Finding Light

When perspective shifts, poetry flows, and cooking heals

A foggy morning in my neighborhood ¦ Photo by Jack McNulty

“When you are distressed by an external thing, it’s not the thing itself that troubles you, but only your judgment of it. And you can wipe this out at a moment’s notice.” – Marcus Aurelius

These ancient words from Marcus Aurelius have been echoing in my mind this past week, taking on deeper meaning after a recent morning walk.

That day began quietly. The quiet of a gray Sunday morning stood in stark contrast to the noise of autumn leaves clinging desperately to unwilling branches. It seemed like a perfect moment to escape with my wife for a walk, and to share in nature's transition from one season to another.

We were eager to step away from the world's drab news that hung in the air like the fog above. Our hope was to lose ourselves in simple moments – perhaps photograph a kingfisher hunting or discover a robin posing on a nearby branch. But nature had other plans that morning, keeping its creatures hidden from view as we turned toward home.

Then I heard Silvia say 'shit,' and time slowed to an excruciating frame-by-frame sequence. I stood frozen, watching helplessly as she tumbled to the pavement. The scene burned into my memory – the awkward angle of her shoulder, the grimace of pain crossing her face, my own hands reaching out too late to catch her. Though she emerged without injury, the slow-motion replay continued to play in my mind.

In the hours that followed, my imagination crafted at least a half dozen scenarios, each beginning with 'what if...' None offered comfort. Instead, I created disaster where none existed, building catastrophes from nothing more than nervous energy and fear.

Perception, I was reminded, is everything.

It can make us feel frail and powerless in the face of any challenge, big or small. During these vulnerable moments, we often forget a simple truth: what matters isn't what plays out in our minds, but how we choose to respond to what actually happens.

These thoughts led me to explore different ways of finding perspective, comfort, and creative expression during a particularly challenging week...

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A Return to Poetry

Poetry first found me when I was barely a teenager. My early verses were simple observations of the world around me. I recall writing about trees, and what they might say if I could speak to them. I wrote about my cat – a gentle giant named Gus. I mainly wrote to privately express what I was feeling. It was my outlet in a family that didn't encourage openness.

But young boys weren't supposed to write poetry, or so I was told. My parents' lack of enthusiasm and support easily won out. I tucked away my notebook and picked up a baseball bat.

The urge to write poetry returned during my early thirties. The personal pain from failed relationships and unmet expectations left invisible scars. Watching my six-month-old cat helplessly slip away from an incurable illness added another layer of anguish. I turned to poetry during those dark months to help express myself – to try and find a way to make sense of loss.

As life settled into calmer rhythms, the need to write about my feelings in verse faded away.

Now, I feel the gentle stirring of my poetry muse waking up anew. Perhaps it's the weight of current events, or simply an awareness of my own mortality... I'm not sure, but I feel ready to embrace my faithful muse. I need to transform thoughts into carefully crafted lines. It isn't something to dismiss – it's a gift to nurture.

I recently spent time writing about the interplay between darkness and light, about emerging from shadows into brightness. While working my thoughts into verses, I realized I was speaking not just about the state of the world, but also about my journey as a creator. I wanted to honor what I was feeling and express those thoughts in my own creative way, rather than bending to external pressures that would have us remain silent.

For the first time in my life, I'm ready to share one of my poems with a wider audience. It's called 'The Artist's Will,' and it speaks to all of us who feel compelled to create, especially in times of darkness.

A hazy view from my kitchen ¦ Photo by Jack McNulty

The Artist's Will

From deepest night, creative spirits rise,

Their vision piercing through the dark malaise.

Where others falter in the boundless deep,

Artists unlock what silent darkness keeps.

Awaken, creators of this world anew—

Let not your spirit bend, your will stay true.

Within your hands, the void begins to shine,

As colors, words, and melodies entwine.

Sustine et abstine¹ – ancient guide,

To bear, forbear, through storms we must abide.

In triumph or defeat, we craft our way—

Our art endures beyond the passing day.

The world awaits your light, your sacred art,

To lift us past the chaos, help us start

To see beyond the shroud of daily strife,

Find beauty in each corner of this life.

With iron will and rising voice so clear,

We forge ahead through storms without our fear.

Together strong, we shape what's yet unknown—

From darkness, light; from silence, voices grown.

1 A Stoic maxim calling for enduring the trials of life with self-command and self-control. It’s acknowledging the pain but continuing onward in the task.

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My Kitchen Sanctuary

Sometimes words aren't enough to quiet my mind. In those moments, I find myself drawn to another creative sanctuary – my kitchen.

I often retreat there during life's most challenging moments. There's something deeply grounding about the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the gentle sizzle of onions in a pan, and the way familiar scents cling to me like wearing a warm sweatshirt on a crisp morning.

Cooking helps me focus on tasks that fully engage my senses and demand my complete attention. It’s these simple connections I crave – the softness of dough beneath my palms or the faint resistance of mushrooms as I slice them. These essential sensory connections become links between my hands and the food I’m preparing.

Recently, as global events weighed heavily on my mind, I found myself hungry for the kind of comfort only creating with my hands could provide. Instead of letting the darkness of the news cycle consume me, I chose to channel my energy into something tangible... something I would enjoy eating and sharing.

My kitchen became a sanctuary – a space where I could immerse myself in what I could control and let go of what I couldn't.

My quest for soothing comfort led me back to an old favorite, reimagined through my current lens of plant-based cooking. I spent the afternoon crafting a Mushroom and Tofu Pot Pie – a grown-up interpretation of the pot pies that once comforted my younger self.

For a few precious hours, measuring ingredients, rolling out pastry, preparing mushrooms and tofu – and everything else that would contribute to taste and indulgence – became a moving meditation. This simple act of cooking gave me room to welcome a new perspective. It was a reminder that even in challenging times, we can still create moments of joy and sustenance. We can choose our own way.

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Mushroom and Tofu Pot Pie

Mushroom and Tofu Pot Pie ¦ Photo by Jack McNulty

Growing up, pot pies were one of my favorite comfort foods. I'd eagerly await that moment when the golden crust emerged from the oven, knowing that a mysterious world of creamy goodness lay beneath. Those store-bought versions, with their uniform filling, were a teenage indulgence that left an indelible mark on my childhood food memories.

This vegan recreation captures all the magic of those commercial pot pies while elevating them with fresh ingredients and complex flavors. That exciting moment when your spoon first breaks through the crispy crust, releasing a cloud of aromatic steam, remains just as thrilling. But now, the filling reveals a thoughtfully crafted blend of earthy mushrooms, tender tofu, and garden-fresh vegetables bathing in a silky béchamel sauce.

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Your way of expressing creativity or finding comfort

Finding our way through difficult times often requires us to tap into our creative spirit. Whether it's through writing, cooking, painting, or any other form of expression, these moments of creation can become our anchors. What helps you find perspective when things feel overwhelming? How do you express yourself creatively during challenging times? Please feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below – I'd love to hear about your experiences!

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Something to think about...

As I continue to explore these different ways of creating and finding comfort, I'm reminded of these words from Ryan Holiday (The Obstacle Is The Way):

“No one is saying you can’t take a minute to think. Dammit, this sucks. By all means, vent. Exhale. Take stock. Just don’t take too long. Because you have to get back to work. Because each obstacle we overcome makes us stronger for the next one.”

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