Threads of Summer: A Seasonal Reflection

Personal insights, ancestral remembrance, and the quiet revolutions unfolding in the in-between spaces where healing takes root.

Remembering Softness

This summer, jasmine medicine came to me in a dream. Blooming and fragrant, she whispered that something in my life had ripened, an inner transformation ready to be seen. In many traditions, jasmine carries devotion, blessing, and protection. Her night bloom ties her to intuition and dreams, a reminder to trust what blossoms in the quiet, hidden places of life.

Summer invites more energy, but it isn’t limitless. Softness has taught me that rest, not relentless fire, can be revolutionary. I have been integrating this softness through micromoments of play and creation, even during busy and chaotic moments of the day: crocheting, carving clay, sketching Kbach Khmer designs, tending my garden, laughing alongside my loved ones.

This revolutionary softness was reinforced when Hindu Goddess, fierce mother and nurturer, Kali Maa appeared in one of my ketamine journeys. Not as the fierce destroyer I expected, but as a tender mother in a field of flowers. She reminded me that healing doesn’t always arrive through fire and catharsis. Sometimes it comes through surrender, restoration, and rest. Softness is not weakness; it is a different kind of strength.

Community acupuncture deepened this lesson: collective stillness and healing, moving energy, open learning, and reminded me that healing is communal.

Ancestral Echoes

Planting my own garden has become a way back to my Bpa and Tha, who tended soil with patience long before me. Even when nothing sprouts, the tending itself feels like prayer.

With the guidance of Rannie, Initiated Priestess and Medium, I was reminded that women in my lineage held gifts as mediums and healers who carried messages from Spirit. Their presence and reminders urged me to deepen my connection with land and ancestors, to honor the seriousness and sacredness of this work.

The Quiet Revolution

Even in half-marathon training, I feel their echo of softness and tenderness. Running has become one of my quiet revolutions. Each run roots me into strength, discipline, and communion with nature, rituals of endurance my ancestors embodied in far harsher terrains. As I prepare for the Angkor Wat Half Marathon run, I am reminded that I do not run for speed, but for intentionality and compassion.

I carry my parents’ and elders’ endurance, survivors who walked and fled through atrocity, in my intentional stride. I carry the warrior spirit of Bokator, guardians of land and people. Running is not only training. It is remembrance. It is abolitionist dreaming. It is radical care in motion. When I run along Angkor Wat, Prasat Kravan, Ta Prohm, Bayon Temple and through the Victory Gate in 2026, I will not be running alone; I’ll be running with all who came before me.

The Land Speaks

This season, my son and I began offering coffee grounds to the elder trees and our garden soil. A simple act of reciprocity, honoring the land for its constancy and care. This ritual roots us in relationship, reminding us that healing and care are never extraction; it is an exchange.

Check out this beautiful Tulsi!

Companions Along the Way

Companions that nourished my spirit, provoked thought, or held me in this season.

Book: Ancestral Medicine — Dr. Daniel Foor

Art: Vanndearlyn Bermudez Vong — reviving Khmer ceramics as resistance and remembrance

People:  Rannie “Au Go Go” Rodil — Initiated priestess, healer, and bridge to spirit and land

People: Mary Frances- Transformational Guide, Vedic Astrologer, Sound Healer

People: MKE Wellness for Palestine: A Collective of Milwaukee-based wellness providers and advocates organizing for a Palestine (and a world) increasingly free from oppression.

Media: Mo on Netflix — Houston-based Palestinian American Comedian Mo Amer’s refugee story, weaving survival and humor

A Practice to Carry into Fall

This was the work of Summer: listening to body, ancestors, land, and spirit. Where softness becomes strength, tending becomes prayer, and healing blooms in the quiet.

Here’s a gentle invitation for the season: Sit with an uncomfortable feeling. Imagine it as a color, image, or shape. Ask softly:

“What do you want me to hear while you are here?” Let the answer rise slowly, like jasmine blooming at night.