I bounded from the car as my daughter muttered “Oh, here we go.”  I carried my umbrella as a prodding agent which was totally unhelpful as it popped open immediately, rendering it useless.  (More eye rolls from you know who. I might have even added a few myself as I looked quite ridiculous).  

I found another totally inadequate stick which left us just staring at a magnificent, prehistoric looking turtle wondering what to do next.  

We knew enough not to go near the front of him.  They call them snapping turtles for a reason.  While my daughter longed to pick him up and carry him, I had visions of her dropping him in the moment of a freakout.  Nope.  Meanwhile, he was resting as if he had all the time in the world and wasn’t facing imminent death (okay … I exaggerate). 

A car pulled up and an older man asked if we were okay. 

Explaining our predicament, he enthusiastically jumped out of his SUV with a golf umbrella as if he were going to single handedly rescue all of us.  We were in business. He tapped him gently and the giant turtle stirred and tipped to one side. I knew if we could gently tap his other side, he would start to rise up and walk.  Which he did.

Wish I kept my mouth shut.

 

Our rescuer got so excited he went around to take a photo for his grandkids.

And down went the turtle. 

Dropping down at the sight of a looming threat …. a 6 foot gentle giant with a camera. Things worsened quickly when the giant decided to tap the turtle more strongly on the back of his shell with his foot.  My kid and I exchanged a look. 

Now we were party to traumatizing this magnificent creature instead of saving him. 

With that final insult, “Snappy” promptly lumbered up onto the grass in the direction of the pond and hunkered down.  He looked our way as if daring us to come near him.  Fearing that our foot tapping savior could not curb his enthusiasm, we declared our effort a success.  I mentioned I had to run out to the store in a bit and would check to make sure he hadn’t ventured back into harm’s way again. This gave us all permission to end our rescue mission.

Mind you, not one car had careened around that corner during our dramatic interlude. 

“Well that went well.” stated you know who.  A bit later I headed out to the store and was alert as I fully stopped at the corner stop sign.  Scanning the grass to the right, I noticed the area was totally free of that huge turtle.  The reason?

He was lumbering across the street toward the woods. 

As turned the corner, I watched as he settled down into his protective position – shell to the ground – right in the middle of oncoming traffic in the other direction.  Wiser now, I slowly rolled past him as if he wasn’t there.  Hoping I wouldn’t see him crushed on my return trip, I had a revelation.

It occurred to me that he had probably crossed that road many times before I ever met him. This certainly wasn’t his first adventure.

After all he was a mature turtle, not some tiny little thing out on his first independent stroll.  He had to have some skill to have made it this far in a residential neighborhood.  Perhaps I had confused my concern with his need for rescue.  Now who was rolling her eyes? 

I got to wondering about all the times my intent to be helpful may have actually diverted someone from their intended path.

How I made the assumption that someone needed rescuing when Life was offering them what they required in that moment.

It isn’t the first time I’ve stopped my car to turn around a turtle.  Let’s just say I have a history of such behavior. Now, before I move in to help, I pause. I become curious. I wonder what Life might already be doing before I assume my role within the story.

I didn’t see Snappy on the way home, but that didn’t surprise me. 

He had already taught me what I needed to know. I was grateful and wiser as a result of our encounter. I figured he had lumbered off to teach some other well meaning, silly human. 

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Living Your Convictions

I recently found myself thinking about activism. About the many ways we show up for what matters to us.

As I considered this, three memories arrived. Rapidly, as if they were part of my contemplation.

The first was a conversation I had with a woman in my town. She was giving me an update on her recent gathering with other mothers protesting against gun violence. I was interested as we had explored what mattered to her as she approached retirement. Protecting children in schools and on street corners mattered, so she joined with other moms who cared about the same.

She described the experience standing at a busy street corner in a local town.

I could see it. Lots of mamas showing up with hand made signs, chanting together, and hoping to make a difference. Some passing drivers honked in support. Others rolled down their windows, shouted insults, or flashed rude gestures. She couldn’t believe the hostility. Neither could the other mothers.

So the women shouted back. Righteous in their indignation.

“So you’re an angry activist?” I asked.

She stopped speaking. There was a long pause. Then she laughed. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “I am an angry activist!”

It wasn’t a criticism. It was just something to notice. How easy it is for our nervous system to become shaped by the very energy we’re trying to change. This led to a rich discussion of how to stand for what truly mattered without giving way to dysregulation and anger, regardless of how others in her group or those passing by reacted.

The second scene also took place on a busy street.

I recalled walking past a Tesla showroom in Washington, D.C. last fall. The sidewalk outside the storefront was filled with dancing people. At first, I thought there was a grand opening or something to be celebrated. As we joined the other pedestrians in single file to walk slowly past the dancers, I took in the scene.

Music filled the street. The DJ broadcasted uplifting music as the happy protesters danced with signs.

Some just busted a move and exuded a joyful countenance. After reading the signs, I looked around me. Some people smiled. Others scowled. A few applauded or shimmied a bit, while some muttered their disagreement as they walked by.

The dancers kept dancing. Whether people agreed or disagreed didn't seem to determine their state.

 

No one seemed dysregulated except for the dude who was clearly dancing to his own rhythm.

These activists expressed what they believed without becoming entangled in every passing reaction. That was interesting.

The third memory was of a recent visit I had with a family friend.

This beautiful soul is in her late eighties and has spent much of her life standing up for what she believed was just. I grew up on stories of her protests, occasional arrests, and dogged determination.

When I visited her assisted living community, I noticed a small sign attached to her walker. Every Vote Matters.

“Still at it,” I observed and we shared a smile.

I noted that it was a quiet statement. Later she showed me the larger sign that now hung in her room. It had once been displayed on her walker, but the community had asked residents not to display overt political messages in shared spaces. Let’s just say that wasn’t so quiet as her message was clear, in all caps, and brightly decorated.

But she adapted. Not because her convictions had changed, but because her wisdom had.

I later saw a photo of her at a family party. There she was, rolling around with that bright sign visible for all to read. It struck me that she understood that there is a difference between abandoning your values and expressing them skillfully within the environment you inhabit.

As I thought about these three scenes, I realized they weren’t simply different activists.

They represented three different ways of inhabiting what they cared about.

One became caught in the reactivity around her. And was open to shifting her approach.
The dancers expressed their convictions without becoming pulled into every response.
And one displayed that wisdom sometimes means changing the form without changing the heart.

Whether the moment calls you into protest, parenting, teaching, voting, caring for a friend, or simply having a difficult conversation, how you live your convictions matters.

As I drove home, I found myself less interested in activism than in how I live my convictions.

Not what I stood against. But how I stand.
Not whether I cared. But how I carry what I care about.
And how I meet those who see the world differently than I do.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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The Horse who Joined the Conversation

Three months ago, I unexpectedly entered into a relationship with a horse.

I met Zor during a visit to Liberty Stables in Florida, where I had gone to spend time with a friend’s horses. I had no particular expectations. I have no background with horses, no training, and no experience in equine-assisted therapy. I simply met this magnificent Friesian, and something quietly familiar unfolded between us.

I fell in love.

Not in the dramatic way we sometimes use that phrase, but in the quiet recognition of feeling unexpectedly at home in the presence of another living being.

When I returned a few months later, I wondered whether he would remember me.
He did.

I have found a deep contentment in being with Zor. Grooming him in his stall. Massaging his neck and shoulders. Singing softly while he lowered his great head to graze. Standing beside him without needing anything from him. I have never asked Zor to attend to me, carry me, or teach me. His quiet companionship has awakened something joyful in me. That has been enough for me.

One afternoon, I carried my chair into the pasture and placed it beneath the shade of a tree.

It was one of those Florida afternoons where the heat seems to shimmer above the grass. The horses grazed quietly under an endless blue sky. I settled into my chair, content to watch the horses, listen to the birds, and perhaps take a nap. As I entered the pasture, Zor lifted his head and followed me with his eyes. Once I was seated beneath the tree, he returned to grazing.

For a long while I simply sat. My body softened. My mind became quiet. My eyes sometimes closed as I listened to the song of nature. 

After a while I noticed that Zor had slowly changed position. He moved in a gentle arc that gradually brought him closer.

Having heard stories about the way he sometimes greeted people, I stood and stepped in front of him to say hello. I preferred not to discover what happens when a two-thousand-pound horse decides to make his presence known by tipping over my chair.

Once met, he returned to grazing.

I remained beneath the tree to have my scheduled phone session with a client. It had been a rough week. Testing revealed that the tumors in her body had grown.

As painful as the diagnosis itself was the experience of trying to receive care. Tests were delayed. Decisions postponed. Phone calls unanswered. She wasn’t simply carrying cancer. She was carrying the exhaustion of trying to find her way through a medical system that seemed unable to meet her with clarity or care.

“I'd like to place my hand on this beautiful horse's heart while we talk,” I said.

 

The phone in my back pocket, an AirPod in one ear, one hand rested on my heart, and the other rested on his.

Quietly, in my own awareness, I introduced them and returned to listening. Zor continued grazing as we moved together across the pasture.

Eventually he wandered beneath a small tree, stopped grazing, and looked directly at me.

For the remainder of our conversation, I stroked his face while listening to this lovely woman navigate this challenging season of her life.

In time, something softened. Her voice became lighter as we moved from frustration toward the next small steps before her. Zor remained completely still beneath my hand. No one hurried the conversation.

This exchange included two humans, a horse, birdsong, the warm sun, and a gentle breeze. Everything belonged.

Toward the end of our conversation, Zor lifted his head, gave a great snort, and calmly returned to grazing. My client heard it through the phone. She laughed, as did I. “I think we’re complete,” she said. Reminding me how her dog always knew our conversation was ending a few minutes before we said goodbye.

“Please thank that horse for me.”

I returned to my chair beneath the tree and closed my eyes. For a long moment I simply rested in that experience.

There is no miraculous ending to this story.

I don’t know whether that afternoon changed her treatment, her health, or even her day. I don’t need to know. I only know that I was part of something beautiful.

A woman seeking healing.
A horse quietly grazing.
One hand resting on my own heart.
The other resting on his.

Three hearts participating in the same quiet field of presence.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions.