As the dog and I walked down the street early this morning, I heard the scraping of a car windshield, heralding this season’s first frost. I'm reminded that it’s the autumnal equinox today, and I brace myself for the coming shorter days with a sense of dread by pulling my sweater tighter around me.
This past winter I spent a long weekend on retreat in stillness and good company. The theme of the retreat was hidden seeds, the way nature can look as if it's sleeping or even dead, when it is in fact gathering strength and getting ready to burst forth when the conditions are favorable.
Increasingly, activists and change agents are using their own personal stories as a way to awaken leadership in others. Stories speak the language of emotion, the language of the heart. They not only teach us how to act, but also inspire us with the courage to act. Our stories help us translate our values into action by accessing our emotions.
Through their design, objects subtly communicate instructions on how they should be used. Certain handles just feel like they should be pushed, and others pulled. Bad design sends us signals that are confusing.
After four years of wonderful work within a large healthcare agency, I feel called to take a smaller, quieter path. I'm not exactly clear where this new path is going and I'm giving it time to unfold. It's a bit awkward when someone asks what I'll be doing next and I have to struggle to find an answer; I'm ok with that.
The snowdrops came up this weekend. Their reappearance every year brings a shock of hope so unexpected and intense it’s almost violent. It only took a few hours of sunlight on a warm brick wall and there they were.
If you listen to or read pop culture reviews, you’ve probably stumbled upon a conversation about tropes, which are basically plot devices, themes or recurring character types. When disability gets represented in life and culture, plenty of tired tropes surface.