kipenzi.me

Tag: quick reads for grownups

  • The Pelican Who Let Go: How Percy Found Peace

    The Pelican Who Let Go: How Percy Found Peace

    Hi, I’m Percy the Pelican. I’ve got a beak that can hold a small grocery store and a tendency to overpack, emotionally and otherwise. They say pelicans glide gracefully, but let me tell you that grace takes work… especially when your metaphorical baggage is heavier than your wingspan.

    Here are my 3 pelican-tested, ocean-breeze-approved rules for lightening your load :

    1. Let Some Things Go Overboard

    Not every worry deserves a front-row seat in your brain. That awkward thing you said in 2017? Toss it. The to-do list item that’s been haunting you for months? Maybe it doesn’t need doing. The lighter the load, the smoother the flight.

    2. Don’t Pack “Just In Case” Emotions

    Guilt, envy, resentment, they sneak into your heart, like emotional souvenirs. “Just in case” you need them later. You won’t. Travel emotionally light. Trust me, peace of mind fits better in your beak.

    3. Float When You Can

    Sometimes, soaring is too much. That’s okay. Float. Drift. Let the current carry you for a bit. Rest isn’t giving up, it’s trusting that the tide knows the way home.

    Final Thought from Percy

    You don’t have to carry it all to get where you’re going.
    Sometimes, the smartest thing a bird can do…
    is unpack.

    Because freedom? It isn’t just wings. It’s knowing when to put something down.

  • The Whale Who Sang at Night – How One Deep Note Helped Me Remember My Own Quiet

    The Whale Who Sang at Night – How One Deep Note Helped Me Remember My Own Quiet

    I wasn’t sleeping much. The noise in my head had grown louder than the world outside it, emails unanswered, deadlines unmet, relationships misfiring in that subtle, unspectacular way that doesn’t make headlines but leaves bruises just the same.

    So I walked. At night, mostly, with a pair of old headphones and a playlist built more from desperation than curation. I wasn’t searching for anything. Just silence that didn’t feel empty. And then, one evening, beneath the low hum of street lamps and the distant hiss of passing cars, I heard it.

    A sound so deep and resonant it didn’t feel like it entered through my ears, but through my bones. It was a whale. Singing.

    Unexpected Encounters: How Nature Finds You Where You Are

    I didn’t remember adding the track. Some field recording, probably, oceanic ambience meant to relax anxious minds. But this was different. This wasn’t background noise. This was deliberate, haunting, mournful. The whale sang long, slow notes that bent time. I stopped walking.

    In the dark, under an indifferent sky, I stood frozen as the sound filled me. And for the first time in weeks, the tightness in my chest loosened, not because anything was solved, but because I didn’t feel so alone.

    I went home and looked it up. A humpback, they said. The recording had been captured miles off the coast, decades ago. A single whale, calling out into the vast blue with no guarantee of reply. And yet, he sang anyway.

    When a Song Knows You: The Healing Power of Unexpected Connection

    Every night after that, I listened to him. Sometimes in bed. Sometimes in the bath. Sometimes, while staring at the ceiling, I wish for answers. I never gave the whale a name, but I spoke to him in my head.

    I told him things I didn’t tell anyone else. About the way I used to write poems before I worried whether they were good. About the person I loved who left quietly, as if they’d never belonged to my story in the first place. About the fear I wore under my clothes, disguised as ambition.

    And the whale? He just kept singing. Long, slow notes. No judgment. No solutions. Just presence. There’s a kind of healing in being met like that, without expectation, without urgency. Just acknowledged.

    Carrying the Song Forward, When You Remember to Breathe Again

    Eventually, the noise in my head softened. Life didn’t change dramatically; there were still deadlines, mismatched conversations, sleepless nights, but something had shifted inside me.

    Now, sometimes when things spin out again, I go walking and I play that same recording. I let the whale sing to me like he did that first night. And I remember: there’s still mystery in the world. Still connected without language. Still, something ancient and kind beneath the surface of everything.

    He never knew I was listening. But he sang anyway. And somehow, that was enough.

  • The Hedgehog’s Quiet Warning – What a Small Animal Taught Me About Rushing, Rest, and Rolling Back In

    The Hedgehog’s Quiet Warning – What a Small Animal Taught Me About Rushing, Rest, and Rolling Back In

    I met her in early spring, when the frost was still pulling back from the earth. She was small, round, and hesitant, crossing the flagstone path in the back garden like she had all the time in the world.

    I nearly stepped on her. I was rushing out with my phone in one hand and a to-do list in the other. She froze. I stopped. We stared at each other. And then, just as I began to step forward again, she tucked herself into a tight, silent ball of bristles.

    I took a step back. Only then did she begin to move again, slowly, deliberately, as if nothing had happened. I laughed a little to myself, shrugged it off. But it didn’t end there.

    She returned. Not every day, but often enough to be noticed. And always, when I was moving too fast, too loudly, she’d curl up again, her silence more striking than a shout.

    A Soft Refusal That Spoke Volumes

    She became my unexpected mirror. Not with judgment, but with clarity. If I stormed into the yard talking to myself, muttering frustrations, hurrying to trim or fix or control, she vanished. Curled. Gone.

    But if I moved slowly, left my phone inside, wandered with intention instead of impulse, she stayed. Ate. Breathed. Shared space with me.

    Her warning wasn’t harsh. It was subtle. A quiet refusal to participate in chaos. She didn’t need to fight or flee. She simply stopped. And her stillness asked me a question I wasn’t used to hearing: Why are you always rushing?

    Learning to Slow by Watching Stillness

    Over time, I adjusted. Not just in the garden, but in everything. I noticed when my voice rose unnecessarily. When my days blurred together with noise and urgency. When I bulldozed through moments that deserved attention.

    The hedgehog taught me with presence, not performance. She reminded me that not every reaction must be dramatic. That boundary can be quiet. That stillness is a form of wisdom, not weakness.

    Sometimes, just rolling into yourself is enough to signal: Not now. Not like this. And sometimes, that pause is all it takes for the world to soften around you.

    The Warning I Now Carry With Me

    By summer, she stopped appearing. Perhaps she moved on. Perhaps she didn’t need to return.

    But the lesson stayed. Her quiet warning echoes in me every time I feel myself tipping into overdrive, when I’m tempted to rush through a conversation, dismiss a small joy, or override my own need for rest.

    She didn’t preach. She didn’t ask me to change. She simply showed me what happens when we make too much noise around what deserves quiet. Now, when I sense myself charging ahead blindly, I pause.
    I remember her stillness.
    I curl inward, breathe, and wait until I’m ready to step forward more gently.

    Some wisdom doesn’t arrive in words.
    Sometimes, it rolls into a ball at your feet and waits for you to notice.

  • Simon the Salmon Who Heard the River

    Simon the Salmon Who Heard the River

    Hi, I’m Simon the salmon, strong fins, upstream dreams. Most creatures think we’re just born to swim against the current. But the truth? We don’t just fight the river… we listen to it.

    The river speaks, if you’re quiet enough. It whispers truths in every twist and turn. Here are my 3 current- tested, instinct-approved lessons from listening deeply:

    1. Trust the Pull

    I didn’t always understand why I swam upstream. It hurt. It was hard. But something deeper guided me. Not logic, instinct. Life will call you places you don’t fully understand. Trust the tug. Your path may be tough, but it’s true.

    2. Flow with Resistance

    Rocks. Rapids. Detours. I used to fight everything in my way. But the river taught me: resistance isn’t your enemy, it’s your teacher. Flow around obstacles. Learn their shape. Let them shape you, too. Strength isn’t just pushing forward, it’s learning how to move with purpose.

    3. Return to What Matters

    We salmon always circle back, homeward, heartward. Not out of habit, but meaning. Life isn’t just about forward motion. Sometimes the bravest thing is returning: to your roots, your truth, your peace.

    Final Thought from the Salmon

    The river doesn’t shout. It murmurs. It nudges. And if you listen, really listen, it tells you everything you need to know. So today, trust what pulls you. Don’t fear the current.

    And remember, it’s not always about the destination. Sometimes, the river is the lesson.

  • The Lizard Who Listened to Music

    The Lizard Who Listened to Music

    Hi, I’m Harmony. I’ve got cool scales, sharp ears, and a playlist for every mood. I wasn’t always into music; once, I just basked in silence. But one rainy afternoon, I crawled behind a record player… and everything changed.

    That beat? That melody? It wasn’t just sound. It was something deeper. Music didn’t just fill the room, it filled me. Here are my 3 sound-checked, soul-approved rules for tuning into life:

    1. Let Life Set the Tempo

    Some days are jazz, unexpected, and wild. Others they’re slow ballads. I used to fight the rhythm, trying to speed up or slow down everything. But life flows better when you move with its tempo. Don’t rush the quiet moments. Don’t resist the crescendos.

    2. Feel It Fully

    When a song hits, it hits. Sometimes I sway. Sometimes I still. Music taught me not to numb things down. Joy, sadness, nostalgia, let it all play through you. Emotion is how we stay human (or reptile). Stop skipping tracks. Feel the whole album.

    3. Make Space for Stillness

    Silence is music, too. In the gaps between notes, meaning lives. I find peace in the pause, between conversations, in the early morning, or right after a song ends. Stillness isn’t empty. It’s where we catch our breath, and often, ourselves.

    Final Thought from Harmony

    I used to think music was just background noise. Now I know it’s a language, one that listens back if you let it. So today, match your steps to the rhythm. Feel what you need to feel. And don’t be afraid of silence.

    Because when you really listen, you don’t just hear the world, you understand it.

  • The Gecko Who Got Lost in Art

    The Gecko Who Got Lost in Art

    Hi, I’m Leo. Small feet, big dreams. I used to scurry through life, walls, ceilings, deadlines, but one day, I paused in front of a canvas and never quite left. People ask how a gecko became an artist. I say: curiosity, colour, and climbing outside the lines.

    Here are my 3 wall-tested, paint-splattered rules for living creatively and meaningfully:

    1. Pause to Notice Beauty

    We rush so much we forget the details: the texture of a brushstroke, the way light hits a window, the quiet between conversations. I used to dart from task to task. Now, I pause. Presence is a palette. When you slow down, you see more and feel more.

    2. Make a Mess (It’s How You Learn)

    I’ve knocked over ink, spilled paint on my tail, and turned mistakes into masterpieces. Art, like life, is messy. But creativity lives in chaos. Let go of perfection. Try. Smear. Repaint. Growth begins when you stop fearing the mess.

    3. Express Yourself, Even If You’re Small

    People say I’m just a gecko. But I have something to say, through colour, shape, and spirit. You do too. Don’t shrink your voice. Whether it’s a poem, a playlist, or a Post, doodling and self-expression heal. Let your inner world reach the outer one.

    Final Thought from Leo

    I once thought purpose was about being fast or useful. Now I know it’s about being real. So today, pause and notice. Be unafraid to make a mess. And say what only you can say.

    Because living creatively isn’t about becoming famous, it’s about becoming you. And sometimes, getting lost in art is how we finally find ourselves.

  • The Raven Who Left Feathers – How One Bird Taught Me to Notice the Quiet Things That Change Us

    The Raven Who Left Feathers – How One Bird Taught Me to Notice the Quiet Things That Change Us

    It appeared on the windowsill one morning. Black, glossy, curved like a question. I didn’t think much of it at first, just a stray feather, maybe dropped mid-flight. I brushed it aside and continued my day.

    But the next morning, there was another. In the same spot. Clean, whole, still as a sentence waiting to be read. By the third morning, I stopped dismissing it. The feathers arrived with impossible precision. No mess, no scattered down. Just one, each day, placed like punctuation.

    And always, the raven nearby, watching from the gnarled walnut tree, head tilted slightly, as if asking whether I was paying attention yet.

    When Silence Speaks Louder Than Words

    I never saw her deliver the feathers. Only the results. But her gaze stayed with me. Calm. Knowing. Unhurried. It felt less like being watched and more like being witnessed.

    I began to keep the feathers in a glass jar on my kitchen counter, though I wasn’t sure why. I told no one. How do you explain a bird leaving you gifts with the precision of poetry?

    They weren’t ordinary feathers. They carried something in them, a stillness, a weightless presence. When I held one in my palm, I could feel myself breathing differently. Slower. Deeper. As if I’d been called back to something I’d forgotten.

    Not a message in language, but in attention. In quiet.

    Feathers as Reminders, Not Rewards

    One morning, I was in a rush, phone buzzing, coffee burning, mind racing. I didn’t check the sill. I didn’t look up at the tree. I forgot.

    That day, there was no feather.

    And something in me sagged. Not with guilt, exactly, but with awareness. Like missing a call you didn’t hear ring. The world hadn’t punished me. The raven hadn’t disappeared. But the rhythm had paused.

    I walked out to the walnut tree that evening. The raven was there, of course. She said nothing. Did nothing. But she was there.

    So I stood still. I listened. I apologised, not in words, but in posture. In presence. The next morning, the feather was back.

    What the Raven Left Me With

    She stayed through winter. Left feather after feather until the jar was full. Then one day, she didn’t come. No feather. No silhouette in the tree. Just air and silence.

    But by then, I didn’t need the feathers to remember what they had taught me:
    That not everything important arrives with sound. That presence isn’t loud. That a life can be altered by a bird who asks nothing, gives quietly, and vanishes without warning.

    Now I notice different feathers, the way sunlight catches dust, the warmth of a mug in my hands, the space between thoughts. All quiet. All messages.

    The raven left me reminders, not answers.
    And in her absence, I’ve finally learned to read them.

  • The Spider’s Web Across My Path – A Story of Patience, Presence, and Quiet Persistence

    The Spider’s Web Across My Path – A Story of Patience, Presence, and Quiet Persistence

    It started on a Tuesday. I was walking the same worn path from the back gate to the garden shed, coffee in hand, half-distracted, thinking about meetings and deadlines, when something brushed against my face. I recoiled instinctively, blinking into the low morning light.

    There, stretching between a branch and the corner of the old fence, was a web. Nearly invisible unless the sun hit it just right. I waved it away with a grimace and went on.

    But the next morning, it was back. Rebuilt. Same spot. Same fragile threads stretched with defiance across the narrow path. And again the next morning. And the next. What began as a nuisance slowly became a ritual. I started walking slower. Watching for it. Expecting it.

    A Masterclass in Rebuilding

    I never saw the spider at first. Only the aftermath of her effort: a radial symmetry of silk, glittering faintly in the breeze. No bitterness, no hesitation. Just another web, spun with the kind of dedication most of us only dream of.

    She didn’t argue with the wind. She didn’t complain about destruction. She built. Quietly. Constantly. As if each thread were an act of faith that the world would hold.

    One morning, I crouched beside the web and finally saw her, tiny, amber brown, tucked in the center like a still breath. Her size made her resilience more stunning. I thought of all the things I’d abandoned after one setback, one criticism, one failed attempt.

    She spun. She persisted. I watched.

    The Lessons We Don’t Choose but Need

    The spider never asked to teach. I never asked to learn. But there we were, passing each other in a kind of silent apprenticeship.

    Her web became a symbol, a living metaphor stretched across my day: that beauty doesn’t need permission, that effort isn’t always rewarded the way we expect, but it matters all the same. That you can be delicate and still determined. Quiet and still powerful.

    She didn’t wait for ideal conditions. She worked with what was there: rain, wind, careless humans. And each day, I paused. I noticed. I whispered something like thanks.

    Carrying Her Web Within Me

    Eventually, the season changed. Mornings came colder. The webs stopped appearing. I missed them more than I admitted, those thin strands that forced me to slow down, to bend, to see. But the lesson stayed.

    Now, when I hit resistance, when the world knocks down what I’ve worked for, I remember her. The spider on the fence. The patient architect. The quiet persistence. And I start again.

    Because sometimes, the most powerful lessons don’t come from people.
    They come from the things we walk through without noticing.
    From threads we didn’t expect. From webs we didn’t mean to find, but now carry with us, invisible and strong.

  • The Elephant Who Remembered Me – A Tale of Memory, Presence, and Being Seen Without Words

    The Elephant Who Remembered Me – A Tale of Memory, Presence, and Being Seen Without Words

    I hadn’t planned to go back. Not really. But time has a way of folding over itself, and a work trip brought me within driving distance of the reserve where I’d once spent a summer volunteering, twenty seven years ago. I was nineteen then, full of ideas and ignorance. All I’d wanted was escape. What I found instead was connection, with animals and a quieter version of myself.

    One of them stood out. Her name was Marula. She was the youngest of the herd and endlessly curious, trailing after me during feeding rounds, curling her trunk around my water bottle, flapping her ears like she understood every word I said.

    I hadn’t thought of her in years. Until I stood at the old fence line and saw her, larger now, of course, towering and weathered, but unmistakably her. Something in her posture shifted. And then, impossibly, she walked straight toward me.

    More Than Memory – Recognition

    There were other visitors that day, snapping photos and whispering facts they barely understood. But Marula stopped a few feet from the fence, lifted her trunk, and let out a low rumble, a sound I remembered from warm mornings spent in silence beside her. A sound that wasn’t random.

    I said her name, uncertain. She blinked slowly, then tapped the earth with one foot, the way she used to when I brought bananas hidden in my coat. A keeper nearby looked stunned.
    “She doesn’t usually come that close to strangers,” he said.

    I wasn’t a stranger. Not to her. And in that moment, I wasn’t one to myself either.

    Her gaze held mine. Something ancient passed between us, something more enduring than time or distance. It wasn’t just that she remembered me. It was that she remembered who I had been. Before titles, before responsibilities, before forgetting.

    When You’re Seen Without Explanation

    There’s something deeply humbling about being remembered by a creature who owes you nothing. Who doesn’t need to pretend, or flatter, or follow convention? Marula didn’t care about the years that had changed me. She didn’t ask what I’d become. She simply saw me, as if the boy who had once fed her mango slices was still right there, underneath the adult I wore like armor.

    I stayed by the fence longer than I planned. She didn’t leave. We just stood there, breathing the same slow air, old souls in a new chapter. Eventually, she turned back toward the trees, the rest of the herd waiting.

    She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.

    Carrying the Memory Forward

    I drove away changed, not in the obvious ways, no major life decisions, no dramatic resolutions. Just a quiet internal alignment, like something had clicked back into place.

    Sometimes we spend so long becoming who the world expects, we forget who we were before we were watched. Before life asked for proof and performance.

    Marula didn’t ask for anything. She simply remembered. And in that, she gave me back a piece of myself I hadn’t realized was missing.

    Not every reunion comes with words. Some come with rumbles, with silence, with eyes that say: I know you. I still do.

  • The Duck Who Danced Like No One Was Watching

    The Duck Who Danced Like No One Was Watching

    Hi, I’m Ripple. I’m not the most graceful duck on the pond. My rhythm’s offbeat, my feet are… flappy. But give me a puddle and a little moonlight, and I’ll show you what freedom looks like.

    I dance. Not for the crowd. Not for the applause. Just because it feels good to move.

    Here are my 3 feather-ruffling truths about dancing through life:

    1. Joy Doesn’t Have to Be Justified

    We’ve all been taught to earn our happiness.
    To prove we deserve the good stuff. But sometimes, you just need to let go, no reason, no results.

    I don’t dance to impress. I dance because I can. And that’s enough. You don’t need a milestone to feel alive. You just need a moment.

    2. Not Everyone Will Clap. Dance Anyway

    Some stare. Some scoff. Some ducks stick to the shallow end because they’re scared to look silly.

    But joy isn’t always elegant. Sometimes it flaps, spins, and splashes.

    You don’t owe anyone your cool. You owe yourself your freedom.

    3. Your Light Frees Others

    Here’s the best part. The more I danced, the more others joined in. Waddles turned into wiggles. Beaks opened in laughter.

    Turns out, people don’t need permission to be happy, they just need an example.

    Final Thought from Ripple

    You don’t have to be the best to be bold. You just have to move in a way that feels true.

    So today, play your inner music. Shake off the fear. and dance, wildly and wonderfully.
    Because joy? It was never meant to be quiet.