With a Grain of Salt

No Judgment

I too am human.
Imperfect.
Inclined to sin.
And I cannot judge you for being the same.

There are ten commandments in the Old Testament. And Jesus gave one new commandment in the New Testament that folds every rule, every law, and every expectation into a single, piercing line of truth:

Love God with all your heart, and love your neighbour as you love yourself.

My questions:
How do we follow that commandment in a world where God is forgotten in the noise, and where so few people genuinely love themselves?
How do we love others when we barely understand our own hearts – our wounds, our shadows, our contradictions?

I think this is where humanity becomes both simple and complicated.

The Empty Boat

From as far back as I can remember, I’ve been an empath. When people said or did hurtful things, my instinct wasn’t to judge – it was to understand. I cried at times. I dwelled on their words. I obsessed over the meaning. But even in the hurt, I “saw” them. I “heard” them. Not their behaviour alone, but the unspoken language underneath it – the language of their past: trauma, fear, old wounds, defence mechanisms, and survival instincts formed long before I ever appeared in their story.

Much of that language was one I didn’t fully understand, but I recognised the tone. And so, in my mind, their boat was always empty.

The “Empty Boat Mindset” teaches this:

When someone bumps into you – with their words, their anger, their carelessness, or their silence – it often has nothing to do with you. Their boat is empty. They are navigating stress, memories, triggers, fears, insecurities, and emotional blind spots you may never know about. They aren’t strategising how to hurt you. They aren’t plotting emotional warfare. They are simply doing what they’ve always done to survive whatever moment they’re in.

When you learn to see the empty boat, you realise not everything is personal. You stop reacting to every slight. You stop assuming intention. And more importantly, you begin assuming humanity. You don’t do this to excuse bad behaviour. You do this to protect your peace.

Respect and Imperfection

Imperfect people strut around expecting respect from other imperfect people. Some say, “You must earn respect.” Others insist, “You don’t earn respect – you are respect. Behave accordingly.”

And while everyone argues about respect, the word “decency” bounces around the room unnoticed.

Here’s my imperfect viewpoint:
The one demanding respect is often just as indecent, flawed, reactive, or unreasonable as the one refusing to give it. Respect becomes a badge people want to wear without doing the work that makes it real. We shout for respect, but live in ways that contradict the very thing we’re insisting on.

So let’s pause and ask a very simple, very uncomfortable question: What does respect even mean to you?

Is it tone?
Is it obedience?
Is it being agreed with?
Is it silence when you’re wrong?
Is it people tiptoeing around your sensitivities?
Is it validation – even when you don’t deserve it?
Or is respect something deeper?
A basic human decency?
A way of speaking?
A way of treating people?
A willingness to pause before harming?
A consciousness of your own flaws before pointing at someone else’s?

Because decency – not ego, not entitlement – is the real foundation of respect. Without decency, “respect” becomes nothing more than a performance. A demand. A one-way street built by someone who thinks their imperfection is holier, tidier, or more justified than yours.

So again...

What does respect truly mean to you?

Always Offended

Why are we so quick to feel offended? Why do the smallest words, glances, pauses, or comments ignite something in us?

Because being offended is almost never about the present moment. It’s about history. It’s about the old bruise the new comment touched. It’s about the trigger we didn’t know was still alive in us.

We get offended easily because
- we carry unhealed wounds, 
- we expect others to fix what we haven’t faced,
- we personalise everything,
- we assume intention,
- we fear being seen for who we really are,
- we crave validation,
- we want to be right,
- we’ve normalised outrage,
and, most of all,
- we forget that other people are just as imperfect and fragile as we are.

To be offended is human. But to stay offended is a choice.

Most offence is nothing more than our ego screaming for protection. Or our insecurity begging for reassurance. Or our past mistaking the present for danger. And when we finally understand this, something shifts:
Instead of reacting, we reflect.
Instead of attacking, we breathe.
Instead of assuming intention, we assume humanity.

Offence loses its grip when we realise people don’t exist to emotionally stabilise us. They are living their own stories – messy, confused, traumatised, distracted – and sometimes their rough edges scrape against ours. Not out of malice. Out of being human.

So the question isn’t, “Why did they offend me?”
The question is, “Why did it land so deeply?”
And that’s where the real work – the healing work – begins.

The Lie

We all lie. Let’s just start there, because the foundation needs to be honest before we go any further. Some lies are big. Some are small. But at the end of the day, a lie doesn’t become holy because it’s tiny. This is the big-sin / small-sin game we love to play, as if softening the edges changes the shape. It doesn’t. A lie is still a lie. Sin is still sin. An excuse is still an excuse – based most often on a lie.

But lying is not a simple “good people don’t do this” and “bad people do.” No. It lives in the grey. It sits in the in-between where human psychology complicates everything. People lie out of fear, embarrassment, shame, habit, survival instinct, conflict avoidance, people-pleasing, ego protection – the list goes on. 

Someone tells part of the truth. Someone avoids a detail. Someone sugar-coats because they think you’ll crumble if they serve it straight. Someone lies because the truth costs too much. And sometimes you lie because confronting reality is harder than rearranging it.

And this brings us to the uncomfortable part – the moment we ask:
When someone lies to me… what role do I play in that interaction?
Not “What about me caused the lie?” but “What about my reactions makes truth feel unsafe?” 

It takes two to tango, not because I force someone to lie, but because I am part of the emotional ecosystem where the lie happens. If I explode at honesty, people will hide from me. If I punish vulnerability, people will choose comfort over truth. If I treat mistakes like mortal crimes, people will protect themselves from me. These are not excuses for dishonesty – they are insights. Reflections. A willing look in the mirror instead of pointing at everyone else’s cracks while pretending mine don’t exist.

And when someone lies to me, I can’t just ask, “Why did they do that?”
I also have to ask, “How do I respond to truth? How do I respond to discomfort? Have I really never bent the truth myself?”

We judge loudly the things we’ve done quietly.

And yes, there is a difference between a human who lies once and a person who habitually lies. One is a stumble. The other is a pattern. And patterns require boundaries, not just forgiveness. Knowing which is which saves a lot of heartache.

But let’s not pretend we’re above the little lies – the socially acceptable ones.

Someone asks, “Am I fat?”
You respond, “No, you’re beautiful, just the way you are!”
But the truth might be:
“Well… you aren’t thin.”
Or even more honestly:
“Yes, you’ve gained weight.”
But we don’t say that. We’re terrified of hurting people. Terrified of consequences. Terrified of being the villain in someone else’s story for speaking plainly. So we sugar-coat – and then convince ourselves that sugar isn’t just another form of deception.

Another example:
“Hi, how are you?”
“I’m fine, and you?”

We say it automatically. A script. A reflex. A polite social handshake. But let’s be honest: no one is “fine.” Not really. Not fully. Not every day. And we don’t say what’s actually going on because… we don’t want to overwhelm someone; we don’t want to seem weak; we don’t trust them with our truth; we worry they’ll judge us; we fear becoming “too much”; we sense they don’t actually want the real answer; or we simply don’t have the emotional energy to unpack our own chaos in the middle of a grocery aisle or WhatsApp chat.

So we lie. A tiny lie. A socially acceptable lie. A lie wrapped in a smile. Not because we’re deceitful, but because vulnerability feels dangerous. We say “fine” because it is the safest answer. The least complicated. The most protective. It’s a shield, not a deception. A way of keeping the world out until we decide who is safe enough to let in.

But it still proves the point:

We all lie – sometimes to others, sometimes to ourselves – not out of malice, but out of fear, exhaustion, caution, or habit.

Even the smallest conversation reveals how complex truth really is.

Take a look at the rants on Facebook. Someone posts about how exhausted they are, how awful their week has been, and how life has drained every last drop of patience from them. And then the story shifts: They describe the “bitch-face” woman standing in the coffee aisle – taking up too much space with her fully loaded trolley and her “humongous body.” And because this woman existed in the wrong place at the wrong time, BAM – slamming a trolley into her becomes justified. Worth it. Almost heroic. How dare she block an aisle! How dare she not read the emotional radar of someone having a terrible week! How dare she simply… be there.

And how do the fans, followers, friends, and family respond?
“Yes! Well done!”
“They deserved it!”
“You showed them!”
Really? Is that the truth? Is that wisdom? Is that kindness? Is that decency?
Or – and this is far more likely – are we just applauding bad behaviour because it’s easier than being honest?

Honesty takes courage. And courage is not something everyone uses daily. It is far simpler to validate someone’s rage than to gently say, “Hey… maybe that wasn’t okay,” or, “Maybe your bad week doesn’t justify harming someone else,” or, “Maybe the aisle-blocker wasn’t your enemy – maybe she was just a tired human too.”

But calling someone out requires bravery.
It requires maturity.
It requires risking their anger – risking the relationship – in order to speak truth instead of feeding ego.

Our Debt has been Paid

And now we reach the heart of the matter – the thread that holds all of this together:

Jesus died for our sins. 

Every one. Big, small, polite, messy, intentional, accidental – all of them.

Living a Christ-like life doesn’t mean perfection. It doesn’t mean parading our righteousness like a trophy. It doesn’t mean stoning ourselves to pulp every time we fall short. It means aiming for the bullseye every single day. Trying. Reaching. Turning our faces toward the character of Christ even when our feet stumble.

And when we miss – and we will miss – we don’t sit in the dust and punish ourselves. We pray. We ask for forgiveness. We breathe. And tomorrow, we try again.

There is no need to weaponize Scripture. No need to force-feed verses while pointing fingers at everyone else’s failures. No need for the “holier than thou” act that fools no one – not even ourselves. The truth is simple and humbling:

I am a sinner. And so is he. And she. And them. And everyone around me.

We will offend. We will lose it. We will say the wrong thing. We will bend the truth. We will hide. We will fail. But we will also rise. We will find our centre again. We will apologise, adjust, grow.

We will get up – or get over it – and we will go on.

Yes! Indeed! I, too, am human.

Fragile. Flawed. Learning.

Trying every day to be better than yesterday, but never pretending I don’t fall short. And some days, I might even be too tired or depressed or anxious to bother being better! There may be many of these days. And so be it! 

Because?

God reads the heart. 

And that’s the truth – the hard truth, the soft truth, the human truth, and the truth that sets us free.

Teach Me

Take all of this with a grain of salt. Leave a comment. Teach me how you see it.

I’ve always believed that life is a school, and I’m a lifelong learner – able and willing to learn from others.

Every perspective, every story, every truth and lie, every stumble and rise teaches me something. And if I can keep learning, growing, and reflecting, then maybe that’s enough.

Refined to Shine

 “The more a diamond is cut, the more it sparkles.” – F.B. Meyer

Diamonds are another amazing example of God’s creative power. Black carbon is plain, ordinary, and mostly overlooked. Then comes the transformation: pressure and heat. Not just a little pressure – fifty thousand times what we feel on the surface. And the heat? More than a thousand degrees Celsius.

It all happens deep within the earth, about 145 kilometres down. That’s where the hidden miracle begins. Unseen. Under strain and fire.

Then the rough stone is pushed to the surface by the eruptive force of a volcano. When discovered, it glimmers faintly – just enough to hint at what’s possible. But even then, it isn’t finished. It needs the lapidary’s hand. Each cut, each tiny slice, releases more light. Fifty-eight facets. Weeks of patient work. And every cut matters.

Why am I writing this? It’s something most of us already know.

Well, today I thought about the pressure I face every day, and it made me think of potential. We are all black carbon – ordinary to the eye. A little proud. A little rough around the edges.

We think the pressure we’re under – the heat of our problems and suffering, the things we didn’t want or ask for, the losses, the waiting, the chiselling moments that test us to the brink of insanity – surely must be too much.

We often say, I’ve had enough.

Yet, it isn’t over until our last breath escapes us.

And even then, since we don’t know what lies beyond life on earth, perhaps the refining continues.

God keeps shaping. Cutting. Refining. Because He knows us. Every edge He smooths, every flaw He removes, every sharp place He reshapes, making us shine brighter.

So yes, we suffer. But it’s not wasted.

The same God who makes diamonds from carbon is shaping character out of struggle – out of a life of imperfection and sin.

Job 5:9 – He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted.

Allow faith and patience to finish their work. Because when the process is done, you won’t just survive it. You’ll sparkle.

Letting Go

I’ve always believed in finding new ways to think – in the power of the mind to reshape and renew itself.
In my own life, I’ve seen how reprogramming my thoughts brings healing. When something troubles me, I word it.
People often say, “Don’t say it aloud. The devil will hear.”
But hello – God hears too.
Keeping silent or being afraid to face what hurts, to me, shows a lack of faith.
I’m not challenging the darkness by naming it. I’m releasing it. Speaking it aloud is my way of setting it free, of letting it go.
Why am I saying this? Because of the birthday month – a time that was always about newness, the beginning of another year of life.
But since 2021, as the freshness of life arrives, I also carry my brother’s death with me.
Even this year, my birthday felt heavy.
There’s still a brokenness and restlessness inside me that weighs me down – not because I don’t want to move on, but because I can’t let him go.
And yet, October cannot remain a month of wounds. It must become a month of wonder again.
The day before my birthday, it hit home hard. I said it aloud. October needs to be the birth month again. Not the month of death.
Something shifted. A new awareness was born.
I became aware that the only reason I was clinging to Johan’s death was because, from the day he was born, I had always kept my hand over him – watching, protecting, trying to soften his path against the world.
That quiet obligation should have ended when he died… and yet, it lives on in me.
It’s as if my hand is still there – stretched out over nothing, and yet, over everything.
Now I understand.
It’s not the loss that keeps me from moving forward – it’s the holding on.
I carry so many memories, and though they sometimes shimmer at the edge of forgetfulness, they still live quietly within me.
I cannot keep carrying the guilt of his death.
I cannot keep playing the ‘What if’ game:
What if I had done this.
What if I had said that.
What if I had listened better.
What if I had gone with him to see Dr. Els.
What if… What if... What if…
Love was never meant to be chained to guilt.
It’s time to remember him with peace, not punishment.
So, I prepare myself to let go.
And, hopefully, by next October, maybe my mind will rest differently.

Ready to fly

The world is at the edge, 
and so am I.

The air is filled with foreboding
as delusion swarms the skies –
thought-flocks shimmer,
then vanish in static.

Every headline reads disaster,
every chat thread runs with dread,
every honest facade
cracks beneath the weight
of finality.

People mirror it –
a dying constellation of minds,
signals collapsing into silence 
as their universes flicker offline.

They laugh when they shouldn’t,
cry when no one is watching,
scroll through the corridors
of their own undoing,
curious about the darkness.

They falter when stepping back, holding fast
to the small certainties that remain –
coffee in the morning,
a friend’s familiar voice,
the sun setting even when the day
breaks apart.

And even in their clinging,
their yearning, their endless chase for meaning,
they lean forward, peer over the edge –
drawn by the mystery
of the fall.

Perhaps that’s the truth of it –
generations have teetered on the brink,
thinking the world will break,
but the verge has always held.

While the world teeters at the edge,
I do not look down, nor wait
for the fall – my heels touch the brink
but my eyes seek the horizon
as I gather wind and turn toward the light.

I am at the edge,
ready to fly.

You are what you survived

I’ve never been someone who enjoys gossip. Many people do, and in the past I’ve sometimes listened and given my opinion. Sad fact: I’m brutally honest. 

Take Example 1: If someone asks me what I think about a colleague, I stick to the facts. If that colleague is outside the classroom smoking while the kids are left idle, I’ll say they weren’t present. What usually gets repeated back is that I called them lazy. Big difference. Do I correct it? No. If they choose to dislike me for it, that’s on them. 

Example 2: I don’t just notice people’s personalities – I’m drawn to their psychology and even their neurology. My mother had an uncanny ability to “read” a room, and I seem to have inherited that. A twitch of the mouth, a glance, a hand gesture, or the way someone responds tells me more than their words ever could. We all have habits. We all repeat patterns. If you ask me to analyse you, I can usually do so with a fair degree of accuracy. 

I say usually because analysis has limits. If someone lies to impress me or hides something, I can spot the change in their pattern – but it produces a false picture. 

Here’s the belief I’ve held for years: we are what we have experienced. Every single person has a backstory, and that story has shaped them into the human being standing in front of us today. All of us – yes, every one of us – carry imprints from childhood, whether we call them trauma, lessons, or survival strategies. 

Neuroscientists have found that the nervous system doesn’t just remember events – it remembers how those events felt. 

This is called implicit memory. Unlike ordinary memory, which lets you recall facts and moments, implicit memory stores body states. If you grew up anxious, your body learned to live on high alert. If you grew up secure, your body learned to rest and trust. These patterns get wired into your autonomic nervous system – the fight, flight, freeze, or rest-and-digest settings that keep us alive. 

The fascinating part? These imprints can last for decades. You might think you’re reacting to the present moment, but often your nervous system is pulling up an old “file” from childhood and replaying it. 

In other words, our bodies are libraries of our lived experiences. Every gesture, every reaction, every gut feeling carries echoes of what we’ve been through. That’s why I try not to judge too quickly. Behind every behaviour is a story. And behind every story is a nervous system that has been doing its best – often since childhood – to keep that person safe.

When you see someone fighting tooth and nail just to stay afloat, it’s worth remembering: that’s not weakness. That’s survival. It’s the nervous system’s deepest instinct to keep going, even when life feels unbearable. 

That’s why I believe no one really wants to die. Most people who seem “self-destructive” aren’t longing for death. They’re longing for relief, for safety, for a way out of pain. Their fight to stay afloat is evidence of the part of them that still wants to live. 

And if we can understand that – if we can see the story behind the struggle – maybe we can meet each other with a little more compassion.

Eternity in Our Hearts

Quite often, since the loss of my brother and mother, I find myself thinking about eternity. Not as something far away or vague. No. Eternity is something deep and real. It’s almost like a seed that was planted inside us long before we took our first breath. 

It’s not strange that we struggle to understand life and death. When God first created people, there was no death, no end at all. We were meant to live forever with Him. “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.” — Ecclesiastes 3:11 (NIV) 

I believe that’s why, even when everything feels heavy or sad, there is still a small part of us that refuses to give up. Something deep inside makes us believe that life is worth living, that there must be more to life than pain and suffering, and more to simply existing. 

Time is relative. It bends and stretches. One hour can feel like forever, and a whole year can pass in the blink of an eye. The psalmist reminds us of life’s brevity: “Our days may come to seventy years, or eighty, if our strength endures; yet the best of them are but trouble and sorrow, for they quickly pass, and we fly away.” — Psalm 90:10 (NIV) 

At first, it may feel heavy, even discouraging, to think our time is so short. But maybe it’s not meant to bring despair. It’s the paradox: we weren’t created for seventy or eighty years alone. We were made for eternity. And that’s why all the things we collect — money, possessions, even success — never fill the emptiness we sometimes feel. They only make us chase after more of the same. 

What we really long for is not “more things.” It’s something sacred. We were not made to be filled by the world, but by the One who made the world. 

Death always feels wrong because it is wrong. It was never part of God’s first plan. But through Jesus, the way back to life has been opened. Not just life here, but life forever with Him. 

Now, our bodies are fragile and often tired, but our hearts keep longing for wellness. The groaning is real — it’s the part of us that longs for hope, for light, for eternity. 

In my case, my body is done with the struggle! Living with peripheral neuropathy is a physical obstacle, but also hard on the mind. Many mornings are so overwhelming. The weight of knowing I must face another day with pain can press heavily. But, I remind myself: pain is not my master. It’s my teacher. It doesn’t govern me; it guides me forward, reshaping how I think and how I face the day. 

Still! The struggle to move is there. So, whenever I feel depleted, I remind myself: eternity is within me. I wasn’t made to live in pain, but to live in hope. To shine even a small light in the darkness. To be kind, to be truthful, to stay humble before God. 

And also, I remind myself that I’m not alone. Many people are suffering the burden of this imperfect life. Even today, with all its struggles, we can still live with a thankful heart, do good where we can, and hold on to the thought of forever. “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.” — 2 Corinthians 4:16–17 

Perhaps the question isn’t how short life is, or how heavy time feels, but where our focus rests. If we fix our eyes only on what is fragile and temporary, the weight of it all will crush us. But if we lift our eyes to the eternal — to the One who placed eternity in our hearts — then even seventy or eighty years become filled with meaning.

This is the real paradigm shift: Where is your focus? Not on what fades, but on what lasts. Not on fear, but on hope. Not on time running out, but on eternity already begun.

Be Still. Make Room.

There are people who move through a day as though through a storm, their eyes lowered, their hearts closed.
They say they are busy.
The hours are too short, the burden of life too heavy, the path forward too steep.

And so they focus on everything and nothing.

Small tasks are dropped by the wayside, like stones unnoticed on the road.
They focus on negativity.  

They say, people are careless, people are lazy, people do not think.
Systems are broken. The world is evil.
The end has come.

Some ignore the negativity and drift like clouds in their own realms of stupor. 
Some sink into the muck and mire of the world.

People are in conflict, mostly with each other.

When the ear is closed, the river of love between people dries to a trickle.
When the heart is distracted, the field of care lies barren.
And a voice unheeded is like a seed cast upon rock. It cannot take root. It cannot grow.

What does this tell us of the state of man?

That he builds his houses high, but neglects the foundation.
That his hands are full of harvest, yet his soul goes hungry.
That he moves with the swiftness of the wind, yet passes by the spring that could quench his thirst.

The world grows louder, but man grows blind and deaf.
The days shorten, like the shadows of evening, yet his attention grows thinner.
And though he sows much, he often sows without depth, and reaps little that endures.

Goodness is not absent.
We need only to turn our eyes upon the small and hidden things, upon that which is often passed by in haste.

Goodness is here, waiting to be seen.

It requires no effort from us to see it.
We do not need to fix anything to find it.
We only need to stand without judgment.
Open our eyes.
Open our ears.

Open our hearts.

Be still.
Make space in our hearts.

When we pay attention, when we look and listen with gentleness and reverence, then what is good will grow, as a seed grows when the earth gives it room.

The seed of goodness waits – not in the world out there, but in the quiet you make within yourself.

Paper Tigers

In a world where unemployment is high and opportunities can feel scarce, it’s easy to feel stuck. So many people wait for something or someone to come and change their life. But what if the shift doesn’t come from the outside? What if it begins with how we see our own potential?

There’s a short but powerful instruction that we can look at: “Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise! It has no commander, no overseer or ruler, yet it stores its provisions in summer and gathers its food at harvest.” (Proverbs 6: 6–8, NIV).

This ancient wisdom paints a picture of the ant – tiny, easily overlooked, yet full of insight. The ant doesn’t wait to be told what to do. It doesn’t depend on a system or a boss or the perfect conditions. It simply works. Quietly. Consistently. Intentionally. It gathers what it can, while it can, knowing that the time for harvest will pass. It’s not driven by fear or panic, but by purpose.

Wisdom is humble and moves steadily forward.

In today’s world, many are forced to become resourceful. Formal employment may be out of reach, but that doesn’t mean we’re without purpose or possibility. If we do what we love, if we build something around our passion, no effort is ever wasted.

Like the ant, our strength lies not in what we have, but in what we choose to do with what we have. A skill. An idea. A small start. It may not look like much, but it can carry us far, especially if we stop waiting for the perfect time and simply begin. 

What stops most of us from beginning isn’t always circumstance. More often, it’s fear. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of getting it wrong. And that’s why Amelia Earhart’s words remain so relevant: “The most difficult thing is the decision to act. The rest is merely tenacity. The fears are paper tigers. You can do anything you decide to do. You can act to change and control your life and the procedure. The process is its own reward.” 

A paper tiger looks fierce, but it’s made of paper. It can’t actually harm us. It only feels threatening.

Most of our fears are just that. They hold shape, but no true substance. And when we see them for what they are, we realize the hardest part was never the work itself. It was making the decision to start.

In 2 Thessalonians 3:10 (NIV), Paul writes: “The one who is unwilling to work shall not eat.” This isn’t said with cruelty, but with clarity. It’s a reminder that action is part of living. If we want change, we must take part in it – not sit back waiting for someone else to write our story. Work, in whatever form we can offer it, is not just about income – it’s about dignity, meaning, and contribution. 

We don’t need a perfect business plan or a groundbreaking invention to start. We just need a spark, a desire to build something, offer something, do something that aligns with who we are and what we care about. We can start small. Offer a service. Make something with our hands. Use our voice, a skill, or experience – even if it feels ordinary.

The ant never questions if it’s doing something great. It just works, and that work sustains it. At the same time, we need to remember that life is not only about producing or surviving. It’s also about enjoying the process. That’s what Amelia Earhart meant when she said, “The process is its own reward.”

There is joy in movement. Fulfillment in effort. Meaning in even the smallest of steps forward. 

Take a moment today and ask yourself:
Am I being held back by real obstacles, or by paper tigers?
Am I waiting for a miracle, or is it time to become the miracle in my own story?

The ant doesn’t wait for certainty. It acts. And so can you.  No matter how limited your resources, no matter how small your beginnings, act with courage, work with purpose, and follow what you care deeply about.

The world needs more people who are alive with purpose, not afraid of paper tigers, and willing to begin with what they have. The time is now. Consider the ant. See through the fear. And begin.

A final thought to consider…

John Steinbeck wrote, “I wonder how many people I’ve looked at all my life and never seen” (from The Winter of Our Discontent). This speaks to the invisibility of ordinary people, everyone who is trying to make a living. Whether someone is selling home-baked goods or offering a humble service, the effort behind that deserves our respect and support. Instead of judgment, let’s choose care and encouragement.

Everyone trying to make an honest living deserves to be seen and valued.

We Don't See Reality - We See Through It

We like to think we see the world as it is. But we don’t.

We don’t see with our eyes. We see through them. Like light filtering through stained glass, our vision is coloured by everything we’ve lived. Our eyes might capture the image, but our minds interpret it. And what we perceive is never neutral. It’s shaped by memory, trauma, belief systems, fears, and hopes.

What we’ve experienced becomes a lens, tinting every moment.

A room isn’t just a room if you once felt unsafe in one.

A smile isn’t just a smile if you’ve learned not to trust them.

Even colours and sounds can carry emotional echoes we no longer consciously register.

We don’t notice everything. We notice what we’ve been conditioned to see. We scan for patterns that support the story we’ve always told ourselves, and we often miss what doesn’t fit.

And here’s another layer: our senses aren’t perfect. Even when fully alert and emotionally grounded, we still don’t experience the full picture.

Biologically, our eyes detect only a sliver of the electromagnetic spectrum. We miss the infrared, the ultraviolet. Our ears register only a limited range of frequencies. So even before personal bias comes in, we’re already working with incomplete data. We build entire truths from fragments. And what makes it worse is that we trust those fragments absolutely. We forget how much we’re missing.

So yes, the past shapes perception. But so do the natural limits of being human. We think we’re seeing clearly, but often, we’re just seeing enough to feel certain. And that’s dangerous.

This is the creative’s ache – one that artists, writers, and speakers know too well. It’s not just about craft. It’s about translation. Taking something filtered internally and trying to make it visible to others. The goal isn’t just accuracy. It’s honesty. To reveal not just what we see, but how we experience it. And that takes more than talent. It takes vulnerability.

In every painting, story, or speech, the creator’s internal weather is present. Mood shapes expression. Meaning every piece is more than creative output. It’s a mirror.

Can we ever see more clearly? Maybe. The path starts with asking better questions: Is this real, or is this my past speaking? Am I seeing this moment, or a memory dressed up as the “here-and-now”? 

Self-awareness helps us interrupt the automatic replay of old wounds. It allows us to meet the moment as it is, not as we once knew it. Healing our vision is the first step toward a better life. One not dictated by shadows.

Yes, it does matter that we don’t see objective reality. Because until we realize that, we’ll keep reacting to ghosts and calling them truth. The narrative of the past will dominate the present. That’s why so many people stay trapped in victimhood instead of showing up as survivors.

Memory doesn’t record facts. It stores emotion. And over time, the line between what happened and how it felt begins to blur. We don’t just remember events. We remember how they made us feel. And those feelings become filters, colouring how we see now.

A kind word can sound like a warning if we’ve been hurt before.

A loving gesture can feel suspicious if trust has been broken.

Suddenly, we’re no longer responding to this moment. We’re reliving that one.

Without awareness, memory manipulates perception. And perception, in turn, becomes a prisoner of the past. 

So maybe the answer isn’t just to paint, write, or speak about what we think we’ve experienced. Maybe the deeper work is this: to explore it again. To find the truth beneath the emotion. To revisit the past, especially with someone who was there.

In the end, we have a choice. We get to decide how we see.

As for me? I am the captain of my creations, the master of my perceptions. Yes, I’ll probably always see the world through eyes slightly clouded by yesterday, but knowing that helps me pause. Even when I can’t name what’s haunting me, awareness gives me a choice. If I can feel it, I can face it. And whether I understand it fully or not, I can acknowledge it, release it, and choose to reframe it.

Subliminally Yours

We tend to think that we’re only aware of what we choose to focus on. The truth is far more unsettling. Our senses are wide open channels, and we’re constantly absorbing the world around us. Every sound, sight, scent, and sensation is being recorded, logged, stored somewhere deep within.

We are bombarded every day with subliminal messages. But before I go further, let me clarify the term. Subliminal comes from the Latin sub (below) and limen (threshold). It refers to anything that happens below the level of conscious awareness. A subliminal message, then, is something your brain absorbs without you realising it. Your subconscious mind picks it up and influences you.

You might not consciously notice it, but a flash of an image, a word buried in a song, or the subtle colours in an advert will affect you. Your brain registers it, and over time, those invisible things shape the way you think, feel, and respond to the world around you.

Your mind is like an ocean. Everything you’ve ever seen, heard, touched, or felt is submerged in those depths. Conversations you forgot, images you glanced at for a second, offhand comments from strangers are all in there.

If you could drop a trawler net into that sea of memory, what would you pull up?

A scent might trigger a childhood memory. A song might reel in a heartbreak you thought you’d buried. A passing phrase could awaken a belief you didn’t even know you held.

Subliminal messages are like tiny fish – small, unnoticed, but numerous – and together, they can shift the tide. Our eyes and ears are the primary gateways. They take in more than we can ever consciously process.

Your eyes register symbols, colours, and motion in milliseconds. Your ears pick up tone, pitch, and emotional undercurrents in someone’s voice. By the time your conscious mind catches up, your subconscious has already logged the data. This is how we end up carrying emotions we can’t trace, or forming beliefs we never questioned.

It’s no wonder, then, that we’re so emotionally bruised—constantly absorbing what we don’t even realise is harming us. To protect our mental clarity in a noisy world, we have to learn to train our eyes and filter what we absorb.

The internet, media, advertising are full of psychological hooks and emotional bait. If we don’t become intentional about what we see, we’ll passively take in everything — the fear, the comparison, the distraction, the noise.

Not everything visible is valuable.

Not everything loud is worth hearing.

We need a filter for the mind. A good filter is shifting our focus.

The Bible gives us a clear lens for filtering our focus. In Philippians 4:8, Paul writes:

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things.”

This verse is more than spiritual advice. It’s a survival strategy in a world of subliminal junk.

It’s a call to consciously choose what we give our attention to – and what we allow into the depths of our mental ocean.

Your mind is always listening.

Your eyes are always watching.

The question is: What are they being fed? And what kind of person are you becoming because of it?

It’s really the little things that turn out to be enormous. Choosing to speak kind words. Sharing a smile. Holding your tongue when tempted to argue. Making an about-face when you find your mind wandering into negativity (because you remembered the goal of Philippians: to focus on everything excellent). Apologising for speaking harshly or rudely instead of accepting your offensive behaviour as a good thing.

Philippians 4:5 reads:

“Let your gentleness be evident to all.” (NIV)

“Let your reasonableness be known to everyone.” (ESV)

“Let everyone see that you are considerate in all you do.” (NLT)

The call to “let your gentleness be evident to all” is more than just about behaviour; it’s about growing into spiritual maturity. It means becoming wise and self-sacrificing, calm and patient, peaceful and contented — traits that don’t come overnight but develop as we intentionally filter what we let into our minds and hearts.

In a world overflowing with noise and distraction, these qualities ground us. They allow us to respond thoughtfully instead of reacting impulsively. They help us choose peace over chaos and focus on what is good and true, even when the world tries to pull us in the opposite direction.

Choose wisely.

Trawl carefully.

Focus intentionally.

My African Home

Some days, I remember Bulawayo. I was fourteen when I left, and now I am sixty. Yet the city lives in me still. Undimmed. Unforgotten.

I remember the crisp morning air and the heavy, stifling embrace of summer’s heat. School days at Baines and Eveline were long, but in the afternoons, our pool’s water was a refuge. Cool, quiet, and soothing. 

The journey to Eveline Girls’ High on the city bus, from Paddonhurst to city centre, passed jacarandas standing sentry, their violet robes like solemn guardians. The city hall teemed with the pulse of life — the bus stop thronged, and the market spilled its wealth of colour — fruits, flowers, and wares wrought by patient hands. From there, my sister and I walked to school to join the late row for assembly.

I remember how fond I was of the area around city hall. There dwelt an air of dignity in the city whenever I visited Haddon & Sly and Meikles. The city with its broad streets was never loud; it didn’t emphasize any clamour. It bore itself as an elder does — worn, wise, and watchful. 

In those days beneath the endless blue, before the world began to unravel, I was whole. Complete.

This I remember.

Yet, I am a child of Africa.

Born in South Africa, yet raised within the beating heart of another land, I know this continent. I know it by the scent of soil and the song of dawn’s first birds. The hadeda, Piet-my-vrou, and thrush, to name but a few.

I knew more about wild animals than farm animals. I recall the monkeys at Maleme Dam, bold and untroubled. The crocodiles gliding like shadows through the waters of Lake Kyle. The blue duiker flitting through the emerald hush of the rainforest at Mosi-oa-Tunya, where the mist rises above cascading waters.

I remember the orphans, lions, eagles, antelope, with every  visit to Chipangali; wildness preserved in trust.

I remember the fish eagle’s cry at dawn on the radio, clear and haunting, as if the land itself spoke. I listened to Afrikaans on the radio with quiet wonder, not fully understanding all that was said, yet knowing with certainty: it was part of me. My heritage. 

Nature is a quiet reminder that there are no borders. Trees flow across them: the flame trees of Matabeleland and Limpopo, their scarlet blossoms ablaze against the sky. The msasa, whose copper leaves turn in the vernal air, the yellow fever, kierrieklapper, mopane, acacia, and baobab.

Both here and there, I have wandered past wild hibiscus and flowering aloes, beneath the arching boughs of flamboyant trees in bloom. I have breathed the sweetness of yesterday-today-and-tomorrow mingled in the heat of the late afternoon. I have seen bougainvillaea climbing walls, and plumbago tangled with memory.

I know the scents of lemon bush, the stubborn brilliance of impala lily, the solemn grace of proteas, the sunburnt cheer of gazanias as they greet the light, and the strelitzia in bloom.

I have walked on mighty stones — not those that pave the city’s streets, but those that raised kingdoms. I have stood among the silent ruins of Great Zimbabwe, where the past rises from the earth in solemn majesty. I have heard of Mapungubwe — the ancient hill where golden rhinos once lay buried. I have stood on Matopos, and I have breathed the mist that crowns the Nyanga mountains, where silence reminds me that the world is cradled in the hands of its Creator. 

I remember the Bulawayo storms gathering in the hush of hot afternoons. Swollen with sudden quiet before the sky was rent asunder. The scent of rain on parched earth rose sharp and electric as the first drops fell. Granite drew lightning like a lodestone, and the heavens answered with fury. These were not gentle rains, but fierce and living things — storms that knew their names. Like horses wild, pulling chariots of sombre cloud, they charged across the vault of heaven, cleaving the light and reminding the land to whom it belongs.

I remember the taste of home. The warmth of sadza held in the hand and eaten with marog. The sweetest oranges ever known, sun-warmed and dust-kissed, their juice running down my wrists in childhood’s careless delight. I found comfort in the salt and spice of biltong, the smoke of a Saturday braai curling into the dusk. Crisp samosas, malva pudding, melktert, and koeksisters — tastes borne across borders, stitched into memory like thread through cloth.

These are not mere memories to me. They are roots.

I left a country, yes.

But I shall never leave Africa.