Healing

Out of office reply.

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Who we are doesn’t always show up in the way we do things. Something holds us back from bringing our unique gifts to the world. In my case it has been the fear of being judged as too soft, too loopy. We end up being like (read ‘as boring as’) everyone else. May be they are terrorised by other’s judgements too. Best to stick to the narrow and straight.

Yesterday, the e-mail below bounced into my inbox, all purple and pink in Comic Sans MS. It was such a refreshing change from the bland factual one-line out-of-office replies, that I had to share it here. He spoke the same language as me and so unreservedly. Being himself fully.

The mission statement of the Co-production collective he leads is : “Our vision is a world where diverse knowledge and experience are recognised and valued in the co-production of research, services, and policy development.”

Indeed, changing the world, one connection at a time. Not losing a single opportunity to connect. Not even an e-mail from a stranger.

💛 Hello lovely,

Thank you so much for your email.

I’m really grateful you’ve taken the time to get in touch.

If you’ve emailed me, it’s probably because something matters to you. Please know that it matters to me too.

I just wanted to let you know that I may take a little while to reply.

I live with a number of long-term health conditions, so I’ve learnt that I need to be intentional about how I use my time and energy. Some days I’m happily working away with a cuppa by my side. Other days, my laptop stays closed while I take the time I need to rest, recover and simply be.

That hasn’t always been easy.

For a long time, I thought I had to keep pushing, always be available and put everyone else first. I’m slowly learning that rest isn’t something we have to earn. Looking after ourselves isn’t selfish. It’s what helps us keep showing up for the people and things we love.

📧 I aim to reply to emails within three working days, although occasionally it may take a little longer if my health needs to come first.

🚨 If your enquiry is genuinely urgent, or you’ve not heard from me after a few days, please contact my wonderful PA at pa.isaacsociety@gmail.com, who’ll be happy to help or make sure anything important reaches me.

🌿 Before you go, here’s a few gentle reminders, for both of us.

🤍 You don’t have to earn your rest.

🌱 Healing doesn’t always mean doing more. Sometimes healing looks like slowing down.

💚 Your worth has never been measured by how busy you are, how many emails you answer or how much you achieve. You matter simply because you’re you.

⚖️ A kinder world starts with how we treat each other, but it also starts with how gently we treat ourselves.

☕ So, if you can, put the kettle on. Step outside for a few minutes. Listen to the birds. Hug someone you love. Cuddle a pet. Sit in the sunshine. Read a few pages of a good book. Have the nap. The emails will still be here when you get back.

If today feels heavy, I hope you know you don’t have to carry it on your own. Reach out to someone you trust. Speak to a friend, a family member or someone who can be there with you.

If you’re in the UK or Ireland and you’re in emotional distress or crisis, you can contact Samaritans any time, day or night, by calling 116 123 or emailing jo@samaritans.org. You don’t have to be suicidal to get in touch. Sometimes we all need someone to listen.

Thank you for your patience, your understanding and your grace. It means more than you know.

Take gentle care of yourself.

With love,

Isaac Samuels OBE
Social Change Leader
Changing the world, one connection at a time.

💚 “Be gentle with yourself. The same compassion you so freely give to others is something you deserve too.”

I have aged sixty years.

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I have aged sixty years.

And become the notebook lady.

The orange moleskin is the Core notebook that goes everywhere with me. Its orange strings mark the current pages. Our most recent meetings were numbered 112/146 (Wed/Sat). In all, we’ve met 258 times. Can you believe it?

The bright yellow A4 Ryman ruled book is for Morning pages. Recently I found a receipt in German for 2 coffees and croissants from Frankfurt airport from mid-July this year.

The pliable green Matthew Williamson one with peacock feathers printed on it houses my poetry collection. It has no strings, but a dried maple leaf lives in there, being Autumn, absorbing poems.

The hard-bound thick one with zig-zag pastel shapes on it contains my Solution-focussed Brief therapy notes. I bought it from a Tibetan monk at Namdroling Tibetan monastery near us. A postcard with the picture of a smiling Dalai Lama reminds me to smile and stay warm-hearted. His Holiness addressed the youth recently and said that being warm-hearted is as important as education, if not more.

The green and blue one notes the developments on our farm. It begins with tree-planting plans and recently I have started jotting down some ideas for the interiors of our house at the back of the book. A thin plastic ruler marks the page presently relevant.

The old brown one assembles notes on writing in the first half and old song lyrics at the back. This morning I found a white, brown and blue feather tucked into it. It comes from a previous life in which I once went for a walk in Dulwich park with my son. A feather sparkled at us both, lying on the edge of the lake. One of the ducks must’ve dropped it. I must’ve picked it up and brought it home.

That was a good life. He was there.

This is a good life. He is here.

I have aged sixty years.

My notebooks are my joy and my treasure. Even though they make my suitcase very heavy, they go travelling with me.. I am learning to enjoy what I enjoy and share what I learn.

Enjoy what you enjoy and share what you learn.

Thank you, Window.

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The quest for simplicity has led me by the hand to a lesson in appreciation. After struggling for years with the torture of the moment my mind wakens from sleep and recognises my world, I am learning to receive the morning as a blessing. The fridge whirring, the pigeons cooing, the shouted instructions from the coxes, a train rumbling past, the same dog barking on the beach, the sea breathing. The sun barging into our sea-side cabin nice and early and the sky, the sheer abundance of the big blue sky! Mostly smooth and bright but every now and then, ruffled moody grey. Ever-changing.

The simple joy of watching the infinite sky and the vast sea mirror each other and the thin line where they meet. Eyes that can see unaided. The comfortable air meeting the skin. A steaming hot cup of tea with a handle that’s easy to hold. Hands that are strong enough to hold it. Pain-free fingers that curl around it. The warmth of the steam. The welcome sharpness of tannin. A mind that can discern every detail. A smile that comes easy.

Thank you Morning.

The patience of ordinary things

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

By Pat Schneider.

Room With a View in Santiago

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The old city shutters stood open.

Not to admit the world, for the world was already here; only to let it drift through old granite, through warm air, through the afternoon.

Below, children called, trolleys rattled over stone, shopkeepers laughed, voices crossed and uncrossed like birds above a square.

Nothing argued. Nothing needed to win. The street was not divided.

Beside me, a small dog claimed a borrowed mat with complete confidence that love had already prepared it.

I thought of my son.

I thought of all that seems absent, and of all that love refuses to call lost.

The heart did not deny its longing. The afternoon did not deny its peace.

Neither excluded the other.

Then, without announcement, a smile from a waiter, a bowl of water that had not been requested, churros that had not been ordered, a kindness that carried no invoice.

And I understood, if only for this hour,
that there are moments which cannot be bought because they were never for sale;

moments which cannot be earned because they were never wages;

moments which ask nothing except that they be allowed.

Nothing was missing.

Nothing was excluded.

Nothing was demanded.

Nothing had to justify itself.

The 5pm cathedral bells found their place among the voices, and nothing was disturbed.

Time found its place without disturbing the timeless.

The voices still rose from the street below.

The light still rested upon the granite.
The dog still slept.

Love still loved.

And for this afternoon,
everything already was.

  • By a dad at CORe at the end of his pilgrimage, Camino de Santiago.

If not now, when?

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‘This is difficult.’

‘What I need is absolution.’

‘I don’t deserve it. I failed to be a good parent to my son.’

The subject of our meeting last evening was self-compassion, one of the recurring themes in the Circle of Remembrance. It was an opportunity to revisit the ways in which we can be our own best friend. As we have been encouraging the practice of self-compassion in the group for as long as we’ve existed, I assumed it would be an everyday practice for most of our members.

I was surprised to hear the above responses coming forth. The jaws of the beast of guilt must’ve loosened their grip on me.

Three years after Saagar’s death, I heard of ’Self-compassion’ for the very first time. My innate belief was that the only way to progress was to work hard, like the coachman whipping his horses to move forward. Finally, after having lost my marriage, my child and all pride in my professional achievements, I was learning.

Dissecting events from the past and looking at them under a microscope seemed pointless and silly. Still, I was doing it all the time. I had spent most of my life doing the things that I thought I had to do as opposed to the things that I wanted to. And it was never enough. There was always more that could be done. I was always inadequate.

When Saagar was six, I was working full time and studying for exams. When I returned from my Part 1 Fellowship exam, Saagar looked up from his toy helicopter and asked me, “Mamma, did you win?” I was unable to see this was a game, and I needed to enjoy it a little bit. In the middle of all the working and doing, I completely forgot to relax and look after me. I was unable to stop and reevaluate my priorities. This was normal. Everyone around me seemed to be in the same situation.

Through years of therapy, I learnt that I had been the unconscious creator of the jinn that kept me spinning, leaving little time to sit down, relax and have a heart-to-heart. I was invincible and so should everyone else be. Until now, the art of conversation was oblivious to me. I had never witnessed good listening, except in films. I listened to fix as that is what I was trained to do. Sitting around talking was not as credible as being busy, doing important things. That’s what I had seen and here I was, on repeat. But all these hours of sitting with the gift of my therapist’s listening had helped me turn to myself with empathy. Working through various threads of my life had loosened a tight knot. I was able to tease each thread apart and see it for what it was.

I learnt that I was my tyrant and my slave, pushed by the whip of time and pulled by the notion of success. Despite being determined to not become my ancestors, they were more present in me than I was.

Underneath that jumble, sat my grief, patiently waiting. As the thick oil-slick of self-ignorance thinned and washed away, I was able to grieve properly for the suffering and death of my child. A hundred tonnes fell off my shoulders and I bawled with relief – I was perhaps not entirely responsible. I was simply living by what I knew then.

I was worthy of my own kindness.

I deserved to be held gently by me.

In time, I might even forgive myself.

Possibly, even have compassion for me.

For all these years I had been trying my best to serve my patients and family from a punch bowl that had been empty. I couldn’t see this emptiness as I didn’t know what a full one looked like. In my home and work settings, self-sacrificing mothers and doctors were nobility. These ideals had seeped into me while I wasn’t looking. 

But now, thankfully, I could see that my bowl was empty.

I was going to polish it and replenish it gently.

If not now, when?