This shady street has Amazon trucks chugging up and down, dropping tiny packages of single items at people’s homes. Including mine sometimes. For this and many other reasons, climate change has our Ponderosa Pines swaying in massive windstorms every few years rather than every century.

I was talking to a neighbor on Saturday, lingering while on a walk. We were talking about the trees. Having been worried that some of the pines in his front yard would snap in the wind rather than just sway during the next storm, he had invited an arborist to come assess the situation. Two blocks from where we stood talking, a woman was killed by a falling tree in one of these storms a few years ago, and of course we’ve had long power outages, damaged roofs, smashed cars. Insurance companies trying to pretend snapping ponderosas weren’t part of the deal.

The arborist told him something that I’ve been thinking about. He said the trees are fine. Resilient because they stand in a close group. They will sway together, taking the storm as it comes. Bending together, maybe lower than they have before, but not breaking. Defiant. Alive. And not alone.

I don’t have to write the rest. The metaphor of how we can learn from ponderosa relatives at this moment speaks for itself, and if someone reads this they can apply it to their own story. Maybe it will become a theme of the next chapter.

She talked about the idea of not killing creatures that come into your home by mistake. I remember being at a friends’ wedding and the ceremony was delayed because there were wasps up front where the bride and groom would stand. The groom came in to help remove them because there was no way he was going to let them get killed. I hadn’t known that about him before and wouldn’t have guessed it, and it left a mark on me. I’ve gotten to the point where I will remove spiders (even big gruesome ones) and release them outside of the house. I haven’t gotten to that point of compassion with water-bugs (those giant cockroaches) in New York. But I am trying to see kinship in them too… it doesn’t come easily.

When I moved to Oregon we rented the house first and then “bought” it a year later. I have always felt like a steward and caretaker to this place. Maybe because we rented first, and it’s so different from anywhere else I’ve lived. The gardens and growth around was so beautifully cared for by people who owned this place before us that I felt a sense of responsibility to the beauty that they cultivated and was afraid that we might destroy it if we didn’t take care. Having grown up in a big city I realized quickly that I didn’t know anything about plants and gardens and houses and that made me reverent and humble towards it in spite of myself. Listening to Leonore I realize that this attitude that I slipped into was, maybe, an attitude worth expanding. 

As I listened to her, I realized that I grew up in a place that is the embodiment of humans imposing themselves violently on nature and building over it, on top of it and in spite of it… and owning it. New York City’s concrete, bricks and steel seems to scream, “we’ve dominated this land.” And yet, having grown up there and having lived elsewhere, I also know that that’s not the whole story. There are aspects of my home city that are great and important too… aspects that have to do with the incredible mixture of humans being thrown together.

When I moved to Oregon, though, I found the always-surrounding presence of the giant evergreens austere. Eight years later I cannot imagine living without them. If I end up moving somewhere else I will miss them more than anything. Leonore made me realize how real that relationship is and has become, that it’s not just something that I imagine and I don’t need to shy away from acknowledging it and cultivating it. 

And when she spoke of the weather being a relative to welcome, I have since begun to try and incorporate that into my welcoming of the rain and the moody grey skies.

Last night, however, the weather was easy to welcome. As I rode and listened to Leonore speak, every plant, all of the shimmering sunlight off of the Willamette river, everything came alive and seemed to carry me along. 

And then my earbuds became silent. The recording ended. Beyond the words that were spoken, it was the silence after the words that was the most profound. The twilight sky spread out before me and appeared so vast… and the purplish clouds expanded and breathed. I suddenly remembered these words “There will always be the sky”. When my mother passed away in 2010, a close friend of hers told me about one of his last conversations with her. She often had philosophical/spiritual conversations with him. He told me that he was talking with her about the fact that everything perishes and is passing in this life. They were outside in Riverside Park, in NYC, by the Hudson River. She became quiet and answered “No, there will always be the sky.”

As I rode my bike, having just listened to Leonore Three stars… I allowed my spirit to open to the sky and I felt connected to my mother and connected to the sky in a way that was new. In the last years of my mother’s life she was always very active, but she made a point in the Spring and Summer to take the time to sit on the grass by the river in Riverside park, sometimes daily, and for hours. She would work outside on her writing or reading. She would tell me often “I can’t get over the sky, how it’s constantly changing and always new, and giving us so much”. I think she was, in her way, connecting with these relatives, these friends, even in New York City. 

When I lived in Paris, I lived in an apartment for many years next to the Jardin des Plantes where there was a zoo. A small part of the zoo could be seen from the busy boulevard that ran along it. When I would ride back late at night on my bike from a rehearsal or a dinner, I would stop sometimes in front of the bars that separated the park and the zoo from the street. There was no one around. Through the bars I could see the ostriches. Big, awkward looking creatures that seemed so out of place in Paris with the nighttime traffic and headlights wizzing by and all that noise. I felt sorry for them having the Parisian traffic rush by all night long. I would stop and talk to them and sometimes sing to them. 

I suppose there’s something in me that has always known and longed for this connection with our relatives – the animals, the land, the sky. Hearing Leonore name these things in the context and traditions of peoples who have taken care of this land for centuries has given me a beautiful and powerful framework to help understand and practice what has only been whimsical intuitions until now. It not only legitimizes these impulses, but grounds them in a whole world and in traditions and cultures that I know so little about, but to whom I am beholden. It feels like she opened a window to a whole new world that I have somehow always known. 

There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.   

Over the past few years something has been stirring in my heart springing forth from two unique and distant fountainheads.  The first flows out of Wendell Berry’s Sabbath Poems that have challenged me to pause and reflect on the beauty of the land I reside on.  His walks among nature and quiet contemplation of the earth’s beauty pull at an inner desire to turn down my noisy life to better tune in to the “still small voice of God”.  The second flows from the indigenous voices that cry out from David Grann’s haunting account of systemic injustice in his book Killers of the Flower Moon.  His words honestly demonstrated the humble relationship the Osage people had with the land and how it was exploited by white businessmen who felt they had the right to own the ground they stood upon.  

It was not until the Native writer and teacher, Lenore Three Stars, quoted the poetry of Wendell Berry to our cohort that these two streams converged in my mind, running together into a wider river of thought.  The wisdom and historical struggle of indigenous peoples that we seek to understand is not separate from our call to steward the land around us.  Lenore stated, “how you are connected to the land is deeply important to native identity”.  To understand the people who lived here first is to also understand the land.  To pursue justice for the people who lived here first is bound up in the pursuit of environmental stewardship.  To harm the land we are on is to harm the people who call it home.  To heal the land we are on is to pursue reconciliation.  The two are united in relationship with one another.  

Now here I stand at the confluence of these two streams, feeling the equal weight of invitation into reconciling relationship with indigenous land and neighbor. 

Which brings us to our present day and the personal choices each of us make which desecrate our land. Those scars are evident everywhere if we have the eyes to see them.  Though I think of myself as someone who holds an awareness of the responsibility which I have toward good stewardship of this earth, this understanding was significantly expanded for me through Lenore’s teaching. The terms of kinship, which she used throughout her sharing, gave me a fuller vision for the interconnectedness of human and non-human creation.  Just as a family is connected, not only through relationship, but at the genetic level, I have a new understanding of the depth of this interconnectedness between myself and creation.  My connection to all of the created elements around me is more than relational, it is genetic.  And while I have only a basic level of understanding of epigenetics, this is all very inspiring to me as an opportunity to explore the many new ways I can practice this new vision of interconnectedness with creation every day!

Hawaii has a unique culture shaped by many different forces, but as I’ve discovered over time, it’s still heavily influenced by Native Hawaiian culture—a culture I’ve come to deeply appreciate.

Something that struck me, but didn’t really surprise me, during Lenore’s session was how similar the cultural ethics are between mainland Native American communities and Native Hawaiians. For me, it was helpful to hear some familiar concepts and values expressed with slightly different language.

The everyday invitation that resonated with me most from our time with Lenore was to “be a good relative” to all of creation. That’s what I would call a “sticky” idea—one that I can easily get my head around, remember, and try to put into action. It reminds me that we are all interconnected and dependent—not just humans—and that inspires me to think and act differently.

Her relational worldview and deep understanding that “we are all related” is something I think we all need to glean from. I appreciate how she said, “When I am considering new teachings, I ask whether this helps me become a good  relative. If my theology doesn’t help me become a good relative, then I need  better theology.” We tend to think that things are to be possessed / gained / extracted for my own personal good, which reminds me of the notion of sin as “the heart turned in on itself.” But if you have a mindset of independence rather than independence, you remember that we are all related – and because all things are your relative, no relative gets left out.

One practice that I took away from was to tap into our spiritual longing and yearning that we are all related to all parts of creation. We can intentionally acknowledge the intrinsic connection to the land by asking permission and offering a gift before taking something.

The day of this session, it was actually my anniversary; I had actually planned to plant a tree in my backyard. Listening to the session made me much more intentional about the process of digging the hole into the earth and planting the tree. I offered a prayer to the tree and to the land in a way that I wouldn’t have done otherwise because this session reminded me of the intrinsic connection and relatedness of all things. I want to move forward with a greater intentionality on “being a good relative” to all created things with a mindset of responsible stewardship rather than property ownership / extraction / independence.

This was a great invitation of course, but I am realizing was an incomplete one. No doubt, stewarding ourselves, our finances, our time, and our relationships holds great importance. But what does it mean to steward the land?

I have been reflecting on Genesis 1. Genesis 1:28 instructs humans to “subdue” the earth and “have dominion over it”. Unfortunately, I think this call has been misinterpreted by many evangelicals to “have power over” which generally leads to exploitation. Furthermore, the American dream invites us to pursue “life, liberty and property” as enlightenment thinker John Locke would contend. The pursuit of ownership has been built into us through false promises of what brings happiness. This guise of the American dream is backed by many of our interpretations of scripture.

One of the first times I encountered somebody who radically stewarded our land well was Scott. Scott is quirky. Scott has a solar powered oven. Scott does sun salutations. Scott composts. As someone who grew up in a background that treats the earth as something that merely serves our purposes, I was confused that someone could have this kind of a relationship with the earth. Why treat it like something that is equal to us?

Meeting with Lenore Three Stars during our time with Global Immersion has helped bring language to the call in Genesis 2 that invites us to “cultivate and care for” the earth. The land is divinely created. Humans have the privilage to take part and receive from it. But just as we are welcomed to receive from the earth, we are also invited to give to it. Jesus invites us to give to it.

The next time I take something (fruit, a rock, a seashell), I am going to practice stewardship by thanking the earth and its creator for its provision. This might be uncomfortable, but learning and stewardship often is.

I have also been focusing quite intently on renewing my inner dialogue based on the truth that, “The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat of its fruit.” Proverbs 18:21  So I have been trying to speak life over myself, other people (especially those who irritate or anger me) and the trees. I approach the trees, not as neutral, but as loving and filled long ago with God’s loving intentions – I receive and speak love. I often feel this like electricity on my skin and increased well being. I was blessed to revisit the water experiment recently – a Japanese researcher found that water molecules are made more beautiful and organized when loving words are spoken over a glass of water. This is such a stunning reminder of our God given power. (you can find videos about it on youtube -Dr. Masuru Emoto is the researcher.)

I feel that the upshot of these small shifts is a more gracious every day experience. And a more gracious everyday experience equips me to extend that grace a bit better and protects me a bit more from discouragement and exhaustion. And I hope that this will teach me how to be a better partner and relative of all creation. I suppose it’s also worth it outside of specific benefits to simply be in more profound connection with the hidden reality around me.

“Loving the earth, seeing what has been done to it, 

I grow sharp, I grow cold 

Where will the trilliums go, and the coltsfoot?  Where will the pond lilies go, to continue living their simple, penniless lives, lifting their faces of gold?

Impossible to believe we need so much as the world wants us to buy.

I have more clothes, lamps, dishes, paperclips, than I could possibly use before I die.  

Oh, I would like to live in an empty house, with vines for walls, and a carpet of grass.

No planks, no plastic, no fiberglass.

And I suppose sometime I will.

Old and cold I will lie apart

From all this buying and selling, with only the beautiful earth in my heart.”

I love this poem by Mary Oliver.  I feel sadness when I think of the “trilliums” having to leave. I recall the building of a major freeway near my childhood home and wondering where the animals would go now that their homes were turning to asphalt.

The phrase most meaningful to me from Lenore’s time with us was “Hope Is My Relative”.   When my travel group visited Pine Ridge Reservation in 2018 we were told we were relatives.   We were welcomed graciously.  In spite of the extreme poverty the residents shared their artwork, their stories, their history, their pride.  After so many years of suffering and tragedy I was deeply moved that we were accepted and welcomed, and given a tour of the Red Cloud school with open discussion of abuses.

It is tempting to dwell on the tragic loss of the trilliums.   We need to hear the stories of Turtle Island and listen carefully to native history and ways – this is one approach to moving toward healing the earth.  Most helpful to me is the encouragement to know what are the local issues – how can I/we get involved in creation care here in St Paul – here in Minnesota.   For me, asking “How can I be a good relative” means examining issues nearby and offering my time and compassion.

Book title: ‘Imagination is Still the Key to Unlock Environmental Crisis’. 

The above book by Chris Sunderland was a good and a disturbing read.  The premise of the author is that unless we can begin to imagine the environment as it could be, then everything remains the same. But if we can imagine it as it could be then we have started to progress.

I quite like the idea of imagining things into being, because after all everything starts with a thought  in the mind first. If a Carpenter wants to make a table, s/he first needs to see it in his mind’s eye, (his imagination) then he / she makes a plan and then builds it. If a sculptor wants to create a piece of artwork out of marble, s/he has to see the beauty that’s already there in the stone waiting to be released. Everything starts as a thought first. 

I find the idea of harnessing the power of the imagination to bring about transformation in individuals and society very interesting and powerful.  

At  Ammerdown we did a  ‘Deep Adaptation’ exercise. We were lead through the soundscape of the wind, rain and projected images of destruction and walked around ‘stepping stones’ describing the effects of climate chaos – for the earth and for societies in general. 

That weekend was the first time that I ‘woke-up’ and acknowledged that we were at a very crucial point in history; and as a species we are destroying the earth. The rainforests and some animal species are disappearing, the climate is changing, there’s plastic in the sea and pollution in the air and in the soil; and sadly, we haven’t got an answer on how to deal with it. What is obvious is that what is being done, is too little and too late.

The images of earth, seen from space is inspiring and humbling. Chris Sunderland, in his book, recalls stories of astronauts who have been transformed because they have seen the world from the perspective of space.  They see the earth as a whole and from above and they see how beautiful yet fragile our planet is. On their return they have Picked up the baton for environmental change. Some astronauts have been so transformed by their experience that they work together to find ways of giving a similar experience to those men and women who will never be able to leave terrafirma. Their hope is to offer  a virtual reality experience to seen the world from outer space so that those who have this experience can ‘fall in love with the world’ in the hope that this will fuel a new passion to  champion the protection of the earth and the environment. 

During the ‘deep immersion experience’ at Ammerdown, as I  imagined the world collapsing into chaos, there was a realisation that there wasn’t much that I or anyone really could do about it. Certainly not enough to make much of a difference before we reach the date of no return which I think is about 17 years from now. 

Because of that experience, I’m getting more conscious, that we need to develop more of a relationship with the earth, to ‘fall in love with her’. It’s only when we have a passion for something that we are single-minded enough to want to see it  change and flourish and to become what it could be. I do believe that this holds true for the environment.  

At Ammerdown we experienced a shared imagination of climate crisis which was very powerful.  So, what would it be like if we could harness that power – the power of shared imagination?  Can we have a vision of us all working together on this one problem? 

What would it take for world leaders to set aside their power and territorial claims, and to use the energy they put into keeping power and domination into uniting together to find a solution to the crisis of climate change?  

Would taking part in a deep adaptation exercise, and shared imagination bring about any transformation in them too? 

Will they too ‘fall in love’ with the earth?

Since returning from Ammerdown, I have thought about how I can live out, in a small way, that transformation exercise.  

My family ( 3 of us) get through 6 litres of milk a day. Yes, we are big milk drinkers! But the danger for the environment of our milk habit is:  4 x 2 litre plastic bottles each day; 4×7= 28 plastic milk bottles in my bin each week. 28×52 =1,456 a year which end up on some land-fill site, somewhere in the world, and most likely a land-fill site in a poorer country. 

That startling piece of information led me to buy our milk ,from now on, in carboard cartons. 

I’m very ashamed of not giving it much thought before. Yes, I’ve fallen in love with the world. 

About time! Said my ever-so-eco-green friend.