Lately in Connecticut, I've been disturbed by the intensity of fear I see rising around me—fear disguised as safety, force disguised as protection. I’ve seen masked agents detaining people at courthouses, stories circulating of neighbors afraid to go out, and a growing sense of disconnection taking hold.
But what I feel most deeply is grief.
Grief for the legacy of colonization that still shapes how we treat one another.
Grief for the ways we’ve used othering as a weapon of control, generation after generation.
Grief for the stories that divide and dehumanize.
Grief for systems that are not only breaking us down—but pushing us toward extinction.
As a grandmother, I look into the future and feel the ache of what we are leaving behind: a planet in crisis, communities frayed by distrust, and the myth that domination creates safety. I feel sorrow that my grandchildren are inheriting a world where many people are afraid—of being targeted, unseen, unprotected.
This grief is not separate from my work. It is the ground it grows from.
Why I Do What I Do
I’ve spent my life as a holistic nurse and mindfulness guide because I believe in healing—of bodies, of communities, of the human spirit. I believe in sanctuary not as escape, but as practice. I believe in pausing not to disengage, but to remember who we are.
I do this work because I believe real safety comes not from control, but from care.
Not from walls, but from relationships.
Not from fear, but from a deeply rooted sense of belonging.
A Different Way Forward
Programs like Mindful Summer and Autumn Sanctuary were born from this knowing. They are invitations—not to turn away, but to turn inward and toward one another. In a world that moves too fast and too hard, these seasonal offerings create space to:
Slow down and breathe.
Reconnect with the rhythms of the earth.
Sit in circle and remember we are not alone.
Rebuild trust—from the inside out.
This is how we heal.
This is how we remember.
This is how we prepare ourselves to be good neighbors, strong allies, and wise elders.
Getting Into Good Trouble, Together
To truly protect what we love—our families, the land, our shared future—we must also be willing to speak truth. To interrupt the narratives that cause harm. To show up in our towns, our conversations, our policies, and say: We can do better.
Courageous community is the foundation of real safety. Not surveillance. Not silence. But circles of trust, built through relationship, ready to respond with wisdom, not reactivity.
I believe the path forward is found in both tenderness and action.
In sacred rest and sacred resistance.
In grief that births clarity.
In love that becomes motion.
A Sign in the Stillness
As I wrote this reflection, a barred owl called to me—in daylight.
Not once, but three times.
In the language of animism and ancestral listening, this is not coincidence. It is a sign.
The owl speaks to what is hidden rising to be seen.
To what is sacred coming to the surface.
To the wisdom that lives in our grief, our rage, our love.
And just as this owl called in the light, we now enter the Black Moon—a rare New Moon, potent in its darkness, calling us back to our root.
This moment is a threshold:
To cleanse.
To re-root.
To rise.
With care and fierce hope,
Robin