This is a masterclass in the art of presence — of meeting one’s body exactly where it is, without resignation but with deep respect. What strikes me most is the quiet defiance in it. Not the loud, cinematic kind, but the subtler, more radical act of refusing to be defined solely by illness or limitation. You don’t just go on a walk, you reclaim space, time, and joy. You turn movement into ritual, resistance into play.
And that moment on the swing? That’s everything. It’s proof that childhood never fully leaves us, that joy isn’t a privilege of the young or the healthy, and that sometimes, when we least expect it, our bodies surprise us by remembering how to fly. Even the torn coat feels like a fitting symbol — letting go of what no longer serves, surrendering to nature, trusting in renewal.
What this piece makes clear is that alchemy isn’t just possible; it’s something we can practice. And maybe the real magic isn’t just in feeling better but in recognising, even in the hardest moments, that life is still waiting for us to step outside and say “yes” to it.
Hello. I love the slow gentle way you take to all. Your body, the seasons, the dogs and the seasons. And slowly there is a process. " I want to remember that kind of alchemy is available and possible." My husband and I celebrated our first date anniversary yesterday. It is so important to us. And with these last few months of ED's for me and my mom, we planned an outing. Eating out is not something I do well. We decided to try a place and called ahead and went and it was lovely. And my husband loves bowling( all this was at 10 am) and so we tried 3 places and all were not available for many reasons. We had a great time driving around and talking. And came home to a nap. Grateful for all of you.
Went bowling this week when my grandsons were visiting. Try early afternoon next time when the leagues aren’t there. We were the only lane being used
And though I used to like bowling ( I’m no athlete) my right (writing hand) can’t use up its strength on throwing a 20 pound ball. But guys had a great time!
When we’re knocked about by the bluster, the squall of illness or fragility, sometimes the outdoors is like stepping into heaven and out of ourselves. I remember this so much from recovery.
The gifts around us and the giddiness of wind, sunshine, tulips, trees.
And the silliness of swings!
These gifts are uncovered if we can actually move our bodies away from the bricks of life.
Hallelujah! Love this ritual! I want to move out of London and find these trails that lead to freedom!
Suleika and doggies… Keep on walking!! Much love from Deb down a dirt road in the woods of southern Oregon where I do a lot of walking so healing and wonderful!👍🏽💜
Thank you, Suleika, for bringing such joy as my Sunday eve becomes Monday, Rebecca for making me crave maple syrup anything, & greetings to dear Carmen, gentle pats to Summer & River, & of course, nods of reverence to Her Royalness, Lentil.
Fig season! The words alone feel like a small celebration. A brief, golden stretch of time as summer exhales, autumn at the edges, when the air is thick with warmth, their plump forms hidden among heavy, hand-shaped leaves. I’d climb my uncle’s little step ladder, wobbling on the top rung, stretching my fingers toward the fruit. There’s a patience in this—figs refuse to be rushed. They must be gently cupped, twisted just so, until they surrender into the palm.
All summer, I would check. Press my fingers, gently, against their green skins, waiting for them to darken, soften, give. My uncle knew better, of course. I was a small, squawking little being—wanting, wanting, wanting. They’ll be ready when they’re ready, he’d say, & I’d groan, knowing I had no choice but to wait. But when they were ready—oh. The way they came away from the branch with the slightest tug. The way the skin split just enough to show that dark, ruby flesh inside. Warm from the sun, honeyed, perfect.
More often than not, I ate them as they were, one by one. Their time was short, the kind of short that makes you pay attention. A few weeks, maybe. Then the fruit would be gone, the tree returning to itself, waiting out the colder months in stillness. But even after the last fig had been eaten, its taste lingered—on my hands, on my tongue, in the way my body knew to check for them every time I passed the tree.
When the figs weren’t ready, there was always pastizzi. I’d return to the kitchen, where the air carried the scent of comfort, where he worked without recipes, only knowing. A plate stacked high, pastry so delicate it shattered at the first bite. Ricotta, soft & salty, pressing against the roof of my mouth. I’d eat them too fast, always, buttery flakes catching at the corners of my lips. He’d shake his head, tell me to slow down, knowing I never would.
When the last figs ripened, he’d fold them into ANZAC biscuits—oaty, golden, crisp at the edges, chewy in the centre. Not traditional, but better. The oats softened, the figs melted, the seeds catching between my teeth. He never needed many words. The way he respected ingredients, the small lessons, the secrets he shared—those, I still carry.
Fig Season. Even now, when I find myself looking at fig trees, pressing my fingers against their skins, I’m reminded: what’s ready will come. But only when it’s ready.
Oh my Kim.... I'm salivating now thinking of your beautiful figs... bursting with deliciousness! And love the "they'll be be ready when they're ready" part too! Thanks for writing this morning!
Ah, the fig! My father's favorite - He was Italian, grew up in southern Italy and figs played a big part in his youth. Food always remained a connection to his childhood. Thanks for the memories.
"...what's ready will come. But only when it's ready." Such wise words for all of us who feel strangled by circumstances, wanting only to find a way out. I'll be keeping your words in mind as I continue to battle the forces that are trying to keep me down. Thanks, Kim, for the beautiful essay. And by the way I love figs!
So happy that you've been able to summon strength and wellness for the sunset walks with your furry companions. Jon too. The walking is good for you and the beautiful skies radiate into your soul and affirm your beauty and purpose for being here. We all pray for your healing and return to normality. Thank you Suleika.♥️💙💜
Thank you, Suleika. I'm holding you in my thoughts and prayers this week.
I always appreciate how you gently approach uncertainty or the unknown beyond where we've been before/already. It's so easy to default into fear of what may be. Being open to the potential of delight, just beyond...is what I'll journal from today's sunset ritual.
P.S we love maple syrup on pancakes, although we may pour it more sparingly knowing how many gallons it takes to make it now! Thanks for this great reminder ahead of Shrove Tuesday!
That moment where you realize all the leaves are gone, so how will you find a maple tree?
I loved the essay on sugaring season - thank you. At the very least, I will be seeking out authentic maple syrup for my pantry! When the leaves come back this spring, I shall be-friend my local maple trees.
I so loved today’s update from Suleika and Rebecca’s essay and prompt. It’s been so frigid I’ve stopped walking outdoors despite my promise to myself to be in nature when I can. But yesterday it went up to 40 degrees so I bundled up, put in my AirPods and walked for an hour in my neighborhood while listening to an audiobook on the Libby library app.
Then I got my dog, who still loves walks but because of his age and bad arthritis can only manage a slow few blocks. I’d missed the pleasure of watching him enjoy all the smells. I’d missed the sun on my face and the feeling when my body finally warms enough to unzip my jacket just a little. And the joy of escaping into a novel while walking. The days are staying light longer and the seasonality of those first days of spring is almost here.
Starting week 4 of influenza; yes I had the vaccine so per CNN's Dr. Sanjay Gupta my case was 50% strength, for which I am grateful as I have about four autoimmune diseases.
These four weeks have been, for Virginia, unusually cold and snowy, doubling my restlessness and yearning for Spring.
Today, mid-50's and then a full week predicted in the 60's. My heart stirs in anticipation of planting a zillion COSTCO hosta in a new shade bed ahead of the landscapers coming to mulch March 3. I've got four galvanized raised beds to build as I transition to a new way of vegetable gardening to ease my arthritis.
This winter has been full-on 360 degrees of difficult, but Spring teasing us this week opens our hearts to possibilities. Susu, after chemo this week you have the possibility of sunset walks and maybe pancakes or waffles with maple syrup for dinner in the following weeks. Hurry up Spring!
Thank you Suleika and Rebecca for this mornings prompt. I love swings. What a feeling of flying. We are never too old to play. Sending you lots of love, Suleika. Always sending you love.
Prompt. Seasonal ritual.
I can’t wait for the warmer weather. Even though I’m a New England girl, I do not love winter. I won’t allow myself to complain when the heat is sweltering. I save my kvetching for winter.
I started re-wilding parts of my property. The power lines cut through part of my land so there isn’t a lot I can do. So I’m leaving parts to the pollinators . I plant some butterfly and bee friendly plants. I never saw myself as a gardener but I have been cultivating areas of my back yard. The meadow belongs to the bees. What a magical place this meadow is becoming. Every year I see more creatures appear. All sorts of bees,and wasps. I hadn’t seen a lot if butterflies for a few years. Now each spring in summer brings more butterflies and moths. This summer preying mantises appeared. I saw a type of frog I never noticed before. It’s a growing ecosystem and it’s magic.
Beautiful reflection on risk, holiness, spontaneity, ritual. They go together. The photo of you walking with friends at burnt sunset with your black scarf blowing in the wind is epiphany. Limping wounded into the promised land, this day—not looking back. It reminds me of Dylan’s words in his Nobel speech, “Sing in me, oh Muse, and through me tell the story.”
Oh, yes. We are living the story, with each other. Thanks.
Thank you Rebecca and Suleika for reminding us of magic all around us in the natural world and the power in ritual. After this I’m going to journal about our annual seed planting ritual which is just upon us. It offers a lifeline in the dregs of winter into spring! Suleika-sending love, vibes, prayers for the next round💕⚡️🙏🏽
I love Suleika share with the pups in the field and yours as well--I am not great about wintering this one in particular... However seeing the light coming through the window is nice. Thank you for smiles.
This is a masterclass in the art of presence — of meeting one’s body exactly where it is, without resignation but with deep respect. What strikes me most is the quiet defiance in it. Not the loud, cinematic kind, but the subtler, more radical act of refusing to be defined solely by illness or limitation. You don’t just go on a walk, you reclaim space, time, and joy. You turn movement into ritual, resistance into play.
And that moment on the swing? That’s everything. It’s proof that childhood never fully leaves us, that joy isn’t a privilege of the young or the healthy, and that sometimes, when we least expect it, our bodies surprise us by remembering how to fly. Even the torn coat feels like a fitting symbol — letting go of what no longer serves, surrendering to nature, trusting in renewal.
What this piece makes clear is that alchemy isn’t just possible; it’s something we can practice. And maybe the real magic isn’t just in feeling better but in recognising, even in the hardest moments, that life is still waiting for us to step outside and say “yes” to it.
What a lovely response .... you are right over and over and over, thank you.
"joy isn’t a privilege of the young or the healthy"
I love your response to Suleika's piece, Tamara. Yes, life is waiting. Can we say yes to it. x
Stunning response. You captured what made this essay so beautiful and inspiring.
So beautifully expressed Tamara❤️
Truly, Tamara, you captured Suleika’s intention perfectly. “the art of presence” -let’s “yes” to it all.
Hello. I love the slow gentle way you take to all. Your body, the seasons, the dogs and the seasons. And slowly there is a process. " I want to remember that kind of alchemy is available and possible." My husband and I celebrated our first date anniversary yesterday. It is so important to us. And with these last few months of ED's for me and my mom, we planned an outing. Eating out is not something I do well. We decided to try a place and called ahead and went and it was lovely. And my husband loves bowling( all this was at 10 am) and so we tried 3 places and all were not available for many reasons. We had a great time driving around and talking. And came home to a nap. Grateful for all of you.
Gina
Went bowling this week when my grandsons were visiting. Try early afternoon next time when the leagues aren’t there. We were the only lane being used
And though I used to like bowling ( I’m no athlete) my right (writing hand) can’t use up its strength on throwing a 20 pound ball. But guys had a great time!
Ps. I meant a six pound ball…LoL
When we’re knocked about by the bluster, the squall of illness or fragility, sometimes the outdoors is like stepping into heaven and out of ourselves. I remember this so much from recovery.
The gifts around us and the giddiness of wind, sunshine, tulips, trees.
And the silliness of swings!
These gifts are uncovered if we can actually move our bodies away from the bricks of life.
Hallelujah! Love this ritual! I want to move out of London and find these trails that lead to freedom!
🌿🌾🍀
Suleika and doggies… Keep on walking!! Much love from Deb down a dirt road in the woods of southern Oregon where I do a lot of walking so healing and wonderful!👍🏽💜
Thank you, Suleika, for bringing such joy as my Sunday eve becomes Monday, Rebecca for making me crave maple syrup anything, & greetings to dear Carmen, gentle pats to Summer & River, & of course, nods of reverence to Her Royalness, Lentil.
Fig season! The words alone feel like a small celebration. A brief, golden stretch of time as summer exhales, autumn at the edges, when the air is thick with warmth, their plump forms hidden among heavy, hand-shaped leaves. I’d climb my uncle’s little step ladder, wobbling on the top rung, stretching my fingers toward the fruit. There’s a patience in this—figs refuse to be rushed. They must be gently cupped, twisted just so, until they surrender into the palm.
All summer, I would check. Press my fingers, gently, against their green skins, waiting for them to darken, soften, give. My uncle knew better, of course. I was a small, squawking little being—wanting, wanting, wanting. They’ll be ready when they’re ready, he’d say, & I’d groan, knowing I had no choice but to wait. But when they were ready—oh. The way they came away from the branch with the slightest tug. The way the skin split just enough to show that dark, ruby flesh inside. Warm from the sun, honeyed, perfect.
More often than not, I ate them as they were, one by one. Their time was short, the kind of short that makes you pay attention. A few weeks, maybe. Then the fruit would be gone, the tree returning to itself, waiting out the colder months in stillness. But even after the last fig had been eaten, its taste lingered—on my hands, on my tongue, in the way my body knew to check for them every time I passed the tree.
When the figs weren’t ready, there was always pastizzi. I’d return to the kitchen, where the air carried the scent of comfort, where he worked without recipes, only knowing. A plate stacked high, pastry so delicate it shattered at the first bite. Ricotta, soft & salty, pressing against the roof of my mouth. I’d eat them too fast, always, buttery flakes catching at the corners of my lips. He’d shake his head, tell me to slow down, knowing I never would.
When the last figs ripened, he’d fold them into ANZAC biscuits—oaty, golden, crisp at the edges, chewy in the centre. Not traditional, but better. The oats softened, the figs melted, the seeds catching between my teeth. He never needed many words. The way he respected ingredients, the small lessons, the secrets he shared—those, I still carry.
Fig Season. Even now, when I find myself looking at fig trees, pressing my fingers against their skins, I’m reminded: what’s ready will come. But only when it’s ready.
Oh my Kim.... I'm salivating now thinking of your beautiful figs... bursting with deliciousness! And love the "they'll be be ready when they're ready" part too! Thanks for writing this morning!
Beautiful memories Kim 🩷
Ah, the fig! My father's favorite - He was Italian, grew up in southern Italy and figs played a big part in his youth. Food always remained a connection to his childhood. Thanks for the memories.
"...what's ready will come. But only when it's ready." Such wise words for all of us who feel strangled by circumstances, wanting only to find a way out. I'll be keeping your words in mind as I continue to battle the forces that are trying to keep me down. Thanks, Kim, for the beautiful essay. And by the way I love figs!
So happy that you've been able to summon strength and wellness for the sunset walks with your furry companions. Jon too. The walking is good for you and the beautiful skies radiate into your soul and affirm your beauty and purpose for being here. We all pray for your healing and return to normality. Thank you Suleika.♥️💙💜
Thank you, Suleika. I'm holding you in my thoughts and prayers this week.
I always appreciate how you gently approach uncertainty or the unknown beyond where we've been before/already. It's so easy to default into fear of what may be. Being open to the potential of delight, just beyond...is what I'll journal from today's sunset ritual.
P.S we love maple syrup on pancakes, although we may pour it more sparingly knowing how many gallons it takes to make it now! Thanks for this great reminder ahead of Shrove Tuesday!
Big gentle hugs to everyone.xo
That moment where you realize all the leaves are gone, so how will you find a maple tree?
I loved the essay on sugaring season - thank you. At the very least, I will be seeking out authentic maple syrup for my pantry! When the leaves come back this spring, I shall be-friend my local maple trees.
I so loved today’s update from Suleika and Rebecca’s essay and prompt. It’s been so frigid I’ve stopped walking outdoors despite my promise to myself to be in nature when I can. But yesterday it went up to 40 degrees so I bundled up, put in my AirPods and walked for an hour in my neighborhood while listening to an audiobook on the Libby library app.
Then I got my dog, who still loves walks but because of his age and bad arthritis can only manage a slow few blocks. I’d missed the pleasure of watching him enjoy all the smells. I’d missed the sun on my face and the feeling when my body finally warms enough to unzip my jacket just a little. And the joy of escaping into a novel while walking. The days are staying light longer and the seasonality of those first days of spring is almost here.
Starting week 4 of influenza; yes I had the vaccine so per CNN's Dr. Sanjay Gupta my case was 50% strength, for which I am grateful as I have about four autoimmune diseases.
These four weeks have been, for Virginia, unusually cold and snowy, doubling my restlessness and yearning for Spring.
Today, mid-50's and then a full week predicted in the 60's. My heart stirs in anticipation of planting a zillion COSTCO hosta in a new shade bed ahead of the landscapers coming to mulch March 3. I've got four galvanized raised beds to build as I transition to a new way of vegetable gardening to ease my arthritis.
This winter has been full-on 360 degrees of difficult, but Spring teasing us this week opens our hearts to possibilities. Susu, after chemo this week you have the possibility of sunset walks and maybe pancakes or waffles with maple syrup for dinner in the following weeks. Hurry up Spring!
Thank you Suleika and Rebecca for this mornings prompt. I love swings. What a feeling of flying. We are never too old to play. Sending you lots of love, Suleika. Always sending you love.
Prompt. Seasonal ritual.
I can’t wait for the warmer weather. Even though I’m a New England girl, I do not love winter. I won’t allow myself to complain when the heat is sweltering. I save my kvetching for winter.
I started re-wilding parts of my property. The power lines cut through part of my land so there isn’t a lot I can do. So I’m leaving parts to the pollinators . I plant some butterfly and bee friendly plants. I never saw myself as a gardener but I have been cultivating areas of my back yard. The meadow belongs to the bees. What a magical place this meadow is becoming. Every year I see more creatures appear. All sorts of bees,and wasps. I hadn’t seen a lot if butterflies for a few years. Now each spring in summer brings more butterflies and moths. This summer preying mantises appeared. I saw a type of frog I never noticed before. It’s a growing ecosystem and it’s magic.
Beautiful reflection on risk, holiness, spontaneity, ritual. They go together. The photo of you walking with friends at burnt sunset with your black scarf blowing in the wind is epiphany. Limping wounded into the promised land, this day—not looking back. It reminds me of Dylan’s words in his Nobel speech, “Sing in me, oh Muse, and through me tell the story.”
Oh, yes. We are living the story, with each other. Thanks.
Thank you Rebecca and Suleika for reminding us of magic all around us in the natural world and the power in ritual. After this I’m going to journal about our annual seed planting ritual which is just upon us. It offers a lifeline in the dregs of winter into spring! Suleika-sending love, vibes, prayers for the next round💕⚡️🙏🏽
Thanks for this moment with you. Blessings with the chemo.
I love Suleika share with the pups in the field and yours as well--I am not great about wintering this one in particular... However seeing the light coming through the window is nice. Thank you for smiles.
So loving this Suleika. Feeling warmed.x