Category: Leadership & Spiritual Life

August is always a bittersweet month for my family. Being married to a teacher and having school-aged children, the month brings the last hurrahs of summer fun and ushers in the transition back to school. This year will be different than Augusts past. Alongside the normal back-to-school preparations, we are also getting ready to move our oldest child into a college dorm for the first time. While my new college freshman is more excited than ever for the start of the school year, I have very mixed feelings. I love seeing how excited she is, and I share in that enthusiasm as much as I can, but there’s grief here too. I don’t know what it will be like having one of my kids living out in the world instead of under my roof! I do know it will be a big change for all of us. 

I’m no stranger to change, of course. The entirety of each of our lives is spent navigating one change–or collection of changes–after another. Some changes we welcome, others we grieve. Many, like sending a child to college, don’t fit in a neat category. I have never been a fan of this reality! I want change to be easier. I would like it to happen on my terms. I would prefer celebration without the pain of losses great and small. I would appreciate more predictability and less uncertainty.

Of course, I know that none of that matters! I know that I can’t control how change unfolds, and I can’t make it easy, for me or for others. Knowing this has rarely stopped me from trying to stop or control change though. 

Many years ago, I was wrestling with a number of big life changes as I was preparing to say goodbye to the congregations I’d pastored for eight years. After a long process of vocational discernment, I had decided to go back to school to get my counseling degree. I was very excited about my coursework and the prospect of using my gifts in new ways. But I was also grieving the anticipated loss of relationships with people and communities that I loved. I was worried about how moving my family to a new place would impact my young kids. I was nervous about how we’d work out our finances as I transitioned to working very part-time while I attended school full-time. In the midst of many big and conflicting emotions, I was constantly on the lookout for ways to control a situation that felt very chaotic. Spoiler alert: That didn’t go well!

I was moving through the PrairieFire practicum at that time, which offered much needed grounding in that tumultuous season of life. During one of our retreats, an image arose of the ways that I was holding tightly to everything with clenched fists. I invite you to clench your fists, and to notice how much effort it takes. Notice how it might allow you to hang on to whatever is in your grip but that it keeps anything new from coming in. Notice how it might crush whatever you’re holding. That image spoke deeply to my efforts at control.

The image that followed was one of cupped hands. I would invite you to try out this gesture too. Notice the ease of this kind of holding. Notice the gentleness of cradling rather than gripping. Notice that what we hold with cupped hands might not stay there, but that something new might be welcomed in. That image was a breath of fresh air. It invited me to a posture of trust in myself, in the people around me, in God. It was an invitation to a new way of approaching all the changes that felt hard. It didn’t keep me from trying to hold on to things with a death grip, but it did help me to notice and to return to a gentler way of holding everything.

Once again, I find myself invited to return to a gentler way of approaching a season of big changes. There are times I try to hold on tight. However, my fiercely independent daughter doesn’t seem all that interested in my words of wisdom and incessant questioning. Imagine that! Instead, I am seeking to hold with open hands. To trust my daughter’s wisdom and capability. To trust that my child will have the support she needs, even if it doesn’t come from me. To welcome in the moments of laughter and fun as we move through these last weeks. To offer (and receive!) hugs and comfort when big feelings come.

I don’t know what changes might be unfolding in your life, but I don’t doubt that they are. Know that you aren’t alone in the messiness of it all. May you find ways to move through the beautiful and the hard with as much gentleness and compassion as possible.

When I was a kid, our family had three different Volkswagen pop-up camper vans. We didn’t have a whole lot of money, but we did have some great adventures driving around the country and camping. When I was seven or so, we took the first van to South Dakota. A missing heat shield made for some stressful moments as we prayed we’d make it out of the Badlands. Mom and Dad ended up trading it for our second camper van before the week was out. That was also the trip where my little brother got a little carried away with minigolf and hit me in the face with his putter. I refused to smile in any pictures with my black eye. Photo evidence or not, we had a great time spotting buffalo on our way to Mt. Rushmore and watching alligator wrestling at Reptile Gardens. 

Another summer, we traveled all the way to Key West in that second camper van. It didn’t have air conditioning, which meant I spent the first hot, sticky night getting eaten by no-see-ums and kicked by my brother. I eventually got down from the upper bunk to try sleeping on the floor, only to have my brother fall out of bed and land on top of me. But I also saw a guy balance a shopping cart on his chin, heard someone play the steel drums and played in the ocean waves. Then the catalytic converter went out on our van. That meant a few days staying at a Howard Johnson, which my brother and I thought was the epitome of luxury.

The third van made it all the way out to Arizona and California without incident, but it threw a rod outside of Kansas City on our way home. We got a little Coleman pop-up trailer after that!

As an adult with my own family, I haven’t owned a Volkswagen vanagon, but it turns out that hasn’t been enough to ensure our vacations go as planned. We spent hours trapped in a minivan with a screaming baby and a puking toddler on our way home from a spring break trip years ago. There was the time we visited friends in Colorado, and I almost had a panic attack driving up Pike’s Peak. On that same trip, our kid ended up with strep throat, our friend’s son smashed his face on the edge of a table and our friend ended up in the ER with some cardiac concerns. Our Toronto rental ended up having bed bugs, and my husband heard a lot of complaining the last couple of miles of the downtown jaunt that he had insisted wasn’t very far. Our big fifteenth anniversary trip got postponed twice due to Covid travel restrictions. We’ve had to contend with hangry children and grumpy grown ups. We’ve made wrong turns, gotten waylaid by road construction, navigated flight and train cancellations, and arranged for car repairs. 

Turns out it doesn’t matter how you travel; no trip will go perfectly. But that’s never deterred us from traveling. There have been plenty of frustrations and stressful moments, but we’ve also experienced the awe of mountaintop vistas and beachy sunsets. We stumbled upon Toronto’s International Jazz Festival by chance. We shared in our kids’ delight when they got to pet a dolphin and swim with stingrays at marine rescue in Mississippi. We’ve happened upon quirky museums, tasty restaurants and talented buskers. 

When people learn that I’m a therapist, it’s not uncommon for them to mention that they couldn’t listen to people talk about hard things all day. While I do hear about a lot of hard, painful experiences as people share their stories, they’re never the whole story. Life is a wildly unpredictable journey characterized by moments of great joy and great sorrow mixed in amongst the ordinariness of daily living. Some plans play out beautifully while others veer off unexpectedly. At times we discover an opportunity we might have missed had our plans worked out. Some stressful moments become the stories we laugh about with loved ones down the road. Others invite gratitude for simply surviving. I love the work I do because I don’t just hear about hard times; I also hear about new insights, the emergence of hope, and compassion showing up in unexpected places. 

Whether you’re finding ease or challenge on your journey, or perhaps both, I hope that you are able to appreciate whatever beauty is available and to trust that the hard times will never be the whole story.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year–camping season! I confess that I have become a very spoiled camper, as our family has left the tents and air mattresses far behind in favor of a travel trailer with a real bed, AC and a bathroom. Though we travel with many of the comforts of home, camping invites us into a different rhythm. We spend most of our time outside, enjoying trees and rivers and starry skies. We talk and play games more than we check tasks off a list or get lost in technology. We marvel at how food seems to taste better outside and make s’mores while we reminisce around the campfire. Laughter and awe tend to show up more freely and frequently than when we’re in the midst of the busyness of daily life. 

I’m not sure my family would view it this way, but camping has become a spiritual practice for me. The most significant dimension of this is that camping calls me to slow down and to be present. I feel the sunshine, the wind, or (on one occasion) the sleet on my face. I notice how my body shifts when I’m resting amidst the trees. I cheer when someone rolls a Yahtzee and push for a rematch when my husband wins our cribbage game. I get a snack when I’m hungry and allow myself to rest when I’m tired. I listen to The Avett Brothers while I wash the dishes. I take photos of the sun setting over the lake. I savor the retelling of family stories and give thanks for the good memories that we share, especially as my kids are moving rapidly towards adulthood. I wonder at how many stars I can see on a clear night and revel in both my smallness and my belovedness amidst the vastness of the universe. 

These are sacred moments. 

They are also very ordinary moments. There’s not much that happens when we camp that couldn’t happen at home or on a walk through the neighborhood or with a visit to a park, and there are certainly times when I do encounter holy moments in such places. But I get distracted! I’m tired by the time I get home from work, and there’s always one thing or another that I should be doing. Turning on the TV or scrolling on my phone are easy temptations when energy is low. The kids are often working or spending time with friends. It takes effort to disrupt the inertia of the scatteredness of our lives to nurture presence and connection. Some days, I just don’t seem to have it in me.

Spiritual practices bring me back. They invite me to return to what matters most. They remind me of who I truly am, of what is sacred and life-giving.  They encourage me to take notice of gifts present all around me and to recognize the extraordinary available to me in the ordinary moments. They connect me with joy and wonder. Some practices, like camping, pull me out of the daily routine to see life from a new perspective. Others, like prayer, gratitude, or silence, anchor me–if only for a moment–within the routine of my day, providing some grounding within the stress and busyness. 

What is it that brings you back to what matters? What invites you to slow down and to be present? Your practices might look similar to or completely different from mine, and that’s fine! Whatever they are, I hope that you find time and space in this season to welcome them in and to allow them to nurture your spirit.

Many years ago, when I was still working full-time as a pastor of two small churches, I would regularly visit a retreat center with a large labyrinth made of restored prairie. Though they resemble mazes, labyrinths have a singular path that those who walk them follow in and out as they pray or meditate. 

I walked that labyrinth many times over the years that I visited that retreat center, and each time was a different experience from the last. This was, in part, due to the dramatic changes of the prairie from one season to the next. Summer brought tall grasses and beautiful wildflowers, as well as the buzzing of bees and other insects. Verdant colors became muted as everything dried out in the fall. In winter, it was often necessary to brush aside or step over tall grasses bent by wind and snow. Spring meant green shoots growing up from the ashes of the annual prairie burn, which usually took place around Good Friday. And the cycle began again.

It was somewhat shocking to come to the labyrinth following those spring burns. The ashes were messy, and the barrenness of a landscape was a sharp contrast to the beauty and vitality of the plantlife that had been there before. Walking the labyrinth in that season always left me feeling exposed when I was so used to the cover of the tall grasses. But there was also something inherently hopeful in spotting tiny little plants emerging from the ashes.

Periodic burns are essential to the health of a prairie. Burns kill off invasive species and clear out overgrowth that keeps the sun from reaching growing plants. That overgrowth is transformed through the burning into nutrients that support the health and vitality of those little green shoots. Though the burning of a prairie seems destructive, it is actually nurturing new life. This paradox was the inspiration for the PrairieFire program here at the Center. PrairieFire is a two year program of spiritual renewal and formation. Through contemplative spiritual community, PrairieFire invites participants to clear space for the new growth that is waiting to emerge.

I came to PrairieFire as a participant in 2012. At that time, I was feeling restless and depleted as I was trying to juggle my work as a pastor with marriage and parenting two young children. I was weighed down with the responsibility I was carrying for others and the sense that I would never find my way to “good enough” for my churches, my family or God. Through the compassionate community I found in PrairieFire, I experienced God’s love in a more expansive way. Call became less about obligation and more about nurturing the gifts and passions God had given me. I ended up going back to school to get my counseling degree, relocating with my family to the metro, and beginning my work in the mental health field here at the Center!

None of those changes were easy, but I am exceedingly grateful for the ways that PrairieFire provided the support and nurture I needed to make way for new possibilities. Almost fifteen years later, I continue to give thanks for the opportunity to use my gifts in deeply meaningful work as a counselor and spiritual director. I also celebrate the joy of co-directing the program that was such an important part of my own journey. And now I have the privilege of stepping into the role of the interim Director of Leadership and Spiritual Life. I do not take for granted the “wildflowers” that have grown so abundantly in my life!

---

We are currently accepting applications for our next PrairieFire class. If you are interested in learning more, please visit our website: https://mindspiritcenter.org/prairiefire/  I’m happy to answer questions or to tell you more as you discern whether PrairieFire might support you in the season you find yourself in.

On February 27 I am retiring from my role as Director of Leadership and Spiritual Life at the Mind and Spirit Counseling Center. I have made this decision based on how I want to spend my time and energy in my late 50s. Most importantly, I want to spend time traveling with my son before he leaves for college and reconnecting with long time friends and mentors around the country. 

Leadership and Spiritual Life programs will continue after my retirement. Andrea Severson will be the contact person for Leadership & Spiritual Life. I will also continue to be available as an independent contractor in any ways that might support The Center’s mission of hope and healing. I welcome such short-term partnerships. If requested, I am available to partner with The Center for: 

Conflict transformation

Clergy & congregational consultation, support, & visioning

Suicide prevention training 

I will also continue to offer the Track 1 Emotionally Aware Clergy Leadership Program and Individual spiritual direction independently. You can also reach out to Andrea Severson if you are interested in either of these. She will let you know how to reach me directly. 

I have enjoyed working with my colleagues, clients, clergy, and congregations over the past five and a half years and I am grateful for The Center’s invitation to continue to work together from time to time in this way. 

I believe The Center has a long and vital future and will continue to offer spiritually integrated psychotherapy, spiritual support, and congregational care long into the future. 

With deep gratitude,

In his book, Atomic Habits, James Clear shares the story of Jerry Uelsmann, a professor at the University of Florida. Dr. Uelsmann divided his film photography students into two groups. He told one half of his class that they had to produce only one photo but to get an “A” it had to be of the highest quality.  He told the second half of the class to simply produce as many pictures as they could without worrying too much about it being perfect.

Guess what happened.  The class that was simply told to produce the most also produced the best quality while some of the class that focused only on one picture actually failed to finish one piece.

It seems what happened was that the class that was encouraged to create and given permission to make mistakes learned to be better photography skills through their mistakes.  They also did not feel pressure to be “perfect” and were more playful and creative because of the added “freedom” that they felt. 

In contrast, the other half of the class spent a great deal of time talking about what the perfect picture would be like instead of actually practicing the art of photography.  They also felt so constrained by the burden of creating something “perfect” that it inhibited their creativity.

It is good to give “our best” to whatever we do.  However, we have to keep an important tension.  “Our best” also has to be balanced with a measure of grace. 

We always have limited insight, talent, time, and resources.  Everything we do happens in the context of the rest of our lives.  Yes, we can be tempted to use this as an excuse for not really trying.  However, what I see more is people getting discouraged, depressed, and anxious because they don’t feel anything they do is good enough.  Sometimes they also conclude that they are not good enough either.

The “bad news” is very bad.  If I set the bar at “perfect”, I will fail EVERY time. No one is perfect.  If perfection is my goal I will likely procrastinate or resist taking on new challenges.  I will not be creative, playful, or joyful and I will most likely become depressed. 

However, the “good news” is very good.  You and I do not have to be perfect to be fully human.  Not only can we make mistakes, our “mistakes” might be our best teachers and even a source of inspiration to others.

One of my favorite memories of my son growing up is one that happened while he was playing soccer with his friends. His friend, Adam, who was playing forward, had a perfectly clear shot at the goal. He was undoubtably one of the best players on the team. He took the shot and watched as it sailed seven feet over the top of the goal. I groaned silently to myself, not because I was disappointed in him, but because I imagined him feeling lousy and embarrassed. However, to my surprise, he threw his head back and started laughing! I am sure that if he had scored that goal, I would have forgotten it by the end of the day. However, I still think of this often. I count it as one of the most beautiful things that I have ever seen.

Late October is a good time to visit Paris. It is less expensive, less hot, and there are fewer tourists, like me. I began planning this trip six years earlier after an impromptu day trip from London with my son, who wanted to see the Eiffel Tower. Until then, I had no desire to go to Paris. However, from the moment we stepped out of Gare du Nord Train Station, I was enchanted, and I vowed to return and spend more time.

Most people in the city speak English. However, out of respect, I downloaded a French lesson app and learned as much French as I could in a month. As long as the conversation involved a man, a woman, a girl, a boy, a dog, or a cat eating a croissant, I was “good to go.”

Since no one else in my family wanted to join me, this was to be a solo trip. I was both excited and nervous about this. “Solo” meant I could travel as I wished, with few plans and lots of wandering. The main thing I wanted to “do” in Paris was simply to “be” in Paris. That excited me. However, “solo” also meant being more vulnerable. My biggest fear was getting hurt, needing help, and being alone.

On my second full day, I took a long walk along the Seine to Notre Dame Cathedral. I have a beautiful memory of eating a delicious crepe that had seconds earlier been on fire right in front of me, as the bells of the cathedral rang above me. “I am so very fortunate.” I thought to myself.

As the sun set, I headed back to my hotel. It was dark by the time I reached the busy intersection near my hotel. I noticed the crosswalk sign lighting up green just before I reached the crossing lines. Not wanting to wait, I broke into a slow jog, intending to cross just a little bit before I properly got to the crossing.

Suddenly, and as if all at once, I was both flying and landing hard on my right side while listening to the sound of my glasses skittering across the pavement. I had tripped on something after taking no more than one step. I was embarrassed, ashamed, afraid, and I WAS IN THE ROAD! I quickly grabbed my bent glasses, staggered to the median, and leaned against a pole to begin assessing how badly I was hurt. My right lung ached, but nothing was broken. “How hard did I hit my head?” I wondered.

I continued leaning against the pole in the median for what felt like five minutes, assessing my condition and trying to figure out how I had tripped. I realized that in my hurry, I had failed to notice a small curb that separated the bike lane from the sidewalk, A curb that ended at the crosswalk. “That was so dumb!” I scolded myself. “Slow down and be more careful. That could have really been MUCH worse.”

For the first time on my solo trip, I felt alone. Many people saw me fall, but no one asked me if I was okay. I almost began to cry. I began speaking more compassionately to myself. “I am okay. I may need a stitch or two above my eye, but I am okay. I am very fortunate.”

Then I noticed a hand reaching out to me. A woman discreetly offered me a small tissue that I imagine, upon seeing I was bleeding, she had taken the time to dig out of her purse. By the time I could say “Thank you,” in English, she was making her way across the street.

Without saying a word, she had said, “I see you. I care. You are okay, and you are not alone.”

I know someone who has a very interesting set of pictures hanging in her living room.  The couplet is framed side by side and at first glance they look like identical pictures of a familiar Norman Rockwell family Thanksgiving scene.  Both family portraits sport large roasted turkeys with all of the trimmings, and in both pictures mother, father, grandfather, grandmother, and children are smiling and excited as they prepare to dig in.  As I said, the pictures look identical at first.  But as one draws closer it becomes obvious that one picture is a fake!

Yes, the picture on the left is a familiar Norman Rockwell painting.  However, the picture on the right is not a painting but a photograph. . . a photograph of this person’s entire family recreating the original Norman Rockwell painting down to the gravy bowl! 

Of course it was all done in fun, but can you imagine how much work it must have been.  First someone had to convince everybody that it would in fact be fun, then they had to find plates, silverware, and furniture that reasonably matched those in the painting.  Finally everyone had to dress the part, pose in just the right position, then. . . snap!. . . one genuine facsimile of the real thing!

It takes a lot of work to make an entire family look like a Norman Rockwell painting, but every holiday season many of us try desperately to pull it off. . . not for fun, but for real. . . not for a moment, but for days on end.  We make plans and pray that everything will go well, . . . that children will get what they want. . . that family members will get along. . . that people will not act out. . . that this year we might finally be a “real” family.

We try to get everyone together for the Christmas picture and the grandkids have ruined their new pants splashing in the mud.  Dad has let the rolls burn because he wanted to catch the end of the football game.  Grandmother is sad because she misses Grandpa, and Mom is worn out from cooking and cleaning and is sure she has done much more than her fair share. . . SNAP!  The portrait that we hoped would look like an idealistic Norman Rockwell ends up looking more like a distorted Picasso!

There are no perfect families.  All of us can benefit from a measure of patience and empathy this season.  We are not responsible for everyone’s feelings and behavior in our families.  Also, it is normal to feel sad sometimes during the holidays as we remember those people and things that we miss.  This is especially true if we have lost someone in the past few years.  Take some time to celebrate their life.  Cry, laugh, and acknowledge whatever it is you are feeling.   May we all be freed of the burden of having a perfect holiday season this year and in this freedom find peace and joy.

My doctor noticed the hesitation in my voice as I answered a few of the questions on my depression screening as part of my routine physical.

“Say more about that.” He compassionately encouraged.

“I do think about death a good bit just before I go to bed. But I am a pastor. I think about death a good bit as part of my job. I do not want or have a have plans to kill myself, but sometimes I wish I could just cease to exist and be replaced with a better version of myself and no one would know the difference.”

There was sincerity and caring in his voice as he said, “I believe it would be a good thing for you to talk to a counselor. Would you be willing to do this?”

I was surprised to hear him say this.

“If you think I should, I will, but I do not have plans to kill myself and I want to assure you that I would go directly to the emergency room if I was having serious thoughts about suicide. I have been this way for most of my life. I think I can just be a bit dramatic in my self-talk.”

“I am not worried you are going to leave here and kill yourself, but I do think it is important for you to talk with someone, and I am glad you are willing to do that. I will set that up before you leave.” He insisted.

I had taken depression screenings before. Also, there were times in my life when I knew I was depressed, but I could always link them to a short-term life situation. So, in my mind those thoughts and feelings had “passed” when I returned to my “normal self.” I did not realize that for reasons doctors and researchers still do not fully understand, I was one of those people whose brain chemistry “set-point” was a bit too low.

Seven years later I meet monthly with my therapist. I take a little round pill every morning, and I seldom have a desire to not exist, even when things are tough. When I do, I do not dismiss them. I know they are a warning. I ask myself what I need to do to take care of myself, and I make no excuses about prioritizing that care. I cannot believe I thought this way of feeling and thinking was “just part of being me” for so much of my life.

Why did this take so long? Part of the reason is that the “set-point” of alarm for the culture, even in the medical community was too high. I never reached the point of desperation, and no one asked specific questions or listened for early indicators that I might need some support. Thankfully, family medicine is becoming more aware. Still, we can do more to improve people’s quality of life and prevent suicides.

Last month I became a Soul Shop trainer. Soul Shop is a movement that is helping congregations recognize and address the two most significant factors related to suicide: a loss of hope and a loss of connection. Or, in other words, desperation and isolation. Please note that the first word is “desperation” and not “depression.” While a significant number of people who attempt suicide or die by suicide are living with depression, a just as significant number of people are not.

Yes, we DO need medical and mental health professionals in order to save lives. However, that is not enough. The good news is that we do not have to be a “professional” to save a life.

One of the Soul Shop trainers shared his story of being a lifeguard: One of the skills he learned in training was how to methodically scan the pool. One day he was diligently doing just that. He moved his gaze from the far right corner to the far left just as he was trained. However, just as his gaze left the right corner of the pool, a little boy fell off the edge and sank to the bottom of the pool. By the time he realized that he had literally just missed seeing this, a woman near the little boy had reached down and grabbed the child off the bottom of the pool, saving his life.

His point. . . it is not always the “professional” who makes the lifesaving difference, it is the person who is near that person, sees them in trouble, and acts.  Soul Shop teaches congregations to be those kinds of people for each other and anyone that they meet.

If you would like to host a Soul Shop training for your congregation or a similar training designed for non-religious institutions and workplaces, please email or call. The more we can create communities of awareness and connection who are not afraid to talk about suicide, the more hope and genuine connection we can offer and the more lives we can save.

If you are a loved one is considering suicide, please call “988” after answering some automated questions you will be connected with a trained counselor.

“God saw everything he had made: it was supremely good.” (Gen 1:31 New Common Bible)

I have committed myself to at least 30 minutes of exercise a day. It is a pretty low bar right now, just get up and move intentionally with some degree of vigor for at least 30 minutes daily. One early summer evening I decided not to worry so much about the time or the vigor. I decided I would simply get out and “play” like I did when I was a kid: decided to just go outside, move around, and explore.

I visited my local park that has a trail around a good size lake. It was my usual place but I showed up in a new way. No agenda, no “goal” other than to move around and pay attention.

I started walking at a healthy pace, but I did not watch the time. I saw a bench and decided to sit for a while. Not because I was tired, but because the bench said, “Sit for a while.” I sat for about 5 minutes and in that time I petted a nice dog, had a short conversation with a stranger who said “hello,” and saw the woman at the post office who always saves small shipping boxes for me. We too, had a short visit.

Then the path said “Why don’t you walk some more,” so I did.

---

As I walked I noticed a plant community. There were tall trees, small trees, shrubs and all manner of grass and plants that, in my yard, I call “weeds.”

Then the large trees said, “Welcome wanderer! Care to visit a while? We have something important to ask you.” So I stopped and listened.

Of course, trees speak “tree” just as squirrels speak “squirrel” and rocks speak “rock.” Tree, like rock, is a quiet language. One cannot hear it unless one is very quiet and completely open to hearing anything they might have to say.

“What is the job of a tree they asked?” Then, before I could say a word, the whole plant community started blurting out their answers.

“We shade the plants and animals,” said the tall trees.

“We feed the birds,” said the shrubs.

“Yeah!” Blurted out a young shrub, “and then the birds poop out the seeds of baby trees!”

We all chuckled.

“We hide the rabbits,” said the grasses.

“Yes, and we feed the bees!” roared a crop of dandelion in unison. “So don’t call us weeds!”

Before I continued my walk, they shared much more about the particulars of there “work.” As I walked on and considered all that they had shared, it struck me that their “work” was essentially connected to their “being,” their relationship with each other, and their relationship with the creatures in their community.

I am not even sure it is proper to call it “work” except in the living and natural economy of “energy spend” and” benefit gained.” What I am trying to say is that concepts like ”earning,” “owing,” “paying,” and most especially, “deserving” were simply not part of the language of trees or anyone else in their natural community. The “work” of a tree was perfectly done in simply being a tree and doing tree things.

The concept of their worth being found in anything other than the goodness of their being was baffling to them. What kind of creature would choose to live like that; always having to justify their right to exist by doing things that clearly had nothing to do with the essence of their being? What kind of creature would give up this natural birthright for an artificial system that constantly requires them and others to prove they “deserve” even the most basic things that they need to be and to be in relationship? Who would choose to invent such unnatural and irreverent insanity?

Who indeed?