Category: Blog-Meeting Life

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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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Leaving Home to Arrive Home

Eight years ago, I traveled to Costa Rica for a week-long retreat centered around ayahuasca, breathwork, yoga, and deep inner exploration.

Like many people who are drawn to these experiences, I went seeking something. You might call it a Divine encounter. You might call it awakening. You might call it healing.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for. I only knew there seemed to be a place people spoke about. That place beyond ordinary life. A place where greater peace, greater freedom, and greater love existed. And I wanted to know it for myself.

On the first evening, I lay on a mattress beneath an open-air pavilion in the Costa Rican jungle.

Night settled around the group as the ceremony began. I was relaxed, open, and curious.
As the plant medicine took effect, I remember making one simple commitment to myself. Don’t turn away. Whatever appears, it is here for you. Meet it.

For hours, I was shown scenes from ordinary moments of my own life.

Every one revealed where I had turned away from what was actually present.

Countless moments where Life was present but I was not.

When someone reached toward me and I wasn’t fully there. 
How beauty quietly presented itself and I hurried past. 
Ways I turned away from myself. 
Living my life while imagining that real life was somewhere else.
Times I let go the Mystery and a sense of wonder.

Scene after scene unfolded. Some scenes were so small and ordinary that I might never have noticed them at all. Others were much more significant and far reaching. There was no judgment accompanying what was bring offered.

Only the opportunity to see clearly. And with the seeing came tears. I cried for hours because I suddenly understood what I had been missing.

I wasn’t grieving my failures or feeling concern about hurting anyone. I was grieving the countless missed opportunities for relationship that had quietly passed by while I was looking somewhere else.

The next morning, I walked alone along a path through the jungle.

Trees swayed gently in the warm breeze, providing a gentle landing for the birds who sang beneath the bright sun. My body felt tired with some lingering sense of motion sickness.

A hangover of sorts from a night of traveling through so many landscapes.

Walking along that path, my inner voice spoke clearly: Now the work begins.

 

Yes, I understood and I agreed.

Almost immediately I heard that same voice laugh. You came here for a magic pill, didn’t you?

Touche. Indeed, I did. I had to laugh. Some part of me believed I would arrive in Costa Rica, meet the Divine, have love break me open, and leave transformed into an entirely new person.

Instead, I was being invited back into relationship with my own life.

The ceremonies continued for three more nights. Each one delivered exactly what it needed.

As I returned home, that invitation reverberated through my being. 

Now the work begins.

Not the work of becoming someone new. It was the staying within the ordinary moments I was living.

It was the invitation to return to the people in front of me, my own body, the quiet beauty, and the potential to meet the moment as it arrived.

To turn toward the life that had never stopped inviting me into relationship.

Looking back now, I don’t think I went to Costa Rica seeking some mystical state, inner contentment, or existential peace. I think all along I went seeking my own life. And Life, in its mysterious generosity, gave me exactly what I needed. 



Not another destination. 

A way of returning home.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Parking with Dan

About twenty-five years ago, I was driving with a colleague to a local conference. As we approached the hotel entrance, I noticed an open parking spot near the front door.

“There’s a spot,” I said, pointing to the right. He drove past it.

A few seconds later, another one appeared. He drove past that one, too. Then I pointed to a third. “There’s a spot.” Without the slightest hesitation, Dan replied, “I’ll leave that for someone else.”

And he calmly parked much farther away. As we walked to the entrance, I asked about that statement.

Dan explained that it was a practice of his. Whenever possible, he left the closest parking spaces for someone else. Perhaps there was someone carrying packages, or struggling with luggage and young children. Maybe someone was tired or had difficulty walking. Whatever the reason, Dan left the closer spots for those who simply needed it more than he did.

I nodded. It made sense, so I adopted that practice for myself that day.

I had hired Dan as a psychologist for the nonprofit agency where we worked with adolescents and families in the community. It was his first professional position after completing his PhD in clinical psychology.

He was fifty years old. It remains one of the most enjoyable interviews I’ve ever had.

When Dan was a young man in college, he found himself asking a question many people ask but few act upon: “Where can I find meaning?” Someone answered, “Go east.”

So he did.

He left college and traveled to Tibet, where he spent years studying wisdom traditions, meditation, and the art of bookmaking. By the time I met him, he had returned to the United States carrying something difficult to define but easy to recognize. He had a quiet steadiness about him. He moved through the world differently than most.

Throughout our years working together, we had many conversations.

When I told him I struggled to quiet my mind, he suggested a simple breathing practice. He asked me where I felt most peaceful. At the time, my daughter was an infant. I told him about sitting in a rocking chair in the dim light while she slept nearby.

“Start there,” he said.

And so I did. That became my place. Not a meditation cushion or a retreat center. A rocking chair beside a sleeping baby.

Dan rarely offered complicated answers. Instead, he pointed toward something simple enough to live.

Like leaving the closest parking spaces for others.

Over time, that simple practice expanded into dozens of small acts of consideration. Not dramatic gestures. Just quiet awareness of the people around me and the people yet to arrive.

Dan and I were together exploring neurofeedback for our clients when news of the attacks on the Twin Towers reached us. I remember walking out of my office and seeing staff members crying as they tried to tell us what had happened.

My first thought was, “What have we done?”

I meant it in the broadest human sense. How had we arrived here? What conditions had brought us to this moment? What responsibility do we all carry for the world we create together?

Spending time with Dan always expanded our view of life and enlarged our circle of belonging. We shared an awareness that our lives are connected in ways we often overlook. Simple yet profound connections that quietly shape the quality of life for those around us.

After we both left the agency, we continued to meet occasionally at Starbucks.

We would catch up on our practices, our work, and our lives. Yet somehow the conversation always returned to ordinary things. A simple question or an observation about the world and our place in it.

Then Dan would say something small. Just a sentence. I learned to pay attention to how his gentle comment reverberated through my being.

Sometimes long stretches of silence would settle between us. Neither of us rushed to fill them. We would sit with our tea, each following our own reflections until one of us felt we had something worth sharing. Or not.

I came to appreciate these simple statements which would often unfold over weeks or months, perhaps gradually becoming another lived practice.

The older I get, the more I realize that wisdom often arrives quietly. Not through grand teachings, but through regular moments with ordinary people who have learned how to pay attention.

A parking space. A deep breath in the midst of tragedy. The pleasure of a perfectly placed rocking chair. A slow conversation over tea.

Dan eventually moved across the country in search of a slower life. I was happy for him. It seemed exactly right.

The funny thing is, I never miss Dan. Not because he wasn’t valued in my life. Quite the opposite. I thoroughly enjoyed our exchanges, our clinical collaboration, and all we discovered together.

Those people who are a beneficial presence in our lives somehow remain present.

I still leave the closest parking spaces for someone else. And when my passenger points out that I missed a few spots by the entrance, I smile.

Because Dan is right there with me. An invisible reverberation of a lesson well modeled.

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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An Accidental Meeting, A Hand Held

A few months ago, when the world was cold and the snow came often, I left for work a little earlier than usual.

The roads had already been plowed, but I knew better than to assume they were clear. That kind of winter morning holds a particular deception. The pavement looks clean, almost dry, while a thin layer of ice waits invisibly beneath.

I was mostly alone on the road.

The sun was out, bright and generous, reflecting across the white snow under a clear blue sky. Everything looked fresh. New. There was a crispness in the air that matched the sharp cold of the morning, and I found myself enjoying the quiet beauty of it all.

As I approached a slight curve leading to a stop sign, I heard something simple and unmistakable inside me.

Stop here.

I was still more than a car length away from the intersection. There was no one behind me. No reason, really, to pause that early. But I did. I brought the car to a stop and sat there, curious, waiting without knowing why.

A moment later, I saw a car coming from the left.

It appeared around the curve moving a little too fast for the conditions. That caught my attention. I watched.

What followed unfolded as if time slowed down.

The car began to slide. Back and forth, a loss of traction that the driver could not quite correct. It went up onto the curb, dropped back down, and came to a sudden stop directly in front of me.

Had I been at the stop sign, it would have been a very different moment. But I was not.

There was no car behind me. No pressure. Just a calm body and space to witness what had happened.

Two young men sat in an older car. I could see the driver’s body tense, his breath caught somewhere between fear and disbelief. They spoke quickly to one another. Then he jumped out of the car, ran to the front, checking for damage. He circled to the back, then looked toward me.

His whole body spoke before his words did.
He was shaken.

He raised his hands, his face tight with worry, and mouthed, I am so sorry. Then he turned, looking again at the curb he had hit, back at his car, and back at me. The distress was real, immediate.

I rolled down my window and motioned him over.

He came quickly, apologizing again, his voice unsteady. He was close to crying. His friend had gotten out as well, moving toward the front of the car, checking the wheels.

“Give me your hand,” I said. 
He did. He held on tightly.

“I lost control of the car,” he said. “I was so scared. Oh my God… what if I had hit you?”

I smiled, not to dismiss him, but to meet him where he was. “Take a breath,” I said. “You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re both okay.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, still holding my hand, the cold air moving through the open window. I began to breathe with him, quietly, without instruction beyond presence.

I could feel his body begin to settle.

Then his eyes opened wide again. “I didn’t realize I was going that fast. I hit ice.” “Yes,” I said gently. “That happens. These roads can be tricky. They look clear, and they’re not.”

There was no need to make him wrong. The moment had already taught him everything it needed to.


“This is something you learn from experience,” I continued. “I learned it myself the same way you did. And now you’ve learned it.”

He took a deeper breath.

“It’s okay not to know,” I said. “And then to learn something new. You’re okay.” Something in him softened. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t here.”

“You would have figured it out,” I told him. “But here’s what you can do now.”

I pointed just beyond the intersection. “Pull into that first driveway. Park. Get out with your friend and take a good look at the car. Maybe drive it slowly in the parking lot, see how it feels. And sit there for a few minutes. Don’t leave until you feel calm again. Then you can continue, carefully, now that you know.”

He nodded. “Okay. I will.”
Again, “I’m so sorry.”

“We’re okay,” I said.

He let go of my hand, returned to his car, spoke to his friend, and slowly turned into the driveway on the right. I continued on my way to work.

At the next red light, I found myself sitting in the same sunlight, watching it reflect off the snow, feeling something quiet and steady inside.

Gratitude.

Not for avoiding an accident, though that was certainly there. But for the exchange itself.

He had come toward me, even in his fear, to make sure I was alright. I had reached toward him, meeting his distress without judgment. There was a simple, mutual care in that moment. Nothing elevated. Nothing complicated.

Just two humans, pausing long enough to recognize one another.

What steadied him was not only the breath, or the calming of his body. It was the absence of blame. The normalization that this happens. That we learn. That we adjust.

There was nothing to defend against, nothing to hide from. And in that, something repaired itself almost immediately.

We met, briefly, in a place where no one was wrong.

There are countless moments like this in a day, though most are far less dramatic. Small openings where we might pause. Where we might soften. Where we might reach out a hand, or receive one.

Instead, we often move past one another, quickly, efficiently, as if nothing meaningful lives in those in-between spaces.

But it does.

Those small exchanges carry weight. They linger. They shape how we meet the next moment, and the next person.

Even now, when I come to that same stop sign, I sometimes think of him. I imagine him driving more carefully, yes. But more than that, I imagine him moving through his life with the same instinct he showed that morning. To turn toward, rather than away. To care, even when shaken. To hold a hand and breathe together.

Not that he must pay it forward.

Simply because, for a brief moment on a cold winter morning, those actions revealed his nature. And it was lovely.

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Name Brands

“I think we need to be friends.”

Those were the first words out of my mouth when I introduced myself to Rev. Hilda Covington. We’d just finished a county meeting of nonprofit mental health and social service agencies. She was the presenter that month.

We almost didn’t meet because Hilda arrived an hour and a half late to a two-hour meeting.

I later learned that Hilda moves through the world in her own time. That meeting was not the first she was late to, nor the last. But she lit up that room when she introduced her agency, SisterHood, or “Sisters in the Hood,” as the founders named themselves when they decided to serve the families in their neighborhood who were often overlooked or dismissed by traditional systems.

I was immediately taken by her light-hearted, warm-hearted, big-hearted way.

Having spent so many years with communities society loves to marginalize, I recognized a kindred spirit. I went up to thank her for her humorous and honest presentation, and those unexpected words just came out. I’m forever grateful they did.

Fast forward 27 years.

By now, I’ve learned to listen when something unexpected tumbles out of my mouth. Time and again, I’ve watched the Soul guide me into the right moment, the right person, the right doorway. You know how that works — the quiet nudge that opens a relationship that reshapes your life and deepens your understanding of yourself and the world.

Becoming friends with Hilda did exactly that.

We live very different lives. Our beliefs about the bigger picture diverge. Our thinking was shaped by very different worlds. Our ways of serving look similar on the outside but arise from distinct lineages and lived experience.

We speak an entirely different language.

I grew up with a felt sense of safety she never had access to. We were raised a generation apart, with differences in race, class, neighborhood, education, and economic stability.

These differences have paved the way for deep, often uncomfortable, always meaningful conversations.

My mother used to tell me a story from when we lived in Germany. I was a preschooler playing in a sandbox with a little girl who spoke an entirely different language. We chattered and played as if we understood every word.

Lunch with Hilda feels like that sandbox.

I walk in unsure what the conversation will bring — seeking her counsel, planning a project, or checking in about a neighborhood need — and I always end up on a winding path through delight, discomfort, insight, and truth.

She shows me the world I cannot see. I do the same for her.

Looking back, the hidden gem of that first encounter was discovering I can enter another’s world without defense.

With Hilda, I could bring both my knowledge and my ignorance.

I could let myself be disturbed without collapsing. I could grow beyond the ideas that once kept me small. I learned to listen past the familiar and allow my Soul to point toward the beliefs that needed to be uprooted.

To be fully accepted — and to offer that same acceptance — is a rare grace.

Despite all our differences, we share the same kind of heart. And thankfully, the same sense of humor. That lightness has carried us through years of challenges, tragedies, and triumphs in her community. It is often through her laughter that my eyes open just a little wider.

A few years ago, I called to wish her a happy birthday. Quarantine had kept us from our lunches, but she was still tending to her community and her flock. (Yes, she’s also a pastor.)

“Kathy! Your people collected so much food!”

Turns out it wasn’t my volunteer contact who told her about our Sidewalk Food Drive. It was the neighborhood.

“Pastor! Your friend delivered food. Name brands!”

I didn’t understand at first.

Hilda laughed and shared story after story about the excitement of receiving name-brand groceries — not the cheap knock-offs typically stocked in dollar stores or donated to poor families. Her joy carried an edge of truth that cut straight through me.

The inequity of our neighborhoods, our expectations, our lived experience landed in my body.

When our call was done, the tears came. Gratitude mixed with heartache.

Another glimpse into a world I don’t live in but care about deeply.

For 27 years, our Soul Sanctuary community has supported SisterHood families in countless ways. What started as a small intention — easing the financial burden of economically disadvantaged parents so they could have a little more room to breathe and be with their children — has rippled far beyond anything I imagined.

A bit of relief. A moment of peace. A chance to read, play, or talk together. Small shifts with long-term impact.

I could tell so many stories of how your generosity helped parents and soothed children, but those stories belong to them. What I can say is this:

When you show up for people, they become “your people.” Period.

Next week, my family will deliver a few car loads of toys and gifts to SisterHood volunteers for the Holiday Giving List — 450 children and teens this year.

My basement looks like the North Pole and an Amazon warehouse had a love child.

This Sunday (12/14), we’ll gather at Soul Sanctuary’s Holiday Open House and collect any last-minute gifts you feel called to offer.

Last week, my husband and I took Hilda and another SisterHood founder, Linda, out to celebrate Hilda’s 80th birthday. We laughed, reminisced, and honored the years of shared work, heartbreak, joy, and community.

So as we wrap up this year’s Holiday Gift Drive, please receive the gratitude of Hilda, the SisterHood volunteers, and the families whose lives you touch.

The greatest “brand name” you can offer another human being is to call them sister or brother — to recognize their belonging in your human family.

For every way you show up, in any neighborhood, for any people, in your own authentic way,

Thank you.

The world needs exactly what you bring.

Keep giving.

 

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions. 

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Let’s Hold Hands When We’re Old

I was leaving Panera one day, hotfooting it back to work with soup in hand, when I witnessed the sweetest thing.

After holding the door for his wife, a man reached over to take her hand. Very slowly, this ancient couple meandered down the sidewalk. Talking and walking as if they had all the time in the world and no one they’d rather spend it with.

Catching myself gawking, I gathered my delighted smile and sauntered to my car.

Making a note to myself to invite my husband to hold hands when we’re old got me to thinking. Perhaps we should start practicing in earnest now, strolling about with no particular place to go, as if our future wellbeing depended on it. Because it does.

Come to think of it, I wondered why I wasn’t holding hands with more people.

I reflected on when and why I stop reaching for the hands of my parents, daughter, and friends. It’s such a sweet practice that society relegates to romantic relationships, parents with young kids, or support for the elderly. While I won’t reach for my big kid’s hand these days, I could tuck my arm in hers. Enjoying the closeness and attending to our conversation more closely.

Here’s the thing about social interaction and touch. It’s essential if you want to live long and prosper.

Just ask the centenarians who live on the Italian island of Sardinia.

Not only do they report having the highest percentage of people who live to 100 or beyond, but more couples make it to the finish line together in Sardinia than elsewhere in the world.

I hear they are paying people to come live in that mountainous island. Imagine that. Paying you to get daily exercise, eat a big lunch of fresh food, followed by a nap. Family in Sardinia is the priority and they’ve nailed the work – life balance. No long work hours or using achievement as a benchmark of worth for those longevity magnets. A few days a week, they don’t even head back to work after that nap. Leaving more time to chat with their neighbors.

Researchers have studied influences on longevity, such as genetic markers, diet, health practices, social connection, and environment.

You might enjoy watching the series Chasing Life on CNN with Sanjay Gupta, MD. In the episode on Sardinia, I was heartened by those spry brothers who met at the coffee shop and the number of ancient couples still hanging out together. Those folks walked everywhere up and down hills, waving to the neighbors sitting in the windows and popping in to shop for an item or have a chat.

Seems that all this socializing is good for you.

Research has revealed that having a 1 – 3 intimate relationships is good for your health. It’s also beneficial to have in 3 – 5 mini contacts with other humans every single day. These casual encounters might include waving to the post man, talking to the neighbor, petting their dog, visiting colleagues at the water cooler, or screen time with your cousins in California. Scrolling social media or hitting the like button doesn’t count, and actually may hurt when it’s excessive, incites envy, or replaces good old face to face contact.

Cultivating intimate relationships and taking a moment to chat with the check out clerk may increase happiness, longevity, good health, and a sense of meaning.

It’s a good idea to eat well, exercise regularly, take naps when you’re pooped, and balance work and play. It might even be a good idea to learn Italian and go live a pleasurable, slow, and long life in Sardinia. If that’s too big of a leap, start walking around your town or neighborhood.

That lovely couple reminded me that human touch adds a bonus to social engagement.

Like sprinkles on your cupcake, touch may be easily added to your focus on social connection, health behavior, mindset, and life style.

You know that touch is a strong component of healthy development in humans, animals, and marine mammals. Yet, appropriate and gentle touching of one another seems to drop off as you age. Not for those lucky enough to have cuddly partners, kids and grandkids, puppies and kittens. All that hugging and holding keeps those feel good chemicals flowing and encourages social connection in a meaningful way.

If you’re living alone, and perhaps working remotely, you can consciously and creatively examine how you may cultivate more intimate friendships and casual social interactions.

It’s really important to consider what’s most comfortable for you regarding the power of appropriate touch. Not everybody enjoys the touchy feely approach. That’s cool. Your best way of connecting considers what makes sense for you. Remember to regularly give your hands or feet a good massage, cuddle with your pet, and connect with others in a way that feels safe to you and them.

If you want to hold hands when you’re old, now is a good time to start practicing your particular way of leaning in and strengthening your social connections.

I’m off to perform my own experiment with lots of hand holding, arm linking, hugging, and leaning in shoulder to shoulder with friends and family. I’ll toss in some good eye contact, deep listening, and expressed enthusiasm for being together. This approach might seem a bit much with random strangers, so I’ll just add in a few more handshakes and smiles as I seek my 3 – 5 social interactions per day.

And I fully I expect that one day, perhaps when we’re a hundred and two, that some young thing outside Panera will be gawking at me holding hands with my fella.

Peace be with you and with all.  No exceptions.