Health, Hope, Heritage and Hospital…

I recently had the chance to spend a couple of nights at Camp Christopher, an 11-acre sanctuary nestled quietly along the river, created to offer peace and connection to those grieving the suicide-related loss of a loved one or struggling with their own mental health. It was founded by Dave and Esther Endicott in memory of Dave’s brother, Christopher, who died by suicide in 2021. The land breathes with intention—a haven of healing seeded in loss and watered with love. https://www.campchriscotton.com/

I hadn’t been feeling well for several days before arriving, but like my mom used to say, “there’s healing in the woods, my girl.” And she wasn’t wrong.

While there, I found myself grounding in small, steady joys: sprucing up the memorial gardens, painting rocks with bright colors and messages of hope, casting a line into the water, swimming under a blue sky, and warming up next to a crackling fire with good company. The air felt thick with grace. A space where tears were welcome, silence was understood, and laughter was holy.

Still, the balance of life is delicate. Shortly after leaving, I found myself hospitalized with a septic infection, awaiting an orthopedic procedure to drain a joint. It’s not the place I expected to land after such sacred time in the woods—but perhaps not entirely disconnected either.

Here in the stillness of hospital walls, I’ve had time to reflect on how intertwined our physical, emotional, spiritual, and mental wellbeing really are. Each one needs tending. I’m thankful that the staff have allowed me space to step outside and smudge—honoring my spiritual practices with sage, sweetgrass, and whispered prayers. Rest is not something I’m good at, but I’m learning. Sometimes the body insists.

Yesterday, I missed the spreading of my Uncle’s ashes. He was the last of my mother’s siblings to leave this world. My cousin, who was raised primarily by him, was there for the ceremony. He told me that as they stood by the river’s edge, the wind gusted hard—until the very moment they released my uncle’s ashes. In that instant, the wind stopped. And then, as his ashes met the water, the breeze resumed. It felt as if the ancestors had paused to receive him, ushering him forward into the flow, home.

What Really Matters

In all of this—grief, illness, firelight, ceremony, rivers and wind—I’m reminded of what’s really important. Not the busyness. Not the perfection. Not the deadlines or the outcomes.

What matters is connection. To the land. To our people. To rest. To the sacred stories we hold and the ones we’re still writing. What matters is letting others care for us when we need it. Creating spaces, like Camp Christopher, where healing is possible not because pain is erased, but because it is shared.

So I’m here. Letting myself be cared for. Trusting the process. Honoring my body, my grief, and my healing. And holding close the memory of wind that pauses, just long enough to welcome someone home.

Sending Good Vibes,

Naazh