today i choose not to dwell in fear but to recognise hunger, a longing persistent to be drawn into the presence of Other. to One who i know is there each time i stare at endless sea or vast and starry sky.
and to remember that all that i lack, and all that i need is furnished already, too.
like hagar in the wilderness at her very end, whose eyes were then opened to the well, to the water, the provision vital lavishly placed around, that she simply could not see.
and God, in his loving, gentle essence his heart for all creation, does not berate, yell out or scream, “how could you still not trust?” no, when i come at last, he smiles and opens my eyes to see.
this is the way it often is with holy, tender things. the posture of coming, of longing desperate, when a weary, soulful heart surrendered, is welcomed into peace.
you no longer want to live waiting for the other shoe to drop, humpty dumpty to finally fall, the endless holding of breath.
in fact, you’ve emphatically often said, “never, ever again.”
but you walked on eggshells for far, far too long, and on some days, dear one, you still forget your current life, your situation, no longer requires this.
so, remember to pause and listen, for that very first hint of ‘crack.’ and instead of involuntarily tensing muscles, quickly holding breath,
slow and calm, inhale deep and listen— to what your body speaks, to what your own heart needs, to who you really are,
and wrap yourself in softness and safety as your mind recalls that that was then, but that is past and now begins again.
Cacti have the ability to endure and grow in harsh climes. They open their breathing spores at night instead of day to prevent moisture evaporating in the sun. And if you’ve ever sat in my chair and enthusiastically swung your arm as you spoke, you’ve experienced the sharpness of this cactus’ spines (a few people come to mind!). But these spikes also collect water droplets to support the roots and have helped my pet plant on the weeks I’ve forgotten to water.
As masters of survival they grow slow—but sure. These photos were taken five years apart (thanks FB for the reminder of the older one) and a cactus that seemed mostly the same from day to day, has significantly and impressively grown.
Are you feeling a bit like a cactus right now? Enduring a season of drought? Feeling like your prickles need to be ‘out’ for protection but feeling bad when someone gets too close to your spines?
That doesn’t mean you’re not growing. In the past five years, some of my fast growing or more showy plants have either not made it, or have had to be drastically pruned (once again probably due to their environment of my inconsistent watering!). Yet this survivor has held steady and faithful and I find myself admiring it not only for its uniqueness, but for its otherworldly beauty.
And maybe you’re doing better than you think you are too.
Lessons from a cactus
Five years ago
Now
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i read the other day if you focus on something for even four minutes letting your gaze soften,
your cortisol, the hormone of distress, needed in small doses but havoc producing in excess, lowers in measurable ways.
(isn’t that amazing?)
it’s gratifying to witness proof of the importance of instinctual things and that taking the space to stare is exactly what you need.
so now i advise (with evidence!) remember to pause and stare: at a candle, a fireplace, the gentle wave of trees. the sparkle of the surface or waves upon the sea. the ever-shifting, billowing shapes of clouds fluid or anything such as these.
(but not the scrolling of a screen)
let your busy mind relax, your breath to slow, your muscles to unclench, and allow your body to literally, chemically recover peace.
heather pound 2026
Video by my daughter Hannah
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This stunning poem by Rumi from the 13th century shows that humans back then, just like humans right now, didn’t like emotional pain. But emotions are vital information about how we are relating to the world around. I had a counsellor that often said, “All emotions are welcome here.” If we only allow the ‘good’ emotions we’re missing out on a huge portion of the clues we need to navigate life. They each have a purpose and a function.
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the autumn leaves have come and gone, now you are wintering, too.
there is no shame, no hint of failure in this.
there are times when fruit is quickly produced but that’s a brief portion of the cycle really.
the longer is the preparing of soil, the planting, the sprouting, the watering, the budding.
it always takes time for the harvest to come. lean into your season of rest.
heather pound 2026
There is no shame in the need to rest. Rest is a normal, healthy part of the rhythm of life and nature is proof of this. So, let me say that again in case you need to hear this today, there is no shame in the need to rest.🌿
as you sit on the wheel of the Potter it’s ok to be uncomfortable and learning to trust takes time and practice.
we’re just not good at letting go hands at sides, waiting to be formed.
but perhaps it’s the reforming that is most painful, when you thought that the pattern was clear, began to rely on the outcome, but the Potter wasn’t finished, he was only just beginning.
this part of the process hurts and it’s ok to be befuddled, unsure, angry even, but please be assured the Potter always knows what he is doing
and the hands that formed the highest bits of mountains and the deepest depths of sea, flung stars across the sky, dazzling is able to finish the work that has been started.
and if you lean right in, even though this hurts, and especially let go of what you thought would be,
you will be amazed. for the things that he forms are marvellous.
i don’t know why this has been so hard, but in his expert mercy he does— just you wait and see!
it caught me off guard as i turned onto the highway that used to take me past the rolling hills towards your beach side home
to chats and cuppas and biscuits already baked for afternoon tea and we would play our favorite game.
you’d remember the details of all the things that i’d relayed before, your mind still sharp in spite of age and because you truly cared.
and yesterday, i was unprepared for how much it twisted in my chest. then memories flooded in bittersweet
as the sun peeked through the clouds highlighting crimson and amber leaves and the green, green grass of rolling hills.
—Grief can be a visitor that catches us unexpected and unprepared. But grief is not always about the loss of a person, it might be the loss of something rather than someone. Like safety, connection, a community, a way of life or even our peace. Regardless, all grief matters and needs to be felt. Unfortunately, there is just no other way.
i hope you experience peace when the sun ascends soft, or sets with dazzling hues at the end of pleasant days
and that you pause to notice miracles like these—
but i hope you discover too, when bridges fail and roads are closed, when footing’s unsure and circumstances escalate
to find the place of calm in the center of the storm.
this, my friend, will be concrete proof that you’ve learned a thing or two about accepting the uncertain in the things you can’t predict, let alone control.
because peace when it’s peaceful —is easy
but finding the calm in the middle of the mess is the hard-fought, down in the bones deep in the soul, radical form of trust that remarkably endures.
********** "I lift up my eyes to the mountains— where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth." (Ps. 121:1-2) **********
Lessons from a cactus 
Heather Pound 