Trusting the Ping

Many of you probably remember this story—I've told it a million times. I haven't shared Tanzania stories often, in recent years.

When I think of my Tanzania years, it often feels like I’m looking in the rearview mirror, stuck in the past when I really want to be living in the now. But sometimes, re-telling those stories brings me back into the spiritual space I inhabited from 2010 to 2018.  And maybe being reminded of some of these stories is valuable to the 2025 Deb and maybe even to some of you.

Honestly, I still find this story remarkable.  Why?  Because I’m really just an introverted (mostly), fairly boring homebody who doesn’t seek adventure, doesn’t seek activity, stays in her comfortable lane.  I like to read a lot and reflect introspectively.  I don’t consider myself courageous or brave.  But I do recognize the courage and adventure in myself that was apparent in this story.  And all of my Tanzania stories for that matter.

To this day, I find myself in some sense of awe and amazement that I actually stepped easily and willingly into a very unorthodox and uncomfortable lane.  Without all of the normal over-thinking and rationalization, along with making a decision and taking action that made most everyone around me assuming that I was some sort of crazy.  Here’s how it happened…..

50 year old Deb was working in economic development in Broken Arrow during the fall of 2010. I started feeling an ache in my chest I couldn’t ignore. Looking back, maybe it was peri-menopause—or maybe it was my soul trying to get my attention.   I found myself weeping in the car on the way home from work and often felt that I was in a fog.  I remember thinking that although I had a good job and I was good at it, my soul was not being served.  There was something that whispered, there’s more.

I initially assumed that I needed to find another job (which would most likely be just another safe but empty role).  So I quietly put out feelers about potential opportunities.  Doors that never opened, not even a crack.  I remember thinking to myself - I guess I need to open my own damn doors.  And just like that, I had a shift in thinking that maybe it was NOT another job that I or my soul needed.

During that time frame, I was admiring my son’s experiences during his 11-month mission trip around the world, thinking that maybe I too could do something like that.  Although I felt that I was too ‘old’ for such adventures abroad, it opened my thought process to something I had never considered before:  volunteer vacations. You know—just a few weeks, do some good, check that box, come back changed. But, deep down in my gut, I knew that wouldn’t be enough.

Then I saw the movie Eat Pray Love.   Like many many women, I deeply resonated with that movie.  I remember walking out of the theatre thinking hmmmm - I could NEVER travel for a WHOLE YEAR like Elizabeth Gilbert did, but what if I went for some other period of time.  What if I went for a three months?   What if I stopped playing small and actually let my life stretch?

Shifting to “what-if” thinking was the game changer.  It pulled me out of my usual mode—practical, detail-oriented, prone to overthinking—and into a more expansive state of mind.

One night shortly thereafter, I meditated on a Rumi quote “In the silence between your heartbeat bides a summons. Do you hear it? Name it if you must, or leave it forever nameless, but why pretend it is not there.”   I asked my higher self - okay, what if?  What if I were to go somewhere for three months, where would I go? 

And seriously—literally—I heard: AFRICA. (Boom.) AFRICA. (Boom.) AFRICA.  I remember being surprised by that, but in retrospect, I don’t know why I didn’t see that coming (if you know me, you know that animal print such as zebra, leopard and cheetah have long been a staple in my wardrobe AND my house).

The very next day, a magazine randomly arrived at my apartment—inside was a story about a woman who left corporate life to start a nonprofit in Africa.  I recognized it with the acknowledgement that it was indeed an interesting validation.

A few weeks later, during an online search, I stumbled across a volunteer program in Moshi, Tanzania. I had no idea where Moshi even was. Or Tanzania, for that matter. But something in my chest pinged. Loud and clear.  I remember mentioning to a co-worker that I felt that I would be going to Moshi Tanzania in 2011.  She laughed (as did many others) because the idea of this blingy, stiletto-wearing, fashion-loving smart girl traveling solo to Africa didn’t quite compute.

Within a week of discovering the volunteer program in Moshi, the Sunday Tulsa World featured The Baby Blues comic strip that included the little girl (named Zoe) asking her mom if Dar Es Salaam is the capital of Tanzania.   If you are familiar with this comic strip, you know that it’s about the McPherson family with three children, Zoe, Hammie and Wren.  They never mention cities in that comic. They barely talk about anything outside of school lunches, challenges of family life, kid shenanigans and diaper blowouts.  But that day—Tanzania.

It was in that moment that I knew. I absolutely knew. It was the universe dropping a microphone in my lap. It was God speaking to me in a comic strip.  And I love that God has a sense of humor. It definitely was a big and loud ping.

By March 2011, I had quit my job, sold most of my stuff, given up my apartment, and flew to Tanzania, landing in Arusha, Tanzania, by myself, on March 17, 2011.   What was initially planned to be a 3-month volunteer oriented trip ultimately turned into 7.5 years as the doors (and my heart) continued to open leading me to new opportunities to learn and make a difference there. Until the moment that I knew, just like that, that it was time to return to the US in the fall of 2018.

So today, in June of 2025, I’ve been back in the US for ALMOST as long as I lived in Tanzania.  Life has been very sedate, normal, convenient, easy.  As soothing as that is, I often think back to the unsuspecting Deb of 2010 who did not ever EVER see Africa coming around her corner.  As 66 year old Deb, I may not be chasing a passport stamp, but I still believe in the ping. I still believe Spirit has surprises—and that sometimes, they still show up disguised as cartoons or Facebook posts.  And while I haven’t been pinged in a long time now, I like to believe that there WILL be another ping coming my way. 

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Ever had a moment like that? A ridiculous, random sign that shook something loose in you? I believe Spirit speaks to each of us in our own language—sometimes through dreams, sometimes strangers, sometimes cartoons. The magic isn’t just in hearing the ping. It’s in having the courage to trust it.

Gentle Art of Blessing - The Silent Gift

Love doesn’t need to be loud to change the world.

There’s a quiet practice I’ve come to love—something simple, subtle, and deeply sacred.

Although I first encountered it in 2012, I haven’t always honored it consistently. A recent Facebook post about Silent Gifts re-ignited the memory, and for the past week or so, the idea has been percolating in my heart and through my words—ultimately landing here.

When I’m in a public place—a park, a store, walking down the street—I sometimes let my heart tune in to the people around me. Not in a nosy or judgmental way, but with soft awareness. A sort of heart-scan. I don’t know their stories, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of something: sadness in a person’s posture, anger in a sharp gesture, weariness etched into a parent’s face.

And I offer something silently.

If someone looks like they’re hurting, I send peace. If someone seems tired, I wish them rest and strength. If someone seems joyful, I quietly bless their joy to multiply. I don’t say anything out loud. I don’t need to. There’s a sacred intimacy in this invisible kind of giving—no strings, no credit, no audience. Just a whisper of love, passed from heart to heart.

Sometimes, I call it a silent gift.
Sometimes, it feels like a prayer.
Other times, a blessing.

It’s not all that different from those quick prayers we whisper throughout the day—“Be with them,” “Help her through this,” “Let them feel loved,” “Heal them.” But something about intentionally offering love without needing to call it anything at all feels profoundly powerful. A kind of spiritual generosity that doesn’t need language.

The truth is, it’s not always easy. At least not for me.

I live in my head a lot—schedules, goals, project deadlines, to-do lists with lives of their own. Ruminating over something I did or said (or didn’t do or say). I can get so wrapped up in momentum that I forget to look up. To look around. To see. To soften.

This practice asks me to do that. To pause the mental noise long enough to notice the people crossing my path. To remember that while I may be moving through my day, so are they—with their own griefs, hopes, burdens, and dreams.

And I think it’s easy to get caught up in how we show love. To want it to be visible. Specific. Recognized. Measurable. I’ve shared acts of kindness before—sometimes to encourage others, sometimes (if I’m being honest) because it felt good to be seen doing good. I think a lot of us walk that line. We want to be the kind of people who care… and sometimes we also want credit for it.

That’s human.

But the practice of being a silent giver—that’s something different. There’s no performance in it. No scoreboard. Just a moment of presence. A quiet “I see you. I wish you well.” Without ever saying a word.

I mentioned 2012 earlier. That year, during my Tanzania chapter, I spent a weekend at a lodge near Mt. Kilimanjaro. One of the employees was a young man who had recently graduated from college and was working there temporarily. Since there weren’t many guests, we had several chances to talk. As I was checking out, he asked me to bless him.

And I froze.

I felt unworthy—like I’d been given an elevated role I didn’t deserve. Who am I to bless someone? I remember the awkwardness of that moment vividly. Ultimately, I honored his request (even though I was uncomfortable doing so), laid my hand on his head and said, “Bless you, Elisante. Bless you and your dreams and aspirations.”

The very next day—literally the next day—an email landed in my inbox with a passage from John O’Donohue’s To Bless the Space Between Us. The timing was more than coincidence. It was a recalibration.

That moment cracked open my understanding. Blessing someone wasn’t about spiritual authority or religious standing. It wasn’t about being “qualified.” It was about presence. Intention. Love.

Later, The Gentle Art of Blessing by Pierre Pradervand deepened that understanding. He describes a blessing as genuinely wishing the best for another person—seeing their individual worth and honoring it. Drawing from sources like the Bible, the Quran, Taoism, and Hinduism, Pradervand explores how blessings can be practiced in daily life—whether in the supermarket, rush hour traffic, or at work.

Simple yet powerful, a blessing can change the way we perceive and shape the world around us—reflecting the unconditional love and deep acceptance that are needed for both global and inner peace.

Whether we call it a blessing, a silent gift, or an unspoken prayer—what matters is the heart, the intention, the vibrational energy behind it. The conscious choice to notice someone. To become, if only for a moment, a vessel of goodwill. To offer love and expect nothing in return.

For those who may feel helpless, overwhelmed, or unsure how to show up in these uncertain and heavy times—this practice is a way forward.

Because sometimes the most radical, restorative, soul-anchored thing we can do…
is to love without needing to be seen.

And right now, the world needs all of us to transmit love.

Trust the Process: A Letter to Myself

I’m admittedly an avid overthinker (something I’m working on!).  I’m also a ruminator. I process things deeply and tend to revisit them—sometimes to understand, sometimes to try to fix, and sometimes just because my brain doesn’t know how to let go. It’s both my superpower and my saboteur. 

During such times, if there’s one message I hear from Spirit—over and over—it’s this:

“Dear one, trust the process. You’re right where you’re supposed to be. Surrender your need for control.”

And the thing is, I know it’s true. It resonates. It lands.  I get it and I agree.  I just don’t always know how to live it.

It’s not dramatic or earth-shattering—just calm, steady. A gentle nudge. A broken record, but kinder.  It shows up when I’m spiraling, second-guessing, overthinking—trying to piece it all together with logic and spreadsheets and perseverance.

I’ve spent a good portion of my life figuring things out. Give me a big problem, and I’ll build a plan. I’ll organize it, delegate it, track it. That part of me is sharp, resourceful, determined.
It’s part of what makes me me.

But “trust the process” shifts everything.

It brings me to a place of peace.  To acceptance.  To knowing.  

It doesn’t mean I stop using my gifts or stop creating—it just means I’m not forcing it. I’m (slowly, stubbornly) learning that I’m not in charge of every piece.  It encourages me to flow instead of resist.  It moves me from trying to control the outcome to becoming open to what’s trying to come through.

Trust the process.
You’re not behind.  You’re not doing it wrong. You’re in the right place.  You’re perfectly on time.

Just breathe.  Listen in and let it unfold.

PS:   I often use the word Spirit when I talk about the Divine—whether that’s Creator, God, Source, Light, or Holy Spirit. For me, Spirit is an expansive word that holds all of that. I know different people use different names—God, Jesus, the Universe, Allah, Yahweh, Higher Power. I believe we’re all reaching toward the same sacred consciousness, just from different angles and traditions. For me, the name matters less to me than the connection and the intention of the heart.