Monthly Archives: October 2026

by | October 26, 2026 · 11:03 am

Ancient Trees: Cathedrals of Nature and Keepers of Time

Ancient trees possess a majestic, timeless beauty. Their weathered trunks seem to hold the stories of generations long gone. They have stood through changing seasons, witnessed the rise and fall of human fortunes, and endured storms, wars, and the passing of centuries. Long after the people who planted them have disappeared, these silent giants remain, rooted in the earth and reaching towards the sky.

During a recent walk through the grounds of Kingston Lacy in Dorset, I found myself pondering these cathedrals of nature. Standing beneath their expansive canopies, I wondered what they might tell us if they could speak. What changes had they witnessed? What conversations, celebrations, and sorrows had unfolded in their shadow? How many generations had passed by, scarcely aware that these trees would outlive them all?

Perhaps their greatest wisdom lies in their silence.

The landscape at Kingston Lacy, in Dorset, United Kingdom, tells a story of changing ideas about wealth, beauty, and our relationship with the natural world. The estate’s avenues and parkland reflect the ambitions and tastes of successive generations of the Bankes family. In the nineteenth century, William John Bankes, an adventurer and landowner, helped transform the estate’s gardens and landscape. Among its notable features is Cedar Avenue, with trees grown from seeds brought back from Lebanon. These magnificent trees, now part of the estate’s historic character, are reminders of a time when exploration, wealth, and the desire to create something enduring found expression in the landscape itself.

As I stood beside these trees, I felt a profound sense of humility. Each began as a tiny seed, carrying the potential for a life far greater than its beginnings might suggest. With time, sunlight, water, and nourishment from the earth, it had grown into something magnificent. Its roots had reached deep into the soil while its branches stretched towards the heavens.

A tree does not grow in haste. It does not measure its progress against the achievements of others, nor does it seem troubled by the passing of time. It grows according to its own nature, season by season, year after year. Its strength lies not in resisting every change but in adapting to it. Branches break, leaves fall, and the trunk bears the scars of earlier storms. Yet life continues, finding new ways to grow around the wounds.

There is something deeply humbling about standing beside a tree that has lived through centuries of human history. It reminds us that our own lives, with all their ambitions, disappointments, and certainties, occupy only a brief moment in the larger unfolding of time. We tend to measure our lives in years and decades. Ancient trees invite us to think in centuries.

They also invite us to reconsider what it means to leave a legacy.

When I look at the great cathedrals and churches of medieval Europe, I wonder whether the architects and master builders drew inspiration from the trees that surrounded them. The soaring columns, branching arches, and vaulted ceilings of Gothic architecture evoke a forest, with stone pillars rising like trunks and ribs spreading overhead like branches. Sunlight filters through stained glass in much the same way that light finds its way through a canopy of leaves.

Perhaps the builders understood something we have largely forgotten: that the spaces we create can shape how we experience our place in the world. A cathedral was not simply a building. It was an expression of devotion, a gathering place for a community, and a monument intended to endure beyond the lives of those who constructed it. Generations of craftsmen contributed to structures they might never live to see completed, trusting that others would carry their work forward.

Today, we seem to have lost the long view.

Much of our modern world is shaped by speed, convenience, and the demand for immediate results. Buildings are often designed around short economic cycles, while public decisions are judged by their immediate political or financial returns. Politicians can be tempted to focus on the next election rather than the consequences of their choices for people who have not yet been born.

Of course, we cannot romanticize the past. Earlier generations also pursued power, exploited nature, and made decisions with devastating consequences. Nor is every modern building temporary or every political decision short-sighted. Yet there is a difference between creating something for immediate consumption and accepting responsibility for a world that will outlive us.

Ancient trees offer a challenge to this culture of immediacy. They embody a different understanding of time: one in which growth requires patience, resilience comes through adaptation, and what we do today may matter to people we will never meet.

Perhaps this is also a spiritual lesson.

For me, trees represent a meeting place between heaven and earth. Their roots reach into the darkness of the soil, drawing nourishment from a world hidden from our eyes. Their trunks rise through the space between earth and sky, while their branches reach towards the light. They hold these two worlds together without needing to explain the relationship between them.

There is something profoundly reassuring about this simple image. We, too, need roots and reach. We need a sense of belonging, a connection to the ground beneath our feet, and something beyond ourselves towards which we can grow. When either is missing, we may feel unmoored: caught up in our thoughts, disconnected from our bodies, or estranged from the natural world of which we are a part.

In a time when so many people experience spiritual disconnection, perhaps we do not always need another theory, another belief system or another explanation of life’s mysteries. Sometimes we need to step outside, slow down and pay attention to what has been here all along.

The next time you feel disconnected, try spending a few quiet minutes with a tree.

Find one that draws your attention. Stand beside it, or sit with your back resting gently against its trunk if that feels comfortable. Notice the texture of the bark against your skin. Feel the ground beneath your feet. Allow your breathing to settle into a natural rhythm.

As you inhale, imagine yourself opening to the sky above you, to the space and light beyond your immediate concerns. As you exhale, bring your attention downwards, towards the earth beneath you, towards the roots that anchor the tree and the ground that supports your own body.

There is no need to force an experience or expect anything extraordinary to happen. Simply remain present. Notice the movement of leaves, the sound of birds, the shifting light and the quiet rhythm of your breath. Let your attention move away from the endless stream of thoughts and return to the living world around you.

The tree will not ask you to believe anything. It will not judge your past or demand that you become someone else. It simply stands, rooted in the earth, reaching towards the light.

Although trees have no magical power to heal every wound, time spent among them can offer a genuine sense of calm, perspective and connection. Sometimes the change is subtle: a little less tension in the body, a little more space in the mind, a renewed awareness that we belong to something larger than ourselves.

Perhaps this is what I was searching for as I walked through Kingston Lacy. Not an answer to a question, but a reminder of something easy to forget: that life unfolds on a scale far greater than our individual concerns, and that we are not separate from the natural world but part of it.

Long after we have gone, the trees will continue their work. They will gather sunlight, draw water from the earth, shelter birds and insects, and offer their branches to the changing seasons. They will bear the marks of time without needing to understand time itself.

We do not have to live for centuries to learn from those who do. We only need to pause long enough to listen.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in reading one of my four books, available where all good books are sold.

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by | October 19, 2026 · 2:03 pm

Walking the Thin Places

I have often been asked why I feel the need to go on a pilgrimage nearly every year. Why leave the comforts of home, carry everything I need in a small backpack, and spend weeks walking day after day along dusty paths, through forests, across mountains, and into unfamiliar landscapes? What is it that draws me back, time and again, to this seemingly simple act of putting one foot in front of the other?

The answer is not always easy to explain, because the most important things that happen on a deep walk are experiential and difficult to put into words. They are not necessarily found in the places visited or in the distance covered but in the gradual transformation of the relationship to the self on the one hand and the external world on the other.

During the first few days of a pilgrimage, my mind is often still occupied by the noise of the outside world. Thoughts about unfinished tasks, personal concerns, news headlines, and the countless demands of everyday life follow me onto the trail. Even though I may be walking through a beautiful landscape, I barely notice it. My attention remains fixed on the path immediately ahead, on the kilometers still to be covered, the next village, or the place where I will spend the night. My body is walking, but my mind would be elsewhere.

Then, almost imperceptibly, something begins to change.

After several days of walking, the constant chatter of the mind starts to subside. Nature starts moving closer. The landscape that had seemed little more than a backdrop gradually comes alive. I begin to hear the clicking of grasshoppers in the grass and the gentle buzzing of bees among the wildflowers. I no longer merely hear the birds; I begin to see them, to recognize their movements, and sometimes to identify their songs. A robin appears on a low branch, a skylark rises and hovers in the open sky, and a blackbird searches for food ahead of me.

I start noticing the different formations of clouds drifting across the blue sky, the changing contours of the mountains, and the distinct character of the peaks ahead. The air carries the scent of damp earth, wild herbs, and freshly mown grass. I become aware of the warmth of the sun on my skin, the coolness of a forest path, and the rhythm of my own footsteps. My breathing gradually settles into a natural cadence, and I begin to feel my body again. It is not something to be managed or pushed through the day but becomes an integral part of the world in which I am moving.

Nothing extraordinary has happened to the landscape. It is my perception that has changed.

The world has not suddenly become more beautiful. I have simply become more available to its beauty.

Perhaps this transformation is comparable to the experience of reading a good book. When we read, our imagination creates an inner world of images, voices, landscapes, and emotions. Each reader brings something unique to the experience, drawing upon memories, feelings, and associations that no filmmaker could entirely reproduce. This is why we are sometimes disappointed when a favorite book is adapted for the screen. The images presented to us may be compelling, even beautiful, but they cannot fully replace the private world that our own imagination has created and experienced.

A deep walk offers something similar. It allows an inner world to emerge, not through the images we consume, but through the attention we give to what is already there. The more fully we attend to the world, the more it reveals itself. We begin to see what was always present but remained unnoticed because the mind was elsewhere.

Perhaps this is one of the great paradoxes of modern life: we have access to more information, images, and experiences than any generation before us, yet we often struggle to be fully present to the miracle of life unfolding directly in front of us. We are physically here but mentally somewhere else, anticipating the future, revisiting the past, comparing ourselves with others, or reacting to a continuous stream of events over which we have little control.

A pilgrimage interrupts this pattern. For a few weeks, the familiar structures of everyday life fall away. There are fewer decisions to make, fewer possessions to maintain, and fewer distractions demanding our attention. Life becomes simpler. You walk, eat, rest and sleep. You encounter other people, sometimes sharing a conversation, sometimes exchanging no more than a greeting. You learn to accept the weather, the terrain, and the limits of the body. You cannot always control what the day brings, but you can learn to meet it as it comes.

This simplicity creates the space where you can begin to hear what has been drowned out by the noise of ordinary life.

I have come to understand that living fully is, in many ways, an act of deep presence. It is not enough to pass through the days, completing tasks and accumulating experiences. You must also be available to them. You must allow yourself to feel the warmth of the sun, to listen without immediately responding, to look without needing to name or judge everything you see, and to recognize the quiet movements of your inner life.

For me, this quality of presence is difficult to sustain in everyday surroundings. I can practice it at home, on a familiar walk, or during a moment of silence, but the habits of daily life have a way of reclaiming my attention. The mind returns to its familiar concerns, and the world becomes a collection of things to accomplish rather than a reality to encounter.

That is why I return to the pilgrimage trail. Walking for several weeks gives me the time and space to move beyond the surface of my habitual thoughts. It feels like a kind of detoxification of the mind. It is not an escape from the world but a gradual release from the compulsive need to react to it. As the mental noise recedes, something begins to realign. My priorities become clearer. What matters and what does not matter quite so much become easier to distinguish. I find myself less concerned with controlling life and more willing to participate in it.

And sometimes, in those moments of stillness that emerge through movement, I sense something for which I have never found an entirely satisfactory name.

It is as though a narrow crack begins to open onto a deeper dimension of existence, a window into what I might call the soul. I do not mean this in any necessarily religious sense. I mean the possibility of experiencing life beyond the familiar boundaries of the thinking mind and the separate self, the part that is so occupied with defining, evaluating, and defending itself that it can lose sight of its connection with everything else.

The more you train your attention to rest in the present moment, the wider this opening seems to become. You begin to experience yourself not merely as an individual moving through a landscape, but as a participant in a complex living whole. The wind, the earth, the trees, the birds and your breathing are no longer entirely separate but different expressions of the same unfolding reality.

When I walk long enough, and with sufficient openness, I sometimes begin to feel this truth rather than merely think about it.

That, ultimately, is why I keep walking. Not to arrive somewhere, but to become more fully present to the life that has always been there and is carrying me along.

This does not mean that the boundaries between ourselves and the world disappear. Rather, those boundaries become less absolute. For a moment, we no longer feel like isolated observers standing outside nature and looking in. We recognise that we belong to it. We have always belonged to it.

Perhaps this is what draws me back to the Camino year after year. It is not simply the physical challenge, the beauty of the landscapes, or the encounters with fellow pilgrims, although all of these have their place. It is the opportunity to rediscover a way of being that is easily lost amid the demands and distractions of modern life. Walking reminds me that I do not need to travel somewhere extraordinary to encounter something sacred. I need to become sufficiently present to recognize what is already here.

My greatest realization has been that spending time in nature can open our senses to a presence far greater than our individual concerns. Whether we call it the sacred, the mystery of existence, the natural order of things, or simply life itself is perhaps less important than the experience. We are not separate from this greater whole. We are one part of it, inseparably woven into its fabric.

And when I walk long enough, quietly enough, and with sufficient openness, I sometimes begin to feel this truth rather than merely think about it.

That, ultimately, is why I keep walking. Not to arrive somewhere, but to become more fully present to the life that is already carrying me along.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in reading one of my four books, available where all good books are sold.

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by | October 12, 2026 · 11:00 am

The Crusade Against Empathy: Why Compassion Is a Human Strength, Not a Weakness

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
— Maya Angelou

There is something deeply troubling about the growing tendency to portray empathy as a weakness. In parts of today’s political and cultural debate, compassion is dismissed as sentimentality, and caring for the vulnerable is framed as a liability rather than a strength. This growing contempt for empathy strikes at the heart of the very values on which free and humane societies are built: human dignity, mutual respect, solidarity, and the recognition that our strength as a society lies not only in individual achievement, but also in how we care for one another.

This is particularly evident in the rhetoric of Elon Musk and other wealthy and influential figures who argue that excessive empathy threatens Western civilization. The same argument has gained traction in popular intellectual discourse. Canadian marketing professor Gad Saad, in his book Suicidal Empathy, portrays what he considers misguided empathy as a threat to Western societies, while psychologist Paul Bloom’s Against Empathy challenges the assumption that empathy is always a reliable guide to moral judgment. Both works have found a growing audience among readers questioning the role of emotion in public life, although their arguments and conclusions differ. Saad, in particular, criticises what he sees as the elevation of empathy above reason.

There is a legitimate debate to be had about the limits of empathy. Emotions can cloud judgment. Compassion can be manipulated. The desire to please everyone can prevent us from making difficult decisions.

But none of this establishes that empathy itself is a weakness. It establishes that, like any human capacity, empathy needs to be balanced with reason, discernment, and boundaries.

The real question is not whether we should abandon empathy, but what kind of society we create when we begin to treat it with contempt.

Empathy is an evolutionary advantage

The popular image of evolution as a ruthless struggle in which only the strongest survive owes much to an oversimplified understanding of Darwinian theory. Survival has never depended on physical strength or individual competition alone. Cooperation, social bonds, mutual support and the ability to respond to the needs of others have been key aspects of our evolution as a species.

Anthropologist Sarah Blaffer Hrdy, in Mothers and Others (2009), explores how cooperative child-rearing and shared caregiving helped shape human sociality. Human children are exceptionally dependent, and our ancestors’ capacity to cooperate in raising and protecting them was a significant evolutionary advantage.

Our species did not flourish simply because some individuals defeated others. We also survived because people cared for children, supported injured members of their communities, shared knowledge and worked together in the face of danger.

Empathy is not the only explanation for these behaviours, and cooperation should not be confused with unconditional self-sacrifice. But the evidence challenges the simplistic notion that ruthlessness is the natural foundation of human success.

Our ability to care for one another is part of what has made us human.

The difference between empathy and weakness

One of the problems with the current backlash against empathy is that it often conflates several different things: emotional identification, compassion, people-pleasing, moral judgment and the willingness to tolerate harmful behaviour.

They are not the same.

Empathy allows us to understand something of another person’s experience. Compassion motivates us to respond to suffering. Neither requires us to agree with everyone, excuse wrongdoing or abandon our own interests.

We can empathize with someone without endorsing their actions. We can understand the circumstances that lead a person to behave destructively without excusing the harm they cause. And we can establish firm boundaries while treating another human being with dignity.

This is not weakness. It is emotional maturity.

The strongest form of empathy is not indiscriminate agreement. It is the ability to remain open to another person’s humanity while retaining the capacity to think critically.

Why empathetic leadership works

Research on leadership and organisational behaviour has repeatedly associated empathy with better interpersonal relationships, stronger trust and more effective collaboration.

The Center for Creative Leadership has reported associations between empathetic leadership and job performance. Research into ethical leadership likewise suggests that the ability to understand other people’s perspectives can help leaders recognise the human consequences of their decisions.

Empathy does not guarantee good judgment, and it cannot replace competence. But leaders who understand how their decisions affect others are better placed to build trust, address conflict and create environments in which people feel able to contribute.

The Businessolver State of Workplace Empathy reports have also documented a persistent gap between the importance employees attach to empathy and how much empathy they believe their workplaces demonstrate.

These findings challenge the assumption that compassion is incompatible with effectiveness. In many settings, understanding people is not an alternative to achieving results. It is part of how sustainable results are achieved.

What kind of society do we want?

The implications extend far beyond the workplace.

A society organised around the idea that the strongest, wealthiest and most powerful deserve the greatest respect risks confusing success with moral worth. It can begin to treat poverty as personal failure, vulnerability as inadequacy and social support as an undeserved concession.

This is the danger of Social Darwinism: not evolutionary biology itself, but the attempt to turn a selective interpretation of nature into a justification for social inequality and indifference.

A humane society does not have to deny personal responsibility, reward effort or discourage ambition. It can value all these things while recognising that people do not begin life with equal opportunities, equal resources or equal capacities. Illness, disability, bereavement and economic hardship can affect anyone.

How we respond to these realities reveals something fundamental about our collective values.

Many of the moral traditions that have shaped Western civilisation, including Christianity, place care for the sick, the poor, the stranger and the vulnerable near the centre of ethical life. The Good Samaritan is remembered not because he demonstrated superior power, but because he stopped to help someone whom others had passed by.

That principle is not exclusively Christian, of course. It appears in different forms across religious, philosophical and humanist traditions.

The point is that a society’s moral strength is measured not only by what its most successful members achieve, but also by how it treats those who are struggling.

Empathy, trust and human flourishing

Consider Finland and the other Nordic countries, which have consistently ranked highly in international assessments of life satisfaction. Their experience suggests that social trust, reliable public institutions, economic security and a strong sense of collective responsibility can contribute to human well-being.

Empathy alone does not explain these outcomes. Nor should the Nordic model be romanticised or treated as a perfect society. But these examples challenge the notion that a healthy society must be built primarily on ruthless competition and individual self-interest.

When people believe that others can be trusted, that institutions will generally treat them fairly and that hardship will not necessarily leave them abandoned, social cooperation becomes easier. Trust encourages participation; participation can strengthen community; and a sense of belonging can help protect people against isolation.

At the level of everyday life, the same principle applies. Feeling understood can ease loneliness, strengthen relationships and make difficult experiences more bearable. Empathy cannot solve every problem, but it can change how people experience the problems they face.

The real strength is to care without losing yourself

There is a danger in turning empathy into an unquestionable virtue. We can become overwhelmed by the suffering of others. We can favour people who resemble us, overlook the needs of strangers or allow emotion to override evidence. Empathy needs the guidance of reason, fairness and ethical principles.

But the answer to these limitations is not to wage a crusade against empathy. It is to develop a more mature understanding of it.

We need the courage to confront wrongdoing, the clarity to distinguish facts from feelings, the discipline to set boundaries and the compassion to recognise suffering even when it is inconvenient.

These qualities are not mutually exclusive.

In a world increasingly shaped by political polarisation, economic insecurity and the temptation to regard opponents as less than fully human, empathy may be more important than ever. It allows us to disagree without dehumanising, to hold people accountable without denying their dignity, and to recognise that another person’s suffering matters even when it does not directly affect us.

The question raised by the current backlash against empathy is ultimately a question about the kind of civilisation we wish to build.

Do we want a world in which power determines whose suffering matters? Or one in which strength includes the willingness to protect those who have less of it?

Empathy is not the abandonment of reason. It is the recognition that reason without humanity can become an instrument of indifference.

A society that celebrates power while ridiculing compassion may become more competitive, but it will not necessarily become wiser, healthier or happier.

The measure of your humanity is not how successful you distance yourself from weakness. It is whether you can recognize vulnerability in others and in yourself.

Because in the end, the question is not whether we can afford empathy. It is what we stand to lose when we no longer value it.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in reading one of my four books, available where all good books are sold.

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by | October 6, 2026 · 3:44 am

What We Become: Five Lessons from Ancient Wisdom

Living a good life is harder than it sounds in a world that is loud and fixated on outer rewards. Religions, philosophers, poets and writers have searched for answers for centuries, and the wisdom that lasts tends to be surprisingly simple.

Lately I have been returning to Pirkei Avot, an ancient Jewish text usually translated as Ethics of the Fathers. It belongs to the Mishnah, a collection of rabbinic teachings compiled almost two thousand years ago.

What draws me to it is less its religious context than its view of what it means to grow into a human being and live one’s full potential. It sidesteps doctrine about what to believe and asks instead:

What kind of person are you becoming?

Much of this wisdom can be reduced to five movements:

  • Never stop learning.
  • Keep examining yourself.
  • Master your impulses.
  • Serve others.
  • Take action.

Taken together, these five steps describe a way of living.

Learn

One of the most beautiful teachings in Pirkei Avot says:

“Who is wise? One who learns from every person.”

I love that sentence because it comes from humility and from the realization that every relationship and encounter shapes us. Wisdom begins with admitting that we don’t know everything.

We can learn from people younger and older than us, from those who agree with us and those who challenge us. From our successes, and even more from our failures. From nature, from suffering, from relationships that didn’t work out, and especially from the moments when life didn’t go as planned.

But learning is only the first step. It leads to the second movement.

Examine yourself

Knowledge becomes wisdom only when it turns inward. You may be very good at analyzing the world around you, whether political institutions, people’s behaviour, mistakes or beliefs, but ancient wisdom asks us to turn the same attention inward.

Why did I react like that?

What is driving me?

Where am I still acting from fear?

What am I trying to prove?

Where has my ego taken over?

Self-examination is awareness, not self-criticism. There is a difference between saying “I am a bad person because I reacted badly” and asking “What happened inside me that produced that reaction?”

As you begin to see yourself more clearly, you meet the third movement.

Master your impulses

Perhaps the most striking idea in Pirkei Avot is its redefinition of strength. We usually associate strength with power: the person who controls circumstances, controls others, wins arguments, gets what they want.

The rabbis offer a very different definition:

“Who is strong? One who conquers their impulse.”

It is the ability to pause before speaking, to resist hitting back, to notice anger without acting on it, to recognise desire without obeying it. You can say: I feel this, but I don’t have to become this.

Here the ancient teaching about silence becomes relevant. Silence creates a space between impulse and action.

And in that space you discover something precious:

choice.

Serve others

Yet making spirituality entirely about ourselves is dangerous. Self-awareness can turn into another form of self-absorption. You might spend years examining your thoughts, emotions, wounds and spiritual development and still be concerned only with yourself.

Pirkei Avot keeps bringing us back to other people.

How do we treat them? Do we honour them? Do we listen? Do we bring peace or conflict? Do our words heal or wound?

Do we keep whatever wisdom we have for ourselves, or does it become a gift to others?

A teaching attributed to the school of Hillel says:

“Be among the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing peace, loving people and bringing them closer.”

Peace is something we practise, not just admire. Compassion becomes real only when it enters our relationships and shapes how we treat other people.

Act now

Then comes the final movement.

Act.

A famous teaching asks:

“If not now, when?”

It is a simple question, and an unsettling one. So often we say: I can do that later. I will forgive later. I will make that journey sometime soon. I will tell them later how much they mean to me.

Or: I will start living the life I really want when circumstances improve.

But later is not guaranteed. There is only this moment, in which life is actually happening.

Another teaching balances the urge to control outcomes:

“It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you free to neglect it.”

That is liberating. You don’t have to complete everything. You can’t solve all the world’s problems, but you can take the next step and do what is yours to do now.

From belief to becoming

Pirkei Avot emerged from a very particular religious and historical world, yet its deepest questions reach beyond it. They are human questions.

How do I become wiser? How do I keep my ego in check? How do I become more compassionate? How do I take responsibility? How can I live more mindfully?

They bring me back to something I have explored for a long time: the difference between believing something and living it. You can believe in compassion without being compassionate. You can believe in forgiveness while clinging to resentment. You can believe in peace while constantly engaging in conflict. You can believe in love while letting fear govern your relationships. You can accumulate spiritual knowledge without changing at all.

That is one of the greatest challenges of any spiritual path.

Knowledge has to become experience, and practice over time becomes character.

This is how I would sum up the essence of Pirkei Avot:

Wisdom is not what you know.
Wisdom is what you become through what you know.

We will never be perfect; we are imperfect human beings. But if we stay open to learning, keep looking within, and carry what we have learned into other people’s lives through concrete action, we come close to what it means in Living to BE

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in reading one of my four books, available where all good books are sold.

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