Hello friends,

I'm writing not with an essay or newsletter but with an invitation to a gathering I'm facilitating with my good friend and long-time co-guide, Tina. We would be delighted for you to join us. In times of great uncertainty, one of the few things I know how to do is gather generous people and have a soul-enlivening time together.

The spring season this year unfurled like so many have before. Bird parents ushered double clutches of babies into the air. Elderberries were crowned with tiny white jewels. Mycelial networks fed each other and their plant and animal kin. And for many of us, this has been a season of prolonged turbulence. The rise of authoritarianism, escalating violence, and wildfire smoke enveloping great swaths of the lands we love leave our systems overwhelmed and our minds bending toward forgetfulness of our innate goodness.

In times like these, we turn toward the people and places where (to invoke the great poet Mary Oliver) we can let the soft animal of our bodies love what they love. We rest in the lap of Nature so that we may return whole-hearted, with energy to tend to what comes next. We sing together so the echo of our chorus shakes loose the ashes from the oak tree. We tell stories of grief and praise to conjure the spirits of our interrelatedness.

And this, my friends, is what we're offering. A place for soft bellies and strong backs to rest and remember our belonging in the great turning of things. I would love for you to join us in connecting with our oldest kin, “Nature,” with fellow lovers of wild things, and with your own noble soul. It’s an invitation to expand when the voices of fear push for contraction.

Join us this autumn in a beautiful, contemplative retreat center nestled amongst the pines in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. We’ve been convening nature-based, system-soothing gatherings for a decade. We know there’s an open seat here for your favorite self to sit on. If you can't join our gathering but know someone who might resonate, please share the invitation with them. The gathering is open to all.

Deepening Kinship & Sharing Wild Wisdom: A Weekend of Ecospiritual Nature Connection

September 18–21, 2025

Drala Mountain Center, Colorado

Learn more and register here

I’m happy to answer questions through email, text, and phone. We hope you’ll join us!

Bluebirds

Writing has always been hard for me, but now it is harder because I wonder if the lurkers can upend my life. Outside the kitchen window, bluebirds land on the first ceramic pinch pot I ever made. Cerulean wings teeter back and forth over the bowl of dried mealworms. They feast rapidly before being outmaneuvered by the pointy yellow bills of starlings. When a titmouse sends up a harsh call, everyone flushes. Squirrels scatter to the understory or freeze upside down on a tree branch.

It takes a good half hour for the bluebirds to return and reset the game. Before then, chickadees, the humblest of forest ambassadors, return to feed. They let everyone know the coast is clear, “chicka-dee-dee-dee-deeeeeee.” Their song reminds me that the northern hemisphere is tilting back toward the sun. Spring is less than a month away. I will soon be able to sing one of my favorite songs, “Robin red breast, crow flying high...” I always wait until spring to sing that song. It’s a welcoming song for the return of migrants—my steadfast neighbors during life’s perennial changes.

Between mealworm bites, the bluebirds tilt their head sideways to see who is nearby. Starlings are pesky. Hawks are lethal. To feast requires constant vigilance and companionship. And it’s not for nothing. When the drought was especially bad, a juvenile red-tailed hawk used our feeders for more than a proving ground. The birdbath and feeders were their survival sanctuary. They stayed so long that we named them “Jumanji.” Jumanji was skilled in the art of the ambush. I was fond of their adaptability. And it hurt to watch Jumanji bust our neighborhood squirrel, rabbit, and bird communities. When Jumanji moved on, our fur and feather neighbors avoided the yard for months. To build trust, we added small perches near the feeders, removed the old wood fence that was an escape barrier, and planted more understory cover.

Today, the neighbors arrived en masse after we rolled out a red carpet of clean feeders and baths. Chickadees, titmice, finches, starlings, and bluebirds swoop from the feeders to the ground. Bounce around the birdbath. Scatter water droplets on the dormant lamb’s ear. Squirrels gather leaves to fortify their nests. A rabbit nibbles the lowest branches of an arborvitae. The earth tilts on its axis. A bluebird tilts its head toward the sky. And so do I.

Today I have:

Feeling in my feet, legs, and body, a sign that I’m still here and not disassociated.

An agitated nervous system, a sign that I’m afraid.

Fog in my chest, a sign I’ve lost something important.

Clear sight through the illusion that women’s rights are guaranteed. I feel its impact on my role as an American woman.

An urge to share something helpful and validating.

Chosen family that is aligned with reality and not in denial about an outcome they disagree with.

A circle of beloved friends and allies who tell the truth and don’t spread disinformation.

Leftovers from a nightmare about being an 80-year-old woman forced to prove I was not pregnant.

A son who is cheerful and wants to be Obi-Wan Kenobi, even if that means becoming a ghost Jedi.

A partner to hold hands with while we face an uncertain future.

A safe place to rest and belong while I compose myself.

A pull toward supporting, gathering, and strengthening bonds between women.

The arrival of dark-eyed juncos, my favorite harbinger of winter.

A handful of echinacea seeds to cast hope into the future.

Trust that while I will take action, it is enough to experience grief for today.

Subscribe now