05/09/2026
This summer, a world on fire has been whispering things in my ears that I would rather not hear. Images of mudslides, wildfires, violence against innocent people and refugees in precarious boats remain with me when I lay my head on the pillow at night.
As I travel through parched landscapes where the trees seem to sigh, deep lakes of tears form in my heart. My mind subjects me to a relentless cross-examination, and I have no answers.
I grow quiet.
I see heroes who scarcely realise how heroic they are. Doctors and nurses who continue to care in the midst of war. Activists who speak for the waters, the forests and the air. Courageous people who stand beside those whose voices are not heard.
As I write my book about mindfulness and compassion in healthcare and leadership, their suffering and courage humble me. At times, they make both me and the words on my pages feel very small.
Decades of meditation practice have not taught me how to escape suffering. They have taught me to stay close enough to see, to listen and to keep asking what this moment requires of me.
David Wagoner writes in his poem Lost:
โStand Still. Listen. The trees and bushes beside you are not lost. They know where you are. You must let them find you.โ
So I stand still and listen. I allow myself to be found by the trees, the animals, the people and by life itself.
I have returned home knowing more deeply that this is the only moment in which I can make a small difference.
That is where I will begin.
