Green Tribe of Belonging

 This  Thanksgiving holiday has connected me to my family. And when our family gets together we talk about our childhoods: how my dad would fall off his chair if we ate our beans, how we used to compete about how many ears of sweet corn we could eat in one meal. We shared memories of our school bus driver, of our classmates. Being with family seems to root me, to give me long deep roots. It reminds me that I belong somewhere.  This time the family experience reminded me of how I used to play outdoors. As I grew old enough to be on my own, rather than under a mother's careful watch, I could go anywhere I wanted on our big farm. My cousin John was just a year older than me, and he often led the way. We climbed up to the top of the silo and looked out across acres and acres of crop land. We built a tree house on the bank of the Wapsinonoc Creek and hung a bag swing off the tree so that we could swing over the creek. We went out to the middle of a corn field and ate soft small immature

Can I sit awhile in your presence, oh rugged giant of a windswept tree? I am seeking sanctuary, a place apart from the static-filled life of humans. There is peace and deep stillness under your branches, close to your rough trunk, in the sound of moving leaves, the smell of wood, of growth, of green. I chose you because in tree-years we might be the same age, not yet ancient, yet on the far side of maturity, gradually declining, standing solid in storms still, but not as strong or as vital as once we were. I breathe in your presence, your steadfastness. Your arms stretch out far to either side, seemingly without fatigue, showing grace and fullness, flexible and strong. I imagine the great collection of roots below you, your shape as large underground as above. Maybe that strong root base, invisible to me, enables you to be serene, unwavering, firmly supported. I, on the other hand, am often much fatigued. I sense no root base. I don't feel securely planted. I am vulnerable to storm

 As I was waking up this morning, I started wondering about time. We have an elaborate system of time-keeping these days, but imagine what it was like back at the beginning of human history. We humans were living in what we might now call "the wild", among lots of other living things. We would get up in the morning from wherever our bed happened to be, find food, socialize maybe, work on the shelter we called home. In the warm parts of the year, we'd probably have an easier time. When the temperatures began to drop, we might have begun to think of storing food for the winter, improving our home to keep out the cold. As the days grew shorter, we probably spent more time huddled up together or sitting around a fire. Our time calculations were very basic, and all attuned to the sun, moon and weather.  Now, of course, when we think of time we look at our watches, or our calendars. What a huge leap! And I was curious about how that happened. So I've been researching time a

Waking Up Imagine a future where we are all heard, where we all listen to each other, not only to our human sisters and brothers but to everything, the large and small inhabitants of our home planet, listening to everyone's voice. Imagine a life where we are open to new thoughts, where we listen instead of lecturing, where we are eager to explore, where learning is utterly important and the status quo does not exist. Imagine a future where we don't have to be martyrs to a present that doesn't work, a present that denies our life force and is leading to a dangerous precipice. Imagine that we turn around in time. Imagine taking that curve into the future, letting go of competition, of rigid beliefs, pausing before defending, opening our minds to possible multiple bright outcomes, moving toward a wide horizon of change. What have we got to lose? We have seen enough bleak days. Now it's time for bravery and courage. No more cowering, sadly accepting a flawed world. Time to

 This is the time of year when my skin gets dry. When I was younger, I didn't notice this happening to me, but the older I get, the fall months are when I notice especially my feet and my hands getting dry and rough. Just this morning, I gave both my hands and feet a treat, rubbing them with the healing salve I make from plants in my garden. And they feel so much better! It was a long time ago that someone taught me how to make salve. And ever since, I've made it every year or two. I used to sell it at the farmers market, but now I just make it for friends and community members, and me! Right now my large electric turkey roaster is on the kitchen counter, filled with jars of olive oil and ground up herbs and surrounded with warm water. It's like a double boiler, though the water is only warm, not boiling. The herbs will steep like this for a week or two more, and then I'll strain the enriched olive oil out, put the dry herbs in the compost, and add melted beeswax to mak