The Hummingbird Nest: The Nest Retreat Center

Reservation for One, April 2026

Wed, 01 Apr 2026 10:49:20 GMT

Last month, we tended the hearth,
preparing a place for what wants to grow.

This month, we turn toward growth.

Welcome to April.
And to the theme, Reservation for One.

An invitation to spend time alone,
and return to yourself.

Inspired by a phrase shared by Matthew McConaughey
in connection with his book Greenlights,
this idea of a “reservation for one”
isn’t about being alone for the sake of it,
but about choosing time with yourself,
intentionally, and with care.

READ THE APRIL MAGAZINE

On your phone or tablet, gently swipe to turn the pages.
On a computer, use the small arrow in the corner to move through at your own pace.

Take what you need this month,
and leave the rest to unfold.

PULL UP A CHAIR FOR THIS FREE GATHERING

March at the Nest

Sun, 01 Mar 2026 22:10:12 GMT

March feels like a threshold.

Light shifting.
Ideas stirring.

Inside The Nest this month, there is more than one beautiful thing unfolding. I wanted to gather it all here for you.

Read the March Magazine

This is your invitation to watch the video below.

Yes… It’s happening on Friday the 13th.
And that’s perfectly alright.

Above is the menu for the evening - our gentle agenda around the table.

We’ll begin with a little folklore, then share stories and reflections, and together create a small Shared Luck Jar. Not to predict the future, but to practice the magic humans have always made: placing kindness, steadiness, and hope into the world.

A little folklore.
A little laughter.
A little shared magic around the table.

All are welcome, and there’s always room to pull up a chair.

We’ve created a simple invitation PDF that shares the spirit of the retreat in more detail. You’re welcome to take a look if you’d like to linger a little longer.

Threads Of Color Retreat (2)

11.3MB ∙ PDF file

You can register at the link in the PDF or click the button below.

COUNT ME IN!

March holds many offerings inside The Nest.

A new magazine issue.
A weaving for International Women’s Day.
A gathering at the Kitchen Table.
A creative retreat in Threads of Color.
A quiet pause arriving tomorrow.

There truly is a little something here for everyone.

Whether you’re craving stillness, creativity, connection, or simply a place that feels steady for a moment, the door is open.

I hope to see you in The Nest.

If you feel moved, I’d be grateful if you like this post with a ❤️, share a thought in the comments, buy me a coffee, or pass it along to someone who might enjoy a pause. Each small gesture helps this quiet space reach others who may need it.

Tending the Hearth, March 2026

Sun, 01 Mar 2026 08:11:17 GMT

Last month we opened a soft space.

Not something to complete,
just somewhere to sit for a moment.

The new Gather & Pause magazine.

Some of you may not have read it all at once.
Maybe you left it open beside you, returned to it, or carried one page through your week.

You did what felt right.

This second edition grew from a quieter question:

What do we do in seasons when growth feels far away?

We keep something warm.

No plans.
Just small, steady warmth, the kind that asks nothing and waits with us.

So this month’s magazine is called Tending the Hearth.

Inside you’ll find places to pause:
a short story to read slowly
two simple journaling prompts
a candlelit shower ritual
and a small creative invitation to keep beside you.

There is nothing to keep up with here.
You can open it anywhere.

You might read it in one sitting,
or only one page this week, the others over the month.

Or maybe you’ll gather a friend or two,
answering the call for creativity together.

All are ways this was meant to be used.

You can step into this month’s magazine just below.

READ THE MARCH MAGAZINE

On your phone or tablet, gently swipe to turn the pages.
On a computer, use the small arrow in the corner to move through at your own pace.

A Different Kind of Rest

Fri, 20 Feb 2026 15:48:32 GMT

When people read about a creative retreat, they often focus on the activity.

Watercolor on fabric.
Slow stitching.

They wonder whether they’ll understand it, whether they’ll keep up, whether they belong there at all.

But over the years I’ve noticed something.

The project itself is rarely what women talk about afterward.

They talk about how quickly they settled in.
How the pressure they didn’t realize they were carrying eased.
How conversation felt easier than expected.
How, for a little while, no one needed anything from them.

The hands stay gently occupied,
and because of that, the mind loosens its grip.

There’s a comfort in sitting beside others without having to present a version of yourself.
You don’t have to lead the conversation or hold it together.
You simply share space while something small forms in your hands.

What lingers most is that nothing urgent is happening.

Time stretches a little.
Attention softens.
The room feels quieter inside than when it began.

By the end, women rarely say
“I learned a technique.”

They say
“I feel different.”

This is the part that’s difficult to explain on a registration page, but it’s the reason these gatherings exist.

The making gives the eyes somewhere to rest.
The shared quiet gives the mind somewhere to land.

If this kind of time sounds like something you’ve been missing, I’ve written the details here:

Threads Of Color Retreat Details

11.3MB ∙ PDF file

When a Value Still Needs Protecting

Wed, 18 Feb 2026 03:02:02 GMT

Along with calm and connection, creativity is one of my core values.

It’s one of the ways I stay steady in the world.

Yet sometimes life interferes.

My calendar fills.
Energy runs low.
Small responsibilities multiply.

Even something deeply important can slowly become postponed.
Not because it matters less,
but because everything else also matters.

I’ve learned that if I don’t decide where creativity belongs in my days,
the days decide for me.

So I place it somewhere real.

Sometimes that’s a quiet hour I protect.
Sometimes it’s sitting at the table before the day begins.
And sometimes it looks like setting aside a few hours and gathering others with me, because shared time has a way of becoming kept time.

This is the heart behind a virtual creative retreat I’m co-hosting soon: a gentle space to work with color and thread, move slowly, and simply be present while our hands are busy.

Sometimes it’s easier to keep a promise
when someone else is expecting you at the table.

If creativity matters to you too, but keeps slipping to the edges, you can read about the retreat here:

Threads of Color

Threads of Color at the Nest Retreat Center

Tue, 10 Feb 2026 18:01:55 GMT

The barn door has been opened.

After a season of quiet tending, the Nest Retreat Center is ready to host its first gathering of the year - a half-day retreat called Threads of Color.

This is the first of four half-day retreats I’ll be offering this year. Each one is designed as a spacious pause, a place to slow down, create with your hands, and spend time connecting with others.

Threads of Color is a gathering rooted in texture and tone.

Threads of Color is a collaboration with watercolor artist Christine Vabre of Octopus Connection. Together, we’ve designed a spacious, hands-on gathering for slowing down, creating beauty, and enjoying the quiet companionship of others.

We’ll begin by painting directly onto fabric with watercolor, letting color move freely and without pressure.

Once the fabric is dry, we’ll move into slow-stitching, adding simple marks with needle and thread as a way of settling the body and mind.

Nothing here needs to be perfect.
This is not about skill or outcome.
It’s about presence, flow, and the deep contentment that comes from making something by hand.

If this feels like something you’ve been longing for, a few unhurried hours to create, rest, and be held by the process, you’re warmly invited.

We’ve created a simple invitation PDF that shares the spirit of the retreat in more detail. You’re welcome to take a look if you’d like to linger a little longer.

To keep the experience intimate, this gathering is limited to 12 participants. You can register at the link in the PDF or click the button below.

Threads Of Color Retreat

11.3MB ∙ PDF file

COUNT ME IN!

If someone came to mind as you were reading this, a friend who might enjoy creating slowly and spending an afternoon in good company, you’re welcome to share this with them.

What’s Ahead This Week in the Nest Retreat Center

Mon, 09 Feb 2026 01:16:05 GMT

Connection Bingo
A playful, light-hearted way to notice (and nurture) connection in everyday moments, with no pressure, just gentle prompts to invite a little more togetherness.

Connectionbingo

4.54MB ∙ PDF file

An Invitation to the Kitchen Table

The Kitchen Table is a monthly virtual gathering where we come together to talk, create, and reflect. Each gathering includes a soft arrival, guided conversation, and a simple creative practice - all held with care to invite honest connection and shared presence.

Nestled in the Pause

This week’s pause prompts are inspired by the quiet stirrings of the season - gentle invitations for stillness, creativity, and noticing what’s beginning to wake up within.

Messageinabottlediye Book Compressed

419KB ∙ PDF file

Coming Up in The Nest Retreat Center

I’m excited to share that the first of four half-day retreats I’ll be offering this year is now scheduled.

Threads of Color, a creative gathering weaving watercolor and slow stitching, will be opening for registration this week.

This retreat is a collaboration with Watercolor Artist, Christine Vabre, Octopus Connection, and together we’ll be creating a spacious, hands-on experience for slowing down, creating beauty, and being in good company. More details coming soon.

Thank you for being here. This space is richer because of you.

Access This Month's Magazine

Introducing the Gather & Pause Magazine

Sat, 31 Jan 2026 14:24:08 GMT

As the end of December approached,
I could feel something changing.

And I wasn’t alone.
Others were speaking of it too.

After all, this is winter.
Rest is expected.
But this felt deeper than seasonal slowing.

It felt like a pause that was asking to be honored.

One month later,
after time spent unapologetically nesting,
I can see now
what that pause was gently making room for.

I’ve cleared space on my calendar.
I’ve said goodbye to commitments
that belonged to an earlier version of me.

I’ve begun making space for new directions.

I’ve simplified-
not only my physical space,
but my virtual space as well.

In the quiet, something became clear.

I don’t want to fill every corner anymore.

That feels true not only in my life,
but in what I offer here, too.

I want to create something that can be received slowly,
returned to,
lived with.

And that’s how this new format was born.

This monthly magazine-style edition,
carrying The Nest Retreat Centre’s theme,
is my way of creating a softer pace-
one gathered offering each month
instead of many moving parts.

A place to land.
A place to listen.
A place to create in your own time.

Nothing else about our time together is changing.

The Kitchen Table gatherings, weekly Nestled in the Pause newsletters, Reflections, an occasional story about my own unfolding, and The Pause Shop are all still here - just as before.

The only shift is how I’m sharing the monthly theme.
Instead of unfolding it week by week in newsletters, it now arrives as one gathered magazine each month - something you can move through slowly, in your own time.

This first edition carries the imprint of the season that shaped it.
It was made from rest, not rush.
From listening, not striving.

You can step into this month’s magazine just below.
On your phone or tablet, gently swipe to turn the pages.
On a computer, use the small arrow in the corner to move through at your own pace.

I’m so glad you’re here to begin this new chapter with me.

What Do We Bring to the Long Table

Mon, 12 Jan 2026 14:19:53 GMT

Photo by Ginny Rose Stewart on Unsplash

This newsletter marks the end of our time together exploring The Long Table.
I’ve been sitting with one last question.

If the long table is a place to gather,
and a place where we bring our presence,
then what is shared there?

I keep returning to images of women working side by side at long tables - quilting, sewing, making. Hands busy. Conversation drifting in and out. No urgency. No performance. Just the beauty of being together.

At tables like these, something was always being made.
Sometimes it was food.
Sometimes it was cloth.
And sometimes it was nothing you could hold at all.

What was shared wasn’t only skill - though knowledge moved easily from one set of hands to another.
It wasn’t only stories - though they surfaced naturally.
It wasn’t only time - though time softened in these moments.

What was shared was confidence.
Belonging.
The quiet reassurance that you are not alone.
And wisdom - offered without instruction, through small gestures and pauses.

Looking at images of women quilting together in the 1950s and 60s, I’m reminded that this kind of sharing is nothing new. Long before we had language for “self-care” or “creative practice,” women gathered like this - learning by watching, by doing, by being together. The table held the work, and it held the women doing it.

This month has also brought me back to the gatherings I once hosted in person.

Before my gatherings lived online, they lived around real tables.

Long tables set with simple materials. Women arriving with busy lives, often tired and needing a break. Sometimes mothers and daughters, craving time together. Time spent not for fixing or improving, but simply for being together.

There was creativity, yes.
And conversation.
But mostly, there was permission.

Permission to slow down.
To set things down.
To be held by the presence of others, without needing to explain or produce anything at all.

Long tables have always done this.

They make room.
They hold what matters.
They remind us that we don’t have to carry everything alone.

A gentle reflection for this week

What have you learned - or been given - simply by sitting beside someone, working quietly together?

I hope you’ve enjoyed, as much as I have, this time we’ve spent together exploring the Long Table - the pauses, the reflections, the stories that surfaced along the way.

I’m currently working on a new theme format for February, and I can’t wait to share it with you. In the meantime, you’re always welcome to pause with me in Nestled in the Pause, posted on Notes, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

PAUSE ON NOTES

If you feel moved, I’d be grateful if you like this post with a ❤️, share a thought in the comments, or pass it along to someone who might enjoy a pause. Each small gesture helps this quiet space reach others who may need it.

Who Sits Beside Us at the Long Table

Mon, 05 Jan 2026 08:10:23 GMT

Last week, we began gathering around the image of the Long Table - a place to gather, listen, and belong.

This week, I’ve been sitting with a quieter question:

Who sits beside us?

Not just in the literal sense -
but in the moments when we need companionship most.

As I pondered this, my thoughts wandered back, once again, to long tables from long ago.

In monasteries, centuries past, long tables filled simple halls known as refectories. Monks sat side by side in silence, eating modest meals. There was no conversation. No performance. No hierarchy.

Often, a single voice would read aloud - sacred texts, poetry, reflections - while the rest listened.

The table wasn’t a place for debate or explanation.
It was a place for presence.

No one sat alone.

Even in silence, there was companionship.
Even in stillness, there was connection.

And it made me realize something important:

Sometimes, who sits beside us isn’t always visible.

When I reflected on last week’s question - Where have you felt part of something larger than yourself? - one moment came to mind immediately.

It was one of the most difficult times in my life.

That evening, as I bathed, I felt something I can only describe as comforting arms around me. A presence. A steadiness. A deep, quiet knowing.

To some, that presence might be called God.
To others, the Universe.
To still others, something unnamed but deeply felt.

What mattered wasn’t what it was called.

What mattered was the message I heard, as clearly as if someone were sitting right beside me:

You are not alone.

In that moment, I understood that connection doesn’t always arrive through words or faces. Sometimes it arrives as reassurance. As warmth. As an unseen companion who reminds us we are held - even when the table looks empty.

A gentle reflection for this week

You’re welcome to sit with this question in whatever way feels right -
through writing, drawing, or quiet reflection.

Who has sat beside you - seen or unseen - during a moment when you needed it most?

Notice what comes.
A person.
A memory.
A presence.
A feeling.

There is no right way to name it.

Next week, we’ll return to the Long Table once more — this time to consider what is shared.

The Long Table

Thu, 01 Jan 2026 08:11:22 GMT

As we step into this new year, I hope over the holidays you found moments of warmth, rest, connection - or perhaps moments of quiet that felt just as nourishing. However the season met you, I’m really glad you’re here.

The idea for this month’s theme, The Long Table, came from a story shared by a friend at December’s Kitchen Table gathering.

She spoke of celebrating the holidays in another country,
where summer was the season.

Life unfolded in the countryside,
surrounded by a beautiful garden.

Each year, a long table was constructed -
simple wooden boards,
held up by sawhorses,
placed right there in the garden.
Nothing fancy.
Just enough to make room.

Family and friends gathered,
bringing food, stories, and time.

They came together not to exchange presents,
but to share moments -
to sit side by side,
to linger,
to be present.

Coming together.

That was the gift.

What mattered most
wasn’t what was exchanged,
but who was present.

That image stayed with me.

It got me pondering what gathering might have looked like long, long ago.
Here’s what I discovered.

In medieval villages, at the end of harvest season - when the fields were finally cleared and the work paused - long wooden tables were assembled outside and set end to end in the open air. Planks rested on barrels or trestles. The table wasn’t carved, polished, or adorned. It was simple and functional - made for use, not display. Nothing was permanent. The table existed only because people needed a place to gather.

Everyone came.

Farmers, families, neighbours, travellers passing through. Food was placed in the center and shared. There was no head of the table, no seat of honour. You sat where there was space.

These gatherings weren’t about celebration alone. They were about survival. About marking another season lived through together. About remembering that no one made it through alone.

The table held food, yes.
But it also held stories.
Silence.
Listening.
Belonging.

And perhaps that’s why the image of the long table still calls to us now - especially at the beginning of a new year.

It reminds us of a quieter way of being together.
A way that doesn’t ask us to perform or produce.
A way that values presence over perfection.

This month in The Nest, I want to gently explore The Long Table with you - not as an idea to analyze, but as a practice of connection we can return to.

A place to gather.
A place to listen.
A place to belong.

A gentle reflection for this week

Before you begin, I invite you to settle into a cozy spot.
Bring your journal with you - perhaps there’s a fresh page waiting, or even a new notebook ready to begin the year. What a nourishing gift of stillness that would be to yourself.

There’s nothing you need to host or create.

Simply hold this question lightly:

Where in your life have you felt part of something larger than yourself?

It may arrive as a memory, a feeling, or an image - perhaps a table, perhaps something else entirely.

You might think of:

a gathering where you felt held or understood
a shared moment of work or celebration
a place in nature that made you feel small in the best way
a tradition, ritual, or circle you returned to again and again
a time when listening mattered more than speaking

Let whatever comes arrive in its own time.
Notice what it stirs, without trying to name or explain it.

Next week, we’ll pull up a chair together and return to the table.

Week Four: The Light We Pass On

Sun, 21 Dec 2025 20:32:50 GMT

Hello friends!

What began as a whisper
became a remembering.

When we closed November together, I asked a simple question:
What whisper from your own lineage is asking for your attention now - and how might you honor it in a small, simple way?

I didn’t expect it to open a door.
But it did.

Throughout December, we wandered through the stories we inherit - the ones told around tables and the ones carried quietly in the body.

We noticed objects that hold memory - ordinary things made luminous through love and use.

We returned to rituals and recipes from our roots - not to recreate the past, but to feel connected to it.

And now, we arrive at the light we pass on.

At the winter solstice, light does not disappear.
It rests.
It gathers.
It waits its turn to return.

The light we pass on is rarely grand.
It lives in the tone of our voice.
In how we welcome someone to the table.
In what we choose to repeat-and what we gently release.

Perhaps legacy is not what we teach,
but what we model.
How we pause.
How we tend.
How we make room for beauty and belonging - even in busy seasons.

A Simple Invitation

Choose a single light this week - a candle, a lamp, the glow from a window, even the room dimmed low.

Sit with it for one quiet minute.

Then ask:
What light was passed to me that I want to keep alive?

Name it softly - out loud or on paper.
That is enough.

A Short Solstice Blessing

Closing December, Opening January

As this season comes to a close, may you carry forward only what feels true. The stories that warmed you. The rituals that grounded you. The light that feels steady in your hands. There is no need to rush into what’s next. The turning of the year is enough. When you’re ready, January will meet you gently - offering space to gather, tend, and begin again in your own time.

Week Three: Recipes & Rituals From Our Roots

Sat, 13 Dec 2025 22:56:42 GMT

Hello friends!

This week, I want to share a story about an object that carried Christmas for me long before I understood why - the cranberry-coloured tin filled with Christmas.

In my grandmother’s home, mincemeat tarts weren’t just a seasonal treat -
they were a tradition tucked inside a curious tin.

It wasn’t a baking tin at all.
It was an old film reel holder, deep cranberry in colour -
something my great-grandfather once used at his movie theatre.
(Almost certainly covered in lead paint… yikes.)

But to me,
It was a treasure chest of Christmas.

Inside that metal circle lived:
• fluted pastry edges
• warm spices
• sweetness folded into care
• comfort tucked into every bite

My grandma made mincemeat tarts every December.
Then my mom did.
Then I did.

Even when I became the only one in my family who still loved them,
I kept baking them anyway.
(They still don’t like them. I’ve made peace with that.)

I won’t bake a batch this year,
but I will keep my eye out for a shop that has one -
because I want to savor at least a single tart
and quietly honour the lineage of flavour that found me.

When I think of that cranberry-coloured tin, I don’t just think of dessert.
I think of:

her hands in the dough
her joy in feeding the people she loved
her way of turning food into comfort

Objects like this don’t just hold memory.
They keep rituals alive.

A recipe can be a bridge across generations -
and this one leads straight back to her.

A Note on Heritage & Mincemeat

Mincemeat itself is a traditional English Christmas food, widely loved throughout southeastern England and northwestern Europe - regions that show up strongly in my own DNA story.

While it isn’t distinctly Celtic in origin, it belongs deeply to the British Isles holiday table, where English, Irish, Scottish, and Welsh traditions often braided together over generations.

And this is something I keep noticing as I follow my heritage thread:

Not every ritual needs to be “purely” Celtic to belong.
Many of our traditions are layered - shaped by geography, migration, and family life.

What matters is not where something began,
but how it was loved and carried forward.

A New Ritual: A Recipe for Intention

At this month’s Kitchen Table gathering, I shared something a little different -
a Recipe for Intention.

It isn’t meant to be baked.
It’s meant to be felt.

This simple ritual invites you to treat intention the way our ancestors treated food:

with care
with presence
with attention to what truly nourishes

Just like the recipes we’ve inherited, this one is about gathering what matters, releasing what doesn’t, and tending to the season you’re in.

I’ve included the Recipe for Intention card as a PDF with this newsletter so you can print it, keep it, or return to it whenever you need a gentle pause.

Recipe For Intention

1.84MB ∙ PDF file

How to Use the Recipe for Intention

Find a quiet moment during your day
Light a candle if you wish
Read through the card slowly
Fill in each section with honesty, not perfection
Let it be a conversation with yourself, not a task to complete

You might return to it once…
or you might come back to it again and again as you move through this season.

Reflection Invitation

What recipe, ritual, or seasonal habit feels like home to you?

It could be something you make.
Something you repeat.
Something you’ve quietly carried forward without realizing why.

What does it nourish - in you, and in others?

Gentle Creative Invitation

If you feel called, choose one small way to honour it this week:

Make the recipe
Write its story
Place the object somewhere visible
Or create a simple “recipe card” for a ritual you want to keep

Next week, we’ll gently shift from looking back to looking forward -
exploring what light we want to carry onward, and what we hope to pass down.

Week Two: Objects That Hold Memory

Wed, 10 Dec 2025 16:58:36 GMT

Hello friends!

My grandmother’s hands were always busy.

She stitched.
She tatted.
She knitted.
She crocheted.

Thread was her language - a peaceful place she could return to again and again.

Her home was filled with delicate lace doilies - resting on dressers, tables, and sideboards - adding a touch of winter magic to every room. After she passed, my sister became the keeper of her stash: a large bag of doilies, unfinished projects, table runners, linens, and tiny treasures made by her hands.

When my own love of slow stitching began to grow, the bag was passed to me - as though those threads had been waiting their turn.

My sister holds the heritage too; she is an amazing quilter. One of my favourite things she’s made is a prize-winning winter quilt that comes out each year - rooftops adorned with bits of our grandma’s crocheted pieces, and tiny touches of lace sprinkled around the border - all from that same stash.

The past sewn right into the present.

Among the treasures from the stash were some delicate lace doilies. They are starched and shaped into snowflake ornaments, and tied with a simple string. And this year, during a recent visit, she gifted these precious keepsakes to me.

You can imagine my delight.

Now they hang on my tree - not simply as decoration, but as a lineage of love. And it’s no coincidence that I hung one just below the word blessed - it’s exactly how I feel receiving these pieces of our heritage.

Our Grandma’s creativity still decorating our holidays
Her love still showing up in small, beautiful ways
Her hands still woven into our family story

Celtic women have long expressed their heritage through the work of their hands - craft as art, as necessity, as ritual, as storytelling. The stitches they made weren’t just practical…
they were reminders of who we are.

So when I see those lace snowflakes, I’m reminded:

My love of slow stitching didn’t start with me.
It was handed down - loop by loop, thread by thread -
from the women who came before me.

And now I get to witness the curiosity of both my daughter and granddaughters - the way stitching is calling to them too. New hands discovering old magic.

I keep telling my daughter the story of the snowflakes, so she’ll know when I’m gone, and they are handed to her. She reminds me - you’ve told me that - 2 times now. 😉

A Simple Entry Point for You

Look around your home with soft eyes.
Is there something handmade that has traveled through generations?

Perhaps…

• a quilt, scarf, or blanket
• a crocheted ornament
• a piece of embroidery
• a table runner or dish towel
• a garment someone made
• a strand of beads or a brooch
• handwriting in thread or ink

Hold it for a moment and ask:

Sometimes, our heritage is not loud or ancient or easily traced.
Sometimes, it’s simply a skill we carry without question -
a natural instinct to create beauty from the everyday.

If You Want to Go Deeper

Try one tiny, creative act this week:

• Starch and hang a crocheted piece
• Repair something lovingly worn
• Set a handmade item in a place of honour
• Make one small stitch - and see what awakens

Craft itself can be a memory ritual.

A Blessing for the Hands That Came Before

May the threads that formed your story
continue to hold you gently.
May you recognize your heritage
each time your hands create something
small and beautiful.

Next week we’ll explore recipes and their roots. I’ll share the story of the cranberry-coloured tin filled with Christmas.

Week One: The Stories We Inherit

Wed, 03 Dec 2025 14:20:02 GMT

Hello friends!

I want to begin this month by sharing some of my own memories - simple childhood moments that have stayed bright inside me for decades. Only now am I beginning to understand just how much meaning these memories hold.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

My Childhood Story: The Christmas Glow at Grandma’s

When I think back to the Christmases of my childhood, my mind always returns to my grandmother’s house - a place where everything seemed to shimmer just a little brighter.

I remember the tree first. Not just the lights, but the tin reflectors behind them - bright little stars catching each bulb’s glow and scattering it softly across the branches. Even then, I was drawn to light, color, and handmade magic.

On the front window ledge stood an electric candelabra: white candles with red tips glowing warmly through winter evenings. I understand now that this gentle glow mirrors older traditions - windows lit to welcome travelers home, a symbol of hospitality passed down through generations.

And then there was the tiered end table that transformed every December. Grandma laid down soft cotton batting as snow and placed small, glitter-covered houses and a church on top. It became a tiny sacred space - a winter village for my imagination. Story, wonder, and tiny rituals of beauty… all threads of a lineage I didn’t yet know I carried.

I remember the year Chatty Cathy arrived - a doll that spoke. A small nudge, perhaps, toward the voice and storytelling that would eventually become part of my life.

Only now can I see how these moments weren’t random.
They were early whispers of my heritage -
a love of light,
the value of welcome… feeling welcome and extending that to others,
the magic in handmade beauty,
the instinct to create small, safe worlds and sacred spaces,
and the storyteller’s thread woven through me from the beginning.

This month, we begin by listening for those memories that you carry within and which still glow.

A Mistletoe Memory - and the Story Behind It

And of course, I can’t forget the mistletoe.

In my mother’s home, the faux mistletoe hung just inside the front door, and anyone entering - family or guest - couldn’t escape a kiss beneath its green and white clusters and the slightly squished bow that came from sitting in the box all year. It was a small moment of joy, welcome, and connection that still makes me smile.

What I didn’t know then was how ancient this little ritual truly is - how many cultures touched it, blessed it, and carried it forward before it ever reached our doorway.

Mistletoe has a long, wandering lineage, which I found so fascinating, I’d like to share it with you.

Celtic Roots - A Sacred Winter Lifeline

Among the ancient Celts and Druids, mistletoe was seen as a life-bringer in the darkest months.

It stayed green when everything else died back.
It symbolized protection, blessing, and peace.
It held the promise of life in winter - a quiet form of hope.

While the Celts didn’t kiss beneath it the way we do today, they planted the seeds of its meaning: union, blessing, and connection.

Norse Myth - Love Restored and Peace Made Eternal

A beloved Norse story tells of Baldur, the god of light, who was killed by a dart of mistletoe. His mother Frigg - goddess of love - wept until her tears brought him back to life. In gratitude, she blessed mistletoe and vowed to kiss anyone who passed beneath it.

This myth transformed mistletoe from a symbol of loss into one of love restored.

Victorian England - Where Ritual Became Holiday Tradition

Centuries later, English households hung mistletoe in kitchens and doorways.
Young women were kissed for luck.
A berry was plucked for each kiss until the stem was bare.

Victorian families loved rituals and symbolism, and they carried this one proudly into Christmas celebrations - eventually spreading it across Europe and North America.

A Heritage Mosaic

So kissing under the mistletoe isn’t just a cute holiday custom; it’s a mosaic of:

Celtic reverence for winter blessings
Norse mythology of love and forgiveness
English traditions of welcome and courtship
And the simple human desire to share affection in the darkest, coldest time of year

Knowing all this, I love the memory from my mother’s doorway even more.
A faux sprig, hung with love.
A kiss for everyone who entered.
A tiny, joyful act that carried centuries of meaning without anyone having to explain it.

What Our Memories Want Us to Notice

This is often how heritage speaks - not through documents or family trees, but through the small, sensory moments that stay with us. The glow of a light. The scent of something baking. A ritual someone repeated year after year. These tiny details ask us to pause and notice what they carried: comfort, belonging, beauty, imagination, welcome.

Our memories don’t return by accident.
They rise because they are holding something - a value, a feeling, a way of being, that shaped us long before we had words for it.

Your memory will do the same.
Let it show you what mattered then and what still matters now.

Reflection Ritual

Find a cozy corner that invites peace and comfort.
Bring your journal with you.
Settle in.

Let’s begin in stillness.
Take three small breaths, slow and steady, and whisper softly to yourself:

“I am here.”

Light a candle - a tiny flame to honour the glow of memory.

When you’re ready, open your journal and gently explore:

What childhood detail - an object, a light, a scent, or a small ritual - still glows inside me? And what thread of heritage might it be carrying?

Let whatever rises be simple.
Let it be true.
Let it come in its own way.

Creative Invitation

Write your memory as a small story - just one paragraph - and give it a title.

This isn’t about perfection.
It’s about beginning a quiet conversation with where you come from.

Community Connection

Share a one-line description that captures the essence of your memory.
Sometimes a single detail says everything.

Next week we’ll explore objects that hold memory - the small things that have quietly carried our stories forward.

Where Memory Meets Mistletoe

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 15:48:46 GMT

Hello friends!

There is a curiosity stirring in me - a quiet tug that began with a question I asked as we closed November together:

I didn’t expect it to open a door.
But it did.

A treasure hunt began: small signs, unexpected nudges, and moments that stopped me in my tracks. A soundtrack that felt like home. A conversation in another group that echoed something ancient and familiar. Stumbling as I searched for December’s theme - as though the answer was already waiting, holding its breath.

Eventually, I picked myself up, followed the signs, and found myself here:
A December theme that arrived one day late, and right on time.

Following the Whisper of Heritage

I’ve always known that Irish and Welsh ancestors are threaded through my story. But something in me wanted to understand a little more, so I asked my brother for his Ancestry DNA results - presumably we share the same parents!

It showed that 43% of my heritage traces back to southeastern England and northwestern Europe.

At first, I wasn’t sure what to make of that.
But the more I explored, the clearer it became:

This entire region was once shaped by Celtic peoples - the storytellers, ritual-keepers, and seasonal wisdom-holders of early Europe.

They weren’t one nation, but many tribes with shared languages, symbols, rhythms, and a deep reverence for land and lineage.

And suddenly the pull I’ve felt toward Celtic traditions made sense.

My roots were whispering long before I knew the language.

Why Where Memory Meets Mistletoe?

My research revealed that Mistletoe was sacred to the Celts - a symbol of protection, blessing, healing, and the return of the light. It was believed to be a bridge between worlds, a plant that held wisdom from the oak and comfort through the dark.

And memory.
Memory is how our ancestors walk beside us.

This month, we step into that mystical archway where the two meet.
Where the stories that shaped us rise.
Where the rituals we inherited soften the season.
Where the light we carry forward becomes part of our own legacy.

Your Invitation This Month

Throughout December, we will explore:

Stories we inherit
Objects that hold memory
Rituals and recipes from our roots
The light we pass on to future generations

These will not be heavy explorations - they will be gentle, accessible, heart-centered. Tiny acts of remembrance. Meaningful creative invitations. Quiet rituals that help your nervous system exhale.

You don’t need to know your heritage.
You don’t need records or DNA results.
You only need curiosity - and a willingness to listen for the softest whisper.

Together, we will step gently into a season of belonging.

A Celtic-Inspired Blessing for Our Beginning

May the quiet of this season open a doorway to the ones who walked before you.
May their courage steady your steps,
their stories warm your hearth,
their whispers rise like lantern light along your path.

And may you discover, in your own gentle way,
the simple rituals that help you carry their light forward.

Welcome to December, friends.
Let us walk where memory meets mistletoe - together.

Tomorrow I’ll return when we begin to explore “Where Memory Meets Mistletoe”. By for now.

The Whispers That Found Me

Fri, 28 Nov 2025 22:00:06 GMT

Hello friends!

Click here and I’ll read this newsletter to you!

As November comes to a close, I’ve been thinking back to the message I shared at the beginning of the month - the one where, in the quiet of recording a meditation, my Grandma slipped in and sat beside me.

In that stillness, she handed me a book.
A symbol.
A reminder.

She was giving me something she sensed I was finally ready to carry - the understanding that the past doesn’t sit on a shelf somewhere. It’s woven into who we are, into how we create, care, and move through our days.

November at The Kitchen Table

Our Kitchen Table gathering in early November felt especially tender for me. Perhaps it was the strong connection I felt with my Grandma… or the stories others shared about their own ancestors that seemed to create a soft field of remembering around us.

We began the evening by lighting candles together - a shared flame symbolizing the light of our ancestors joining us at the table.
Each flame held a story, a memory, a thread of love still moving through us.

I invite you to light a candle of your own, or press play on the video below and take a few moments to watch the flame burn and the smoke gently linger.

To deepen your experience on these pages, pause now, listen to the meditation I recorded for this gathering, and meet your ancestor at the table.

During the meditation that evening, my Grandma returned and offered me something else.
It was her soft powder puff.
Pink was her favorite color - her whole bathroom reflected it, right down to the Estee Lauder body powder she loved. That little puff, tucked in its pink holder, felt like her way of reminding me to lean into softness… to trust my inner knowing… to be my own person.

Slow Stitching the Whispers

Our creative project for this gathering invited us to listen for ancestral whispers through slow stitching a heart.

When we slow stitch, something almost magical happens - our hands begin to remember.
Each motion, each pull of the thread, becomes both a physical act of creation and a quiet act of connection.

My own slow stitch project feels like my Grandma through and through - her colors, her fabrics, even a tiny piece of trim from her stash (which I’m lucky to share with my sister).

As I stitched, gentle phrases drifted through my mind:

Be your own person.
Let go of perfection.
Lean into softness.
Trust the symbols that find you.

The fabric I chose held stars and a moon - an invitation into the spiritual abilities that run through my lineage. My Grandma was a tea-leaf reader, and tucked in my mother’s belongings I found a handwritten astrology reading done for her when she was just six years old.

No wonder the stars called to me.

I’m sharing the slide from that evening as a simple tool to help you understand and receive your own whispers.

I stitched a tiny pocket - a place to tuck a story I’ll write for a future book.
I suppose I’m writing a book after all.

What This Month Revealed

This entire month at The Nest Retreat Center has been shaped by moments like these.
We gathered at the Kitchen Table, lit our candles together, and let the room glow with lineage.
We stitched slowly - tiny, wandering threads - and listened for the soft echoes of those who came before us.
Some whispers arrived as memories.
Others as feelings.
Some simply as warmth in the palms of our hands.

And all of it reminded us that our stories are never just our own.

A Question for You

As you close this month, I invite you to take a quiet moment and consider:

What whisper from your own lineage is asking for your attention now - and how might you honor it in a small, simple way?

Step Inside The Pause Shop

PS: A Peek in The Pause Shop

I wanted to share a little glimpse of what’s sitting on the shelves of The Pause Shop -each created to support calm, creativity, and connection in your everyday life.

24 Days of Christmas Calm
A gentle, daily invitation to soften the season.
This one begins on December 1st, so if you’ve been thinking about joining in, now is the perfect moment to step in.

Holiday Simmer Pot Printable
A simple way to fill your home with warm, comforting scents — a tiny ritual to bring presence into your day.

Holiday Table Placemats
Designed with care, carrying soft words of encouragement to help you (and your guests) slow down and savor the moment.

Each offering was created with the same intention that shapes The Nest - small, meaningful touches that make the everyday feel a little more sacred.

Ancestral Whispers

Sat, 01 Nov 2025 20:36:58 GMT

Hello friends!

Click here and I’ll read this newsletter to you!

“In the end, we’ll all become stories.” – Margaret Atwood

This morning, as I prepared for November’s Kitchen Table Gathering, I found myself guided into a space of stillness. I was recording a meditation, and it was through this quiet space, that my Grandma joined me.

In this meditation, she shared with me a book—a symbol of the message she wished me to carry forward. A message of a way to honor the threads that continue to weave through us connecting past and present.

At The Nest Retreat Center this month, we listen for the whispers of those who came before us — the ways their love, creativity, and courage still live in our hands and hearts today. Our theme, Ancestral Whispers, invites us to notice how our stories are never really ours alone.

In my family, I seem to be the keeper of our ancestral records.
Tucked away in a box I’ve dedicated to family memories are photos, handwritten letters, and newspaper clippings.

Not long ago, while sorting through the box, I found a story about my Grandma.
I’m not sure who wrote it, or why.
But does it even matter?

What matters is that I have it — this amazing story, her story — and that somehow, it found its way to me.

I’ve come to believe this story is just one chapter in a larger book she’s asking me to write — a collection of family stories that weave together the lives and lessons of generations past.

Next week, I invite you to join me in a time of calm and connection — a moment to listen for your own ancestor’s whisper through a guided meditation. Together, we’ll honor the threads that continue to weave through us, connecting past and present in beautiful, unseen ways.

As you move through this week, I invite you to pause every so often and listen closely.
What whispers might be waiting to be heard?

Gathering Your Life List

Tue, 21 Oct 2025 13:36:21 GMT

Hello friends!

Click here and I’ll read this newsletter to you!

“The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.”
— Eleanor Roosevelt

This month, you’ve begun something beautiful — a Life List that’s part reflection, part wish list, and entirely your own. You’ve listened to your teenage self, let creativity lead the way through doodles, and rediscovered small moments that make you feel alive.

Now it’s time to gather what you’ve created and carry it forward.

Practice: The Life List Letter

Find a quiet corner, a cup of tea, and your Life List pages. Take a few moments to look back through everything you’ve added this month — your one-line dream, your teenage whisper, and your doodled possibilities. Notice what stands out.

Then, write a short note to your future self — six months or a year from now. Let it be gentle and real, a message you’ll be grateful to open later.

Here’s a simple structure you can follow:

Dear Future Me,
Here are the things that make me feel alive right now…
(list or describe what lights you up — even the smallest things)

These are the dreams I want to carry forward…
(a few you hope to nurture or protect)

May I keep listening to what calls to me.
May I trust the small steps as much as the big ones.
May I never forget how it feels to dream.

With love,
(sign your name)

Tuck your letter somewhere meaningful — in a journal, between book pages, or inside a keepsake box. If you’re feeling creative, seal it with a doodle or symbol from your Life List.

The Kitchen Table

At The Nest Retreat Center, The Kitchen Table is where creativity and conversation meet. During our October gathering, we doodled our Life Lists to a specially curated playlist—letting imagination take the lead.

From the Table: Member Spotlight

This week, I’m sharing a Life List doodle created by one of our Kitchen Table members. Her page beautifully captures how simple doodles can express what we want to manifest in our lives — a visual language for our dreams and desires.

If you’d like to learn more about The Kitchen Table, I’d love to connect with you.
You can reach me anytime at gatherandpause@gmail.com.

Closing

Your Life List doesn’t need to be perfect or complete — it’s a living, breathing reflection of who you are becoming. Let it grow with you.

Take the final two weeks of October to gather your pages, reflect on what you’ve created, and let it settle into your heart.

Your teenage self — the dreamer, the doodler, the believer — would be so proud of how far you’ve come.