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10 Truths About the Garden That May Be True About You, Too

I. What you tend
tends to grow, often
meeting you somewhere
between expending effort 
and letting go.  II. That which 
is nourished and cultivated
thrives with such care. III. That
which is wild and allowed to wander 
keeps mystery alive, adding texture
and depth to the story of the world.
IV. Sometimes problems are solved
by weathering the storm, and sometimes
a transplant is necessary to ensure roots
get what they need to lead to bloom. V. You 
won’t bloom all the time—dormancy, when the
time is right, is part of what keeps you alive. 
VI. Patience, the right amount of sunlight, 
and enough water make a difference.
VII. When staying closed is no longer an option, 
blossoming into vulnerability is the way forward.
VIII. Clipping off that which is dead and withered
creates space for something new. IX. Seriously, enough
water is important. X. But not too much : live Lagom.
(i.e. all things in moderation; enough not too much)
(Except love, in all the forms it wants to show up.) 

Journal Prompt/Food for Thought: What truths have you noticed lately, either in your garden, in the woods, or in yourself? How do you know they are true? Consider the concept of lagom1 : what’s enough but not too much for you right now?

And finally……What does it mean to you to live your life in ways that tell the truth?2

Announcements:

I’m one of the artists in residence at Camp House (one of Water’s Edge Ministries’ sites) this coming July.

Mark your calendar for July 5–10, and that week is an invitation to slow down. To reconnect. To listen for the God you know in the quiet, the music, the conversations, and the in-between moments. A week of Ordinary Time creates space for something deeper.

Come for a few days or stay the whole week. However long you’re here—there’s room for you.

Register for Ordinary Time

I’ll be doing a short presentation on publishing with Wayfarer Magazine and Books, along with some poetry readings at Lindstrom, Minnesota’s newest indie bookstore. Bruyere Books and Tea’s grand opening is on June 20th — come at 11am for the quiet opening, and stay through the lunch hour to hear the poetry. I’ll be starting the presentation at 11:45, just after the crystal bowl sound bath. Come back later in the afternoon for a more upbeat and energetic time in the shop…there’s something for everyone.

About the shop in their words: Our shelves will highlight diverse voices, especially queer and neurodivergent authors and stories, and our tables will be a place for connection, creativity, and belonging. We can’t wait to open our doors and welcome you into a space that feels like home.

This series, which lasts six weeks in total, is intended to stimulate a sense of wonder and cultivate appreciation for the natural world. The idea is to spend at least five hours per week outside (or more if you so choose). Engage in experiences that stimulate wonder, creativity, and mindfulness. Explore one of the five senses each week with a week at the end to integrate. Reflect and write on what you’re noticing. Connect with your own inner wildness.

Get a copy of Just Wild Enough

In the American midwest, the summer solstice that arrives with June, which is just a week away, means that my garden is in full swing. The seedlings and directly seeded plants are in the ground, and this year warm temps and adequate moisture has meant early growth for some produce. Harvesting and figuring out what to do with the abundance has added another element to the day, in addition to weeding, hoeing, mulching, and pest control. Fortunately, the earth is wise, and the days when the work hours outnumber the hours of rest are the same days when sunlight is ample and generous. Bodies get physically tired, but energy abounds as each new crop is ready for the first time, once again.

Summer is a season ripe with opportunities to move and work, and it’s also a season that offers new reasons to practice stillness and rest. It’s not always an easy balance to strike in the season of light, especially when you do a lot of work outside. It’s also a season of remembering to savor and a season [as all seasons are, in their own ways..] of pleasure when you practice mindfulness and intentionality, no matter what your work day holds. Paying attention with all of your senses makes a difference.

This week includes a core activity, a few more additional activities, an audio recording, and a poetry break.

Sense: Taste. Become nature. Connect with the earth and let the earth feed you.

Tasting life in all its diversity is key to optimal wellbeing. Embodying a life that’s just wild enough means fully tasting, but also leaving room for the unknown, for that which isn’t yet ready to be tasted fully, and at least a little bit of space for that which you don’t like at all.

Recommended Reading; Collisions of Earth and Sky, pg 117-20.

And for listening, there’s a recording provided below: “A Recipe for One Kind of Pleasure”— Just Wild Enough, pg 32.

Core Experiential Exercise:

Assemble a picnic. Include a wide variety of fruits, vegetables, grains, cheeses, and make sure you’ve got a diverse assortment of sweet, sour, savory, bitter, and so on. Take your picnic on a modest hike to a peaceful location (if accessible—if not, you can do this exercise at home near an open window or on the porch.)

Lay out your food close to the ground, or on a low table, and take some time to engage all of your senses. Drop fully into the present moment. Feel the air however it’s showing up today. When you feel centered and present, take a taste of each food you brought with you. As you taste, notice what flavors you’re drawn to: do you like sweet or savory? What combination of tastes surprise you with delight? What tastes might you need more of in your life to feel your best? Which ones bring pleasure? How about peace? How does fully tasting your food bring you closer to yourself or your spiritual center? Notice how eating outside or with the natural air on your skin changes your experience.

Extra credit: Include something you really don’t enjoy eating, or that you think you don’t. Sample it again. Why don’t you like it? What would make it better? How does it create dissonance for your taste buds? What happens when you do something you don’t enjoy but live to tell the tale?

Journal Prompt:

Now ask yourself those questions (posed above) again, and this time write down your answers.

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Additional Activities to Try:

Activity 1: Cook something

Engage in the act of mindfully preparing a meal. Gather your ingredients, wash and chop whatever needs washing or chopping, and prepare them according to whatever recipe you’re using or being inspired by. Then, once it’s ready, sit down at the table, take a few deep breaths, and begin. Taste and be nourished by the act of doing so fully.

Here’s a recipe to try if you need an idea (but cook whatever you want!): Sungold and Zucchini Spaghetti.

What sensations activate in your mouth as you enjoy the first bite? How does it feel to savor this food that you really enjoy? What tastes can you identify? How does the earth come through in each taste that you notice?

While you are eating, let the food that you ingest remind you that you have a body and that your body works together with a mind and spirit, and those things are always trying to reclaim their wildness, both as individual entities and as members of a collective. -Collisions of Earth and Sky

Activity 2: Forage!

Head outside in your local area in search of wild edibles. Ramps, nettles, wild raspberries and blueberries, plantains, dandelion greens….there’s a wealth of tastes just growing wild outside the door. If you do not know much about wild edibles, please go with or consult a local herbalist and/or do some reading on what’s available in your area before you forage. Always avoid mushrooms that you are not 100% sure of, as well as berries. Always forage responsibly, leaving more than you take, and avoiding areas where chemicals may have been used (some lawns, fields near conventional farms, etc).

Find a few things to taste, and do so with gusto — how does it feel to find your food in the forest?

Make a list of all the edible things you can find, take a sample of each, and compare and contrast the tastes. Which do you enjoy? What’s not for you?

Poetry Break:

Write a poem about taste.

Write whatever you wish, but if you need a place to start, here’s a first line:

Sunshine tastes like……..

Share

Along with the bike commuting, I’ve been taking advantage of some very calm evenings by heading out in the kayak to commune with the resident turtles and deer and herons and beavers. I witnessed a painted turtle laying eggs right by the front step, and watched for a good 15 minutes while she buried them deep in the soil. We’ll see if any baby turtles emerge before something else finds the eggs as a snack. A huge snapping turtle was lurking in some reedy shallows the other night, and I was glad to be in a boat rather than swimming. But also glad to share the lake with a creature old enough to have moss growing on her knobby shell. I’m reminded of this passage I wrote years ago1:

In the shallows I see an enormous snapping turtle just under the surface of the water, near some decomposing lily pads. She swims right under the canoe. Her presence reminds me of all the life that exists outside my window, outside my screens, outside my human-focused agenda. She makes me want to be a better human, a better planetary neighbor, a better ancestor. She is a part of me, and she deserves a chance to thrive in clean waters, undisturbed. She makes me think about climate disruption and colonization and how badly humans still treat one another and the planet. What is my role in reparations toward the marginalized groups of people who are alive now? How do I best show up in daily life as a person who accepts where and when I entered the collective story? What does it mean to be a good ancestor? How do I move in wider circles? How do I live slower in a world that seems to speed up with every passing moment?

In Search of Simple

The garden is in, plants are growing, and some blossoming is already happening as the sun continues to gather strength toward the solstice. Anyway, it’s been a good time to find beauty in the ordinary, in tiny adventures close to home.

This is a season of allowing bloom
and not being afraid of what comes
with the blossoming.

This is a season of cultivating seeds
and putting in the work that true,
sustainable growth requires.

This is a season of nourishment,
of being present for the rising,
deep roots drawing strength from below.

This is a season of adventuring
through the ordinary, past and future
meeting between time to walk with you now.


What gifts have you found in the ordinary during these first days of June?

Share Ordinary Collisions: Intersections of Nature & Culture

Somehow it’s already the end of the school year, and summer is just around the corner. My daughter attended the 8th grade formal on the St. Croix River stern wheelers a week ago, rehearsals for the summer musical have begun, and we turned off the heat (finally). Highs during the day this past holiday weekend shot into the upper 80s, and we spent a lot of time either immersed in lake water or floating on its surface (via pontoon boat, kayak, or inflatables).

A few days ago, I got down to my brothers’ veggie farm to collect some seedlings for the garden, and most of those have now been tucked away into the soil to do what they will as the gardening season takes off. (If you’re in the twin cities area, you can find seedlings they’ve grown at many of the co cops, such as the Wedge or Seward..)

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My tractor-driving neighbor tilled the big field last Friday, mulch has been laid, [some of the] quack grass has been vanquished, and despite my claim of “I think I’ll let the strawberry patch go and start again next year” (complete with a tarp over the old plants and weeds), the patch was resurrected because I saw some blossoms and couldn’t stop myself from digging them up and moving them.

The bleeding hearts are dripping with blossoms, the lilies that weren’t eaten by the gophers are reaching toward the sky, nasturtiums are creeping along the ground ready to become salad decorations, and the iris are slowly opening their petals as the rhubarb comes fully into being for the season.

It’s highly likely I planted too much kale, that I’ll reach the “that’s enough weeding” phase of gardening season by mid-July, and that some forest creature will eat a few of the melons before they are ready to be picked. I’ll probably wish I didn’t have to go to work at least a few days a week, and I’ve got to do a little traveling. I’ll need to find some time to edit my next book once it’s back in my hands for the next phase of editing. The grass will grow swiftly and refuse to mow itself.

And that’s all okay. Kale can be shared or frozen, weeds and the plants we want can co-exist (to a point), and I always plant one melon inside the smaller garden fence as insurance against the garden thieves. Work is close by and highly tolerable, and I usually like this next phase of editing in the book publishing process.

At any rate, there’s a lot to do in the coming summer months — like put on a new roof, finish the landscaping, keep the garden watered when it doesn’t rain, mow the grass again and again, weed enough to keep the plants I want to thrive alive, figure out what to do with the harvest when it’s over abundant, go to work, take teen to activities, go to work, attend plays, go to work, spend time in lake/woods/with loved ones, and so on.

I’ve said this before, and I’m sure I’ll say it again as it’s always true:

There is so much life beyond the shoulds, the clock, and the illusion of keeping up. Walk away from the notion that you have to keep a certain pace, or do certain things, or optimize….anything. The only pace you have to keep is the one that works in your life – because when you find that pace, you are fully equipped to add to the healing of the world.

As we move toward the middle of the year, join me for a time of gentle movement, reflection, and journaling. I’ll be leading the Interfaith Alignment group (of which you’re welcome to join!) in some simple embodiment practices, and offer a sequence of poems, questions, and prompts to invite self inquiry and reflection on what you want to prioritize to live well in the months to come.

Register for the next session of Interfaith Alignment and spend 30 minutes with me this coming Sunday afternoon (4pm Central Time).

Register for free here

Additional Reminders:

I’m one of the artists in residence at Camp House (one of Water’s Edge Ministries’ sites) this coming July.

Mark your calendar for July 5–10, and that week is an invitation to slow down. To reconnect. To listen for the God you know in the quiet, the music, the conversations, and the in-between moments. A week of Ordinary Time creates space for something deeper.

Come for a few days or stay the whole week. However long you’re here—there’s room for you.

Register for Ordinary Time

And I’ll be doing a short presentation on publishing with and Books, along with some poetry readings at Lindstrom, Minnesota’s latest indie bookstore. Bruyere Books and Tea’s grand opening is on June 20th — come at 11 for the quiet opening, and stay through the lunch hour to hear the poetry. Come back later in the afternoon for a more upbeat and energetic time in the shop…there’s something for everyone.

About the shop in their words: Our shelves will highlight diverse voices, especially queer and neurodivergent authors and stories, and our tables will be a place for connection, creativity, and belonging. We can’t wait to open our doors and welcome you into a space that feels like home.

What do you want to prioritize in the months to come? (Not what do you think you should prioritize…what do you want to be sure to put some energy into? This is not me telling you to abandon all responsibilities or let the house fall into disrepair or quit work entirely. But it is me inviting you to consider where you need to put your energy so it can be returned to you in kind.)

This series, which lasts six weeks in total, is intended to stimulate a sense of wonder and cultivate appreciation for the natural world. The idea is to spend at least five hours per week outside (or more if you so choose). Engage in experiences that stimulate wonder, creativity, and mindfulness. Explore one of the five senses each week with a week at the end to integrate. Reflect and write on what you’re noticing. Connect with your own inner wildness.

This past week included a few beautiful days: warm, a bit breezy, and sunny. No bugs, and a new tint of green as the leaves fully arrive in the picture of spring. I took the patients I worked with outside on what I call a sensory walk on those days. Basically, we take to the woods via a half mile long trail that stays pretty flat, but meanders through some tall pines, past the marshy back bay of one of the lakes, and along a tamarack bog. We stop often, each time focusing on engaging one of the five senses (much like you’re doing with this series, but on the same walk). When we finish the walk, I ask the group which sense it feels really good to exist fully within: which one really stands out in a way they normally wouldn’t have noticed. Most folks say listening, that usually when they are out on the trails they have music or a podcast playing, are talking on the phone, lost in thought, or powerwalking for exercise. Slowing down and tuning into the sensory experience tends to open doors to noticing what otherwise remains unheard, unseen, untouched.

This week includes a core activity, and a few additional exercises to try, along with an audio recording and poetry break.

Sense: Hear. Listen. Let yourself be guided by sound. Learn to move like a wild creature through the woods. Use your animal ears. Be still sometimes. Let wild silence find you.

Sound, either heard or felt through vibration, is another important way to experience the natural world, and many species of animals rely on their sense of hearing to do all sorts of things. This week we’ll be using sound, what we hear, and the skill of listening (in whatever forms are available to us) to guide our exploration.

Order Just Wild Enough

Recommended Reading: Instructions for living, on pg 36 in Just Wild Enough; and Listening to the Land, a chapter in Collisions of Earth and Sky, . Or, listen to part of the chapter here:

Core Experiential Exercise:

Establish a Wild Silence Witness Place: Otherwise known as finding a “sit spot” close to home.

Your wild silence witness place is simply an easily accessible place where you can visit on a regular basis to absorb nature. It’s a chance to get to know a certain spot intimately, through the seasons. It’s a place outside where you feel safe, that you can visit easily and that allows you to use all of your senses to experience being in nature. Having a place like this is a wonderful opportunity to listen to all the different layers of sound that permeate the outdoor world.

Take some time this week to find a place if you don’t already have one. It can be a stump in your backyard, a chair up against the side of the garage, or a nice rock in the park just down the road. Once you’ve found your spot, settle in and use your sense of hearing to experience what’s going on around you. Take your journal with you and write about what you notice, but especially what you notice through sound or vibration. As you continue the practice beyond this week, notice what changes as the seasons pass. Notice what stays consistent. Listen for nature breathing all around you.

Extra credit: Take some time to look all the way up when in your place. How does your interaction with your surrounding shift as your perspective does? What else do you hear when you make a point to look all the way up?

Journal Prompt:

What made you choose your particular spot? What do you like about it? What sounds are consistently present? What sounds are out of place, and how do you tell? How does being still in nature make you feel? Why? What happens when you are intentional about moving slowly, or being still? What does stillness have to offer to you in this season?

Additional Activities to Try:

Activity 1 : Fox Walk

Have you ever noticed that animals don’t always make much sound when they walk through the forest? Today try to walk as silently as you can through whatever terrain you are navigating. Take a moment to practice the “fox walk”: First put on your ‘fox’ selves. Then, walking really silently, place your foot on the earth before adding any body weight. (Ideally, you will do this activity barefoot, but it can be done in shoes also)

In slow-motion, the fox walk goes like this:

1. Touch the outside edge of your foot to the earth

2. Roll your foot inward until it is flat on the ground

3. Before adding your weight, check and see if there are any sharp stones, branches or any other objects that would make a noise or not feel good in your foot’s path.

4. If there are, reposition your foot

5. Transfer your weight to your foot

6. Repeat with your other foot

With practice you’ll get fast and even more fox-like! And when you are really quiet in the woods, you are more likely to see and hear more creatures and notice things that you might not otherwise.

At the end of the hike/walk ask:

How was it to fox walk? What did you notice? What sorts of things do you hear or feel in the woods when you are moving AND really quiet?

Activity 2: Listen to the Land

This one’s a little looser of a tie-in to our sound/vibration theme, but important to include.

Do some digging. Library, elder community members, the historical society.

What is the true history of the land you’re on? What’s the story of the part of earth where your home is? What happens when you listen for all the nuance that comes through the layers of story you may uncover? If you are not already familiar, do some looking into the indigenous groups who called your area home in generations past, as well as the groups who live in your area today. How can you honor the true history of the land? How does really listening in inform your choices?

www.native-land.ca can be helpful as well.

Poetry Break:

Write a poem about listening..

Write whatever you wish, but if you need a place to start, here’s a first line:

When I listen, I hear nature breathing and it sounds like

Collisions of Earth and Sky

…..but in all seriousness, how to effectively manage stress is an important topic to devote some energy to. In my past work as a health coach and in my current role in addiction recovery, the conversation around “how to effectively manage stress” is one that’s central to figuring out how to navigate through life in a healthy way.

We have limited amounts of energy and finite resources available as we go about our lives, and many times, it feels like there are never enough of these resources to go around. Energy is low. Demands are high. Our attention, time, money, patience, emotions, and a myriad other qualities are tapped to keep our heads above water. In an increasingly digital world, information moves faster, and we can connect with more people in more places more easily. Yet we often feel less connected and lonely, no matter how connected we may be on social media. Overwhelm is everywhere. The good news is that it’s still possible to thrive in this stressful world, and we can invite that thriving by focusing on what we can control, letting go of what we can’t, and putting our energy into the things that truly align with what we value.1

The goal today is to discern the difference between the things you can control and the things you can’t, prioritize where your energy needs to go and practice letting nature invite a sense of calm into your everyday life experiences.

Being alive on planet earth has never been easy. For every living being, from animals to plants to humans, stress is a regular part of life. A gazelle experiences stress when a lion springs from the bushes: that rush of adrenaline and cortisol that fuel the instinct to flee keeps the gazelle alive for another day. A plant in the garden experiences stress when the weather is too hot and windy or cold and too damp: the resiliency that is built due to these conditions helps the plant to thrive when conditions evolve. Much like in the gazelle’s story, a human can experience stress when life is physically threatened whether that threat comes via a grizzly bear, an icy road, or a lightning bolt. The heart races, palms get sweaty, muscles tense, and all we can think about is the crisis at hand. We react. Our body’s response is preparing us to navigate the danger — to help us survive.

However, in our modern societies, we generally experience significantly less “survival” stress than our hunter/gatherer ancestors did. Much of the time, the stress response is activated when we perceive a situation to be stressful. There are challenges galore in a human life, to be sure. Schedules are tight, communications with loved ones or bosses or neighbors are strained or non-existent, traffic is bad and there are too many bills to pay. Our bodies don’t always discern the difference between a tiger and an email.

We must acknowledge before moving forward that systemic discrimination, racism, and stigmatization also cause extreme stress for myriad groups across the globe, including real threats to physical and psychological safety, and some of our community members do face life and death situations regularly in their line of work or due to life circumstance/geographical area.

That being said, the average citizen who is not living in untenable conditions may not be dealing with life or death situations on a regular basis. But when we’re talking about the stress of the average person in dominant culture, even non life-threatening situations can trigger the same fear or stress response: Our hearts race, palms get sweaty, and all we can think about is the crisis at hand. We react. And in this case, our reaction is not helping us to survive. In fact, it might be causing damage to our health in the form of elevated blood pressure, chronic tension headaches, or inability to get quality sleep. In today’s dominant culture, particularly in the corporate workforce, values of more, better, faster have invited everything from chronic stress to burnout to a general disliking of Mondays. When we view the world as an emergency room, our stress levels soar. But when we can break our issues down and really look at what’s going on, a sense of control and peace becomes reachable.

It’s important to note, to quote Emily Nagoski, “Stress isn’t bad for you. Being stuck is bad for you.” The trouble comes in when we get stuck in that heightened stress response.

The following activity will provide some structure around identifying where you want to spend your energy and what things you want to put energy into according to your values.

We can break our “stressors” down into four categories: Things we can control that are important, things we can control that are not important, things we cannot control that are important, and things that we cannot control that are not important. Regardless of scale, all stressors fit into one of these categories.

(Look, here are the 6 easy steps.)

(Just kidding, I wouldn’t call this easy, nor a ‘step’ program to follow. It’s just a tool that perhaps some will find useful.)

1. 1. Take a piece of paper and draw four large boxes. Label them according to the categories bolded above.

2. 2. Consider all the things that cause you stress, from minor daily hassles (traffic, chores, weather) to major life changes (new baby, relationship changes, moving, new job, layoff) to challenging life circumstances (chronic illness, caregiving, financial troubles). Place each in the box that seems to fit best.

3. 3. Cross out the things in the uncontrollable/unimportant box (doing this in pencil is okay). Letting these things go instead of putting energy and resources on them is your first step to feeling better.

4. 4. Look at the controllable but unimportant items. Decide if it’s worth it to you to take the action needed to address these. If the outcome doesn’t at least equal the energy/resources it takes to make the change, let it go, or put it to the bottom of your priorities list. What do you need to accept?

5. 5. Look at the important/controllable items. This is where you can take action. Maybe you need to organize your day more effectively by keeping a detailed calendar and using an alarm. Maybe you need to pick a closet to sort and donate 10 items to your local thrift store to feel less cluttered. Maybe you need to track your spending for a week and create a budget to stick to in order to ease the anxiety that creeps in when the mortgage bill is due each month. Write down at least one action item to complete by the end of the week.

6. 6. Finally, there are the things that are important and totally outside of your control. These are the tough ones, and it will take some practice to learn to manage them differently, in a way that doesn’t add more stress to life.2 Practicing acceptance (no matter what the situation, and remember acceptance doesn’t equal giving up), being intentional about constructive self-talk, and leaning into your support network can help. Then, make a point to look to the natural world for solace and the opportunity to relax, breathe deeply, move your body, drink a glass of water, and be in the present moment. Because in that present moment, unless you are literally in a life or death situation, you are okay. (Sometimes being okay looks and feels different then we think it should.) After a while of practicing, you’ll have whole days, and months, and eventually even years, of being okay.

Now that you’ve taken a good look at your stress triggers, think about what it feels like to sit outside, on a nice day, alone. There’s a great practice, sometimes called simply “having a sit spot” which means finding a place that’s easy to get to regularly, where you can safely practice tuning in fully to your natural surroundings and sinking into the pattern of being present with all of your senses attuned to your experience. When stressful situations arise, you can go back there in your mind’s eye, even if you cannot physically be in your sit spot.

Manage stress with 12 Tiny Things

When you’ve identified a good spot, next time you are there, pick up a small token of remembrance: a smooth stone, a fallen piece of bark, some dried grasses, an acorn. Carry this token with you and pull it out when you need a grounding reminder – when a situation feels threatening or overwhelming or invokes an irrational fear response in your body. Let your past experience of being immersed in the natural environment wash over you and clear your mind of the worries at hand, if even just for a moment. Return to the situation with a renewed sense of calm and focus. (Getting to your desired outcome will take practice.)

In addition to finding an object of remembrance, take a bit of time to identify some things you can do outdoors that will invoke a sense of calm. Dig in your garden. Make a point to move in the natural air regularly to refuel with daylight. Really get to know your sit spot. And remember what J.B. MacKinnon does when he writes: “Nature offers us respite from the worlds we create for ourselves.”

*Please note that even if outdoor spaces aren’t accessible to you right now, you can do this exercise in the company of an open window, an indoor plant, terrarium, or even a photo of a favorite natural space. And taking a series of intentional breaths is one of the most accessible ways to recalibrate and complete the stress cycle so you can move forward instead of getting stuck, no matter where you are physically.

This series, which lasts six weeks in total, is intended to stimulate a sense of wonder and cultivate appreciation for the natural world. The idea is to spend at least five hours per week outside (or more if you so choose). Engage in experiences that stimulate wonder, creativity, and mindfulness. Explore one of the five senses each week with a week at the end to integrate. Reflect and write on what you’re noticing. Connect with your own inner wildness.

It’s May 4 today, the tree blossoms are starting to bloom, and there are new scents swirling around in the air and rising up from the newly thawed ground. Sun-warmed pine needles, freshly turned soil, the boggy smells of the shallows around the edges of the lake. This week we’re tune into scent and all the doorways doing so can open into feeling fully alive and present to a place.

No video this time—rather, what follows are a number of different activities to try.

Sense: Smell. Get close to things. Close enough to be truly aware of what is right in front of you.

Many creatures use their sense of smell to navigate terrain, find food, and even get to know one another. This week we’ll be using our sense of smell to tap into wildness and more fully harmonize with the self.

Core Experiential Exercise:

Get close to some water–ideally a wild body of water like a lake, bog, stream, or puddle is ideal. (If you’re in a rainy area, you could even put out a bucket to catch some rainwater.)

Put your nose close to the water. What does it smell like? If you’re outside near a body of water, what other smells are present, and possible, because of the water’s presence?

If you had to describe the scent of wildness, what words would you use? Say them out loud, or write them down.

How is water life-giving for you right now? (Be specific.)

Extra credit: Make time to witness the sunset. Face west, and as the sun starts to sink, close your eyes and let yourself witness via scent. What do you smell when you stand outside as the sun sets?

Reading

(that, and the experiential exercise, was a small preview from my next book which is forthcoming in 2027…)

Additional Activities to Try:

Activity 1: “Becoming Animal”

Head outside to a park, on a trail or just into an open area. Engage your sense of smell as you walk. Find scents you enjoy, such as flowers, grass, soil, trees...consider the fact that everything has a unique smell, and that some animals rely totally on their sense of smell to identify things and to find food. Then identify some scents that you don’t much care for, and practice allowing them to exist, too, as they influence your decisions on where to go next.

Engage your sense of smell and imagine you’re an animal. What shifts when you allow smell to inform your next choice?

Activity 2: Uncovering Life Near the Ground

Find a decaying log (or large stone, old boards, garden bed, patch of leaves or similar type environment).

Carefully turn the log over (if possible, or just get close to it). Observe what’s happening around, under and within the log.

What life is present? What sorts of things do you smell when you are close to the ground? What does “earth” smell like to you?

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Activity 3: Cook with Scent Central to the Experience

Get some really good tomatoes, or oranges, or herbs–anything you enjoy eating that has a strong scent.

Schedule an appointment with yourself to mindfully wash and prepare the food in whatever sort of way you want to–an actual recipe, or perhaps just an artful array of various aromatic foods.

Prepare the food, and notice how it fills your nose with its aroma. What happens when you truly engage with how it smells? How does the experience of eating shift when you are fully present to what happens BEFORE you eat?

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Additional Journal Prompts:

What smells make you feel alive?

What does peace smell like to you? How about safety?

What scent brings you to a place dear to you?

What would it be like to truly sink into the experiences you want to be present for fully? What would change if you did?

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Poetry Break:

Write a poem about scent.

Write whatever you wish, but if you need a place to start, here’s a first line:

Wildness smells like…

Upcoming Events:

Join me on Sunday, May 31 as I lead a session for Alignment. 4pm CDT, online, free. We’ll explore some simple movement practices, and I’ll read some poetry and offer some reflection/journaling prompts to help with living intentionally, and in alignment with true wellness.

Explore upcoming Sessions

At Lee Valley Ranch in Custer, South Dakota, I lived in a tent and spent the months just out of high school as a Ranch Hand. It meant leading games for children who attended retreats, washing a lot of dishes, learning the rules of Cricket from the Australians on staff and falling for the long-haired guitar player/campfire song leader/guy who every 18-year-old female had a crush on that summer. I learned to lead day hikes and pack a backpack and play three chords on the guitar. I felt like I was an essential part of helping the place function. I felt like I mattered, and I felt like I belonged there.

At Luther Heights, outside of Ketchum, Idaho, I lived in a storage shed turned bunk house and spent two summers as an Assistant Cook. It meant learning how to bake seven loaves of bread at one time, jumping in the icy waters of Lake Alturas on beach day, figuring how to pack the right amount of trail food for backpacking groups, and getting dolled up on weekends to go into town. It meant living in the shadow of two mountain ranges and waking up to the smell of pine needles and wearing Teva sandals. It meant relaxing in the director’s wood fired hot tub on working weekends. I got into and out of my first long distance relationship and made hundreds of friendship bracelets. I felt like I was an essential part of helping the place function, and I was, for those summers. Everyone there was. I felt like I mattered, and I felt like I belonged there.

At Luther Park, in Danbury, Wisconsin, I split time between a cabin on stilts and a tent on the banks of the Namekagon River. My last two summers in college were spent as a Canoe Guide/Outpost Counselor. It meant shepherding groups of teenagers down the river in canoes for a week at a time, starting a lot of campfires, swimming across Lake 26 with a lifeguarding tube and making sure the Whisper Light camp stove didn’t explode when it got a fuel leak. It meant checking for ticks on a regular basis, making friends with the ‘rough around the edges’ camp cook and spending the weekends on the shores of Lake Superior. I met another guitar player and fell in love1 and turned 21. I felt like I was an essential part of making the place function, and the place turned into an essential piece of what made me function. I felt like I mattered, and I felt like I belonged there.

At Sky Ranch, on the northern border of Rocky Mountain National Park, I lived in the nature center where my Dad lived 30 years before as a backpacking guide. That summer I was the camp Naturalist. It meant quitting the first “real” job that I got after graduating college, spending the summer away from my future spouse and finding my own way of being in the midst of strangers who turned into lifelong friends. It meant being the lead guitarist at campfires because the only other people with any guitar playing skills were backpacking guides who were always out on the trail. It meant weekends at a riverside hippie bar and skinny dipping in icy alpine lakes. It meant hiking and running and being a part of a place that was a part of me before I was born. I felt like I was an essential part of making the place function, and the place reminded me of my roots and my strength. I felt like I mattered, and I felt like I belonged there.

And then, after quitting my second “real” job, I found myself back at Luther Park again. I lived in the Log House and spent my last camp summer as the Waterfront Director. It meant afternoons spent counting campers in the water to make sure they were all safely accounted for and driving a fully loaded 15 passenger van while pulling a canoe trailer. It meant facilitating waterfront emergency drills and watching the staff dive into the ice-cold early summer water on my count. It meant feeling a little adrift as one of the “old” staff members. It meant letting my future spouse reclaim the role of lead guitarist, wondering what I was going to do after another summer ended, and trying to hold onto the strength I had uncovered over the years. It meant being in a place as an essential part of the whole, and it meant holding that wholeness as my foundation even on the days that were punctuated by more struggle and uncertainty that I was prepared for. Even in the midst of challenge, I felt like I mattered, and I felt like I belonged there.

There are many who say that organized religion is on its way out, that the church is dying, and that no one wants to commit to being a part of something that feels like a sinking ship. Maybe it’s true. Maybe the hole in the stern it too big to patch. But I think that perhaps even as ‘church’ fades, or evolves, the thing that will remain steadfast is what was most important in the first place. Church at its core is community. It’s an energy that is bigger than anything humanity alone can imagine. It’s being taken care of, and it’s taking care of others. People want to feel like they are an essential part of something. That they matter. That they belong. They want to see life unfolding and they want to be part of the new growth. Like a camp, church is a place – but it’s a place that has to be found outside of, despite, or perhaps even in the midst of a burning building’s walls.

It’s been well over 10 years2 20 years since I was on staff at wilderness-based outdoor youth camp, leading games and day hikes and prayers. These days I wouldn’t last more than a half a week in a cabin full of 12 year olds with only an hour off per day. But what sticks with me, and always will, is the feeling of being part of something that is hard to put into words. It’s that feeling of being essential, of deep belonging and of community without borders that shines a light into places that might have otherwise remained unexplored. It’s the feeling of peace that can stay present despite the “emptiness” that can be left behind after a fire goes through. The emptiness, the new space that was made visible only by something old passing away, shows us to a gate that leads into a world that lies beyond what we can clearly see right now. Jim Hubbell writes, “Our task is to walk through and discover where the gate leads.”

As the ever wise Wendell Berry reminds us, perhaps we could all benefit from remembering to “practice resurrection.”

Read that essay in the book

I was reminded of that essay, the one you just read (which is found in my 2017 book Woodland Manitou), because this summer I’m returning to camp. I’m one of the artists in residence at Camp House (one of Water’s Edge Ministries’ sites) this coming July.

So, mark your calendar for July 4–10, and that week is an invitation to slow down. To reconnect. To listen for the God you know in the quiet, the music, the conversations, and the in-between moments. A week of Ordinary Time creates space for something deeper.

Come for a few days or stay the whole week. However long you’re here—there’s room for you.

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Every time I’ve walked up a mountain trail, every time I stand in the midst of old stones by the sea, and every time I slow down enough to notice the way the wind rustles the trees in the forest, the piece of me that is akin to everything else in existence aligns with the “hoop of the world.” Each time I light a campfire, I connect with all the other humans who have done the same, in ritual or for simple survival, through the ages. We must walk together, as one being.3

I wrote this post ten years ago today, and I came upon it recently while sifting through some old writing. The details included have shifted some (see footnotes..) but the ideas, the ‘how tos’, still resonate so here it is.

Today is April 22nd, and it’s the 46th April (now 56th in 2026) that has recognized an ‘official’ day to honor the Earth. As the day fades into night, the moon is full and shining over the waters of our little lake. We have a full length window in our shower, (weird, I realize...the former owners of our home had some slightly odd design ideas.)1 and as I washed off the day after putting my daughter to bed, I felt like a moon goddess being purified as the water shimmered in the tawny light.

Strategy number one to live Earth Day:

Find your inner nature goddess. It really doesn’t necessarily matter what specific sort of goddess, just make sure it’s one grounded in something real. Something of nature. Moon, stars, sun, flower, earth, rain, wind, stone…do whatever it takes to feel connected to that part of you that is attuned to the earth. We have all have it, sometimes it just gets pushed down and covered up. Dig way down or use a pick axe if you have to. But find your goddess. Let her lead sometimes. Continue becoming earth.

Earlier today, my four year old2 and I spent the afternoon at a community event put on by a local natural foods store (soon to be co-op)3 and the public library. Upon our arrival, we sat in the sun and dug our hands into soil, clay, water and wildflower seeds to make “seed bombs” to scatter around wherever we think there needs to be a bit more wild, a bit more life, and a bit more natural beauty. After a brief visit to the library’s resident ducklings and tadpoles, we went back outside to join a circle of about twenty people in a ‘global healing meditation’. Djembes in hand, everyone then started drumming. The intention was the send the rhythms that we create collectively into the earth as a symbol of healing and love. Next came some songs for earth, followed by a screening of the film “Fresh” which is about the importance of eating sustainably and organically. It felt like community is supposed to feel (or at least now I want it to feel) — alive, authentic, and rooted in actions that bring us closer together, working for sustainable change that will better the quality of life for all beings.

Collisions of Earth and Sky

Strategy number two to live Earth Day:

Practice being invested in the folks who live close by. Get out in your local community. Talk to people. Go to events that align with what’s important to you.4 Invite someone over for dinner or on a hike. Swap stories. Listen to understand. Maybe you’ll find the people in your community who share your values, who are working for the same things you are and who want to talk about it. And maybe you’ll move one tiny step closer to being able to peacefully coexist with folks whose values don’t fully align with your own. It’s hard (but not impossible) to stand firmly in what matters to you (side note: don’t compromise your safety or mental health—I’m not saying go directly into the hornets’ nest) even while getting curious about why folks with really different beliefs think like they do. Living in a way that supports caring for the earth isn’t easy. Doing so means caring for all aspects of creation, including other beings who we don’t agree with. (Sometimes “caring” means working to change systems that are designed to silence or oppress or harm—because those systems hurt everyone, even those who seem to benefit from them.)

Before we arrived at the Earth Day event, my kiddo and I spent some time on our favorite trail, the “trail of myths” at Wert Nature Preserve. This time of year the water plants are popping up, tiny wildflowers carpet the forest floor and the waters in the many streams bubble happily in the sun, freed from their icy winter jackets. We hiked a ways, stopped to poke some sticks in the water, examined interesting tree bark and mushrooms and hiked some more. We returned to our car feeling shiny with beauty’s aftermath and more appreciative of the planet that we call home.

Strategy number three to live Earth Day:

Go outside. Every single day, go outside. Don’t take a device.5 Visit natural areas regularly if at all possible. Get to know a spot in your yard or the neighborhood park or the empty lot down the block. Plant a garden. Watch things grow. Notice the way the rocks glimmer under the water of a creek, how the tall grasses in the ditch move with the breeze and how the trees seem to bridge the gap between land and sky. Walk barefoot, lay in the sand, wrap your arms around a boulder or a big tree. Do things that make you feel like you are part of nature instead of just visiting it. Remember you are part of what nature is doing. Pay attention to the details. Love what you find. Take that love home with you, and let it inform every choice you make.

How do you live earth day?

This all happens over the course of only about 3 miles, but it still feels like a tiny adventure to start an otherwise ordinary work day. A bit of time on foot in the forest has a way of turning a regular day into one that also holds a bit of room for the energy found in exploring; in making a point to ensure a misty morning is a thing to exist fully within not just drive through. Even (especially) if it’s at the beginning of a day that includes going to the office.

Every couple of weeks when my daughter was young — especially as the season shifted toward summer — we’d have what we called “adventure day.” We put on clothes suitable for the weather and head outside, usually to a local park or nature preserve, but sometimes just down the path behind the house, always with the intent to explore. One late spring morning, as we meandered through newly greened woods, stepping over old logs and around patches of unfurling ferns, we came upon a grove of lupines. Seeds from the neighbor’s gardens had migrated over to this secluded patch of forgotten forest to claim the clearing we’d stumbled upon. There must have been at least thirty purple, blue, and pink flowers, some nearly four feet tall, offering us their jewel-like splendor that day. Exploring our immediate area resulted in discovering a treasure trove of late spring wonder.1

I’ve been running2 to the office once a week for a month or so now.3 Maybe I’ll cycle once I’ve got my bike all tuned up for the season, but for now running it is as I endeavor to add a micro adventure to an otherwise unremarkable day. What I like about doing it is that half my route, if I’m creative about it, takes me off the route I’d use in my car. At the much slower pace on foot, I’m able to take in details that otherwise go unnoticed. Like the worms stretched across the paved road after a night of rain, how the mist hovered to make my view across the cedar-studded fields more mythical than usual, what the pine needles underfoot smelled like in the damp morning air.

I did check the time to make sure I didn’t need to go faster to avoid being late and snapped a picture of some pines, but other than that, I was pretty present in the experience. No news on the radio, no music, no ads, no zipping past a blur of trees. Just me, one step at a time over the ground in the open air greeting the trees one at a time.4

I have found that my health and wellbeing depends on fostering the right balance of analog and digital in this digital focused world. Most of the literature I’ve read on how to live better with technology point toward the same basic principles. Perhaps you’ll find these are things you know already, too, deep in your bones: Be where you are. Develop the capacity to notice the details of the days. Reclaim your attention from that which wants to make it a commodity on the open market. Use new technology, but don’t let it use you. Take time to explore what exists right outside the front door, from local flora and fauna to community to goods and services. Ensure your energy is being directed toward what is truly life-giving.

This is what I am going to do, and you can join me if you like: I’m going to see if I can experience more moments for just what they are, without making them into something else. Practice savoring the experiences that remind me what the texture of life can offer.

It was a life-giving morning. A tiny adventure. A way to exist within the day not just get through it.

What sort of micro-adventure could you go on this week?

In other news, I was invited to speak at the Anoka County Library’s volunteer appreciation dinner this past weekend, and what I joy it was to spend an evening with 100 folks who have offered the gift of their service via reading mentoring, tech help, or general volunteering. It was a space full of good energy on a rainy Saturday evening, and I was glad to be a part of it.

Collisions of Earth and Sky

This series, which is six weeks in total, is intended to stimulate a sense of wonder and cultivate appreciation for the natural world. The idea is to spend at least five hours per week outside (or more if you so choose). Engage in experiences that stimulate wonder, creativity, and mindfulness. Explore one of the five senses each week. Reflect and write on what you’re noticing. Connect with your own inner wildness.

Video transcript: Welcome to our unit that’s grounded in our sense of touch, of feeling into the world around us. This until we’ll be embracing our wild neighbors and claiming a place in what Mary Oliver called the family of things. Take a moment, before you dig in, to ground yourself to where you are right now. Take a full breath in through the nose, hold for a moment, and release out through the mouth.

This unit’s central poem is from Slouching toward Radiance: When Skin Meets Air

May this week of feeling what you feel be nourishing, life-giving, and allow enough room for peace.

Sense: Touch. Know. Start to build a relationship with parts of nature. Nature wants to know you, too. Declare your place in the wild family of things.

There are so many different textures in the natural world. From soft to sharp to scratchy to smooth, different parts of nature can all feel really different. This week we’ll use touch to explore.

Experiential Exercise:

Go outside and lay down on the ground — take a blanket to lay on if you’d like. (You can also do this exercise seated if that’s more accessible to you right now.) As you lay there, notice how you feel. Feel into all of the sensations that arise and simply allow them to exist. It may be tempting to wish the uncomfortable ones away, so when that happens, this is an opportunity to practice sitting with discomfort. How your body experiences touch is worth noticing. It is worth giving energy to. It’s not always easy to allow yourself to feel fully, so if this is challenging, that’s okay. That’s normal. If you can only manage a few moments at first, just stay still a few moments. Continue to practice, and you may find it gets easier over time.

Extra credit: Do this on a day when it’s hotter or colder, or maybe windier or wetter, than you’d prefer. Or lie facedown and get really up close with the ground!

Journal prompts:

Where do you feel pressure on your body as your body meets the ground? Where in your body do you feel held? Where is there discomfort?

How does laying still outside impact your mental/emotional state?

What makes you feel supported in this season? If you don’t feel supported, what’s missing?

What is it like to allow discomfort? How about pleasure?

What do you want to feel more often? What do you want to feel less often? What’s the best balance of discomfort and staying comfortable for you in this season of life?

Poetry Break:

Write a poem about touch/feeling.

Write whatever you wish, but if you need a place to start, here’s a first line:

Wind on bare skin finds me

……

Reading from Slouching Toward Radiance:

Get a copy of Slouching Toward Radiance

Feel free to leave a comment about your experience with any of the activities or prompts!1

Each week you will be provided with an activity, one audio or video segment, and several journal prompts. You’ll see, hear, touch, smell, and taste your way through these next six weeks, interacting with intention and curiosity.

Think of the recommendations and readings as a place to start. You are welcome to do the activities as written, or simply just go outside to do whatever you wish to do with your time as long as it’s unstructured and electronic-free.

(Break up the time commitment however you wish. Keep track on a calendar or in your journal. 10-15 minute doses are great! Keep in mind small sessions spread out during the week work well if you’re building a new routine…some days you might just stay out longer than anticipated..)

The most important thing is to pay attention and notice what happens when you do.

This series, which is six weeks in total, is intended to stimulate a sense of wonder and cultivate appreciation for the natural world. The idea is to spend at least five hours per week outside (or more if you so choose). Engage in experiences that stimulate wonder, creativity, and mindfulness. Explore one of the five senses each week. Reflect and write on what you’re noticing. Connect with your own inner wildness.

To the winds of the East—may you bless us with your call toward spring, your freshness of being, your breeze that offers clear vision and new perspective. May we look toward the winged ones—egret, butterfly, eagle—aloft with ease, gentle, honoring our younger selves, evolving as life calls us to evolve, always remembering that fierce newness is with us in every step.1

Get a copy of Just Wild Enough

Sense: Sight. See. Observe. Start to dabble in paying attention to what’s around you via your capacity for observation.

As humans, one of the first things we use to get connected with other people, creatures and objects is our sight. This week we’ll be using sight to tune into what’s going on around us outside. What does observing the wildness right outside your door have to teach you?

*If vision is not a sense that’s accessible, you might explore having a partner offer a verbal description of the environment, adapting the activities as needed, and/or leaning into other available senses to observe. There are myriad ways of seeing available to us.2

Experiential Exercise:

Go outside, right outside your door, and notice all the things that pull your attention. Observe what’s going on, from the bugs crawling on the window sill to the weather patterns to other humans in your vicinity. Make a list in your journal of all the details you can see from your front step or balcony. Commit to 5-10 minutes of quiet observation from your homebase a few times this week. Schedule it into the calendar if necessary and keep a running list of what you observe.

Extra credit: Watch a sunrise or two this week. Face east and witness the day coming into being. What do you notice? What is it like to be present with the earth as light fills the sky?

Journal Prompts:

What wildness exists, no matter how populated your area is? What helps that wildness persist? What does it feel like to notice and give voice to it? Imagine you can see yourself, too, in this scene–what is your place in the vast web of life you’re part of? How does taking time to look and observe change the trajectory of your day? What does it take to truly observe?

If you were granted wings, and could become “aloft with ease” what might you see then?

How can you honor your young self, and see with eyes anew?

Poetry Break:

Write a poem about observation.

Write whatever you wish, but if you need a place to start, here’s a first line:

Practice being still enough to see…..

Reading from Collisions of Earth and Sky:

Collisions of Earth and Sky

Feel free to leave a comment about your experience with any of the activities or prompts!

Each week you will be provided with several activity options, one audio or video segment, and several journal prompts. All of the options each week are based on that week’s theme sense. You’ll see, hear, touch, smell, and taste your way through these next six weeks, interacting with intention and curiosity.

Think of the recommendations and readings as a place to start. You are welcome to do the activities as written, or simply just go outside to do whatever you wish to do with your time as long as it’s unstructured and electronic-free.

(Break up the time commitment however you wish. Keep track on a calendar or in your journal. 10-15 minute doses are great! Keep in mind small sessions spread out during the week work well if you’re building a new routine…some days you might just stay out longer than anticipated..)

The most important thing is to pay attention and notice what happens when you do.

In other news:

I’m the artist in residence at Camp House in northern Minnesota for the week of July 5-10th this summer. If you need some time away in the north woods, consider registering for a few days of ordinary time.

Register for Ordinary Time

And then spring arrived arrived for real with the second swift melt of the year. It was 60 degrees by noon on the equinox (yesterday) and is 75 degrees today2. The streams on either side of the house are gushing, we spotted an otter fishing through holes in the ice last night, and the resident woodchuck is poking around in the newly uncovered grass near the dock. Geese are flapping overhead and the trills of sandhill cranes and red wing blackbirds have returned.

All of a sudden things are melting and flowing and shifting. The earth is waking up, shifting into a different sort of momentum. Maybe you are too.3 This time of year supports creating change in a different way than deep winter. Spring is an opportunity for figuring out where you want to put your energy, sloughing off what isn’t serving you, and ensuring you’re tending to what you want to grow.

Here are 12 (more) tiny things, spring style. Try a few on or add your own to the list. What will you do to ensure you’re emerging into the sort of life you want along with the season?

1. Get rid of something. A pair of pants that don’t fit anymore, a book you started but aren’t enjoying enough to finish, that gift somebody gave you during the holidays that just doesn’t align with your interests. Create some space for something new.

2. Give thanks for what you have. Even if (especially if) there is plenty of newness and change you want to bring into being, make sure to practice gratitude for what already is. Jot down three things you’re grateful for each morning, invite your family/roommates to offer one gratitude aloud before eating dinner, or write a few notes of thanks to colleagues. Practice being grateful for what’s already good.

3. Move joyfully, ideally outside. Consider that sort of movement brings you joy and make a point to do it, even if just for a few minutes. Dance, ride your bike, shoot some hoops with your neighbor or kids, play catch or frisbee. Embrace your inner kid and remember what it feels like to play.

4. Taste what you eat. Savor the scents and tastes of the spring season. What do you look forward to eating in spring? Anticipate it and when it’s time, enjoy some fresh produce as it becomes available by mindfully preparing and savoring whatever it is.

5. Plant a seed. Be it in a pot indoors or a garden bed when it warms up enough outside, plant something with the intention of tending its growth.

6. Name your inspiration. What do you want for yourself this season? Why do you want it? What’s under your desire to change (or maintain) whatever it is you want to change (or maintain). Keep asking those sorts of questions until you get to the root of your desire.

7. Set a goal. Get specific, make sure you can measure what you’re doing, ensure it’s attainable, relevant to what you want, and timebound.4

8. Connect with people who matter to you. Maybe you let a family member, a colleague, a friend, or a neighbor know what your goal is and, if they’re willing, how they can support you. Offer to support them with something as well. Listen when people talk, ask questions, and offer your own stories in return.

9. Take a deep breath. Change is hard, stress is a part of life, and the world is chaotic and unpredictable. Your breath is always with you, and being intention about noticing it and slowing it down or deepening it now and then can help create a tiny oasis of calm in the moment.

10. Drink a glass of water. Perhaps even before your first cup of coffee. Hydration is important, and it’s easy to forget about it. But it makes a difference.

11. Delete one app from your phone. Maybe one that’s non essential, one that takes more energy than returns, or one that leaves you feeling worse after looking at it.

12. Relinquish control.5 Identify something that is outside your direct control that you have, in fact, been trying to control (most of us have something…). Consider what it would be like to let go, and when you’re ready, practice doing so.

Poem from Slouching Toward Radiance

Here’s to spring. What tiny things will you be practicing in the months ahead?

At any rate, what follows is some writing for March, in non linear form. You’ll have to let me know how it lands.2

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March 2, 2026

Yesterday we skated the lake for hours thanks to the warm temperatures of weeks ago melting the surface just enough for the colder temperatures of the last two days to freeze it again into a skate-able surface. My 13 year old was twirling and gliding in no time, you could hear the slap of my husband’s hockey stick ring out across the ice, and time stood still for a little while. My feet were sore after so long in skates, but we went out again after dinner to glide around as dusk fell, the sky lighting up with color, ice turning silver in bright moonlight.

On Making Your Own Happiness

The snow melted
fast and early this year,
but we can still skate
on opalite-like ice
so we do, all day
until the light
turns to jewels
in the western sky.

March 11, 2024

I see robins, great flocks of them picking at the still brown ground. There is life there my eyes can’t yet see. That light emerges when conditions are right, and I have to trust the evolution of things. You can’t rush emerging, and you can’t evade it either. It’s best to allow the season to take you were it will, and stay as present as possible for the ride. Hope awakens in the strengthening sun, in evening light lingering longer, in how a cold glass of water replenishes, quenching more than just thirst when you really pay attention. Hope awakens in returning birdsong and active beavers and the buds of the maple as sap runs down. The approach of spring inspires a sloughing off of winter skin, a shedding of patterns and thoughts that aren’t serving the season: the literal season, or the season of life you’re in. Early spring is muddy and drab here in Minnesota, and so is new life—true growth and healing is not Instagram-able or photogenic, its likeness not something you can capture in an image. The approach of spring, even [especially] when snow remains in the forecast, inspires an allowing in of mess and and embracing of active waiting. Spring finds the cracks in broken windows that let in the best light.

March 13, 2026

Celestial Reminders

Most days it seems like the world
has gone fully awry — war starting anew
all the time, everywhere;
this side and that further apart
than ever, the split between worldviews 
so vast it seems the planet may diverge,
becoming two separate orbs
floating swiftly in opposite directions
as they try to blow each other up
eventually floating so far away
memory of the other becomes folklore, 
something that once was but isn't, not anymore. 
But for now, we remain here, and could it be
there is hope for us yet? In the way we both
notice the moonrise from opposing sides 
of the divide and marvel at something 
that's bigger and more full of mystery
than we are, something calling us 
toward peace, even if, most days, 
we can't yet understand 
what getting there
will take. 

March 20, 2025

Spring comes again, patterns the same—melt, freeze, thaw, melt—everything different, moments turning to days never lived before, never to be lived again. Nothing is as it was. As it was and what could be meet in the present, agreeing it’s best to live each moment as it happens, past and future walking through time to meet you where you are now. Melt, freeze, thaw, melt. Nothing is the same, everything is pattern, and spring comes again as the last shadows of winter dance across the lake, wind at his back. 

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Journal Prompt: What does past you have to say to who you are now? How about the you of the future? Write about what it would be like to be in a room with all three versions of yourself. What would you talk about?

In other news:

I’m the artist in residence at Camp House in northern Minnesota for the week of July 5-10th this summer. If you need some time away in the north woods, consider registering for a few days of ordinary time.

Register for Ordinary Time

About the program:

Rediscover your vision of community at Camp House this summer. Find connection on the shores of Lake George as you experience the rhythms of faith. Feel God’s presence while you sit quietly with others taking in a sunset or gather to hear a word of scripture. Hear the Spirit’s whispered reminder that you are loved.

Our weekly pastor, musician, and artist in residence will offer opportunities for worship, music, creativity, and learning, while the Camp House staff will help you experience the uniqueness of the site: brick oven pizza, daily saunas, a pontoon cruise around the lake, and evening games and fellowship.

Today’s guest on the Ordinary Collisions Interview Series, as we step into the month of March, is Margaret Somerville. The autumn after my 2023 book, Collisions of Earth and Sky, came out, I received an email from Margaret asking if I’d like to lead a session of contemplative practice for a program she was running through a nonprofit called Interfaith Alignment. Though I was unfamiliar with the organization at the time, I agreed and have since been fortunate enough to lead a few more sessions around the themes of ordinary ritual, nature connection, and poetry. Now three years after we met, she’s recently published a new book, and I’m excited to share more about her work with you today.

Margaret is the founder of Interfaith Alignment, a nonprofit fostering inclusive spaces across diverse faith traditions. With careers as a language educator, interfaith minister, and author, she designs programs that cultivate connection, reflection, and spiritual growth. As a member of the Iona Community, she spends part of the year working at Iona Abbey, serves as moderator of their Interfaith Relations Network, and facilitates the digital resources for the Week of Prayer for World Peace.

Heidi: Margaret, Thanks for being here with us today. What a delight to be asking you the questions this time! To start, I ask all guests: What are two forces that are colliding in your life right now (or that have in the not too distant past)?

Margaret: In working to center creative expression and connection in my life, I find myself pretty consistently changing direction at the collision point between emptying and filling. On a seasonal, daily, and even breath to breath basis.

When I was a little girl I had a toy, based on some principle of physics that didn’t matter to me, called Collision Balls. Lift one ball away from the rest and release it to crash into the others, and one ball separates itself on the other side. Lift two balls, and two balls release on the other side. I could spend hours staring at the way the impact of collision affected the other balls. The passing back and forth of the motion based on the collision was mesmerizing. And right now I feel my life as the energy that passes through those balls, in the constant process of emptying and filling.

Heidi: Ah, yes! I’ve come across a set of those before, too. There is certainly a rhythm to the ebb and flow, the emptying and the filling, when we allow it to happen. How are you navigating the conditions this collision is creating? How does the dissonance created impact your choices? Say more about this emptying and filling.

Margaret: Emptying comes first. I release the identities I have carried, the demands and expectations that have plagued me, my need for validation and success. I clear space in my schedule. Empty space, not part of the daily to-do list, not labelled as self-care time even. Just empty. And then as the shifting energy of the collision balls, I acknowledge what I allow to fill that vessel of my being. Often it’s words. Some of the words form into poems. Some just float around and hang in the air space as a point of distraction, and some bring focus to an area that needs tending, or a spark that needs kindling. Other times it is emotions that arise in the emptiness. Calm. Release. The joy of freedom. Also restlessness. Anxiety for the indulgence. But each feeling and sensation is allowed space to be, to breathe, and to inform.

Heidi: I find there’s a sense of relief that comes will allowing that sort of space, along with whatever emotions or feelings come along with it.

What has this collision taught you about yourself? The world?

Margaret: I’m reminded that the world, my context, my day-to-day living is made up of an infinite number of interactions, of collisions of changing direction between the in-breath and the out-breath. Some feel healthy and nourishing and some feel destructive and threatening. But the image of the collision balls is a reminder that the energy is constantly shifting. And I am in control of how high I raise the ball. How deeply I let myself empty and how meaningfully I allow myself to refill.

Heidi: Such an important reminder—that life is made up of collisions of all sorts, and we don’t often have control over them…but we do have control over how we respond to what happens.

Now, shifting gears just a bit, let’s talk about your book! What’s a collision you explore within its pages?

Margaret: In my book, When Prayer Doesn’t Work, I explore the practice of emptying and filling our vessels. All as an act of prayer. Prayer not as petition and asking for things to be different, but prayer as an act of presence. An acknowledgement of how we recognize divine love within ourselves and around and beyond ourselves as well. I have been a linguist for much of my career, and I usually tap into the richness that word roots can offer us. In this case, the word vessel, which can be simply an empty pot or something meant to contain and carry, or can be expanded into that which inherently includes movement, shifting. Think of vessel as a ship or as that which carries blood through our bodies. Vessels are about the beautiful rhythm of back and forth, emptying and filling. A reminder that even if our times of emptiness feel devastating, when our vessels are depleted by loss or fatigue, the energy, by whatever law of physics or divine presence that is, will shift and refill the beautiful vessels of our being.

Order a copy of When Prayer Doesn't Work

Heidi: It’s a beautiful book, and I encourage everyone to pick up a copy. As we wrap up, what else would you like to share about your current projects?

Margaret: Much of my time is spent cultivating the space of Interfaith Alignment, where we are so fortunate to welcome you, Heidi, as one of our presenters. It is a space where people gather from across the globe and from across our traditions to share the ways in which creativity informs our spiritual practice. Each week we are live, online for 30 minutes, led by a person from a different background each week. Different spiritual traditions, different ethnicities, races, ages, abilities, gender identities, and social contexts. We share poetry, chants, songs, images, reflections, meditations, prayers. Whatever is the practice of the leader that week. We offer monthly talks with Authors & Activists and daily spiritual practice resources as well.

On Substack I share my own writing as well as the work of Alignment, including podcast recordings of those weekly sessions.

And I’m currently working on my next book, A Gaelic Abecedarium, which is a collaborative arts project weaving poetry, reflection, music, and illuminated letters that explore Celtic spirituality in conversation with diverse world traditions.

On March 25, I’ll be presenting When Prayer Doesn’t Work as the Global Read with the Charter for Compassion.

Other places to find Alignment content: YouTube, Facebook, and Instagram.

Heidi: So much good stuff coming up! I’m looking forward to that new book very much. Thanks, Margaret, for your continued commitment to the work of cultivating peace across traditions and cultures.

Have a collision you’d like to explore in this space? Send me an email at heidi@heidibarr.com.

So this morning I made scones, had a friend over for coffee, vacuumed all of the carpets1, cleaned the sink, did a strength training workout, and talked to a family member who’s stuck on the east coast thanks to the nor’easter pummeling the region that cancelled all flights for days.

After I was done with all of that, it was time to eat lunch.

It’s currently 1:30pm and I have yet to open the document that houses the manuscript.

I have, however, gone through my entire Submittable2 folder.

Interestingly, this revision and editing phase is one of my favorite parts of putting books together—the structure and flow has been established, the content has been mostly decided on and written. This phase is for fine tuning, for making sure things flow in a way that makes sense to anyone other than me, and for deleting unnecessary words.3 I often describe how I write as ‘quilting’ in that I gather up all the pieces (essays, poems, random paragraphs) that I think will fit into the vision of the work and start stitching them together. The main stitching for this book has been done, so now I need to ensure all the pieces are arranged and smoothed out—and clip off the loose threads.

Even though I enjoy this phase, it’s often tricky to get started—the draft I have now is fairly readable as it is so the “allow what is to be enough” side of me gets a little yappy. However, when it comes to book editing, it’s helpful to tamp down my slacker tendencies4 which come out sometimes when I get caught in the trap of “well, I didn’t give it my absolute best effort, so…. of course it’s just okay. It would have been better, but, you know, I didn’t try my hardest.” It’s a way to protect my ego against the inevitable criticism that comes with publishing.

At any rate, I need to set that little ego gremlin aside, and get to work on this draft. I’m excited for the project and how it’s come together so far, so I’m going to take that energy (along with my editor’s suggestions) and apply it to this phase of editing. Adjust, trim, snip, iron. Little by little, the final draft and I will come to an agreement on a place to land.

I thought about trying to find a poem to add here, but I think it’s probably best to end this missive and open the document.

Here’s to allowing what is to be enough AND editing when necessary.

Today is February 16, it’s 53 degrees outside. Honestly? I’m not a fan, even though my walk around the increasingly brown grounds felt nice, albeit a bit squishy in the sun. The snow is melting fast. It feels like April. I’m not ready for mud season just yet—my nordic skis are languishing by the back door and there they will stay in hopes of the temperatures dropping later this week. At any rate, I’m working on some writing stuff that isn’t newsletter material (more to come on that…later) so it’s excerpt time. This one’s from one of the later chapters in Collisions of Earth and Sky (Broadleaf Books, 2023) and it’s all about leaning into what it means to be fully alive. Which can feel like a tall order, especially when conditions, news headlines, and the state of the world could be described by many as unpleasant/unwanted, bad, and chaotic. It’s easy to want to numb out, or keep scrolling, or try to change everything at once. Healthy distraction is sometimes just the thing, there are times you’ve got to scroll to find what you need on your device, and the desire for big change is one everyone experiences. But let’s not forget the power of mindfulness, connecting with the wild, and allowing what is to be what it is while putting our energy where we have agency to create needed change.

I am becoming earth. I run through an old-growth forest on the heels of a wolf, dive naked into a cool pool of water, soar with the cranes over the plain, and howl at the full moon while dancing under shimmering stars. I sleep outside in the elements and use mud as sunscreen. My hair is tangled and full of leaves and small sticks, and I drink sunlight and bathe in the power of the moon. The earth is my mother, and the sky is her lover. I am married to myth, and my children are whispers of ideas that float on the clouds. Dirt and ferns and vines creep around my body, and I can talk to the trees in a language older than time.

The alarm clock goes off, and I wake up. I’m wearing navy-blue pajamas. As I rub my eyes, I realize I spent the night sleeping in a bed next to my spouse. There’s a meeting on my calendar in twenty minutes, and I can’t remember how to talk to the trees. The dream slips away like sand through an hourglass.

I want the earth back.

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As the day progresses, I notice the birds calling to each other and feel the breeze caressing my bare shoulders as it rushes through the open windows. A few hours later, I step away from the computer and out of my shoes onto the lawn, touch the rough bark of the huge silver maple in the yard, and I remember that becoming earth isn’t out of reach, after all.

Becoming earth means lifting my eyes to the sun that peeks through the clouds on a dreary day during a slow walk through a park. It means stepping outside under a sliver of a new moon and wondering where the light has gone through fears that just won’t stop. It means putting my high heels in the closet for good because they just aren’t worth it. It means being an advocate for those forms of life who don’t communicate in ways that technology and progress can understand. It means listening to the stories of those whose voices have been, as Arundhati Roy said, “deliberately silenced or preferably unheard.” It means looking into shadows and dreams and stuff that no one wants to talk about because it isn’t pretty or nice or put together. It means a lot of things if we let it.

It means being fully alive while I draw breath.

In her book on creativity, called What We Ache For, Oriah Mountain Dreamer says we need to “find the marriage of meaning and matter in life and in the world.” That’s what we ache for, isn’t it? To touch and truly know the “fire of being fully alive.” Being fully alive seems to be the ultimate goal, even though it can be hard to express what that means or looks like.

What is “being fully alive”?

Some days, being fully alive is noticing the way the sun casts dappled light and shadow through still-bare tree branches. It’s watching that light stream through the window, making dancing shapes on the table and on part of my left hand. Other days, it’s sitting in a rocking chair, air dry and warm by the wood stove, listening to a fire crackling as early-arrival sandhill cranes and geese trill and honk overhead as they make their way back home again in spring. It’s noticing the smell of woodsmoke that lingers when I step outside and the sound of the seasonal stream trickling in the ravine by the south side of the house. It’s witnessing vibrant green moss peeking out from the patches of snow that persist and the tiny water droplets that hang on newly unfurled spores. Being still enough to notice these things, these ordinary details, is what makes me fully alive.

Sometimes, though, it’s moving quickly on foot or bike that does it, the rush of wind on my face a reminder of aliveness. Sometimes it’s the giggle or earnest comment from my child—the marvel of her existence and evolution into her own personhood a continual astonishment. Sometimes it’s picking a ripe tomato or digging through wet soil until I find a treasure trove of purple potatoes. Sometimes it’s the buzz of deer flies as I try to stay one step ahead of them on the trail. Sometimes it’s air that feels too hot or too cold or the way spongy moss claims the shadowy parts of the yard.

It all comes back to the noticing—to actively rejecting the pull to numb the unwanted. To be willing to open up to the wonder of walking through a forest at dawn, fog rising from the lake, day stretching out like a canvas waiting for the combination of noticings that will transform it from blank slate to something lovingly and curiously created from the raw stuff of living.

Becoming earth means leaning into that which is wild, true to nature, and authentic to what it means to be a human creature. It means embracing the wild self in all the ways it wants to show up. The wildness that can be found in all of us can be subtle, but it is as opulent as it is gentle and as quiet as it is screaming from the treetops. It is all that we can imagine and all those things that we still cannot. It is the ordinary days and the terrible days mixed with the magic of life on a living, breathing planet. It is walking through an unknown door toward something that has burned up to see what wants to rise from the ashes. We become earth when we can recognize ourselves in the reflection of whatever adds healing to the world. We become earth when we remember what we knew before we were born, when we tunnel our roots down deep, and when we listen for the voices in the stones.

Here’s a journal prompt, or simply something to sit with for awhile: What does being fully alive mean to you right now? How does it feel? Sound? Taste? How would you describe it in detail? Write about what comes to mind when you attempt to define “being fully alive”.

May the week to come include enough of whatever it is you need the most.

2026 is the first year I am not releasing a book of my own since 2015, so that feels a little odd. But it’s time for a break, especially when it comes to the promotional component of publishing. Writing a book takes a lot of energy. And releasing a book and then promoting it to the public takes quite a bit more energy of a different sort. I’d guess many of my writerly colleagues would agree that marketing and PR and doing social media posts and giving interviews and writing pitches for op eds and lining up book events can be fairly exhausting work. These days even if you publish with one of the “Big 5” publishers2, much of this work still falls on the author. You can, of course, hire your own publicist, but that is an added (rather large3) expense that many folks aren’t able to take on.

Anyway, all this to say, I have several writing colleagues and friends who have released or will release new books this winter and spring, so it’s time to help them spread the word. The books that follow are all very different, but they are all well worth a look as you diversify your bookshelf and support indie authors and presses.

So, here we go. We’ll do this in order of publication date.

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First up: The Way of the Desert Elders, by Lisa Colón DeLay.

“A spiritual expedition into the stories and wisdom of ancient, desert-dwelling Christians, who show us how to forge faith at the edges of empire.” Published by Broadleaf Books on January 27, 2026, you can order a copy now.

Read more about Lisa here: Ordinary Collisions interview and at Spark My Muse.

***

Next: Fair Game, by Ellie Roscher and Anna Baeth with a foreword by Chris Mosier. Available now after being released on January 27 from The New Press.

Fair Game explores the role of sports in the lives of transgender youth and adults, offering a comprehensive, nuanced, and multivoiced picture of the transgender athletic experience. Through a woven collection of the narratives from a marginalized population, Fair Game examines the patterns of fear and gender stereotypes that undergird anti-trans legislation and offers helpful historical and political context about sex segregation in sports and how bodies (including trans bodies) work in sports.

Ellie is my co author of 12 Tiny Things, and you can read more about her work at and in her Ordinary Collisions interview from a few years ago.

***

I Could Walk Forever and Know So Little, by Krissy Kludt. Coming March 5, 2026 from Green Writers Press.

Set among the oak-dotted hills and granite heights of northern California, I Could Walk Forever and Know So Little distills moments of communion with the natural world into spare, lilting language. The poems traverse ordinary days and periods of loss; they are elegy and wish. They examine motherhood and daughterhood and turn to the living land as source of solace and nurturing.

I had the pleasure of reading an early copy, so here’s what I think:

“Here are poems that nestle close to the bone, companions on the way through whatever comes, a balm for hard moments and a praise song for the joyous ones. I Could Walk Forever and Know So Little made me feel seen and allowed an exploration of places I've not yet been. Full of beautifully simple language and vivid imagery, this is a collection to return to time and time again. Read these words and be nourished.”

Learn more about Krissy’s work in her Ordinary Collisions interview and at Writing the Wild

***

Conjuring the Hurricane, by Sarah Hanson. Coming April 28, 2026 from Inked Elephant Publishing House.

Conjuring the Hurricane is a survival memoir-in-verse about leaving a life that’s killing you and rebuilding a self you can finally live inside. Told in fragments that mirror the way trauma lives in the body, the book traces the nonlinear work of reclaiming identity, trust, and agency after abuse.

I was able to read an early copy of this one, too, and I can tell you this: "Sarah Hanson weaves a narrative of love, loss, pleasure, and pain, inviting us to bear witness to all the layers of life on planet earth. This gem of a book is full of realness and truth, woven together in a way that won't blind you with too much light. Read it, and be astonished at the beauty that is still possible despite everything."

Learn more about Sarah’s work at . Never fear, her Ordinary Collisions interview is coming soon.

***

And finally, Waking up at Rembrandt’s by Thomas Lloyd Qualls is coming in April, 2026 from & Books.

About the novel: Maggie is a discouraged lawyer, Dillon, a heartbroken vagabond, and Phillip, a frustrated writer. Their stories are told by the mysterious Jillian, part purveyor of spirits and part spiritual guru. Inside the walls of Cafe Rembrandt, where whipping fresh cream is an act of poetry and pouring a drink an act of faith, we fall under Jillian’s spell. With a voice that is lyrical and immediate, she artfully trails her Ariadne thread to lead her devotees back into the light. Waking Up at Rembrandt’s is a fresh take on the tale of awakenings. It celebrates the sensual as well as the spiritual, skillfully bridging the two worlds.

Learn more at and Thomas Lloyd Qualls and….yes, his Ordinary Collisions interview.

So there you go—your to-read stack for the next few months. Order a copy directly from the publisher, at your local indie bookshop, or request your library get a copy or two.

Speaking of reading and books….there are two new indie bookshops opening in my area this month. I just dropped off some book stock at River Stone Bookshop and Coffee Stop in Osceola, Wisconsin this morning! It’s a very cozy space, full of gently used and some new books. Be sure to get to their soft opening on February 14, and stay tuned for upcoming author events and the grand opening this spring.

And Bruyere Books & Tea in Lindstrom, Minnesota is a book shop focusing on supporting neurodivergent and LGBTQ+ voices, is also opening this spring.

Here’s to reading and all the worlds doing so can open up.

To some these days are known as Imbolc – the mid-point between the solstice & the equinox. Always makes me think of mid-points in journeys – time to reassess our resources & replenish what is needed. ~Oriah Mountain Dreamer

11 years ago, I participated in an online course facilitated by author and teacher Charles Eisenstein. It was called the Space Between Stories, and the ideas shared over those weeks had a big impact on my world view and writing in the decade that followed. The course described the space between stories as “the time when the old story of who I am, what is real, and how to navigate life has broken down. It is the time when my familiar ways of making meaning are no longer relevant. I don’t know who I am. What had seemed so permanent, reliable, understandable and real is revealed as an illusion.”

In his 2013 book, The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know is Possible, Charles makes the case that we are stuck in between two stories: the old story of Separation and the new story of Interbeing.

The old story? It’s about achieving success in life by doing well in school, getting a well-paying job, contributing to the growth of the economy; basically, it’s about following the rules of society and relies on human advancements to keep everything continually moving forward. It’s about getting more, doing better, and “making things happen.” In Chapter One, Eisenstein writes about his childhood,

Life made sense. If you worked hard you could get good grades, get into a good college, go to grad school or follow some other professional path, and you would be happy. With a few unfortunate exceptions, you would be successful if you obeyed the rules of our society: if you followed the latest medical advice, kept informed by reading the New York Times, got a good education, obeyed the law, made prudent investments, and stayed away from Bad Things like drugs. Sure there were problems, but the scientists and experts were working hard to fix them. Soon a new medical advance, a new law, a new educational technique, would propel the onward improvement of life. My childhood perceptions were part of a narrative I call the Story of the People, in which humanity was destined to create a perfect world through science, reason, and technology: to conquer nature, transcend our animal origins, and engineer a rational society.

That probably sounds familiar: many, of not most of us have been living within that story. Follow the rules and things will work out. We could argue it isn’t working for most folks—turns out we’ve yet to step into that ideal world that transcends hardship by working hard and doing all the right things in the proper order. Turns out you can finish high school with honors, get a college degree, and still not find a job that pays enough to afford you a house (or pay off your student loan debt). You can get laid off even if you always get good reviews (twice, even). Relationships can still end when you don’t want them to, even if you get a promotion or a raise or donate to charities. And so on. From wealth disparity to big Ag to species extinction to food deserts to politics to ongoing war[s], things look fairly bleak from the perspective of separation.

On the other hand, Interbeing is the story that invites humanity to live in harmony with the other forms of life on the planet, rather than over them. It’s a story about seeing the world as intricately connected. It’s about recognizing that every being has a unique gift to offer to the universe, even in their imperfection. It’s about acknowledging every gift is of equal worth. It’s about feeling alive because of how we are living, and it’s about seeing ourselves in each other and in the wider world.

These days, that new story feels awfully mythical. Separation seems pretty powerful still.1

I appreciated hearing from Buddhist teacher Cynthia Jurs, who lead one of the class sessions. She spoke of acting from the subtle and how important it can be to stop and breathe in the midst of the chaos that punctuates our world. She spoke of focusing on the space that is between where we are and where we want to go. She said it’s that space that allows new things to come into being and that it is important not to rush out of the unknown into a new story.2 It’s important to rest in the space that’s in between. From that space we can see and start to recognize our gifts, and we can offer those gifts out into our communities, our workplaces, our families. and the earth itself. She reminded us that it is from our gifts — those gifts that are unique to our own being — that we can affect the “powers that be” in the deepest way and contribute to the healing of the world.

Our assignment that week was to share our deepest prayerful question. As a long time wellness coach, I’m a question person, so I appreciated it very much. What question does the situation need? Sometimes we need the right question before we can arrive at a solution.

Here was the prompt: What is your prayer? I don’t remember what I wrote as my prayer 11 years ago, but I think it’s worth sitting with this again, at this moment in time. There’s a place for action, of course. And there’s still a place for deep stillness and the sort of action that seems too tiny to matter.

What is your prayer? What are you ready for that maybe you just don’t know how to do? Make an offering of your yearning or your question. If you offer it with sincerity, something shifts in the world. An answer comes, likely in a form you cannot expect or maybe won’t even recognize. For this offering to have power, nothing is required beyond your sincere desire. You don’t need to believe the prayer will work. You don’t even need hope. All you need to do is ask the question sincerely from the bottom of your heart. It comes from what you actually care about in real time, not what your mind tells you you should care about in order to be good, ethical, responsible, or “making a difference” on a large scale. Who knows where even the smallest actions and the humblest service will lead?

Who knows, indeed. Sometimes what we find in the shadow is our greatest source of hope.

What’s your deepest prayer?

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May this space between be one of reassessing and replenishing what’s most needed for the work that is yet to come.

A few tidbits from folks in the thick of it:

Notes from Minneapolis, by Ellie Roscher (also, order her new book, Fair Game!)

Sad + Steady, by Sarah Ratermann Beahan (read suggestions 1-6 for a high level overview on how to regulate the nervous system!)

The North Remembers, by Sarah Hanson (preorder her debut poetry collection, Conjuring the Hurricane!)

Stranger

I wonder sometimes
if we were brothers
in another life
or doctor and patient, maybe even lovers
you caring for me, or me for you
us for each other
lives intimately intertwined
as time stretches out
in a trajectory
we’ll never know, at least
not in this life.
And I ask myself
if wondering about that other life
could be enough
to heal the wounds
of this one.

Poem from Just Wild Enough

Food for Thought During Times of Trouble

What forces are at work 
that you don’t see on the news? 

What makes a community 
feel full of life, even when people grow weary?

What's coursing through the ancient bedrock,
aligning with the stars, or nestling softly near the heart?

What keeps you grounded, 
mind, body, and spirit? 

How can you live life
in ways that tell the truth? 

What would it be like to change your mind, shift course,
hold space for others to change theirs?

What could it mean to practice peace
and also work toward life-giving reform?

What if tuning in to those things is essential 
to staying sane in the times? 

How does us and them force leaving out what we need 
to tap into to navigate this era of time on earth?

What's in in the space 
between us and them? 

What's possible when you step outside what you see on the news, 
not to bury your head in the sand, but to make sure you’re not excluding 

the energy that may well lead us closer  
to what's going to add healing of the world?

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Waking Up in Winter

Turn off the news.
Walk to the front door.
Notice how the doorknob feels, 
cold and smooth against your bare skin. 
Step outside. Pause. Eyes shut. 
Wait just a moment more. Now.
Open your eyes. Look with your whole body.
Drink the vastness this space beyond holds, 
revel in the wildness of the winter sky, 
listen to trees cloaked in frosty glory—
a story older than others shared this day, 
a story true, no matter who pays it mind, 
a story worth waking up for, 
even—especially— 
in winter.

Poem from Slouching Toward Radiance

Even Now, Despite Everything

I hope you have days 
when you notice how snow sparkles 
even more when it’s really cold; 
when you choose to watch a fire 
instead of whatever’s on Netflix; 
when you can taste the love 
in a homemade loaf of bread; 
when someone reminds you 
how much a kind word impacts a day. 
I hope there are times 
when you lean deeply 
into the tiny things 
that make you glad to be alive.

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