An invitation, a beginning

For months now, I’ve experienced daily life as riddled with paradox and even dissonance. Perhaps you feel it too.


Initially, I attributed this sense to the rough, jagged clash between moments of incredible sweetness shared with my family and the pervasive challenge that had settled over the world, driving the very intensity from which many of those moments of sweetness arose. There was also the dissonance between those cherished moments and the moments in which I felt about to break with the weight of despair and fear.


While both of those experiences are real and remain vivid, I’ve come to realize a deeper dissonance bubbled beneath my experience of the pandemic from the start and has now grown to demand my attention and action.


I speak of the dissonance between what this moment asks of us – and by us I mean both individuals and the systems through which we come together as collectives, our many forms of community – and how we are currently responding. I feel this dissonance in myself and I see it all around me (with some very pertinent and powerful exceptions).


Throughout the pandemic, most of us have looked outward for a quick fix. I’ve experienced this grasping on the individual level – including within myself – and I’ve seen this on the collective, societal level – including within my community. We are looking to a cure, a treatment, a vaccine, safety guidelines, proof of negative tests….the list goes on.


What if all those things, important as they might be, won’t actually fix the root of this challenge? What if there isn’t an external fix? What if we are being asked to dive inward, rather than outward, to significantly shift our understanding of ourselves and the systems and structures of our societies? What if any quick, external fix is just that – a temporary bandaid, held in place until the next global challenge rips it away, exposing a still-open wound?


For many of us, the pandemic revealed the deep and thorough inadequacies in both our individual and collective approaches to daily life. Perhaps, like me, you were already dissatisfied with the dominant narratives and understandings, aware that they fall far short of capturing the work of being in this world, as individuals and as part of the community of living beings – human and nonhuman alike. But the pandemic has accelerated and sharpened this dissatisfaction for many, casting a bright spotlight on the chasm between how we are living and what we really value.


I hear rumblings for change. These rumblings contrast with the continuous chant of citizens’ health and safety vs. economic health and stability. That false dichotomy issues from a stale mindset, fueled by thinking from within the current system, the same one that has been exposed as so grossly inadequate.


I want to shed that system.


I speak these words daily. Sometimes they come in a whisper, as I drift to sleep in my husband’s arms. Sometimes they come in a wail, as I break down with exhaustion once the kiddos are finally in bed and I turn to the piles of dishes and laundry and reflect on how much I miss my work, my extended family, my friends, physical community.


Community. To truly achieve the healing we so desperately need, we must develop a more profound understanding of that word. We are meant for each other. Through the pandemic, we are finally beginning to appreciate the many intricate ties connecting us. Yet the structures governing our daily lives do not reflect the robust truth of our belonging. These structures prioritize individualism, not interbeing, and reward competition and exploitation rather than care and fierce respect for one another’s dignity.


I yearn for the collective dive inward to discover a new way. We are so overdue for a great shift. For years, I’ve researched, written about and sought meaningful action on climate change. The climate crisis is heating to a boiling point. We hear this repeatedly, but it’s not jargon. It’s the harsh, terrifying truth. There is so little time left to avoid catastrophe. In many regards, it may already be too late, a fact that haunts me as I brush the hair out of my daughter’s eyes and kiss her forehead, as I hold my sleeping son and feel his warm little breath against my neck. But I also know that the same deep awakening and shift that just might save us from catastrophe will also help make us stronger as we prepare for the many challenges already assured through climate change.


As the pandemic unfolds and I see us still floundering for a solution from within our current systems, I experience growing despair. If this moment isn’t waking us up, isn’t shaking us into a new, better way of being with and for each other, what will? As so many questions flood my being – “Why can’t we all cut our own hair, if we must, and send checks to our hairdressers to help them stay closed and safe?” to “Why can’t we redistribute wealth, now that we see who within our communities is actually working ‘essential’ jobs?” to “How can we better fund a prioritization of care?” to “What creative means could we find to help children not feel isolated right now?” – I long to see us rising to meet those questions with real, substantial, impactful answers.


I’m tired of feeling like a captive to the old, stale narrative. And I’m tired of waiting for a wise leader to illuminate the necessary new way. What if that work belongs to all of us? What if we came together as we can right now – across state and even national lines, joining together virtually but with full presence – and gave voice and heart to our deepest hopes and greatest ideas for how we might move forward propelled by a way of life more befitting of who we are.


Hope is still present. But only if we take up its invitation and dive into deep, transformative work.


I know we cannot gather in person. But, because we cannot gather in person, we can gather across wide geographical spaces. I’ve long wished to bring together the many wise, creative, transformative people I’ve been so fortunate to know who live scattered around the world. And now seems like a good moment, perhaps the best moment, to do so.


Here’s what I’m envisioning:


Monthly virtual meetings that dive into exploration and the creation of new narratives and systems. Essentially, work aimed at collectively unearthing possibility. We each have strengths to bring to the table. I have a lot to learn when it comes to economics, but I have a lot to share when it comes to climate solutions and educational models. Working together, I believe we could weave the story of a way of life driven by respect, care and dignity for all.


But I don’t want to simply create a lovely story. I want to collaborate on the next step, on how to realize that story in our many communities around the world.


I’ve experienced this process before, on a smaller and more focused scale. Starting in 2015, I participated in gatherings of community members who were concerned about climate change and eager to contribute to meaningful solutions in any way possible. Together, we learned, each bringing different experiences, knowledge and skills to the table. From those gatherings, A Climate to Thrive (ACTT) was born. Now, in 2020, ACTT is a model for local, grassroots action on climate change, realizing the incredible potential that lies within each of us to face the great challenges of our time and transform how we do things, opening up possibility and hope.


Would you like to join me?


Here is my plan for step one:


If you are interested in participating in a meeting of minds and hearts focused on collaborating to create a new narrative and way of living that translates the priorities of care, respect and dignity into concrete action steps for communities, let me know. I will then poll the group to identify a meeting date in August. I will also ask those interested to submit topics they’d like to explore and the top questions they are mulling over right now. From this feedback, I’ll identify a place to start the discussion and will send around the first discussion topics with a google spreadsheet of accompanying readings, which all participating will be invited to add to.


Prior to the first meeting, I will also send around a format for the meeting, crafted to develop a sense of safety and trust and to maximize our capacity to support each other in bringing forth our greatest ideas, our most pressing questions and our deepest hopes.


At the end of our first meeting, we will discuss how to proceed. I envision small working groups breaking out to focus on specific topics between the full-community meetings.


In his reflections and writings on community, the Quaker leader Parker Palmer emphasizes his belief that community is something we receive, not something we manufacture. We receive community, Palmer writes, by cultivating our capacity for connectedness. We are always profoundly connected. But we are not always conscious of those connections. When we cultivate consciousness focused on connection, we drop into a deep sense of community. From that sense of community, we can make more informed choices about how we want to move forward – together.


I look forward to receiving a profound sense of community together. I look forward to cultivating a space that deeply honors connection and in which we draw forth each other’s wisdom and resourcefulness. I look forward to collectively engaging in muscular, fierce hope and transformative action.


If you are interested in joining or have questions or ideas, send me an email or facebook message or leave a comment on this post. I will reply to get the ball rolling.






These days

The stories are coming faster and more furiously these days. “What If We Stopped Pretending the Climate Apocalypse Can Be Stopped?” reads a most recent headline. Of course I want to turn away. I don’t want to dive in, to really consider the words in front of me. But I read on. I read as much as I can. I try to let the meaning sink below my defenses, try to open my mind and heart and whatever wisdom I can muster to what this all might mean for yourself and your sister and the wild future towards which you head.

I read. I consider. And then, when your cries tell me you have woken from your nap, I put aside the articles and climb the stairs, bare feet on hard wood. I open curtains and peer over the edge of your crib. We have a routine, you and I. I let in the light and you greet me with the widest of toothless grins. The world is bright and opening for you.

I pick you up and we settle in to nurse. I open Mary Oliver’s collection of poetry and let the words wash over me like a waterfall. They don’t eliminate the emotions that echo after all I just read. Instead, they thread between that reality and deepen its meaning. I ache and love and hope not only for you and your sister, but also for the wild geese, the grasshopper, the summer day.


I cannot turn away from the truth. Do I wish it otherwise? I don’t know. It’s not a question I spend much time considering. My days, these days, encompass a wild juxtaposition. I hold you and your sister, I love you, I watch as you meet the world, ready for each new discovery. Together, we are enchanted. And then I tuck you both in to nap or place you in the arms and care of another and I read the articles. I write grants for local, solutions-focused action on climate change. I research, consider and write about how one might best parent in these times. How to give you the tools you might need? The question reverberates. I connect with others who are seeking action, solutions, trying to gift a livable world. It’s imperfect. But I try.


And then I return to you and your sister, to your soft new bodies and deep, soulful hearts. We gather together in the woods with your father and our beloved pup. We eat a picnic lunch, pausing to examine mosses, hold pinecones, and watch the light shift between the trees. We sit in a rare moment of silence. Enchantment.

It’s all true. Just as death and life, love and grief are inextricably linked, I cannot fathom how I could love you and your sister as I do and not let in the truth of your world. Heartbreaking, yes, it is. And thank goodness. May my heart break open wide every single day that I’m fortunate enough to spend with you. May it break with the enormous challenge of your future and with the way your dimpled hands slowly consider each new rock. I cannot imagine another way to spend each day.



Each morning recently, after I wake up, I lie for a moment and watch the early morning sunlight dance off the trees. Then I roll over, open my phone, and read the latest stories on what is happening to immigrant families in this country. My heart pounds, my thoughts race, helplessness and hopelessness fill my body until I cannot read any more. I throw back the covers, hurriedly dress, lace up running shoes, and pound my anger and grief into the pavement.

I return to our home to hear the voices of my daughter and husband and find myself drawn, immediately, to them. I want to see them, hold them, let their immediacy run through me like medicine for the ache that does not really go away.

It stays as I make breakfast for my daughter, her little feet padding through her home as she greets the day, our dog, her “friends” (stuffed animals), so excited, so happy, so fortunate. I sit down as she eats and have to pull myself back, again and again, to the solid wood of the table, the lilt of her young voice, her questions, her gaze, her love, so beautifully present. She is here, in front of me, to hug and feed and scrub down afterwards.

On some days, I then deliver her to her wonderful caregiver so I can work. I thank any God that might be listening for this kind, exemplary woman who cares so profoundly for my daughter and the children of several friends. And then I sit down and drag my attention to work, again and again, as it moves away to keep reading the stories and looking at the pictures.

In the middle of the day, I hike. As my legs push up the mountain, I wish I could give the same energy to actually making some difference. I want to hold all the children. I want to brush away their tears, heal their ache. I want to hold the parents. I want to tell them how deeply I am aching for them, but the words sound hollow even as I think them amidst my climb towards the sky.

After more work, I pick up my daughter. She is dashing around naked by the little “kiddie pool”. I wrap her softness in my arms and breathe in the faint echo of baby smell that still lingers, thankfully. As we drive home, I let her questions and stories and thoughts fill me, a mantra to tie me to the now. We spend the evening between trees and the plants in our little garden and around the dinner table with her father.

After dinner, my heart breaks open for the ninetieth time that day as I watch her put a diaper on her stuffed animal monkey and think of the children helping other children change their diapers. I duck into the bathroom and read another story: a mother, released on bail, is trying to get back her eight year-old daughter and has been told she may need to wait several months. She says she feels like she is going to die, she feels powerless. I want to hurl my phone into the toilet. I want to scream. I want to do something, anything. My daughter bangs on the bathroom door. I open it and exclaim over Monkey’s beautiful diaper.

I’ve donated, I’ve called representatives, I’ve signed petitions, and I feel completely helpless.

In the evening, after all the curtains are drawn and the lights are out, my daughter stays in my arms longer than usual for lullabies. Often, these days, she is ready for her crib before I’m ready to let her go. She is growing so fast, and her body drapes around mine as I sit in the rocking chair. I sing. I sing for her, for myself, the traditional, soothing songs. I sing for the children, in “shelters” throughout our country. I sing for the parents whose feelings I cannot fathom, but the little I can imagine would break me into a thousand pieces. I sing for their strength.

I don’t know what to do, so I open my computer and let these feelings spill into words. Ultimately, the words do very little, aside from allowing that feeling of spill for at least a moment or two. Ultimately, all I can do is say: if you are reading this, and you feel helpless, I’m right there with you.

ADDITION to this post:

After sharing this on Facebook, I received some really beautiful, thoughtful replies urging me to stay strong and inspired. First, I’m so glad that those individuals are in this world, making a difference, carrying so much love. Their comments clearly come from a place of deep commitment and vitality. I’m so grateful. The comments and my reaction to them also provided a great opportunity to reflect on something that I wanted to share, in case it is of use to anyone else. What I realized I needed to communicate is that, while this piece reflects the grief, anger and helplessness I’m feeling, I also feel very strong and incredibly inspired. For me, grief does not preclude strength. Some of the most inspired, creative and love-filled moments in my life have come from grief. And, strange as it seems, helplessness does not even preclude inspired, loving action. In this case, it is driving me forward, to fight to eliminate helplessness. As I look around me, I believe it is really important that we learn to feel both grief/anger and even helplessness AND strength, love, commitment and inspiration – all together! When I push aside the grief and anger, I feel myself dissociating from what is happening. However, as those commenting so beautifully stated – we do not want to drown in grief and helplessness and not act. We must feel the whole package, reflect and act consciously. For me, that package is the beautiful, complicated truth of our interconnection. So, I will continue to feel, feel deeply, and act consciously from that place of connection. 

What could have been said…

I understand why men didn’t speak up at the Golden Globes this year. I really do.

I did not watch the awards ceremony, but, boy, did I hear about it. I imagine there are few who didn’t. The theme of recognizing the work and struggle of women with everyone wearing black, the speeches – from Oprah and others – eloquently and powerfully addressing the work women are doing right now to spotlight both harassment and continuing inequality – it was clearly a different awards show this year.

My friend posted an article that really grabbed my attention, particularly when coupled with her commentary. The article highlighted the conspicuous silence of the men present. Why didn’t they address the blatant and important theme of the evening? Why didn’t they speak to their role in the equation?

In sharing the article, my friend also shared the complexity of her feelings on the topic. On the one hand, she recognized that men can support the women’s movement in ways that are not as publicly visible. On the other hand, if they have a platform, a position of power and the opportunity to reach millions of listeners, shouldn’t they use that opportunity? Others commenting on her post pointed out that no matter what the men present said, it would not have been the right thing and would have taken attention from where it should be – on the women and what they are saying. Anything a man would say in that situation would inevitably come across as self-serving or promoting.

The article and the comments my friend made and received rattled around in my mind all day, along with a question of my own: When we are confronted with a situation in which a group of people have suffered persecution at the hands of another group and we are identified with the latter, through race, class, gender or by some other factor, how can we verbally show support for the persecuted? Recognizing the many, many complexities in such a situation, recognizing all that we do not and can never know about the experience of those persecuted, how can we speak out in a manner that isn’t self-serving, that is truly supportive? Do we have to remain silent because to speak is to step into a truly uncomfortable and complex realm?

Or can we learn together? Is there some way to speak from exactly the place of complexity in which we find ourselves – to address it rather than shove it under the rug or use it as a reason to remain silent?

What if the men present at the Golden Globes had said something like this: “I’m worried about saying the wrong thing here, but I believe to not speak up in support of the incredible work being done by women right now is to not support that work. I don’t want to take the attention away from where it should be: on the work being done, on what the women are saying, on the very real issues they are highlighting, and on the important changes that need to happen. I just want to say that I support this work 100% and I’m here to do anything I can to help make those changes.”

I don’t know about other women, but this would have worked very well for me. I would applaud the man who could stand in his discomfort and not-knowing and speak these words, words that stay focused on the work the women are doing and don’t draw the attention towards the man’s discomfort in the face of that work. To be able to stand in discomfort but not make that the story. To recognize that within not-knowing lies an opportunity to learn. To know that even if the work ahead drives straight into uncharted and potentially increasingly uncomfortable territory, your support is the best thing you can give, especially when coupled with a willingness to learn and to be changed in that process of learning.

I get that it is unfair to place the responsibility of teaching on the persecuted party. To do so is to doubly burden those who have already shouldered undeserved weight for far too long. But we cannot know what we do not know. When we pretend otherwise, we further abuse those who truly do know, who have experienced the persecution firsthand.

As I think about the resurgence of so many movements that seek to address the inequalities and injustices rampant the whole word over, I find myself hoping again and again that we can be brave enough to stand in discomfort. May we be capable of admitting when we do not know. May we be willing to offer support while not seeking to take over the story. May we be ever and always open to being changed in the process of communal learning this world so desperately needs.

And may I learn from what was missing at the Golden Globes. The next time I want to show support but am nervous about speaking up, may I remember the words I would have liked to hear from the men present at that awards ceremony.


Thoughts on the day a budget is released

I don’t know about you, but here are some things I care about:

I care about the natural world (in case that’s not already more than evident through my previous posts here). Nothings uplifts me more than coming around a bend in the woods to suddenly glimpse a great beam of light slanting between tall trees. Nothing. Unless it’s filling my lungs with the crisp air of fall, or listening to waves pound sand, or smelling moist, steamy, freshly thawed earth after a spring rain. And then, of course, there is the fact that we are part of the natural world. What we do to that world, we do to ourselves.


I care about people caring about each other. Positively contributing to the lives of others fills me with a sense of purpose. Receiving help, well, that’s edgy for me but I’m working on it and it certainly is appreciated. And I love witnessing unlikely candidates coming together in supportive community.


I care about creativity. There is quote pinned to the board over my desk. It reads: “The creative adult is the child who survived.” (I don’t know where it came from.) Children see possibility wherever they go. Creativity is about moving towards that possibility. Boy, does it take courage sometimes. And to really dive into what might be possible, you kind of have to drop all comparisons, don’t you? But all I have to do is make a quick scan of history to see that many of the most important and lasting contributions to this world were developed through some sort of creative process. Creativity leads to innovative solutions. Artistic expression fosters connection on an emotional level and cultivates understanding. I’ve seen these things to be true.


I care about equal rights and access. I cannot imagine looking into my daughter’s big, beautiful eyes and seeing hunger that I could not feed, or knowing that she was cold because I could not heat our house, or being unable to provide her with a house or an education or medicine or my time. And that just speaks to the financial aspect of equality. What if she felt threatened or less-than simply because of who she was or who she loved? No way. No one is less-than, except perhaps those who live in such fear of someone else that they believe they must strip that person of respect and rights.

Sure, I care about safety. But without all of the above, what is the point? What am I protecting if my life and the lives of those around me are devoid of meaning? If all the juicy, beautiful, messy and important aspects of life were gone, would we want to live it at all?

These are the thoughts that pound through my head, through my being really, on this day, the day our dear president released his proposed budget. And so I pick up the phone and I call my representatives, and I raise my voice, and I look for other ways to act. And I commit to making sure, making damn sure, that these things continue to flourish in my home and my community and wherever I can promote them. Because my country will celebrate these bright, beautiful things.


Joy in Action


I could try to describe the feelings I experienced as images of the recent women’s march poured in from all over the world. I could try, but I don’t really see the point. The feeling was so much better than words.

I was perhaps most impacted by the radiant joy I saw on the faces of so many of those pictured. Yes, joy. It was clear: the act of coming together for something so passionately believed in uplifted those involved at a moment when it would be very easy, and understandable, to sink into a deep depression.

Joy. It’s elusive. One moment we feel it, coursing through us, making us want to dance, to shriek, to hug, to leap. The next moment, it’s gone. But for the moment of it’s visit, we felt so extraordinarily awake, so vividly alive.


That’s what joy is to me. It’s a moment of pure aliveness combined with feeling 100% that I am exactly where I want to be, doing just what I want to do. I don’t feel this unless my action is aligned with my values.

Isn’t it remarkable, how easy it is to act in a way that doesn’t reflect our values? Why do we do this so much of the time? Assuredly, the need to make ends meet, to put food on the table, to clothe our children and be able to bring them to the doctor – these needs mean, for many, that we must labor without love.

But where and when we have the choice, why don’t take the path that leads towards joy? Is it perhaps because when we pursue that which we truly value or in which we truly believe, we are putting more of our hearts on the line? The risk is greater. Sometimes, it is a lot easier not to care, to exist at a sub-par level.

If I could put one hope out there right now and have it answered, it just might be the hope that we could all start choosing actions that align with our beliefs. Look at the faces of those people marching. Just look at them. They are so beautiful. It’s not because of their clothing or their makeup or hairstyle, or anything as superficial as all of that. It’s because they are doing something they believe in so strongly they cannot do otherwise. May we all be graced with that beauty in many more moments this year and in the years ahead. May we radiate with the joy that comes from putting our bodies, our minds and our creative beings to use in a way that aligns with a great sense of purpose. If we are brave enough to take the risk involved – (and I’m willing to bet a whole lot on this) – we will all reap the benefits.

I’m going to try it myself – inspired by those faces in the sea of marchers this past weekend. When I reach a fork where I have a choice and one direction is easy but maybe not quite aligned with what I believe is important and the other direction is a bit more challenging but so clearly in line with all I hold dear, I’m going to walk down that path towards joy.