Category Archives: meditation

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.

Leave a comment

Filed under climate, meditation, spirituality

Tagged as , , , , , ,

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.

Leave a comment

Filed under Camino de Santiago, meditation, Pilgrimage, psychology

Tagged as , , , , , ,

by | August 18, 2026 · 9:23 am

How Language Shapes  Mind, Body and Soul

The other day, I came across a wonderful initiative that gives children something far more valuable than a toy: books and the opportunity to discover the power of words from an early age.

Through Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library, registered children receive a free, age-appropriate book every month from birth until their fifth birthday. It is a simple but powerful idea—helping children develop a love of reading while giving them access to a richer world of language, imagination, and ideas.

It also made me reflect on something we often underestimate: The words we hear, read, speak and repeat influence how we think, how we feel, how we relate to others, and, increasingly, research suggests, how our bodies respond to stress and emotion.

From the first stories we hear as children to the language that surrounds us as adults, the words we live with help shape our lives.

When leaders normalise belittling, insulting, humiliating or threatening language, they give their followers permission to do the same. We can see the consequences particularly clearly on social media, where emotionally charged discussions can deteriorate rapidly into personal attacks, contempt and hostility. A disagreement about an idea becomes an attack on the person.

This matters because language is not psychologically neutral. The words we repeatedly encounter and use influence attention, interpretation, and emotional responses. 

Stress, anger, and hostility can activate physiological systems involved in the body’s stress response, while positive emotions, social connection, and a sense of meaning can support psychological resilience.

Repetition of negative language

Repeated exposure to words and messages associated with anger, fear and hostility can reinforce particular patterns of attention and interpretation. Over time, this may contribute to a more threatening or pessimistic perception of the world.

There is an important distinction, however: words do not automatically cause disease, and the science is more nuanced than the popular claim that simply hearing a negative word raises cortisol or damages the body. What matters is the broader psychological response—particularly when threatening or hostile language becomes persistent, personally meaningful and part of a chronic environment of stress.

A landmark 2015 study published in Psychological Science analysed millions of Twitter messages from 1,347 U.S. counties. Researchers found that county-level use of language expressing anger, anxiety, negative relationships and disengagement was associated with higher rates of atherosclerotic heart-disease mortality, while positive-emotion and engagement language showed protective associations. The researchers reported that their language-based model predicted cardiovascular mortality better than a model combining ten conventional demographic, socioeconomic and health variables.

These findings were striking—but they should not be interpreted as proof that negative words themselves cause heart disease. The study was observational and conducted at the community level, and subsequent methodological criticism has questioned how robust and generalisable the associations are. What the research does support is a fascinating possibility: the emotional language circulating within a community may act as a window into its collective psychological climate.

Other research provides a more direct connection between stress and language. Experimental studies have found that people experiencing greater physiological stress—including higher cortisol and heart-rate responses—tend to produce less cognitively complex speech. More recent research is also exploring whether characteristics of speech can themselves be used as indicators of stress.

The potential of positive language

The opposite is also worth cultivating. Kindness, gratitude, appreciation, compassion and encouragement can change the quality of our interactions and strengthen social bonds. And strong social relationships are among the most important resources we have for psychological resilience and wellbeing.

Research on self-affirmation offers an interesting insight into how constructive language can work. In laboratory studies, reflecting on personally important values activated brain regions involved in self-related processing and positive valuation. In one study, these neural responses were subsequently associated with changes in sedentary behaviour.

This does not mean that repeating positive words is a magical cure. Nor does it mean that we should suppress difficult emotions or pretend that everything is wonderful. Healthy language can acknowledge suffering while still leaving room for possibility:

I am struggling—but I can seek help.

I disagree with you—but I can still respect you.

This is difficult—but it is not necessarily hopeless.

Such language does something important: it creates psychological space. Instead of narrowing our attention around threat, blame and fear, it can help us recognise choices, relationships and possibilities.

Words, mantras and prayer

This may help explain why human beings across cultures have used mantras, prayers, chants and contemplative phrases for thousands of years.

The benefit may not lie simply in the meaning of the words. Repetition slows attention, reduces distraction and can be accompanied by rhythmic breathing. Studies of contemplative practices have found associations with changes in autonomic regulation, including heart-rate variability, although the evidence varies considerably according to the practice and study design.

Research into music and prayer has also suggested that slow rhythmic structures can influence cardiovascular rhythms. Work examining musical tempo and autonomic responses has highlighted the role of slow breathing and rhythm in producing calming physiological effects.

This offers a more scientifically cautious way of understanding the experience many people report when listening to or singing something such as Ave Maria, whether in the settings of Schubert, Gounod or other classical arrangements. The combination of familiar words, melody, repetition, breath, memory and spiritual meaning can create a profound sense of calm and emotional safety.

For a person of faith, there is an additional dimension that science cannot easily measure: prayer can provide a sense of relationship, trust, meaning and transcendence. These subjective experiences may themselves be important sources of psychological resilience.

Read good words

There is another simple way of nourishing our inner vocabulary: read books.

In an age dominated by short posts, headlines, notifications and rapidly changing fragments of information, sustained reading offers something very different. A book asks you to remain with an idea, follow an argument, inhabit another person’s experience and encounter words in context.

Reading also exercises language itself. It exposes you to a richer vocabulary, more complex sentence structures, metaphors, stories and unfamiliar perspectives. This matters not only intellectually but potentially for healthy ageing.

A 14-year longitudinal study found that older adults who reported reading at least weekly were less likely to experience cognitive decline over six, ten and fourteen years than those who read less frequently. The association remained after adjustment for relevant covariates.

A separate 2024 study of older Japanese adults found an association between childhood availability of books and cognitive function later in life, particularly among participants with lower educational attainment. The researchers also identified an association involving the volume of the left superior temporal cortex, an area important for language and related cognitive functions. Because this was an observational study, it cannot establish that books themselves caused the difference—but it adds to the growing evidence that a life rich in reading and language may be beneficial for cognitive ageing.

Perhaps, then, we should think of vocabulary as a kind of mental landscape.

If your daily diet consists largely of words such as threat, enemy, stupid, hate, crisis, failure and fear, you are repeatedly exposing your attention to a narrow emotional vocabulary.

But if you also make room for words such as curiosity, courage, gratitude, wonder, forgiveness, possibility, beauty, compassion, stillness, love and hope, you give the mind more possibilities with which to interpret experience.

The goal is not to eliminate negative words. Anger can alert to injustice. Fear can protect from danger. Grief gives expression to loss. Difficult words have their rightful place.

The deeper question is:

What kind of language do you want to live with within?

And perhaps an equally important for everyone is:

What kind of emotional climate are your words creating for the people around you?

Words are small things. But repeated millions of times, they can become attitudes, attitudes can become behaviours, and behaviours can become culture.

Choose them carefully.

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.

Leave a comment

Filed under cortisol, meditation, mental health

Tagged as , , , , , , , , ,

by | July 21, 2026 · 7:58 am

How We Stopped Reading and Started Believing Slogans

With each passing year, fewer people finish reading a book, with public discourse getting s a little dumber. This is not a coincidence. The two trends are moving in lockstep because they’re the same trend. Thinking in complexities comes from sustained reading. What’s replacing it is faster, louder, and easier to produce than to challenge. The decline of reading appears to be ushering in a less rational, less analytical, less sophisticated mode of thought, and it’s threatening democracy.

Reading long-form prose trains the mind to hold several ideas in tension at once, to follow an argument through its qualifications and counterpoints, to sit with ambiguity rather than resolve it prematurely. A dense paragraph forces you to track a claim across several clauses, weigh a caveat against the point it qualifies, and keep revising your understanding as new information arrives.

Take that engagement away, and the muscle in the brain doesn’t just go unused. It starts working against you. Attention spans shorten. Patience for a slow-building argument gives way to a need for the payoff up front. Ambiguity starts to register as failure rather than as a feature of anything worth understanding properly. And because nuanced thinking is effortful, its absence leaves a preference for whatever requires the least effort. It is the argument that confirms what you already believed, the explanation that fits in a headline. The mind doesn’t stay idle in the space reading used to occupy. It fills that space with something more crude.

Simplicity and emotional charge are rewarded

Algorithms accelerate the drift, rewarding simplicity, outrage, and emotional charge over complexity, nuance, and rigour. Ideas that fit folk theories of politics — all leaders are equally corrupt, immigrants steal jobs, every policy problem has an easy, commonsense fix — spread further than the findings of subject-matter experts ever will.

Joshua Meyrowitz explored this territory in No Sense of Place, predicting that the decline of print and the rise of electronic media would eventually push people toward populist leaders. “You name an enemy and you polarize the public,” he said. “You don’t allow for nuance, because nuance is just a confusion when you’re in a power struggle.”

That power struggle is where the erosion stops being an abstract concern about attention spans and becomes a question about how democracy functions. Elections depend on voters weighing trade-offs. A policy might help one group while burdening another, that a leader’s strengths come bundled with real weaknesses, and that most hard problems don’t have a clean fix.

Surrendering the mind to sloganeering

Slogans work by stripping all of that away. “Drain the swamp” or “take back control” asks nothing of the listener except agreement. A white paper on institutional reform asks for time, patience, and tolerance for uncertainty, which most people no longer have. When the electorate’s capacity for the second kind of thinking shrinks, the first kind isn’t just more appealing — it becomes the only kind that can win.

The result is a selection pressure on political leadership itself. Candidates who traffic in complexity and qualification lose ground to those who traffic in certainty and enemies, not because voters are unintelligent, but because the cognitive infrastructure of nuance has been allowed to run down. Over enough election cycles, that pressure doesn’t just change who wins. It changes what kind of person even attempts to run, and what kind of promises get made. A politics built on slogans breeds politicians who speak only in them.

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.

Leave a comment

Filed under happiness, meditation, mental health

Tagged as , , , , ,

by | May 17, 2026 · 6:01 am

The Lost Art of Stillness: Awakening Your Inner Self

In an age shaped by scrolling screens and shrinking attention spans, something profound is happening beneath the surface. Recent studies suggest that nearly two-thirds of young people struggle to remain engaged with content lasting longer than a minute. Yet, paradoxically, this same generation is searching intensely for meaning, transcendence, and spiritual grounding. The hunger for depth has not disappeared. If anything, it has become more urgent.

The difficulty is that our modern world is designed for speed rather than contemplation. We are conditioned to expect instant answers, simplified narratives, and constant stimulation. But the deepest truths of existence cannot be reduced to sound bites or algorithms. Mystery does not reveal itself in haste.

The ancient mystics understood this well. They approached the human soul with reverence, knowing that the divine cannot be encountered amid endless distraction and noise. The sacred unfolds quietly. Only in silence, solitude, and contemplation does the veil begin to lift, allowing fleeting glimpses of a reality greater than yourself.

As the 14th-century mystic Meister Eckhart wrote:

“Nothing in all creation is so like God as stillness.”

Those words may be more relevant now than ever before.

You did not arrive here by accident. Your very existence is astonishingly improbable. Consider how different your life might have been had you been born in another country, another culture, another language, another body, or another century. None of those things were within your control. And yet, within the boundaries of circumstance, you have been given the extraordinary freedom to choose how you respond to life.

Your external conditions shape you, but they do not define the deepest essence of who you are.

It is by fully entering the depth of life’s journey that you awaken to purpose, resilience, and meaning. But this awakening becomes difficult when the mind is continually fragmented by external distraction. Much of the anxiety and emotional exhaustion of modern life emerges from this loss of alignment — a growing disconnect between the soul and its deeper calling.

We lose ourselves when we settle for the illusion of safety in mediocrity, silencing the inner voice that calls toward courage, creativity, and transformation. In doing so, there is a drift away from the very source of vitality.

Nature has always offered a path back.

The silence of mountains, forests, rivers, and open skies reveals something ancient and expansive. Birdsong, wind through trees, flowing water — all of it speaks of an intricate web of interconnectedness that modern life often obscures. In nature, you are reminded that you belong to something far greater than your schedules, anxieties, and ambitions.

It is no coincidence that many of humanity’s sacred places are found in forests, caves, deserts, and mountain summits. Nature slows our breathing, quiets stress, restores attention, and gently reconnects you to the rhythm of being itself.

Perhaps this is why time spent in nature often feels less like escape and more like remembrance.

To live well is not merely to chase future goals or external validation. It is to recover the lost art of presence — to live not only to achieve, but Living to BE.

And perhaps, in the stillness that you so often avoid, you may rediscover the deeper purpose for which you were born.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S: If you enjoyed this article you might be interested in reading: Sages, Saints and Sinners Get it today on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and where all good books are sold.

1 Comment

Filed under meditation, psychology, spirituality

Tagged as , , , , , , , , ,

by | February 16, 2026 · 8:27 am

Protecting Your Energy and Your Purpose

I will begin with something that I had to painfully realize: Love without boundaries is not love. It is self‑abandonment.
Healthy boundaries are self‑respect in action. They are the quiet courage to say: This is my space.
A space I need to protect my emotional and spiritual well‑being so I can care deeply, give generously, and feel fully.

But here’s the subtle truth: boundary crossings rarely begin with something dramatic. They often start softly, almost imperceptibly. An “energy vampire” is not necessarily a bad person. Most of the time, they simply haven’t learned to honor boundaries — neither yours nor their own. They often struggle with low self‑esteem and, therefore, seek constant validation, reassurance, and emotional reciprocity.

The challenge is that spending time with such people leaves you feeling heavy, drained, or strangely unsettled. Your clarity fades, your energy dips, and your inner balance becomes harder to access.

Awareness is the first boundary

Pay attention to your body. Your nervous system rarely lies, giving you the perfect feedback loop on what people suck you dry and who nurtures and energizes you. It sometimes starts with the person who enters the room. Do I relax and feel a warm energy fill my body, or am I looking at ways to escape as soon as possible?

The first step is saying “no”. It is, for most of us, the hardest thing to do because we are social beings hard-wired to get along with our fellow human beings. Subconsciously, we fear being rejected, isolated, and even betrayed when saying “no.” But here is the thing: Saying “no” is saying “yes” to something else. It is a “yes” to presence, dignity, and self-respect. You owe nobody endless access to your time, energy, and emotional availability. Boundaries do not require justification. They require conviction.

It takes practice, and all comes down to how you say it: Here are some examples

  • “That doesn’t work for me.”
  • “I’m not available.”
  • “I need time to think about that.”
  • “No, thank you.”

What Nurtures My Energy? What Depletes My Energy?

Before you can even set healthy boundaries, you must be aware of your own needs, as well as where you are the person crossing the boundaries of others. Clarity creates responsibility. Once you know what nourishes you, it becomes your sacred task to protect it. Take a time out to reflect on what nurtures and what depletes your energy:

  • Silence or prayer?
  • Nature and walking?
  • Deep conversations?
  • Creative expression?
  • Time alone?
  • Physical movement?
What depletes my energy?
  • Information overload
  • Conflict?
  • Multitasking?
  • Negative environments?
  • Being responsible for everyone’s emotions?

Protecting Your Inner Space

Your inner world is sacred ground. Not every opinion deserves entry. Not every demand deserves a response. Not every crisis deserves your involvement. To protect your inner space:

  • Pause before responding. You can say: I need time to think about that
  • When is guilt not love driving your choice?
  • Create a daily grounding ritual that anchors you

Certainty does not mean rigidity.
It means knowing who you are.

Grounding practices may include:

  • Conscious slow breathing
  • Placing your feet firmly on the floor and noticing contact
  • Naming what you feel without judging it
  • Deep Walking in nature
  • Returning to faith when uncertainty arises

A Final Reflection

Setting healthy boundaries is an act of spiritual practice. It is the decision to stop outsourcing your worth. It is choosing integrity over approval. It is trusting that the right relationships will honor your limits. Boundaries do not push love away.
They make real love possible.

And perhaps the most important question is this:

Where in my life do I need to choose self-respect over fear?

That is where your next boundary is waiting.

To quote the mystic Teresa of Ávila:

“Let nothing disturb you,
Let nothing frighten you,
All things are passing;
God never changes.
Patience obtains all things.
Whoever has God lacks nothing;
God alone suffices.”

If you are currently finding yourself at a threshold—sensing that something has ended, but not yet knowing what comes next—you don’t have to walk this terrain alone. A Pilgrimage to New Beginnings is a gentle online journey created by me for moments just like this: a spacious, reflective path for those navigating endings, listening for what wants to be born, and learning to trust the wisdom of the in-between. If this speaks to where you are, you are warmly invited to join us on March 4th and take the next few steps—slowly, honestly, and in your own time.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

Leave a comment

Filed under meditation, mental-health, psychology, self-development, Uncategorized

Tagged as , , , , , , ,

by | February 9, 2026 · 9:24 am

Embracing Change: Pain and Growth

“Be willing to let go of who you are, for who you are becoming.” – Meister Eckhart (13th-Century Mystic)

There are moments in life when moving forward feels impossible. The way ahead seems blocked, not by one clear obstacle, but by a quiet accumulation of losses, disappointments, and unanswered questions. Something has ended. Something hurts in a way that cannot be easily fixed. And in those moments, it can feel as though nothing is happening at all.

Yet beneath the surface, something is quietly stirring. What looks like stillness is often a deep, unseen movement and a reordering that cannot be rushed or explained. This is not stagnation, but a subtle turning of the soul.

We are quick to judge these seasons as failures or weaknesses. We tell ourselves we should be coping better, moving faster, knowing more. But what if pain and failure are not signs that we have lost our way? What if they are threshold moments—gentle, demanding invitations into a new beginning, or into a deeper way of seeing and being?

Henry James, often regarded as a founding voice in American philosophy, spoke to this hidden depth when he wrote that life is “always more divine than it seems, and hence we can survive degradations and despairs which otherwise must engulf us.”

The Threshold Moment

A threshold is not a destination. It is not even a clear path. It is a space between: between what has been and what is becoming. It is coming out of a dark, cold winter with the seeds of spring waiting to sprout.

In threshold moments, the old story—the one that once made sense, gave structure, identity, or safety—begins to loosen its grip. It no longer fits. Yet the new story has not arrived fully formed. There are no clear instructions, and there is primarily uncertainty.

This in-between space can feel deeply uncomfortable. It often comes with grief, fatigue, confusion, or a quiet panic that whispers, “I should be further along by now.”

But thresholds are not failures of progress.
They are pauses of transformation.

When Pain Is Asking for Attention, Not Erasure

Pain has a bad reputation. There is a tendency to push it away, a rush to numb it with distractions, and explain it away. Yet pain often carries a message that can’t be accessed in any other way. It forces you to dig deep into your inner resources. It is asking you to slow down and pay attention to what is happening.

Failure, too, has a voice. It may be saying: This path has run its course. Or: This version of you has served its purpose.

Letting the Old Story End

Endings rarely announce themselves cleanly. More often, they fray at the edges. Motivation fades. Joy drains away. What once felt purposeful now feels heavy or hollow. It could be anything from a job, a location, a home, or even a long-term relationship. This should not be seen as betrayal or weakness, but something new unfolding slowly.

The courage of a threshold moment lies not in forcing clarity, but in allowing uncertainty to do its work in trusting that not knowing is sometimes the most honest spiritual posture.

You don’t need to rush to define the next chapter. You only need to be present enough to notice what is loosening—and what is quietly insisting on staying alive.

A Gentle Practice for the Threshold

Rather than trying to solve or transcend this moment, you might sit with it. Breathe with it. Let it speak. Found more moments of solitude so that the voice within can be perceived.

Ask yourself, without urgency or judgment:

  • What am I being asked to release?
    A role? An expectation? A belief or particular self-sabotaging talk?
  • What feels unfinished, yet still alive?
    A longing? A truth you haven’t yet honored? A call that has been whispering rather than shouting?

Staying with the Becoming

Thresholds are sacred precisely because they are uncomfortable. They strip away certainty and invite you into a deeper honesty. They teach you that meaning is not only found in arrival, but in the courage to stay present while becoming. They force you to look more closely in the darkness.

If you find yourself here—tired, unsure, grieving something you can’t quite name—know this:
You are not broken. You are not behind. You are standing at a doorway.

And sometimes, the most honest thing you can do is wait with open hands until the new story is ready to unfold.

If you find yourself standing in such a threshold—sensing that something has ended, but not yet knowing what comes next—you don’t have to walk this terrain alone. A Pilgrimage to New Beginnings is a gentle online journey created by me for moments just like this: a spacious, reflective path for those navigating endings, listening for what wants to be born, and learning to trust the wisdom of the in-between. If this speaks to where you are, you are warmly invited to join us on March 4th and take the next few steps—slowly, honestly, and in your own time.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

Leave a comment

Filed under meditation, mental health, psychology, self-development

Tagged as , , , , , , ,

by | January 25, 2026 · 4:53 pm

From Struggle to Awe: A Pilgrimage of Transformation

“Be willing to be a beginner every single morning.” — Meister Eckhart

There was a time in my life when I believed I had to hold everything together by sheer work and effort. If I paused, I feared I would disappear. Only later did I begin to understand that disappearing was not the danger I imagined. It was, in fact, the return.

Life is something like a ripple on the ocean, momentarily appearing, briefly defined, then gently dissolving back into the vastness from which it came. The ripple feels separate while it lasts, yet it has never been anything other than the ocean. This simple image has accompanied me through many seasons of exhaustion, loss, and quiet awakening.

The mystics gave language to what I was slowly learning through experience. The 13th-century Mystic Meister Eckhart puts it into words: “The eye with which I see God is the same eye with which God sees me.” If this is true, then separation is not the final truth of a lifetime.

When Separation Feels Real

For many years, separation felt very real to me. I lived on the surface—busy, capable, outwardly functional—while something deeper waited patiently. I now recognize how easily we mistake movement and activity for meaning. Eckhart’s warning feels almost tender in hindsight: “As long as you are seeking God, you are not yet aware that you have found Him.” I was always seeking, rarely resting.

The poet-mystic Rumi names this restlessness with compassion: “Why are you so busy with this or that or good or bad; pay attention to how things blend.” When you allow things to blend, you surrender to strength, vulnerability, certainty, and doubt, faith and the unknowing.

The Descent That Saved Me

My own turning point came not through achievement, but through fatigue. I had reached a place where distraction no longer worked. What emerged instead was a quiet invitation to walk—both literally and inwardly. An annual pilgrimage became my way of consenting to descent.

One day, on the Camino Primitivo in northwestern Spain, I found myself struggling up a steep mountain path amid darkness and driving rain. Each step felt heavy. The trail seemed endless, and my inner landscape matched the weather—tight, effortful, and discouraged.

Then, without warning, the heavens opened. The rain softened, the clouds lifted, and beneath me appeared a vast sea of clouds stretching all the way to the horizon. The shift was almost instantaneous. Within seconds, my mood changed completely. Where there had been struggle, there was awe. Where there had been resistance, there was gratitude.

I stood there, soaked and breathless, perceiving not only the incredible beauty of that moment, but the beauty of life itself. I felt truly blessed—not because anything had been solved, but because something had been revealed. I had crossed a threshold without even realizing it.

The Christian mystics speak of this movement without sentimentality. John of the Cross calls it “the dark night,” a phrase that once frightened me. Now I hear it differently: as a stripping away of the onion layers of what no longer carries life. What felt like loss was actually a clearing.

Living Lightly on the Surface

It is so easy to confuse your ripple with your worth. There is a deep need to be seen, to be heard, and to be validated. But it can create much pressure. Accept who you are with loving kindness, and the old burden of control is no longer that important. Meister Eckhart’s invitation is simply: “Let go of yourself and you will find yourself.” This letting go is a daily practice rather than a single event.

To live as a ripple is to accept impermanence without fear. To rest as the ocean is to trust belonging without proof. Somewhere between the two, a quieter wisdom emerges.

A Gentle Invitation

A Pilgrimage to New Beginnings grew out of this lived knowing. It is not about fixing what is broken, but about remembering what has never been lost. If these reflections echo something in your own life, you are warmly welcome to join.

The reservation window remains open for ten more days—not as an urgency, but as an invitation to step across a threshold.

The ripple does not need to earn its place in the ocean.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S. For those who feel drawn to explore this in-between season more intentionally, I am offering a six-week online course, Pilgrimage into New Beginnings. It is a quiet, reflective journey for times of transition, starting March 4th.

Leave a comment

Filed under deep walking, gratitude, happiness, meditation, self-development, spirituality

Tagged as , , , , , , , ,

by | January 12, 2026 · 3:52 am

A world in transition: The in-between season

Times of transition, like those we are living through now, are often marked by chaos, uncertainty, and the unraveling of certainties that no longer hold. These in-between seasons can be deeply unsettling, yet they are also profoundly formative. More than ever, such times call for clarity of purpose and a conscious alignment with our core values and guiding principles.

During such seasons, the new has not yet taken shape. The ancient Chinese I Ching, or the Book of Change, offers timeless guidance for such moments. It does not promise quick solutions or firm ground. Instead, it teaches us how to live wisely while the ground is moving beneath our feet.

The new struggling to be born

At the heart of the I Ching is a simple truth: change is not an interruption of life. Chaos is not a mistake. It is often the sign that something new is struggling to be born.

In times of transition, the I Ching counsels restraint rather than force. The outer world feels increasingly unstable, with the individual feeling helpless amid external circumstances that cannot be controlled. Yet the I Ching invites us to turn toward inner alignment. Before you act, you are asked to listen. Before you decide, you are asked to become still enough to discern what truly matters.

Waiting is not passive resignation

These in-between seasons call for patience. The I Ching reminds us that timing is sacred. Action taken too soon can distort what is forming; action taken too late can miss the moment entirely. As the book puts it:

“Waiting. If you are sincere,
You have light and success.”
— I Ching, Hexagram 5

This waiting is not passive resignation. It is an active, attentive presence—a way of staying faithful to the process even when the outcome is not yet visible.

Discovering what genuinely sustains you

Integrity becomes the anchor in such times. When familiar supports fall away, you discover what genuinely sustains you. The I Ching repeatedly emphasizes that inner truth—not certainty, control, or speed—is what carries us through periods of upheaval. To remain faithful to what is essential within you is, in itself, a spiritual practice.

The book also teaches adaptability without self-betrayal. Like water, we are encouraged to yield without losing our depth, to respond without hardening, to move with change rather than against it. True transformation, it suggests, begins quietly, often invisibly, long before it takes form in the outer world.

Perhaps most importantly, the I Ching directs our attention away from grand solutions and back toward the small and the near:

  • The words we choose to speak
  • Listening with mindfulness
  • Caring for one another
  • Paying attention to the inner life and consciousness.

In times of uncertainty, it is these humble acts that carry the future.

The in-between is not a void. It is a threshold.

When we stop trying to escape it, fix it, or rush through it, we begin to sense its hidden gift. Something is loosening. Something is aligning. Something is quietly taking shape.

And the invitation is simple, though not easy: to become still enough to hear what this season of change is asking of you.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S. For those who feel drawn to explore this in-between season more intentionally, I am offering a six-week online course, Pilgrimage into New Beginnings. It is a quiet, reflective journey for times of transition, starting February 4th.

Leave a comment

Filed under meditation, mental health, psychology, raised consciousness, spirituality

Tagged as , , , ,

by | November 17, 2025 · 3:19 pm

Your Superpower in a Loud Society

„Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.”— Aristotle

Standing guard at the doorway of your mind has become essential to maintaining spiritual and mental health in an age where our minds are drowning in information but thirsting for wisdom.

What you feed your mind, you ultimately become. A few careless minutes scrolling on your smartphone can trigger a cascade of emotions that can shape your entire day.

If you are reading this, you are likely one of the few who is actively reflecting on what is happening to us collectively.

Conflict and social disruption will always be part of the human condition—we are imperfect beings, after all. But we also carry within us the profound power of choice.

When the fringe becomes the megaphone

My impression is that the darker impulses of humanity are being amplified through the very technology meant to connect us. Fanatical fringe groups and those consumed by malice spend countless hours attacking others with hate-filled messages. Social media companies do little to halt this simply because emotionally charged content fuels engagement—and engagement fuels profit.

We may believe we are in control of what enters our minds, but for most people this is not true. Social media and search engine algorithms quietly track our behavior and serve up the content we are most likely to consume. In doing so, they shape not only our preferences, but our thinking.

Echo chambers of belief

Beliefs and opinions are constantly being reaffirmed within separate realities—information bubbles where each group hears only the echoes of its own worldview. Families, friendships, communities, and even congregations are fracturing along these invisible but powerful dividing lines.

What we need is a collective pushback from the quiet majority: the rational, thoughtful, grounded people who do not fall for emotional manipulation. That resistance begins by asking simple but profound questions:

Is this information expanding my energy or diminishing it?

Is it helping me grow, evolve, and reach my full potential?

A common misconception is that knowledge, information, and education alone equal wisdom. Yet many highly intelligent people refuse to learn from their mistakes, cling to fixed mindsets, and resist deeper reflection—never realizing they have been backing the wrong horse all along.

The power of who and what you surround yourself with

True wisdom is innate knowledge shaped through experience. It is the quiet confidence of intuition and higher consciousness. When you choose to surround yourself with wise friends, nourish your mind with spiritual teachings, and seek guidance from grounded mentors, you naturally grow in wisdom.

Equally essential is practicing self-care by setting firm boundaries with people, media, and environments that deplete your mind, body, and soul. Self-care is not indulgence—it is alignment. It is taking time for silence, contemplation, and reconnection with your inner life.

Choosing this path gradually fills your life with greater happiness and contentment because you begin building a bridge to your soul. Your actions shift from serving the ego to serving the greater whole.

Reino Gevers – Host of the LivingToBe podcast

P.S.: If you enjoyed this article, you might be interested in my latest book, Sages, Saints, and Sinners. Get it today on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and wherever good books are sold.

Leave a comment

Filed under meditation, mental health, psychology, purpose, spirituality, Uncategorized

Tagged as , , , , , , , , , , , ,