Hi, it's Alison,
As spring tulips continue to blossom in the park across from my apartment building, I'm sending warmth and care to you wherever you are on this planet. For many of us, being human right now is an unsettling, emotional rollercoaster ride, or a numbing one. Several of you have mentioned this to me, whether by email, in a class session, or over tea, and as you know, I agree wholeheartedly. Grateful to you for sharing so authentically about how your hearts and nervous systems are riding the waves of these 2026 waters, and inspired by the wide range of ways you're journeying through this season. Thank you for your courage, as each of us does the best we can.
Speaking of inspired, for as long as I can remember, one of my brothers has lovingly teased me about how frequently I say variations of the word “inspire": inspiring, inspirational. After I tell him about, well, anything, he'll chuckle and ask, “Was it inspiring, Ali?” Maybe a bit ironically, he recently underwent an innovative sleep apnea surgery called “Inspire,” and I keep turning the word over in my mind, the way it sounds as it rolls off the tongue, its component parts—"in" and “spire” (from the Latin spiritus, meaning breath), and its overarching meaning: to breathe into, or to breathe life or spirit into, to infuse with life-affirming and life-giving energy.
On your next inhale, you might take a moment to sense into what's actually happening: you're in-spire-ing. As one of you shared with me yesterday, you'd heard the meditation guidance “bring your attention to your breath” thousands of times, but when you received these instructions yet again on a retreat last year, they reverberated through you as if for the first time—you experienced breathing anew, and the miracle of being an in-spirer has stayed with you since.
Especially over the past week, I've been taking things one breath at a time, giving my inner world space to cohere and collect itself, space to reflect on the warmth and care I received throughout my life from my beloved great aunt, Aunt Roselle, affectionately known as Ro, and my commitment to paying that warmth and care forward after her death this past Saturday at the age of 105.
Though Ro had many family members she adored, she also had more than enough love to go around, and adopted my brothers and me as part of her crew. Ro loved us deeply and wanted with all of her heart for us to be well, in body, mind, and spirit. Every time I strolled into her living room with its 70s decor, even if I had visited her only a few short weeks before, she would breathe in happily, smile with glee, and give me a juicy kiss on the cheek. We would exclaim, “It's so good to see you!” and she'd reach for my hand, or I'd reach for hers, and Ro would momentarily coo with contentment, like that second of hand-to-hand affection was all there was.
And then we'd catch each other up on our respective lives, lives that in many ways could not have been more different. Did she understand what I did for a living? She tried, valiantly, but no. Did it matter? Not at all. Did we agree on everything? No. Did it matter? Not at all. Did she teach me more than I could have ever expected about the power of savoring tender, caring, imperfect human connection, and expressing your love whenever you get the chance to? Yes.
When I arrived on her doorstep this past Saturday, Aunt Roselle was no longer conscious, at least not in the sense we typically think about consciousness. She had already been in hospice care at her home for a few days. But she was still breathing, laboriously and effortfully, and so I grasped her left hand, heavy and warm. The air in the room felt unusually laden with intergenerational maternal energy. Thirty minutes later, she died.
Here is a photo of us from a few months ago, on her 105th birthday, during one of the last moments she seemed to know who I was:
