Dear Friends,
The continuing freeze of this winter in New England has seeped into the walls and attitudes in our house. I find myself getting tense and rigid in response to the cold that does not stop. That will not stop! I know we all have different tolerances of temperatures, so I try to stir up some self-compassion and “just keep going.” I try to accept myself, as I pull out the heating pad and extra blanket when we watch TV. “Everything is going to be OK, here you go sweetie.”
Life in 2026, personally and communally, seems to need extra reassurance – heating pads and blankets are just a start. I find myself making an extra phone call or text. The connections give me comfort and, I’m thinking, offer that to others. At the same time, it feels like I’m hibernating. I’m experimenting with soups, wearing comfortable clothes and allow naps when they come calling. Again, this is, for me, a form of self-compassion – choosing ease, slowing down and adding a dash of creativity!
I cannot write of my life without an awareness of our shared life in America. The extreme demands on our minds and hearts, to make sense of current events, are overwhelming and heart breaking. There is no sense to be made. Yet, I’m still alive and aware. How do I navigate the massive change in my experience as an American? I return to self-compassion. I return to feeling good about putting the dishes away and feeling acceptance when I put it off for a day. I’m doing the best I can. I return to hope, “hope not made of wishes but of substance,” as Jan Richardson describes it. I close, dear friends, with her Blessing of Hope. May we be nourished by her images and words, may hope be a part of who we are on this new day, every day. Peace, Lisa
So may we know
the hope
that is not just
for someday
but for this day—
here, now,
in this moment
that opens to us:
hope not made
of wishes
but of substance,
hope made of sinew
and muscle
and bone,
hope that has breath
and a beating heart,
hope that will not
keep quiet
and be polite,
hope that knows
how to holler
when it is called for,
hope that knows
how to sing
when there seems
little cause,
hope that raises us
from the dead—
not someday
but this day,
every day,
again and
again and
again.
—Jan Richardson
from The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief