Bread is one of the oldest human technologies, and once or twice a week when I feed my starter, I get to feel the quiet intimacy of participating in something ancient. The jar on the counter, alive with invisible life, asks nothing more than regular attention. A little flour, a little water, a little faith. The process become philosophical, a daily practice in patience and presence, and sourdough, for me, is not simply food; it is a mode of inquiry. It asks how transformation occurs, and at what pace we should approach that transformation.
Every sourdough baker learns early on that control is an illusion. The starter has moods, the dough responds differently each day, and the line between perfect proof and an epic collapse is razor-thin. In this small domestic theatre, the dough resists command, growing best when treated with care, not coercion. Byung-Chul Han’s The Burnout Society warns of the violence of acceleration, how the modern subject, obsessed with optimisation, loses the capacity for duration. But sourdough refuses this logic. It can’t be rushed, not by willpower, not by technology. The microbes moved at their own pace, and perhaps I have begun to as well.
Fermentation, after all, is transformation through decay. It is the art of letting things break down in order that something new may emerge. There is philosophy in this: a recognition that change requires dissolution. The sour tang of the starter, the slow bubbling, and the mingling of bacteria and yeast are all material lessons in collaboration and renewal. Our ecological lives, too, depend on unseen networks, on the fermentation of shared experience.
In a world addicted to instant results, fermentation becomes an act of quiet resistance. We live amid the tyranny of instant coffee, instant messages, instant gratification. Sourdough asks us to wait. It requires a slowness that verges on contemplation. Carlo Petrini’s Slow Food Movement began as a protest against fast food, but its real gift was philosophical: a reclamation of pleasure, locality, and rhythm. Baking, like slow thought, teaches that nourishment and wisdom arise through attention. To bake for oneself, or better, to bake for another, is to rejoin an economy of care rather than consumption. When I share a loaf, still warm from the oven, I’m reminded that slowness is also a form of generosity.
The sourdough jar reveals how we attend to it. Some days, the starter is buoyant, light, eager; on others, sluggish and heavy. It reflects not just temperature but temperament. My own perfectionism has often met its match in the unpredictable nature of fermentation. The failed loaves — dense, burnt, deflated — have taught me more than the flawless ones, and sourdough offers its own alchemical education. The process cannot be hurried; it thrives on warmth, patience, and rhythm.
When I take a loaf from the oven, I feel a satisfaction that the intellectual world rarely grants: here is a thing complete, made by hand, known through touch. The world slows, if only for a moment, and becomes sufficient.
Sourdough, then, becomes a teacher of right timing, a philosophy that ferments rather than forces. Its lessons are certainly not confined to the kitchen. I’ve begun to notice similar rhythms in my creative work, where projects now follow seasons rather than sprints. After years of academic urgency, I’m learning the value of waiting and of letting ideas ‘prove’. What emerges, when it finally does, carries more depth, less strain. Slow philosophy isn’t simply slow thinking but slow being: a willingness to inhabit processes rather than rush through them. Education itself could learn from this pedagogy of fermentation, where growth happens unseen, between the visible milestones.
To bake bread is to remember that life itself is leavened by care. The simplest rituals, when done attentively, become meditations on being alive. Whether it’s bread, gardening, sewing, or journaling, each act can be a form of everyday metaphysics where philosophy meets fingertips. The smell of bread cooling on the counter, the sound of the crust cracking as it releases its final breath, is a small hymn to time.
UPCOMING EVENTS
If this resonates, you might enjoy joining one of my upcoming gatherings:
For me, mornings have become less about rushing into productivity and more about creating a small pocket of time that feels set apart, a threshold into the day. This is, after all, what Julia Cameron invites us to do in The Artist’s Way: show up to the blank page before we show up to anyone else.
A ritual isn’t a routine; it is a way of marking time as meaningful. When I light a candle before writing, or make my coffee slowly in my V60 instead of rushing, I am reminding myself that this time is not just another item to cross off a list, it is where my life begins for the day. Mircea Eliade, in The Sacred and the Profane, writes about ritual as a way of stepping into ‘sacred time’, a space where the ordinary becomes charged with significance. For me, this might mean lighting a special candle that reminds me of that changing of the seasons going on at the moment, or pausing for a moment on the balcony to notice the light on the plants before I open my laptop. These small gestures are a way of crossing the threshold deliberately, rather than being dragged into the day half-awake.
Groundedness begins in the body. No amount of list-making and project management will make a difference if I wake up already scattered and tense. The first thing I try to do now is move. I have been trying to get into running again, which I alternate with indoor rowing (my preferred cardio of choice). And after years of not making progress or any form of commitment to resistance machines at the gym, I’ve taken up strength training with two simple dumbbells, which has been an absolutely fantastic development in my fitness journey–the trainers on FIIT have revolutionised my entire outlook on dumbbells. This comes alongside my yoga practice, which has been with me for nearly 25 years. The point is less about physical fitness (although, as I get older, I am becoming increasingly aware of the need to build lasting wellness) and more about arriving in my body. As Bessel van der Kolk reminds us in The Body Keeps the Score, our sense of safety and clarity begins somatically, not intellectually. If I can bring my nervous system into a calmer, more coherent state first thing, the rest of the day feels less like a battle.
Creativity thrives in spaciousness, not in haste. This is where Morning Pages come in—Julia Cameron’s influential practice of writing three longhand pages first thing in the morning. They are not intended to be polished or even interesting; they are more like clearing mental static, a way to compost the thoughts that would otherwise clutter the mind all day. I find that pairing them with something tactile—a favourite notebook, a good pen—enhances the ritual. (In The Artist’s Way Circle, we’ll not only practice Morning Pages but also discuss what they unlock: the surprising insights that surface when we permit ourselves to be imperfectly present.)
Not every ritual has to be still. A ten-minute stroll before sitting down to write can be as clarifying as a meditation cushion. The Go Jauntly app has been such a fantastic presence for me. Thich Nhat Hanh speaks beautifully about walking meditation as a way to arrive in the present moment, and I find that even putting on a playlist and tidying the kitchen can create that same bridging effect between sleep and wakefulness. The point is to let the mind settle before reaching for the phone, before taking on the noise of the world.
During my sabbatical, I’ve been focusing on testing and adjusting my daily habits so that when I return to a busy routine of teaching and administration in the new year, I will have a clear understanding of what best supports my growth and development. Protecting the first hour of the day is, I’ve come to see, an act of self-respect. Seneca reminds us that we are often more careful with money than with time, though time is the one thing we can never get back. I’ve started following a ‘no-scroll rule’ in the first hour of the day, and replaced it with going straight to the gym.
The key is not to design the perfect morning but to make a start, consistently. There have been mornings where the ritual falls apart—when I oversleep, or skip the gym entirely—but I’m learning that a ritual that only works on perfect days isn’t really a ritual at all. The point is to keep coming back. James Clear’s Atomic Habits puts it simply: habits compound over time. A short, wobbly practice is better than a grand plan you never do.
This time of year feels like an invitation to recommit. I’ve always felt that September carries more of a ‘new year’ energy than January—it must be the academic calendar still in my bones. This month, I’m choosing to double down on the things that anchor me: lighting a candle before email, a few minutes of breathing exercises, and breakfast that feels nourishing rather than hasty. I’d love for you to consider what this season might invite for you.
Ultimately, a grounded morning is an act of creative resistance. In a culture that would have us wake up and immediately start scrolling, choosing ritual is choosing presence. So tonight, ask yourself: how do you want your mornings to feel for the next twelve weeks? And if you are ready to experiment—with ritual, with creativity, with spaciousness—I’d love for you to join us in The Artist’s Way Circle. The early-bird 40% discount closes at midnight tonight, and there are just a few spots left. Your mornings—and your creative life—might look completely different on the other side.
As the leaves turn and the pace of life shifts, autumn is the perfect season to nurture your creative self. Whether you’re a writer, artist, academic, or thinker, this fall I’m offering a range of events designed to support your practice, spark fresh ideas, and help you stay focused and inspired.
🎨 Weekly Creative Flow Sessions – Free Dedicated time to write, draw, or work on your projects alongside other creatives. No pressure, just presence, energy, and support. Quiet, structured sessions to help you start, focus, and finish your creative work in good company. RSVP here
📖 12-Week Artist’s Way Circle Dive deep with Julia Cameron’s classic book, The Artist’s Way, bringing the work to life in community with practical exercises and reflections to reclaim your creative voice. Weekly 90-minute circles for reflection, sharing, and growth. Join here
🧘 Mindfulness for Creatives – Evening Workshop Learn mindfulness techniques specifically for creatives and academics. Cultivate focus, flow, and inspiration in your daily practice in this 2.5-hour workshop filled with science-backed insights and practical exercises and tools. Reserve your spot here
Autumn is a season of new beginnings and renewed energy. Whether you’re seeking free flow time, structured accountability, or a transformative creative journey, there’s a place for you in these sessions. I’d love to see you there—let’s make this autumn a season of inspiration, focus, and creative growth.
We live in a time when personal development is everywhere. Books, podcasts, apps, retreats—offering promises of clarity, balance, transformation. Yet for all the tools we now have at our fingertips, many of us still feel stuck in cycles of stress, comparison, anxiety, and low-level unease. We meditate, journal, affirm—but underneath, a quieter question lingers:
Why do I keep thinking in ways that don’t serve me?
A Course in Miracles doesn’t answer that question in the way most programs or teachings do. It doesn’t try to fix your life. It doesn’t teach you how to manifest your dream job, or how to wake up feeling inspired every morning. It doesn’t even really give advice.
Instead, it offers something far more radical: a training in how to undo fear at the level of thought. Not by fighting it. Not by spiritually bypassing it. But by recognising how much of what we call “reality” is coloured by unconscious habits of mind—and learning, very gently, to choose a different lens.
The Course tells us: “Nothing real can be threatened. Nothing unreal exists. Herein lies the peace of God.”
That sounds mystical, and it is. But it’s also incredibly practical. It points to a profound principle: most of what we spend our time defending, controlling, resisting, or avoiding… isn’t actually real. It’s based on thoughts we’ve inherited, stories we’ve absorbed, and fear patterns we mistake for wisdom.
And yet—there is another way of seeing. And we can learn it. That’s what A Course in Miracles invites us to do.
Not a Religion, But a Mindset Shift
For many people, the word “Course” suggests a study program, while “Miracles” sounds like something out of a spiritual fantasy novel. It’s no wonder people hesitate to pick it up. But behind the slightly intimidating title is something remarkably down-to-earth: a process.
The Course is made up of three parts:
A Text that lays out the underlying framework for how we perceive the world, and how we might begin to shift our perception.
A Workbook, offering a lesson for every day of the year, each designed to undo a particular block to awareness.
A brief Manual for Teachers, which clarifies how to embody and share the Course’s core principles.
What’s unique about the Course is that it doesn’t ask us to adopt new beliefs. It doesn’t claim to be the only way. In fact, it repeatedly says it’s just one path among many. But it is precise. And if you feel drawn to it, it works deeply.
The Course teaches that the world we see is shaped by the thoughts we think. But unlike most positive psychology, it doesn’t suggest we simply replace negative thoughts with nicer ones. Instead, it asks us to recognise the root of our misperception—fear, judgment, separation—and to bring those habits into awareness, where they can be gently released.
This is not about willpower. It’s not about becoming a better version of yourself. It’s about becoming aware of the part of your mind that thinks it has to struggle for worth, and learning how to soften its grip.
A Path Practised by Many (Even If You Don’t Know It)
You may have encountered the Course without realising it.
Marianne Williamson’s A Return to Love—a breakout spiritual classic in the 1990s—was drawn directly from her experience as a Course student. Oprah, who championed the book, has spoken about how the Course shaped her understanding of forgiveness and emotional responsibility. Gabrielle Bernstein built much of her early work around making Course ideas more accessible to a younger generation.
And yet for all this quiet influence, the Course remains relatively underground—a word-of-mouth path. That’s partly because it’s not easy to summarise. It’s not designed for social media snippets. It asks for attention, and offers clarity in return.
Why Study the Course in a Group?
Like many spiritual texts, A Course in Miracles is best read slowly, with space to reflect, question, and apply. It isn’t something you power through. In fact, many people return to it again and again over years—each time discovering something they didn’t see before.
That’s why I’ve created an18-month study group, meeting weekly on Sunday evenings from 7.30 to 9.00pm UK time.
We take the Text section by section—reading together, reflecting aloud or in silence, noticing how these teachings meet our real lives. There’s no pressure to contribute, no expectations of previous study. Just an invitation to explore what happens when we train the mind for peace rather than protection.
Once you register, you’ll receive the full reading schedule. You can join each week or come when you can. The rhythm is slow, sustainable, and designed to create space for integration rather than overwhelm.
Some people come with a long-standing interest in the Course. Others are completely new. Some are therapists, teachers, or coaches looking to deepen their personal practice. Others are simply seeking an anchor—something intelligent and transformative that doesn’t ask them to leave their critical thinking behind.
Miracles, Redefined
In the Course, a miracle isn’t a supernatural event. It’s a shift in perception—from fear to love, from control to trust, from attack to understanding. These are the quiet revolutions that can change a life from the inside out.
And they happen, not because we force them, but because we create the conditions for them to arise.
In a world that often feels fast, fragmented, and fraught with uncertainty, the Course offers something rare: a path of steady, unhurried insight—one that helps us see ourselves and others more clearly, and respond from a place of genuine freedom.
You’re Invited
If something in you feels curious, even if you’re unsure what to make of the Course, you’re warmly invited to join us. There’s nothing to prove. No need to sign up to a belief system. Just a willingness to explore what happens when we start training our minds not to panic, but to listen.
Change in higher education is no longer episodic. It is perpetual, structural, atmospheric. It arrives in policy revisions and leadership reshuffles, in curriculum redesigns and shifting student demographics, in technological expectations and spreadsheet logic. Most of all, it arrives in the body — in that silent bracing of the shoulders during a Teams meeting, the unnameable unease in a Monday morning inbox, the quiet dread that the next institutional strategy document will require yet another translation of one’s real work into metrics that cannot hold its meaning.
In such a climate, mindfulness may seem like a footnote — a luxury, even — when there are frameworks to draft, students to support, REF narratives to align, and budgets to cut. But it is precisely in these conditions that a mindful approach becomes not peripheral but foundational. Not because it offers escape, but because it restores clarity, orientation, and above all, sovereignty. Amidst structures that shift faster than our capacity to adapt, mindfulness can return us to an inner ground not defined by performance, but by presence.
To work in higher education today is to live with paradox. We are tasked with fostering curiosity while meeting key performance indicators. We speak of critical thinking but must constantly justify our existence in market terms. The university is both a sanctuary and a machine. We are both scholars and service providers. Amidst these conflicting roles, it is easy to lose the thread of meaning — to forget, even temporarily, why we entered this vocation at all. Mindfulness does not resolve these tensions, but it allows us to hold them without being torn apart.
A mindful academic is not one who detaches from institutional life, but one who sees it clearly. Who feels the anxiety in the department corridor and does not immediately try to fix it. Who senses the slow burn of cynicism and greets it not with shame, but with inquiry. Who can pause — even for ten seconds — before responding to an email designed to provoke defensiveness. These small acts of awareness are not insignificant. They are the quiet acts of resistance that keep the inner life intact.
Too often, change is experienced as assault: something done to us, without context, without conversation, without care. And this is not a fiction. Many of the recent reforms in higher education have been rolled out in ways that ignore the deep ecology of academic labour — the tacit, the affective, the relational, the slow. But mindfulness shifts the question from “How do I survive this?” to “How am I relating to this?” That shift, though subtle, is liberating. It does not pretend we are in control. But it reminds us that we are not powerless.
The mindful stance begins not with technique, but with intention. Intention to remain human in systems that reward efficiency over empathy. Intention to listen to our own rhythms, even as deadlines crowd the calendar. Intention to keep the heart involved — not as sentimentality, but as epistemology. Because what we know best, we know not only with our minds, but with our bodies, our histories, our breath. Mindfulness reclaims this wider field of knowledge. It reminds us that awareness is not passive. It is participatory.
There are, of course, practices that can support this reorientation. But they must be approached not as productivity hacks, but as subtle forms of remembrance. A minute of breath awareness before opening Outlook. A quiet noticing of where tension gathers during a faculty meeting. A walk between classes without headphones. These are not grand interventions. But they are portals. They invite us back into the moment — not as an end in itself, but as the only real site of agency.
One of the most transformative insights mindfulness offers is that thoughts are not facts. This is especially important for academics, whose professional currency is thought. We are trained to critique, to problematise, to map the terrain of argument. But when the voice of critique turns inward — “I’m not keeping up,” “I’m not doing enough,” “They’re doing it better” — we often fail to notice that we’ve mistaken a mental habit for a truth. Mindfulness interrupts that identification. It lets us witness our thoughts without becoming their echo.
This witnessing is not neutral. It is infused with compassion. And here, the academic temperament often balks. Compassion sounds soft, indulgent, uncritical. But in fact, it is fiercely intelligent. It sees clearly the pressures we face and refuses to compound them with self-punishment. It recognises that behind every unfinished chapter, every late reply, every missed funding bid, there is a human being doing their best. Compassion is not about lowering standards. It is about recognising that the standards are often inhuman.
In times of institutional change, one of the most disorienting losses is continuity — of roles, of relationships, of the unspoken rituals that once grounded our days. The colleague who retired early. The leadership team reshuffle. The erasure of departmental histories in the name of agility. Mindfulness helps us grieve these losses. Not as obstacles to progress, but as meaningful ruptures that deserve acknowledgment. In a system that moves on quickly, a mindful approach says: pause. Remember. Honour what is passing. Then continue.
This approach also helps us work with the emotional aftershocks of change: resentment, fatigue, numbness, resistance. These states are not signs of failure. They are signals of care. We feel angry because something matters. We feel exhausted because we have been trying. We feel resistant because something in us still hopes for authenticity. Mindfulness does not silence these reactions. It makes space for them. It lets us feel the texture of our own responses without becoming stuck in them.
Importantly, mindfulness also allows us to identify the places where our energy is leaking. In academia, overextension is a status symbol. The performative exhaustion, the boast of back-to-back meetings, the quiet competition over who is more overwhelmed. But this way of being is unsustainable — not only for the individual, but for the system. A mindful academic notices the cost of this mode. Begins to ask different questions. Not “What more can I take on?” but “What can I offer fully?” Not “How do I keep up?” but “What pace honours the depth of my work?”
There is also the matter of hope. Change can corrode hope if we feel it is always top-down, always reactive, always beyond our influence. But mindfulness offers a different kind of hope — not rooted in outcomes, but in presence. The hope that comes from showing up fully. From refusing to be numbed. From choosing integrity, even in constrained circumstances. This is not naïve optimism. It is clear-eyed commitment. A belief that how we show up — in teaching, in supervision, in conversation — still matters. That meaning is made not only in policy but in presence.
Over time, mindfulness begins to reshape our sense of time itself. The academic calendar is relentless — term to term, year to year, punctuated by reports, reviews, and rankings. But beneath this calendar is another rhythm: the rhythm of thought, of growth, of maturation. A research idea may gestate for years before it finds form. A student’s confidence may bloom long after graduation. A team dynamic may shift only through months of quiet effort. Mindfulness tunes us to this subtler tempo. It reminds us that real change is not always visible — but it is always unfolding.
The mindful academic, then, is not simply calm. They are attentive. Responsive. Able to hold complexity without collapse. Able to lead without dominance, to follow without resentment, to rest without guilt. They do not escape the pressures of higher education. But they move through them differently. With more breath. More choice. More humanity.
And perhaps that is the most radical gesture of all — to remain human in a system increasingly governed by algorithms, audits, and abstractions. To remember that behind every module code is a learner. Behind every spreadsheet, a colleague. Behind every institutional statement, a set of lives trying to do something worthwhile. Mindfulness restores this remembrance. It makes us better educators, better thinkers, better companions in the work of change.
So the next time change arrives — and it will — try pausing. Try noticing what rises. Try letting the breath anchor you for a moment before the next decision, the next document, the next demand. You are not a machine. You are a mind, a body, a history. A presence in a changing world. That presence matters more than you know.
Unlock your potential with mindfulness! Discover how a few mindful moments can help spark breakthrough, overcome blocks, and transform your personal and professional journey. Subscribe to my blog today for more on the art of being present.
If you want to start putting these ideas into action, you can sign up for Integrative Meditation (Level 1). This course represents the culmination of years of learning, practice, and personal growth. Integrative Meditation is a comprehensive framework designed to enhance your mental and emotional well-being. It draws on Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT), positive psychology, neuroscience, Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT), journaling, and breathwork to support you in reducing stress, enhancing focus, building emotional resilience, and discovering your true self.
