A Different Kind Of War

The original old mud farmhouse made with stone.

I am on a deep and quiet internal pilgrimage right now, laying a tombstone in the forest to my beloved mother-in-law, Grossi, who shaped my life and my values in many ways.

Her humble gratitude for life in all its simplicity and her giving nature, never complaining after years in a wheelchair, and always looking for the glimmer of light.

Often things weren't easy and right now I feel a deep sadness in my soul. I can't quite put it into words.

I sit here in the silent sentinels of the trees on the old family farm where now only graves reside alongside the dreams of those buried here.

Grossi lived here, one of eleven children, without electricity or running water. It was a hard life, but in that simple mud-hewn home, her mother played the piano for hours.

I think music was her solace when it all became too intense. Music was the orchestra in her soul.

And so I came away this week to honour my husband's dreams, to honour his ancestors and his German heritage. To honour a woman whose humble values shaped my life. She made me want to become a better mother and a better granny in my silver years.

But the world has become a very different place. A different pace.

As wars deepen and as trade wars root, we are left feeling powerless. It's an internal war.

Right now, the world can feel like an incredibly overwhelming place to be. We've never had world orders disrupted in quite the way we see now. We've never had the models of leadership we are seeing now. So startlingly different to the decades of somewhat more predictable destinies before.

It leaves me with just some quiet questions. No marketing, no funnels, no frenetic planning, no destinations.

Just the journey of today.

And stepping into greater peace. Knowing that we honour those who have honoured us on this journey. Those who have mentored us. Who have grown our voices. Who have made us feel like somehow our stories matter.

But do they matter in isolation? Or do they matter because of those whose lives touched us? They were often not famous, not well known. They were as timeless as the forests that root and re-root. And the thatching grass that covers the graves of bygone eras.

A time when life was very different. A time when life was slower, more predictable, and less frenetic.

A time to breathe. A time to live. And a time to die.

And in between, we walk through the quiet forests of our lives. Meditating. In ways we never foresaw. In strange landscapes, we never predicted.

Seeking solace in uncertainty.

A different kind of war.

The ultimate surrender.