Millions turned out for No Kings 3 just two short weeks ago.

With the events of recent days, and the intense news cycle that seems to follow this unhinged regime, let’s not lose sight of the fact that No Kings 3 was the largest peaceful protest in U.S. history to date. We delivered a simple but direct message: our leaders must answer to the people. We demand justice, truth, and accountability from those who abuse their power.

Because We the People hold the true power.

What we want is also clear. This nightmare regime must end: their thuggish incompetence has made our world a far more dangerous place and our lives far more difficult. The wanna-be authoritarian must be removed. This was made even more urgent with his insane communications over Easter weekend.

With all that has happened recently, I’ve heard people ask: Do our protests matter?

I believe they matter far more than most people realize. Here is why:

1. The world is watching. As this regime trashes our alliances around the globe, aggressively attacks resource-rich countries, threatens the genocide of an entire civilization—our (former?) allies ask: will we, the American people, take back our country? Protests, especially as they grow larger and larger signal to the world that we will hold this regime accountable for its misdeeds and illegal actions, that we still care about peace, justice, human rights, our constitution, and our allies.

2. We give congressional leaders a reason to do the right thing and to hold firm. Maybe we can even give them courage to stand for what is right in the face of tyranny.

3. We show our vulnerable neighbors that we will not abandon them. This matters more than you might imagine.

4. We show those in power that we are not afraid of them.

5. We protect our first amendment rights by exercising them.

6. We demand the truth from our media --and show them, that despite their complicity and cowardice, and the takeover of our media, our social media and even the levers of our government, we are paying attention, we seek real information, and we reject their lies.

7. We make major corporations calculate us into their costs of complicity. Mass mobilization is impossible to ignore.

We protest as a way of maintaining our own agency and fortifying our connection with one another. We do this because we can and we must—for ourselves, for our kids and grandkids, for our fragile planet, and for our fellow human beings.

We do it because it is something we can do to exercise our power. Is it enough? Obviously not. I see it as necessary but not sufficient.

So What Now?

• We must keep up the pressure on officials and institutions to hold this regime accountable. We cannot let up.

• A general strike has been called for May 1. This marks a move from a mobilization-only phase into more economic demonstrations of people-power.

• Primaries are coming, stay informed and get involved as you are able.

If you feel called to do more, you’ll find links at Indivisible Lake County’s action page: https://www.indivisiblelakecountyca.com/action. Check it out and see what actions draw you. You don’t have to do everything, but I encourage you to do something. Anything helps. Rest when you need to, and engage in what brings you peace and joy.

To those who attended No Kings: billions of dollars were spent trying to dissuade you, to con you, and to distract you. Armies of social media bots and trolls were unleashed with the intention of discouraging you and making you cynical. Yet, none of this has worked on you! You are awesome.

Thank you for showing up.

Thank you for caring.

Thank you for bringing your peaceful energies even when you are angry! As Holly Near sings: we are a peaceful angry people, and we are singing for our lives.

Now we sing not only for our own lives, but also for the lives of our neighbors, for those in communities across the U.S., and for those around the world who are under attack. When we prevail it will be because you did not give up.

Keep on singing with love,

He says to Gandalf:

“I wish it need not have happened in my time.”

Gandalf replies:

“So do I,” ... “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

Tolkien wrote these words while living through the upheaval and uncertainty of World War II.

This exchange speaks to the heart of what I’ve been grappling with lately. Like Frodo, I sometimes find myself wishing that the tribulations of our age did not have to occur in my time.

Yet here we are... witnessing conflict and massive injustice, the petulance and moral failures of leaders, their mocking of integrity, the fractures in our public life—it feels to me as if something essential has broken. Things we thought were solid—institutions, norms, shared truth—feel now as though they are crumbling and burning around us. In some cases, burning to ash.

Once something has transformed to ash, there is no turning back.

In my own faith tradition, one of the few rituals open to anyone who presents themselves is the distribution of ashes on Ash Wednesday. This ritual takes place while it is still winter and it signals the start of Lent. Churchgoers receive ashes on their forehead and hear the ancient words:

“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

This felt somewhat depressing for a little kid... or even irrelevant. These ashes remind us that we die and death seemed so far away to my child-self. (Not so now. ) But the symbolism doesn’t stop there. The ashes also remind us that we are alive right now, in this moment.

To the question: what does this moment ask of us?

Geneen Marie Haugen writes:

I think maybe it is both.

The ashes remind us to look directly at reality—without despair, and without illusion... without numbing ourselves. They remind us that life is fragile, and that transformation is possible. And it is no coincidence that this particular ritual occurs just a few weeks before the vernal equinox, which literally completes the story.

Twice each year our planet reaches a moment when day and night are nearly equal across the globe. The vernal and autumnal equinoxes. The vernal equinox just took place two days ago.

Vernal means fresh or new... spring. Equinox means equal night—a moment when day and night are in balance. After the vernal equinox in the Northern Hemisphere, the days begin to grow longer than the nights. Light slowly gains the upper hand over darkness.

Across thousands of years, human cultures have marked this moment. Agricultural societies depended on it. The equinox meant the soil would warm. Seeds could be planted.

Different traditions mark this turning in different ways. Persian culture celebrates Nowruz, Spring--the new year. In the Jewish calendar, Passover occurs near the full moon after the equinox. Pagans celebrate the vernal equinox--calling it Ostara, as a time of balance, renewal, and fertility, marking the return of spring. Celebrations include planting seeds, adorning altars with spring flowers, and decorating eggs. In Christianity, Easter follows the first full moon after the equinox, celebrating resurrection—and somehow the decorating eggs made it through.

The details vary, but this renewal is in our DNA, Nature herself holds the story: after darkness, light returns.

Spring marks that turning point, reminding us that death is not the final word in the natural order. That from ashes, from dust, comes possibility. After death, new life.

We’ve seen that right here in Lake County. Just over a decade ago, the fires that swept through our county exposed how much of what we depend on can disappear overnight. Forests. Homes. For a while it wasn’t even clear what recovery would look like.

But something else happened too. Neighbors helped one another. Communities organized food and supplies. Businesses and families opened their doors to people who had nowhere else to go. Groups found ways to collaborate. We figured things out in real time, because there wasn’t a system designed for what had just happened.

And the land itself began its own regeneration--that first spring following the fires, the land erupted in a massive displays of wildflowers. Changed. but still alive.

Yes, we know what it is like to return from ash. Nothing is the same, but we are alive, right here, right now.

Returning to Tolkien and his epic tale—he made the point that dark times do not magically resolve themselves. In fact, he emphasized this point in his final (and what he considered important) chapter of The Lord of the Rings: entitled “The Scouring of the Shire.” It was famously left out of the movie likely because it wasn’t a tidy, happy ending.

In the story, Sauron, the central figure causing the chaos and death to Middle Earth is finally defeated. But when the hobbits return home (hoping for the idyllic life they had before), they found the Shire damaged and under petty tyranny.

Tolkien’s point: even after a dominant political figure passes from the center of power, the real work of restoring trust, repairing institutions, and rebuilding civic life, still must be done by the people who live there.

We may not get to choose the historical moment we inhabit. Like Frodo, many of us might say: “I wish it need not have happened in my time.”

In Gandalf’s reply, he, in a sense affirms the central question: What does this moment ask of us?

Maybe it asks us to for more courage to stand for justice. Maybe more compassion. Maybe acceptance of what we’ve lost. Maybe a greater imagination of what could be. No doubt, if we ask the question and stay present to what unfolds, something will require our attention and commitment. Because we are alive right here, right now.

And there is no turning back.

Nature shows us that new life is possible. But what grows—what kind of community, what kind of society, what kind of future—that part depends on us.

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

What can I say in a moment like this that doesn’t feel like bullsh*t?

This time in our country is harder than I imagined it would be, and I don’t want to minimize it. ICE is terrorizing and hurting good and hard-working people with tactics that horrify us. Each day brings a fresh affront to our humanity. We experience more than anyone can reasonably absorb competing for our attention by the hour. I never thought I would see events like these take place in the United States in my lifetime—and now I suspect there is even more ahead .

And still I believe we will prevail.

Not because path ahead is clear or easy, but because I believe the lying, malevolent forces in this regime have underestimated We the People. Those that rely on fear and hate do not know how to respond to creativity, solidarity, and love.

Martin Luther King Jr. said on the night before he was murdered: “I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough can you see the stars.” His words from that night continue to inspire.

In this darkness, we see what we love more clearly. Justice. Diversity. Fairness. We love those who give so much and are willing to take a stand for all of us. And we also know that MANY more have been facing these terrors for months and years… waiting for us to wake up to what they are experiencing at the hands of the those who are supposed to serve the constitution.

On this day, when reality feels so heavy, I look for inspiration. Like this:

The Monks Walking for Peace

I am inspired by Minnesotans, and all who have faced this reality well before I.

I am inspired by all who take a stand to resist the darkness. Your courage is inspiring. Your faith contagious.

This regime expects us to give in to intimidation or thuggery, to allow our exhaustion or fear to become despair. They expect withdrawal and complacency. We are being challenged to not to look away, to help one another, to stay engaged, and to fight for for our fellow community members.

So yes, we will keep going. We will move through this together.

What other choice do we have?

P.S. Here are ways to help and stand in solidarity with Minnesotans

This story offers important lessons for our work together:

• Leadership is shared, not permanent.

• Strength comes from cooperation.

• Rest is part of the cycle--and key to endurance.

• Community makes long journeys possible.

There is real science behind this. Flying in formation reduces energy use through aerodynamic lift, and birds do change positions during long flights. Whether the honking is encouragement is harder to prove scientifically—but regardless, the story points to a deeper truth: no one leads forever, and no one makes the journey alone.

Fighting for democracy is difficult. From time to time, we sprint--getting ready for the next No Kings protest, or responding to the latest affront. We give our life’s energies to the task, running as fast as we can.

I liken that flurry of activity to breathing out.

Here’s the thing: we cannot just keep breathing OUT, we must also breathe IN.

For myself, I know that when I’m tired, I’m not at my best--certainly not at my most creative. When I feel weary, I might even consider giving up. Fortunately, I’ve been at this work long enough to know that when I feel this way, I need to drop back and honk encouragement instead of taking on more and more. I shift my focus from leading to self-care.

What if, rather than “give up”, we all consider shifting our focus to active self-care as part of the cycle? Caring for ourselves is not abandoning responsibility. It is a way of staying human and responsible—as in having the ability to respond.

BREATHE. Let’s start with that.

Breath is the most basic rhythm of life. We don’t earn it. We don’t optimize it. We don’t even have to remember it most of the time. Breath arrives, sustains us, and cycles again and again, whether or not we feel ready. It is both utterly ordinary and quietly miraculous.

And yet, under stress, breath is often the first thing we lose.

When we’re frightened, overwhelmed, or bracing for impact, our breath becomes shallow. We hold it without realizing. We tighten our chest. We anticipate the future or react to the past, forgetting the only moment where breath actually happens: now.

Self-care is not about adding something new to an already crowded life. It’s about making space for what already sustains us.

So if nothing else feels manageable today, start here:

Feel your feet on the ground and BREATHE.

Remember: life still offers nourishment—air, sunlight, a moment of quiet, the warmth of a cup in our hands, the sound of laughter ( or geese honking). All are reminders that we are still here, still alive and connected to each other in this beautiful, living world.

P.S. After I wrote this, I came across Jess Craven’s Chop Wood Carry Water blog post along the same lines. A great read.

If you’ve ever stood beside a compost pile on a cool morning, you know the smell—earthy and sweet. Steam rises from the pile like breath. Beneath the surface, banana peels, leaves, and coffee grounds mingle with straw, air and moisture, slowly becoming something rich and dark... and new.

Compost is a magic, sacred process. The alchemy of endings.

In nature, decay is not destruction, it’s transformation. What looks like death is life reorganizing itself.

Spend time near a compost heap and you’ll see it’s a vibrant community of helpers: bacteria, fungi, worms, beetles—all working together. Tiny and industrious, they know their purpose. They’ve been at it since before humans walked the Earth.

Their secret is balance: browns and greens, moisture and air. Too much of one thing, and the pile goes cold. With the right mix, transformation unfolds quietly and beautifully.

We humans can’t force compost to happen, but we can create the conditions for it. And we can participate in the process. We can do our part.

What Compost Teaches

What can we learn from how nature transforms waste into life-giving soil?

In our own lives, we carry layers of experience—fresh green emotions, dry brown memories. When we hold them in balance, life transforms us. When we cling to what should decay, we block the miracle.

Compost teaches patience, humility, and trust in unseen processes. It teaches us that even the smallest efforts have meaning. Think of the earthworms, doing the quiet work of turning what was discarded into nourishment for plants.

The Alchemist

Modern mystic Thomas Berry described Earth as “a communion of subjects, not a collection of objects.” His work taught that the natural world itself is sacred reality—a living revelation.

In 2013, Loretta and I took a journey to several Thomas Berry–inspired eco-spirituality centers across the U.S. This journey was a tribute to her brother John, who had died the year before. Our intention was to retrace his steps.

I used to call John “the ecozoic handyman.” John was extremely handy. He traveled the country offering his gift to these places. Stacking wood for Green Mountain Monastery, fixing plumbing for Genesis Farm, repairing a broken irrigation line at our very own Dancing TreePeople Farm. This was his response to being touched by Thomas Berry’s work.

When Loretta and I arrived at Timberlake Farm Earth Sanctuary in North Carolina, we met Caroline Toben, a close collaborator of Thomas Berry. She offered us a tour on Timberlake, and shared the conversations she had had with Thomas. I was struck by how the very places John had helped repair were still quietly thriving—his handiwork composting into ongoing life. While John had helped with repairs, Carolyn had illuminated Thomas’s work.

Now Carolyn, too, like Thomas, and John, has passed away.

These three reminded me of the helpers in compost. Thomas, John and Carolyn’s gifts live on—quietly nourishing what continues to grow.

Lessons from Sacred Ground

At Dancing TreePeople Farm, I find that the richest soil comes from compost. Each handful holds the memory of everything that came before—leaves, fruit, shells, roots—all merged into one dark, generous body of fertility. It feels and smalls alive.

When I spread that compost in the garden, I think of ancestors, teachers, friends, and seasons past. Their legacy—visible and invisible—have become nourishment for the future.

That is the quiet generosity of compost. It asks nothing but participation.
It says, “Give back what you no longer need, and life will do the rest.”

When we add our own scraps—our mistakes, our fears, our outdated stories—to the great compost of creation, we become part of Earth’s ongoing prayer for renewal.

When we honor compost as sacred, we make room for life to surprise us again.

From Decay to Fertility

By spring, the steam has faded from the pile. I plunge my hands into what remains—soft, fragrant, teeming with unseen life.

In this sacred cycle, life whispers its most faithful promise:

Nothing is ever truly wasted.

What once seemed dead or discarded becomes the dark soil of renewal. The alchemy turns waste into food for what comes next, endings into beginnings.

I’ll close with a few excerpts from Carolyn Toben’s book. Recovering a Sense of the Sacred: Conversations with Thomas Berry.

Thomas: “We need to talk about what to tell future generations, don’t we?

Carolyn: “... what can we tell succeeding generations…about the way into the future…

Thomas paused for a long time and finally began:

“Tell them in the darkness of this time, a vast transformation is occurring in the depths of human consciousness, which is leading to the recovery of the soul, the earth, the universe and a sense of the sacred.

…

Tell them they will meet great companions along the way, including those that burrow in the soil, fly in the air and swim in the sea.

…

Tell them that each of them has a unique part to play in this period of great transition and that each of them brings specialized emotions and imagination to this time and very different ways of knowing.

…

Tell them they can learn to honor all processes of life, even the most difficult.

Someday, when we look back on this tumultuous and horrific time in our history, when the books are written, maybe we’ll identify this as the turning point.

We don’t really know right now do we? But what better way to point out lies (“war-ravaged” Portland), and the absurdity of the whole strongman schtick. I, for one, never thought I’d live to see military in tactical gear invading American cities, agents zip-tying kids, and ripping apart hard-working families.

The thing is—this regime is just aching for a fight. They want us to react in anger and rage. They want us to be violent to give them an excuse to use those guns even more than they already have. On all of us.

So, in come the frogs. And unicorns. And dinosaurs, pandas, polar bears and chickens.

The most whimsical of creatures.

Can’t get much better than this. From the “war-ravaged” streets of Portland Oregon, Let’s celebrate the frogs and their friends.

Full video here.

Writing about joy right now feels a bit incongruent These are difficult and violent times. The headlines are heavy, the stakes are high, and many of us carry a great weariness. And a righteous rage.

How can we possibly speak of joy in such times? Especially with the injustice around us? When so much is broken?

And yet… what if joy is at the very heart of what we need to sustain us through the difficulty and the grief, as fuel in the work of healing our world?

On a personal note, grief hit home for Loretta and I this past January, when we lost our beloved dog Millie. We buried her beneath a tree and I planted a few seeds on her grave. For a long time, I avoided visiting that spot—I was busy. But mainly I didn’t want to feel sad.

But one sunny spring day, I wandered over… Merry little sun rays filtered through the trees and danced on her grave, which was now filled with flowers that had burst into bloom. I felt overcome by joy and gratitude. What an unexpected gift.

I felt the paradox: grief and joy share the same soil.

I wonder…. what if the very existence of joy is grace — a sign of the divine?

I do know this: joy is promised to us!

PSALM 30:5 says: Our sorrow may endure for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.

This is a promise! Joy WILL come –maybe when we least expect it in the midst of our grief.

Speaking of grief… A couple weeks ago, humanity lost our beloved teacher, activist, and deep ecologist Joanna Macy. Over twenty years ago, I had the opportunity to learn directly from Joanna while studying at the Center for Creation Spirituality—the Sophia Center,.

Her central message was this: We must be fully present to the pain of the world in order to transform it. And we must do so from a place of LOVE.

While this made sense to me at the time, I confess, I did not fully understand it. Greater understanding would come later.

------------------

That same year, I completed my Eco-spiritual-education at Genesis Farm — an Earth literacy center. There I met Harvard Professor Larry Edwards who taught a course in genetics.

We students learned that human DNA carries the entire evolutionary story — 3.9 billion years of life transforming--all replayed in the human womb over just nine months. From single cell to multicellular creature, from tail to no tail, our DNA remembers it all.

Fascinating right?

I thought so too—and then suddenly--an epiphany: It is a story –A SACRED STORY--written in our very DNA. OUR story!

And with that insight , I was suddenly overcome by a huge grief. unexpected for sure. I realized how fragile life is, and how easily and arrogantly we humans disrupt it through our technologies, our extractions, our tampering. This realization broke me wide open, so much so that I needed to leave the room and just weep

Larry found me after class. He said something that I will never forget:

“This happens to all of us when we first see. We grieve!

It’s a moment of grace.

And we are never given grace without a path forward.”

We are never given grace without a path forward. I’m not sure I believed him.

But it didn’t take long for a glimmer of that path to become apparent. That very same day, I wandered into the common room at the farm. A video was playing.

John Seed, a deep ecologist who worked with Joanna Macy, was being interviewed. He spoke of the state of the world. I don’t recall the whole of the interview, but I distinctly remember that while he was talking about us hurling toward destruction as if on autopilot, John Seed was beaming with joy.

I remember thinking How the heck can he be so joyful?

Here I was laden with grief and filled with anxiety over the state of the world and he’s all joyful.

The interviewer, finally asked him the question that was on my mind:

"How can you be so joyful, knowing what you know?"

And John replied:

“You know, I’m doing what I’m meant to be doing. I’m part of the story; I’m part of the evolution. I am exactly where I’m meant to be.”

And that was enough . He chose to live in that JOY of being a part of it all.

And I thought –WOW I want some of THAT.

I got to thinking… WHAT IF JOY IS A SIGNPOST? What if these glimpses of joy signal that we are on the right path?

As many of you know, these days I’m investing my energies into our work at Indivisible Lake County CA—fighting for our democracy with others—with any tools we can.

And wouldn’t you know --John Seed was right. There is joy in doing what I’m meant to be doing! The key for me is to not take it all on—and focus on process not outcome.

As it happens, Joanna Macy has some advice for that as well. She said:

“You don't need to do everything. Do what calls your heart; effective action comes from love. It is unstoppable, and it is enough.”

Oh, Joanna.

I believe this is a deep part of many faith traditions — showing up for justice not from a place of despair, but from a place of love.

We live in a culture that tells us we have to earn joy — that it’s a reward for success or security or happiness. But I think that’s backwards.

Joy is not the absence of struggle. Joy arrives in the midst of it.

Robin Wall Kimmerer, Author of Braiding Sweetgrass said:

It is not enough to weep for our lost landscapes; we have to put our hands in the earth to make ourselves whole again. Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair.”

My Friends, by virtue of our sensitivity, our compassion and our being here at this historical moment, we are this lifeboat together, doing this work.

Honestly--I don’t know if we will prevail. I believe that we will, but I don’t know it. I’ve decided that this isn’t mine to know—I can only do my part.

There are days when the stakes feel impossibly high, when hope seems fragile. And yet, there are also moments when joy breaks through.

In June, at our #NoKings rally — hundreds of us gathered, chanting, laughing, dancing together. We were told there would be counter-protestors. In the face of fear and uncertainty, we were BRAVE, by golly. there we were — singing and dancing---alive, connected, and yes, joyful.

Work from a place of LOVE sparks joy—which in turn gives us the strength to keep fighting for what matters.

What if JOY IS RESISTANCE?

Let’s remember the promise:

May we embrace the moments of grace that arrive unannounced. A flower in bloom. A song rising up from a crowd.

May those moments nourish us. May they remind us of what matters, why we keep showing up — for one another, for this fragile planet, for the possibility of something better.

May we consciously choose joy over despair—Experiencing our very own revolution of the heart.

In Part 1, I explored Joseph Campbell’s Hero's Journey—why stories of ordinary people called into extraordinary adventures resonate so deeply and focused on “The Call to Adventure”. If you missed that post, you can read it here.

Now we focus on The Tipping Point in the Hero's Journey. This is the peak moment in the narrative arc.

Here, our hero faces annihilation. They’ve experienced a massive setback. Their situation is so bad, they see no way forward. Their enemy seems all-powerful.

The hero might lose everything they love. They may not make it.

If you turn this narrative arc upside down, the "peak" becomes the emotional low—the deepest, darkest pit of despair. In this moment, the hero could just give up the fight. And who could blame them?

Think of Frodo in The Lord of the Rings after Gandalf falls in Moria—or Harry Potter walking alone into the Forbidden Forest to face death. It’s Truman in The Truman Show when he faces the great storm (and his greatest fear). It’s Dorothy trapped in the witch’s castle, crying out for Auntie Em... and home. These are the moments that break the hero open—and also mark the turning point in the story.

Right now, many of us feel that emotional low—not just personally, but collectively. Democracy is under siege. Rights are under attack. The planet is in peril. Our national treasures—from alliances to vital programs— are being looted and in some cases destroyed. Every day brings more bad news.

We might be tempted to give up, to find a safe place and just hunker down. We might feel like nothing we do matters. Some of us might be without hope. Hopeless.

Our most beloved stories teach us this: we don’t need to feel hopeful to take action. We don’t even need to believe we will prevail.

So indulge me here. Maybe, just maybe, there is a reason why The Hero's Journey resonates so deeply within us. This "myth of our times" is ingrained in us—in our books, our movies, our comic books, and all forms of storytelling.

It is as if we have been training for this very moment.

Imagine this: our hero has reached the tipping point, the pit of despair, with seemingly no way out.

What would they do?

First: they decide to go down fighting—to act. What other choice do they have? It's either that or give up. Here their character shines through.

Despite fear. Despite failure and loss. Despite the odds, our hero keeps going. They take the next obvious step. They decide to do what they can, regardless of outcome. They act without assurance that their plan will work. These are the brave ones.

If you showed up at "No Kings," you are one of the brave ones. You showed up not knowing what to expect, after seeing horrendous images on the news and wondering if you were safe. Yes, this took bravery!

So now what?

We keep going. We take the next step. We show up. We speak out, we write, we call, we organize, we find unexpected and creative ways to protect what we love and defend the vulnerable. We find allies and we do this together.

When we get tired, we rest.

Then we go at it again.

This is what it feels like to be in the middle of the story where everything is at stake. It’s both exhilarating and exhausting. It's simultaneously joyful and frustrating. To be fighting up to and through the tipping point can be all these things, all at once.

This is our story.

Unfortunately, the tipping point is only obvious in retrospect—so yes, our situation can get worse. This thought lurks in the back of my mind. To counter this, I often think about The Lord of the Rings—and Gandalf the Great's wisdom for Frodo. ( It is especially compelling as J.R.R. Tolkien wrote this beginning in 1937 during the rise of fascism in Europe):

“I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.

"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

We may not yet know the last chapter of this story. But we do know this: we have each other. And we are still here.

Like all of those rooting for Truman in The Truman Show, I can't help but wonder...

How’s it going to end?

In The Hero With a Thousand Faces, scholar Joseph Campbell describes the hero archetype—a pattern that resonates across cultures, genders, social classes, and political lines. He outlines the “Hero’s Journey,” a structure so deeply woven into our myths and literature that we feel incomplete when it’s not followed.

That’s why Hollywood storytellers create such powerful narratives by following its formula. It goes like this:

The hero begins in their ordinary world—sometimes boring, sometimes joyful—but always with a sense that something more awaits.

Then comes the Call to Adventure—an invitation or unexpected thrust into unfamiliar circumstances. The hero may resist, but eventually steps forward as the stakes rise.

Crossing the threshold, the hero enters a new world—unfamiliar, often dangerous. Like Luke Skywalker returning to find no home, Dorothy swept into a tornado, or Frodo burdened with the One Ring, the hero begins the quest.

Revealing their true character one choice at a time, the hero—brave and full of resolve—presses forward. They don’t go alone. A wise guide offers wisdom or a mysterious gift—Obi-Wan, Gandalf, Merlin. Devoted companions help face growing trials: Sam, Ron and Hermione, the Scarecrow and Tinman. Together, they overcome hurdles, each one pointing toward a greater challenge.

Ultimately, the hero must face the greatest test—alone. This is the Tipping Point—the pit, the moment all hope seems lost.

Calling on inner resolve, the hero faces annihilation—sometimes symbolized by a fire-breathing dragon. Victory comes only after the hero remembers who they are and why they’re here. Sometimes, a mentor’s gift or a companion’s love becomes the lifeline, but it’s the hero’s inner strength that turns the tide.

The hero emerges changed—fighting their way out of the cave, flying from the Death Star, clicking the heels of her red shoes and believing in… Home.

They return transformed, bearing gifts for the ordinary world.

Why are we so attracted to these hero stories—especially now?

Here in the U.S., The Hero’s Journey is our go-to myth. From The Wizard of Oz to Star Wars to Harry Potter, these stories invite us in and ask us to walk the path ourselves.

Campbell believed the archetype resonates so deeply because it reflects our untapped potential. These stories call us to courage, to embrace the adventure of being alive.

The hero’s path is rarely chosen, but always met. Success arrives only through courage, perseverance, and a higher calling. Moving through fear, the hero transforms—not just the world, but themselves.

We live in difficult times—times that call forth heroic acts, large and small.

In ordinary life, it’s easy to feel unremarkable. “I just care for my dad with Alzheimer’s,” we might say. I’m too old, too tired, too stressed. Heroes are other people—we watch them on TV.

But real heroes go unseen. We may not recognize our own kindness as courageous, or see our creative acts as resistance. We may not even realize we’re in a story at all.

How much easier it would be to live fully and with purpose if we saw ourselves as part of an unfolding adventure—if we knew what’s at stake and what was ours to do.

Motivated By Love

In the stories we love, the hero knows what matters most. Their ‘why’ is strong enough to move them through fear. They act because something they love is threatened—and they know their next step.

Dorothy longed to return to Auntie Em. Luke faced an empire after losing his family. Frodo carried the Ring because no one else could. None of them saw themselves as heroes. But they each knew the next step was theirs to take.

They were motivated by love—love of place, of people, of life.

Perhaps, in these times, we can begin to see ordinary acts as extraordinary. Maybe we need to understand why this myth speaks so profoundly to us right now. We are in the midst of an epic story!

To find our own place in this story, we must first rediscover what we love. What is my version of The Shire? What do I love enough to act, even at personal cost? Crisis, conflict, even politics draw out our inner heroes. We do our best work when fueled by something greater than ourselves.

We may not see the whole story until the end. Living inside it is like swimming in the ocean—it’s hard to get perspective without stepping back.

But we can imagine what’s possible. We can ask what’s at stake and who is involved. Just like any good story.

Hollywood has it down to a system. They ask:

• Who is the hero?
• What do they want? (What do they love?)
• What is in the way?

They know that the Hero’s Journey story arc is defined by two critical moments: the Call to Adventure and the Tipping Point. These moments define our favorite stories—and potentially help us see our own.

A Call to Adventure

What if everything so far is just a prelude to our own Call to Adventure? We might be tempted to ignore that call—for a while, anyway. I’ll either feel drawn to say yes because I know it is mine to do, OR I wait.

Then the call becomes even more urgent.

I wonder: what if all of our favorite books and movies were sent here to prepare us for this very moment?

Next time, I’ll explore the Tipping Point—the part where the hero either gives up or gets going. For now, I’ll leave you with a quote from historian Heather Cox Richardson’s January 19, 2025 *Letters from an American* newsletter:

It occurs to me that, for those that are able, this is our job now. And of course, we reach out and invite others to make their voices heard too, and we offer support to the vulnerable and discouraged.

People march for those who can't--—those working long hours or are directly under threat. Some protesters even pushed their own limits to be there. I noticed that elders and disabled folks were well represented, bringing their chairs and canes along with their heartfelt and often witty messages.

My own message this time was not humorous, but it came from the heart--expressing what I love so much about America:

Side One says "Uphold the Constitution and Due Process"

Side Two says simply "Rule of Law" (It seemed fitting that it was made from one of my old political campaign signs.)

All this got me thinking about more ways I can use my voice and especially about why I must do so now.

My mom used to say "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." She wanted me to be kind. A few years ago, I adopted a new mantra: "When you feel cynical, keep it to yourself." I didn’t want to infect others with the disease of cynicism.

I’ve found that when I’m discouraged, the way back to center is to look for the helpers—just as Mr. Rogers once advised--and to seek sources of inspiration.

Today I find inspiration in the courage of others.

Clear voices matter now more than ever. We live in a moment where silence equals complicity and where our collective voices are one of the few things standing between a civil, constitutional society and the abyss.

The work of our time is to meet the moment. I, for one, seek ways to navigate the engineered chaos--to face overwhelm, to move through the ocean of real and imagined fears, with a sense of hope and agency. How to do this without succumbing to fear, anger, or discouragement is a great work in itself.

So, I look for stories of courage and inspiration. These too, are infectious--in the best way.

In the words of "Big, Yellow, Taxi:--"You don't know what you've got til its gone." It occurs to me that much of what I love about our country, I've taken for granted. Until now.

My own list could go on and on, Here are just a few highlights of what’s at stake—what I love:

• The guiding principles of the Constitution and Bill of Rights—freedom of speech, equal protection, due process, and the checks and balances of power.

• That we care for one another through our social safety net—programs that reflect our collective compassion and responsibility.

• Our tradition (however uneven) of expanding rights and striving toward justice—for women, for people of color, for LGBTQ+ communities, and for future generations.

• The ideal—still alive in many hearts—that government should serve the people, not the other way around.

• The resilience and generosity of everyday Americans in times of crisis.

• The peaceful transfer of power.

• The passion and voices of those who seek justice and want to make a difference.

• Our artists, comedians, writers, and creators.

• Our libraries—and all the books that inform, inspire, and tell stories that help me understand others’ lives and perspectives.

• Our diversity.

• The fact that our country was once considered a beacon of liberty. Imperfect, yes, but I loved that we aspired to it.

• Our national parks, recreation areas, and protected wildlands.

• Representative government—and town halls. I even love the voices I disagree with (as misguided or uninformed as I may think they are), because more than once I’ve found my own views shifting after a healthy debate.

I don’t want to take any of this for granted.

People have asked me about political strategy—how to stay informed without becoming disheartened, how to stay engaged in a healthy, constructive way. How do we foster agency and action in ourselves and others? What can one person do?

For me, the answer comes down to this:

Follow love and inspiration. Use your voice to stand for what you love. Find and join others who care. Learn what’s going on in your own community.

While marching on Thursday, despite everything that has happened—and continues to happen—I felt an inner peace. We are in this lifeboat together. This is our moment. This is our time to stand up in the face of it all.

We do this because it is ours to do.

We stand for what we love, and we use our voices in whatever ways we can. Together.

We are Love Rising.

As I move into the final quarter of my seventh decade on Planet Earth, I notice that I need more fallow time than I used to, especially as the larger political events swirl. Political realities arrive regularly in my consciousness --bidden or unbidden. News diets help, but... well. The reality is always there.

I haven't rested well until recently. Waking at 4am. Could not go back to sleep.

This is not just due to politics. A year ago our farm mates announced that they were considering a move to Panama. This set in motion a series of events. It's been a whirlwind--From the moment of their announcement until now. For starters, it’s been a huge physical job: farm and structure clean-up, home repairs--at first in readiness for a potential sale as a likely option--and then to our eventual household move (from one home to the other on our property--but still...). I completed over 600 projects in ten months. This was is in addition to the usual twenty or so projects each month of regular farm tasks. All told, my body logged an average of 14,000 steps a day and cleared out two decades of accumulation in less than a year. Whew!

I learned that one cannot sort through accumulation without the accompanying emotional sorting. So there is that too. Needless to say, I entered this particular political landscape already tired—from politics (national and local), from family matters and life events, and of course from all that work on the farm.

The good news: Loretta and I developed a plan to sustain ourselves on site, and now new farm mates join us. So here we plant ourselves --exactly where we need to be right now in these times.

At long last, I found my footing, enough for us to travel to visit my son and his family in Albuquerque. We traveled by car, a long trip, which offered time to think. I hoped that I might glean some insights or discover pearls of wisdom, maybe enough to share. That isn’t what happened.

Much can be said about the United States of America at this time, as challenging as the situation is, but I found that others said it better, or I reached into the well and grasped onto the same old pearls--things I've already said the last time we found ourselves in this position. This time, though, it seemed that I was less idealistic, and more jaded, wisened, and aware. And the circumstances are more dire.

My main insight from this journey is what I STAND for. What I love. I’ll share all of that soon enough, maybe the next post. For now, the net of this reflection is this:

I refuse to succumb to fear. I refuse to let others steal my joy and possibility. And I vow to stand for all that I love and for those who need my voice. All this starts with two things: self-care and courage.

So for now, in the interest of protecting frogs, vulnerable people, and all manner of life on Earth, here in The Frog Doctrine, I'll share insights as they emerge: on the topics of deep capacity-building (self care, community connection), and resources that sustain me, particularly those that make me smile, and especially those that spark JOY.

And the Universe responds to commitment. We returned home from Albuquerque to find a package waiting. I pre-ordered it months ago. And there it was, just waiting for our return! A book. The words in this illustrated children's book are from my favorite song (by Peter Mayer). The song and book title: Blue Boat Home.

I’m so excited! Know that as you read this post, Loretta, my number one blog fan, will read it too. As she reads this, she will learn that this book is a gift from me to her. (Surprise, Loretta!) She loves children's books. This one we will treasure--and share with the grandkids. Each time I read it, I'll be inspired by the lyrics and probably will have the song in my head for the entire day.

I share this because Blue Boat Home lyrics have inspired and re-inspired me for over two decades. They still do. So here you go:

Blue Boat Home by Peter Mayer.

Though below me, I feel no motion

Standing on these mountains and plains

Far away from the rolling ocean

Still my dry land heart can say

I've been sailing all my life now

Never harbor or port have I known

The wide universe is the ocean I travel

And the earth is my blue boat home

—

Sun, my sail, and moon my rudder

As I ply the starry sea

Leaning over the edge in wonder

Casting questions into the deep

Drifting here with my ship's companions

All we kindred pilgrim souls

Making our way by the lights of the heavens

In our beautiful blue boat home

—

I give thanks to the waves upholding me

Hail the great winds urging me on

Greet the infinite sea before me

Sing the sky my sailor's song

I was born upon the fathoms

Never harbor or port have I known

The wide universe is the ocean I travel

And the earth is my blue boat home

My dear kindred pilgrim souls, we travel on this boat together. Hail the great winds urging us on! Let's do our very best to create and stand up for a future of love, joy and community.

Much Love,

P.S. If you'd like to experience the same delight with a copy of your own, here is the link* to purchase the book on Amazon.

The song Blue Boat Home is on Peter’s CD: Earth Town Square*.

*Disclosure: these are affiliate links, and I'll get a small referral fee if you purchase. However, I only share links to items that I wholeheartedly love and recommend.

Every morning, at 6:00 am, as the orchard awakens, my partner Loretta occupies the back porch, greeting the day. There she observes birds gather straw for their nests or drink water from a dew drop. She is present as early morning stars fade into the quiet sky, a crescent moon dips below the horizon, changing with the days. First light casts long shadows across the orchard, and the stately trees, always the trees, offer their being each day. 

As seasons cycle, the leaves tell a story: first in small buds on bare branches, then sprouts venture into the sharp air, grow to a summer shade canopy, eventually transforming into a bright yellow dance, only to brown, crackle and fall as the air chills again. A barren branch remains, and a promise that Spring will come again.  

I admire her for her devotion. Personally, if I could sit still, I'd occupy my own sit spot too. For me, cultivating a new way of being comes with tending the land and accepting her gifts with deep gratitude— mindful that the trees feed me and care for me as I care for them. The land gives me joy and strength to do whatever I am called to do in the days ahead. 

It wasn’t always this way for me. 

The Fifth Gospel

"The Fifth Gospel" was the title of a textbook I received while on a visit to the sea of Galilee over three decades ago. The Holy Land offered a whole new way of seeing the Gospels. This was my first insight into the power of place.  

The Bible is filled with references to the land and landmarks.  Think of phrases like “streams in the desert” or “land of milk and honey.” When Jesus spoke of the mustard seed or the vineyards, he drew on what the people knew. These words were grounded in real places that shaped the people and their understanding of the Divine.

For example: there is a line in scripture where Jesus says It would be "easier for a camel to enter the eye of the needle than for a rich man to get into heaven"  What the heck, right? It helps to know that the main gates in the City of Jerusalem are large enough for a person on camel to enter--but there is one entryway called "the Eye of the Needle"--which is only large enough for a single human being to pass. Suddenly that mysterious line in scripture makes more sense.  

Every place and time holds deep wisdom and story--as sacred as any scripture.  What can the wisdom of this place we call Lake County teach us now?

Lake County

I moved to Lake County twenty years ago.  Within a few months of my arrival, George W Bush was elected to a second term as president.  I was thoroughly discouraged, borderline cynical and very angry at the electorate for making such a horrible choice. The first time, I could understand, but TWO terms? Perhaps you can relate to the feeling?

At the time, I could not imagine a worse outcome. (Clearly I need to work on my imagination!)   In any case, I decided it was best to isolate—to "hunker down" and focus my energies on creating a sustainable homestead. 

With that in mind, I enrolled in a weekend “Introduction to Permaculture” class at the then Solar Living Center in Hopland, California. Like many in the class, I thought it was a class on how to garden better. 

This class would end up changing the trajectory of my life.  It would lead to me to being a bit more present here, to reaching out to others, and even serving two terms in public office—but that's another story.

To my surprise, permaculture focused on deep observation-- listening to the land and forming a reciprocal relationship. As I plunged my hands into living soil, for the first time I felt in my heart what I was learning in my head. 

We explored the ethics, principles and practices of ecological design--how to work with and within nature--to align with natural forces and agencies--to create abundance. -- How Earth earths.

I was captivated. The prime directive and the ethics spoke to my soul: to take responsibility for our own existence and that of our children-and do it now. Follow the three ethics: Care of Earth, Care of People, And from the abundance, Return the Surplus (to earth and to people).

My biggest a-ha of all:  the principles and practices, how nature works, could be applied to any living system: to the garden, the farm, my own spirit--and even to a whole community. 

I learned that our home, is also OUR LIFE BOAT.  Look around you--these are some of the people in our life boat!

And, most hopefully, I learned how nature creates big and lasting change:

• A problem is an opportunity

• Feed what you want to grow

• Start small--you test key elements to reduce risk (and backlash)

• Conserve energies -- looking for the least change for the greatest effect.

• Pay attention to cycles, --every season is another opportunity for abundance

And my biggest epiphany:  

• The stability of any system is directly proportional to the number of beneficial connections in that system. 

In other words: avoid isolation—seek connection.

These principles and practices were derived from countless hours, days, months, years and even millennia of observing nature.

Listening to the land happens over time. Long, long, long and thoughtful observation. With patience. The learning never stops. 

Long and Thoughtful Observation

I'm SO aware that I'm a newbie--having been at this "tending the land" for only twenty years. I'm just now beginning to understand what it means to take responsibility for my own existence--and to be in reciprocal relationship with land and her people. I haven't been here long enough, nor observed enough, to know very much at all! It's humbling.

Here in Lake County--our deepest knowledge comes from those who have been here, thoughtfully observing, the longest. Of course, Human beings have been in relationship with the land for most of human history, and this relationship in most places was deeply reciprocal.

Ancestors from this place understood what it meant to be a part of all things here, and passed their wisdom of living with and within this place to each new generation -- in baskets, story, dance and song—as ritual and cultural practices that carried a sense of the sacred and the honoring of life itself. 

Colonization, massacres of original peoples, and human industrialization severed that relationship. The land was seen as a resource to be used and consumed. And many saw nature as separate from human beings.

Many forgot how to be in a deep relationship with place.  

But The Land is still here, speaking--just waiting for us to listen...

Ours is a place of towering oaks, of Mt Konocti, of hot summers and gentle autumns. An ancient lake. This land remembers fire --both good fire and destructive fire. The keystone species here is the human being: the original people who tended the land and the latecomers who attempted domination and control. The land most certainly remembers and responds.

Nature has much to teach those who attempt domination and control. Eventually, it's feedback time. Nature speaks--as Oprah would say, first with a tap or a whisper, but if you don't hear it or heed it, with a 2x4.  

Clear Lake speaks to us. It might be saying "as waste and sediment flows into the lake, as CO2 grows in the atmosphere--my response includes blooms of cyanobacteria and aquatic weeds." Feedback.

Global Warming? It's feedback too.

The land surrounding Clear Lake speaks... it might be saying "When you stopped the original people from their tending with good fire, you get BIG fire--big enough to kill trees."  More Feedback. Obviously a 2x4.

But to hear the whisper? This requires cultivating a new way of being, a deeper observation, and a profound gratitude.  

An Invitation

When I first plunged my hands into living soil in this place, I glimpsed a new way of being, one that revealed the magic of listening to Earth. At first, I was drawn to the ideas offered by permaculture design. The surprise though—There is magic and JOY in this way of being. 

The land invites us to go beyond techniques or principles or designs--to become more deeply human, to find our place in (and our contribution to) the web of life.  

Where do we go from here?

Each of us will be called differently in the days, weeks and months ahead. 

I feel like just two short weeks ago, we caught a glimpse of joy. A tantalizing whiff of springtime.  Now we face a dark winter of chaos. And the contrast is stark, isn't it?

I don't know what will happen, but I do know this: We are at an inflection point--change is afoot. And in nature--during times of chaos and change--anything can happen! 

We must tend to our own well-being and energies--our own mental  and spiritual health, so we can hear and follow what is ours to do.

I'd like to share a poem that I wrote after my own (and similar) inflection point in 2004:

My friends, nature has the capacity to heal us, to energize us, to spark joy within us even in the darkest of times. And nature constantly speaks to us if we have ears to hear. Today I’m certain she is saying this: 

Serve LIFE! Tend to the land and waters and people of our home, each in whatever way we are called.  Start with zone zero--DEEP self care.

And, please hold faith in the promise of the Fifth Gospel: Spring Will Come.

Much Love,

Author Note: This is the text of a sermon to the Unitarian Universalist Community in Lake County on November 17, 2024. Thus, it might be better heard than read, so I’ve created a recording:

In the 2015 movie of the same name: Tomorrowland, this question was asked: "When did we stop imagining a positive future for ourselves and our world?" When did we believe that the future would be bleak and there is little we can do to change that?

I reckon we have a choice. And we definitely have agency.

Despite the challenges humans and our planet face together, we can choose to re-imagine a positive future for ourselves, one where humans live in right relationship with the living systems and with each other. I do know this: Life on Earth needs all of us now.

Thomas Berry once said “The Dream Drives the Action.” I, for one, will start by believing it is possible and take a few steps right here at home. In the coming months, I’ll re-focus once again on personal and local action, re-building community, and ecosystem restoration.

Imagine doing this work together with joy.

So many of us have been working on ecological challenges for so long, that in seeing what is broken, we might lose sight of progress. We might forget to celebrate how far we’ve come—and most especially acknowledge and celebrate The Helpers.

This week I attended the Clear Lake integrated Science Symposium organized by the County of Lake. The two days focussed on improving the health and life of Clear Lake. It covered lake science, what people are doing, and of course the challenges and opportunities. What made this truly special was the huge attendance from of all corners of Lake County and beyond.

Helpers everywhere.

People who love this lake. Who want it to thrive. The desire for a healthy lake not only brings us together, the challenges humans have created and endured here have too. The event was concluded with a movie highlighting the beauty of the Lake and the insights with which Clear Lake has gifted us—featuring many who share this wisdom: tribal leaders, scientists, local community leaders and hard-working citizens.

Who would have imaged years ago that a science symposium would bring us together? For me, it was a celebration of how far we have come—an acknowledgement that healing IS possible—that humans can and will come together to restore the ecology—the life—of a place. We know what we all want—a vibrant healthy lake, and vibrant healthy watershed.

So many helpers in one room together was, well, INSPIRING. The whole event sparked joy.

I’ve written about the helpers before—and fellow travelers in our little lifeboat here—in 2016, AFTER the Valley, Clayton, Rocky and Jerusalem fires, but BEFORE the Ranch, and River fires and the August complex burned over 70% of the lands surrounding Clear Lake.

In re-reading this post, it occurred to me that the fires, those horrible, destructive fires, brought us to this new place of cooperation.

Today, the Tribal Ecosystem Restoration Alliance (TERA), Tribal Governments, Local and State Agencies, the County of Lake and hundreds of citizens work to restore this place—our home—in ways that we might not have imagined in 2016. I am so grateful to live in THIS place with people who want to steward the land, and are willing to work together to do so.

So, let’s celebrate the tribes, the scientists and all manner of helpers who are leading us to a better ecological future. And, if you’d like, revisit this post from eight years ago— before we could even imagine such healing was possible:

Thank you for all you do, helper you.

P.S. If you would like to learn more about the Clear Lake Integrated Science Symposium, the County of Lake will post the proceedings here: https://www.lakecountyca.gov/1662/Clear-Lake-Integrated-Science-Symposium-

And you can view some of the science presentations on the County’s youtube channel: https://www.youtube.com/@countyoflakeca4328/streams

This wanderlust pattern continued into my adult years--we moved every few years until eventually I fell in love with a place in 2004 and I stayed. This place, where I have lived now for over twenty years.

What is twenty years in the scheme of things? Even nine of those twenty years is long enough to witness a tree growing.

In 2015, here at Dancing TreePeople Farm, I and my farm mates planted a tree--named for my sister Linda who passed away in January of that year.

The Linda Tree was planted in March 2015:

It was a grafted plum and pluot—”a fruit salad” tree. I thought Linda would appreciate that.

Now, in 2024, a year of transition for all of us, our farm mates decided to recreate the moment. Here is the Linda Tree now:

Yes, even nine years is long enough to see something good come of one's efforts, but not nearly long enough to fully understand how to bring life back to the land.

Not long ago here in Lake County, beaver slowed and spread the water, clear lake hitch filled the streams as they spawned in the spring, grizzly roamed the hills, and the sky and lake surface filled with migratory birds. Those who came before us witnessed all of this--and there a a few who still remember some of it.

What must it have been like to be from a place like this? To have observed the land for not only your own lifetime, but to hold the stories of your ancestors who walked these lands for centuries? What would it be like to be born and then to live out your entire life in one place? Is a single lifetime even enough to know a place? It is they who have memories of what is was like to see the hitch in the creeks and the wetlands surrounding the Lake? To know a grandmother tree by name?

For my part, I feel fortunate that I've lived here for twenty years—long enough to remember what Cobb Mountain was like before the Valley Fire, to remember the year Main Street in Upper Lake flooded, and what a ride on The Clear Lake Queen was like. I do not remember the Forks Fire--that was before my time, but I've met many people who do. Some remember the tribal people lighting "good fire" on the land each winter until it was stopped by authorities in the sixties or seventies. They predicted the Forks Fire and other big fires would be the result and they were right.

And I realize this: I am still the new kid here.

For now, I plant and cultivate trees as a way to honor the land and those who have gone before. Perhaps the Linda Tree will witness the rebirth of this place long after we have moved on. Maybe one day, the redwoods we've planted here will capture the clouds.

Michael and his wife Connie Barlow created “Post Doom” conversations to help navigate these crazy times. I had the great privilege of being interviewed by Michael in October of 2019—and I’ve posted that interview below. A lot has changed since that time. The pandemic for one thing.

And another thing happened. Michael died on October 7, 2023—just four years after our interview. I’m still trying to get my head around this. He was a given. And now he is gone.

I got to thinking: who are the five people Michael might meet in heaven?** Does Michael know how much he and his work mattered to so many?

As we examine the arc of one life—we see that what most matters is love (in all its forms) and living each moment fully. This Michael modeled for many. Perhaps in examining our own lives, we might come to realize who was present in the moment when we most needed love, compassion and kindness. Who was there for us over the long haul? We might see who hurt us so deeply that we struggled to forgive them? We might see who we hurt in a fleeting moment... and ask for their forgiveness. And we might see who we loved and brought to life.

So, thank you, Michael Dowd for your inspiration, enthusiasm, and devotion to the Great Work of our time. You are one of those people I hope to meet again on another plane.

**On the topic of life and the people that matter most, here is a reprise of my post: The Five People Cammie Meets in Heaven.

Not that I haven’t been dreaming like everyone else.  From time to time, I peruse real estate websites to see what’s going on. Some places even seem enticing…like being on vacation, and are most certainly easier on the body than caring for twelve acres of farmland and a variety of out-buildings.

I try to imagine moving to a new situation. Especially given that each year, the walnut sacks feel heavier and heavier, despite the fact that we fill them only half full now.

Each winter, I feel the chill more deeply in my bones. This past winter brought moisture, damp and cold.  Even so, when the clouds cleared between rains it felt a few degrees warmer than winter here should be.

The trees seem confused when it warms. Leaf out now or wait? Maybe a bit of both. Then a freeze takes out the early leaves and blossoms. I can see why the trees might be confused.

The frogs too. Every time the sun shines, the frogs begin their springtime song, and then the temperature drops once again and they go quiet. They find their new rhythm with the sun. The grass grows. Pauses. Then grows again. The frogs croak in encouragement then stop.  Now that Spring is officially here, the frogs sing every night.

This Spring, the work feels a bit more daunting. Mowing is the way of things. My body lurches back and forth atop a tractor or lawnmower as I seek to create defensible space —anticipating the inevitable summer and autumn dangers. Last spring all this bouncing around gave me vertigo and got me thinking about my own ending.

I’m not getting any younger. While this may seem obvious, for each of us ages exactly one year each and every year, it hit home for me this year. I blame the vertigo. It taught me that I do, indeed, have an expiration date—I’m not indestructible.. Even though I’ve been careful this season my brain feels very tender. Vertigo is possible. I know that now. 

I begin to mow the orchard as soon as ground is dry enough.  This is the rhythm in a wet year. In dry years, the star thistle pops up first and the ground cements quickly making it difficult to pull weeds.  Even though I mow the star thistle, it flowers anyway— ankle depth. Such a tenacious plant, determine to reseed no matter what. We all want our children to live.

A wet year like this one brings soft ground, and the whole orchard looks like one big green sponge swelling up to envelop twigs that fallen, leaves and any stray tool that might been left out. Everything is taken, even bones I suppose. If the whole process were on time lapse photography, it would be both beautiful and horrifying--imagine the ground rising up to swallow last year‘s death and turning it into new life.

If I were to collapse on the earth here in a wet year, I imagine that my bones would first be picked clean by the vultures, then no doubt claimed by the rising earth within a season. Everything comes to life in the wet years. Once the sun returns, dragonflies, bees, wasps, lizards, all manner of snakes and crawly things present themselves as if they’ve been waiting for just this moment.

I love all these creatures. (Except the wasps. No love lost there.)

As Loretta and I give to the orchard, the orchard returns to us: peace, solace, beauty, delight, and yes, love. A mutually beneficial relationship.

Is it worth the investment of life force to be here? Perhaps. Anyone who has felt the gift of these trees in this land has taken in the energies of not only my own life —but all the energies that the collective lovers of this place have put into caring for the land.

2011

2023

Some people arrive here and feel the love. And some are oblivious. It’s just another place. They don’t fully understand that such a beautiful place requires tending. And that requires love.

There will come a day when my relationship with this land will end. Maybe sooner than I’d like. As I face the prospect of moving on, I wonder: Who will know how to check the peach tree for curl or to clear the grass away from the irrigation line? Who will fill the ground squirrel holes next to the cob cottage? Who will repair the fence so the deer don’t decimate the food forest? Who will mow while the grass is low enough—before baby rabbits come so not to hurt them? Who will turn the compost piles or prune the trees above the pump line? Who will wrap the pipes so they don’t freeze? Who will raise baby chicks? Who will clear defensible space and remove flammable items from porches? Who will move the salamanders off the road or gather the branches that have fallen? Who will pull the star thistle or bind weed? Who will love the hummingbirds and plant flowers for them? Who will cut firewood and stock the stove? Who will love this place as I have loved it? Whoever does these things will also gather the apples and persimmons, cut the asparagus, and yes, harvest the walnuts. They receive the ample gifts.

When the time comes, surely, someone will step up. I’ll need to tell them about the rhythm of the orchard. I want to impart whatever knowledge I have for how it all works. How to gather nuts after the leaves fall in those unfortunate years where the walnuts don’t fall first. How to stay ahead of the weeds and ground squirrels. Where NOT to put a garden. How to protect the eaves from bats and woodpeckers. How to find and keep good workers.

If we are lucky this farm won’t draw those who intend to exploit the land with big machines or those who are too timid or softhearted to address the issues of feral cats taking residence, or ground squirrels undermining foundations. New people will learn to operate the tractor and they’ll know how to gently mow without gouging the ground. they’ll keep big trucks from driving on the land to preserve the soil structure. They’ll learn how to maintain and fix branched greywater systems. They’ll know how to repair a chicken coop and keep it clean. They’ll be handy with a paintbrush and adept with a chainsaw. They’ll divert water away from foundations and into gardens. They will create habitat for gopher snakes. They will celebrate the return of Hagatha the Heron and the grown deer who eat apple leaves on the lower branches, just as mama taught. They’ll know how to hand-harvest, sun-dry and weigh the walnuts and they’ll have a list of customers to whom they can sell them. They will love it here. Perhaps they’ll even plant perennial herbs like sage, tarragon and rosemary. Maybe they’ll mow around the poppies.

For now, I am here--loving the land and working it. And it’s Spring, so I’m mowing around the poppies.

Cobb Mountain in Lake County, CA, once stood amidst a massive old growth forest. In ancient times, fire swept through there on regular intervals, as it did in all of the forests of pre-modern California.  In the 1940s and 1950s, people built homes and cabins there, seeing it as idyllic, magical place. This initiated an era of forest fire suppression. 

Only now are we beginning to understand the consequences. 

In September of 2015, the catastrophic Valley Fire swept through the area, destroying most of the homes and forest in communities of Cobb, Middletown, Whispering Pines, Anderson Springs and parts of Middletown and Hidden Valley Lake. Some homes and trees survived the fire. The people living in these homes felt lucky.

But, tall trees that once thrived in the heart of the forest now found themselves on its periphery. These trees belong in the middle of a forest--the bulk of their foliage growing near the top, with their long lower trunks bare. Many conifers are shallow-rooted so these trees even more vulnerable to extreme weather. With climate change, we experience increased severity of drought and rain, depending on the year.   

In Winter 2023-24, nine years after the Valley fire, heavy storms buffeted the mountain. The first of these storms brought fifty mile per hour wind gusts in what meteorologists called an "atmospheric river" (apparently the new name for heavy rains).  The tall trees of Cobb stood as sentinels, holding fast as the soil around them softened.  

A subsequent storm brought even more intense conditions. With no forest to slow the winds, they gathered strength and force in the scar of the Valley fire, racing though Middleton Valley and up Cobb mountain. Gusts reached ninety miles per hour.

I’m a mechanical engineer. Any engineer will tell you that the longer the lever, the less effort or energy it takes to move a mass--like a boulder. Or soil surrounding the rootball of a tree.

Tall trees are like giant levers.  When the wind hits the tree, its force is borne by the most surface area--in this case, the top foliage. For  awhile, the roots hold, then one at a time the trees let go, the weakest first, then even the strong.  Gale force winds howled as many of the tall trees of Cobb Mountain crashed to the ground

The storm passed. On a calm day a week later, one can hardly imagine what the night must have been like for the people who stayed, huddled in their cabins.  Some left at the first crash of tree on tree. Some waited until they could no longer bear it, and then they too, raced off the mountain in the treacherous winds. Some were trapped after trees fell across the road. No power. No Internet.  Only darkness. Surrounded by broken limbs and crushed cars, mangled decks.  On this calm day, such disruption seems surreal. 

In the past, amidst old growth forest, trees fell occasionally, providing new life to the understory and habitat for wildlife. It was a good thing. 

But in these storms trees fell in large numbers. They fell on cars, decks, roof lines, and even into someone’s living room, splitting their home in two.  When the skies cleared, the residents of the new forest edge were left to pick up their lives. Those living nearby realize that the forest edge was migrating toward their homes too. It was only a matter of time before the edge reached them.

One consequence is that tree lovers have come to fear trees. They look to the tops of those trees wondering which one will fall next? Is this tree above my home weak? Will it fall in the next storm?  Will my home be crushed next? They wonder: should we remove these trees?  

Yes, many more trees will fall in the increasingly powerful storms. The tiny cabin in the idyllic forest, became the forest's undoing. Now, either the cabins will be taken, or the trees. Or both.

This is the consequence when we don’t understand the land what it needs and wants and allows. If we live in the forest either we accept the natural processes of fire and old trees falling, or we must mimic those processes for the forest to thrive. Otherwise, our stay there is temporary or we take the forest down to save our homes.

I keep thinking of how those trees they were once surrounded by community of trees, and now they stand alone. Wind will take them down one at a time. Or people will.

But it started with the cabins of the 1940s and 50s.

The forest now struggles to return. As it does, this is a time of extreme vulnerability.  Trees who were once in the middle, once surrounded by a whole community of trees, are now on the edge.  As storms intensify they have no support. They topple and the forest withdraws even further from the burn scar. 

Perhaps downed trees will form habitat for what needs to grow on that new edge. Maybe in time, young trees might grow tall enough to help reestablish a true forest edge, if we give it time. 

One lesson here is this: no one, not even the strongest among us, can face such intense energies alone. We need each other. We need the young trees, and the middle-age trees, to share the forest, especially if we live in these newly vulnerable places.  

Even the strong can’t hold on against such force forever.

I understand the draw of living in such a beautiful place, and I don’t subscribe to the idea of living in fear, but let's acknowledge one thing: we did this. We built cabins in the forest we stopped the natural processes by our very presence. 

Why are we so surprised to see the forest fall?

We, the seventh generation of those European-Americans, who first encountered the beauty and fecundity of this place, live in an era of consequences. These settlers brought their horses and cannons and guns, then their mills and plows, and their descendants built homes in sacred places.   

Once upon a time, natural fires and indigenous people managed those forested lands. Life was a dance with the land.  We face the consequences of not understanding this. We suffer the result of the settlers misjudgment, and their misunderstanding of how forests work.  A hard lesson in humility. 

Nature's power is on full display on these edges, a power both terrible and beautiful. So consequences are here: ones that we personally did not imagine and a result of acts that we personally did not initiate. Yet here we are, all of us, living on the forest edge. 

Short term solutions elude us.  Take down the trees that might fall? Move that forest edge even further? We might as well take down the whole forest.  

I know this: tall trees need a forest--a whole community to stand strong.

Once upon a time, I worked in a Fortune 500 company. I still remember how much I loved the weeks before and after New Years--for the quiet. Perhaps the only quiet in a busy year.

Now, with time and intention to observe nature. I've come to appreciate this fallow time even more. Even though winter days seem a bit warmer than in the past, and the frogs awaken with song earlier than before—when nighttime temperatures drop, all is quiet. We all need fallow time to gather our energies.

Friend and author Sandra Millers Younger shares this:

Frogs and plants are in rhythm with the season, and I realize that, more and more, so am I. This is also my time to rest, regroup, restore and reimagine.

So like the sage biding its time, or like seeds in cold soil, we focus inward, we accept the rains and gather our energies in preparation for what is to come.

Friends, may this New Year bring with it a renewed commitment to life and joy in the journey. In Sandra’s words: “a mix of hope and potential".

P.S. If you'd like to hear more from Sandra Millers Younger, she's just re-released her book The Fire Outside My Window. A great read!

I check in with the Redding Eagles' Nest Webcam via YouTube Livestream on a daily basis. In fact, today I watched them fiddle with their nest and preen themselves for five minutes straight.

Sometimes the nest is empty. In fact, most of the time, as I'm sure they are busy circling the oak-studded hills surrounding Redding California.

Friends of the Redding Eagles, a non-profit, keeps a history on each of these raptors. I cannot be sure how they know who's who. The most constant Eagle they've tracked is a female they've named "Liberty". Liberty has an impressive history, and is most certainly doing her part to propagate her species, having built five nests since 2005 and raised twenty-six offspring from egg to fledging, including four sets of triplets.

For your own glimpse of these beautiful creatures check out the live feed on youtube:

So there you have it.

Perhaps someday I'll establish a community frog cam :-)