Yet It Is Alive

In this deeply reflective stage of life — especially after my journey of walking back into well-being in nature — how I view the world has shifted by many degrees. This was brought into perspective this past weekend while walking the land with others around water conservation and stewardship.

There was a moment when I was about to photograph a thistle, large and soft pink against a light blue, hazy sky. Next to it stood a smaller thistle, the native Texas Thistle (Cirsium texanum), and I smiled to myself — but I wanted the big one, blowing in the wind, with water captured in a swale peeking behind it. I was startled just as I was about to capture it by someone leaning in suddenly and saying, "You don't want that thistle for your picture — you want the native one over here. This one!"

I held back my thoughts and kept quiet. But what I wanted to say was this:

Yet it is alive.

It is here, bringing wonder to me. Yes, it may not be native to Texas — but I am breathing it as it is breathing me. It added value, joy. It was also on land under stewardship, where the owners are very aware of natives and non-natives alike. For the moment, it holds its place — a placeholder with real ecological value, attracting pollinators and, with the work of swales holding water nearby, helping the soil. And there it was, alongside the native thistle, happily bobbing in the wind together.

Let's step back now . . .shift the kaleidoscope and let the pattern move a little.

Even the Texas Thistle, a member of the sunflower family and a powerhouse energy source for pollinators, is regarded as a weed by many who do not work with, adore, or understand native plants. It will get weed-whacked, or worse — sprayed with some kind of biological warfare. Many don't see the beauty in that long stem with its burst of flower. It has the look of a weed, it has been called a weed, and so it is a weed — remove it.

I am not advocating for the non-native thistle. It is aggressive and competes with native plants. What I am advocating for is two things.

First — holding wonder for something that is living. That exists in this moment. That delighted me. Those two thistles side by side, swaying in a dance together, brought me pure joy.

And second — for those beginning to take stewardship of their land, really paying attention to what is beneficial and what is needed. In this time of decline in our insects, and thus our birds, and thus the whole kaleidoscope — not just a fraction of it — plants once called weeds are now understood to be deeply necessary for all.

small acts, wild impact pathways ~ Christina

Threads of Belonging: Remembering Our Place in the Earth's Story

We are not apart from the Earth . . . we are a part of her. Every breath we take, every seed we sow, every step we make on this soil… it’s all relationship.

My own relationship with the Earth began early, woven through the places that shaped me. In the Bahamas, where sky and sea meld into endless blue. In Bermuda, under the Milky Way with the deep, mysterious Atlantic breathing below. Later, in Texas, then in the vastness of Africa with its herds of wildlife, still roaming free, in the wilds of Namibia, the intrigue of Madagascar, and eventually in a small cottage garden in England. Then back to Texas and thrown in between some Appalachia living.

Each place tugged a different thread of belonging, teaching me what grows, what endures, and how the soul finds itself again and again through tending the Earth.

Of course, I didn’t realize then how those threads were pulling me toward the life I live now. This heart-work of tending plants, wild things, and the Earth herself . . . and through this care, I can only hope guiding us back toward belonging.

Some threads grew stronger through hardship and heartache. One of my deepest aches is witnessing the harm done to our living planet — to love her so fiercely, to feel such awe and reverence, and to watch the continued… let’s be honest… assault on the land, water, beings, and systems that sustain us. This harm touches not only the Earth, but our personal well-being, our communities, and every living thing that coexists with us. It’s heavy I know, but necessary. For now is the moment to open our eyes.

Now is the time to step up.To look beyond the tiny circle of self and see the wider weave of life — a world in decline, yes, but also still full of possibility.

To live in harmony with our environment is to become a student of our own life. To notice, to tend, to choose differently. To ask, with sincerity and humility: What does it look like for me to participate?

Maybe it’s planting native flowers. Saving water. Leaving the leaves for moths and beetles. Supporting regenerative farmers or farmer's markets, volunteering to plant native grasses . . . Or simply slowing down — long enough to remember that you belong to this Earth… and that she’s been waiting for you to notice.

Grounded in gratitude, Christina

Seasonal Rhythms: Grief, Equinox and Revival

As the autumn equinox arrives, day and night find the perfect balance. It’s a reminder that our lives, too especially now, need grounding, rhythm and balance.

Fall invites us to sink in roots, honor the turning of the season, and find renewal in quiet or simpler ways. Ritual becomes our anchor, a connectedness into this Earth and more deeply into ourselves.

For me planting is my first way and most natural form of ritual. An ancient seasonal dance shared by so many. I love that vision in my mind and heart, so many of us turning to the soil to grow food or harvest seeds to plant again in Spring. There’s something deeply comforting in this undulating rhythm, in sharing in this ritual. It is a deeply rooted communion of resilience and hope.

This month marks a full year since Hurricane Helene, a storm that roared not only into the mountains, but through the hearts of Western North Carolina and adjoining states. Grief has a way of scattering us, unrooting us from what feels steady. The path back has not been easy. I’ve carried not only my own sorrow, but the collective grief of a place I love.

In the aftermath, I walked every day. First in North Carolina, meeting neighbors also trying to make sense of all the loss. Then back into Texas, still walking, as if each step helped weave in strings of peace that could only be found in nature. There were small sacred moments. A flock of ducks coming low over the river, their wings sighing through the breeze they made. Bluebonnets pushing up through stone. Lone herons watching quietly. I’d sing the water blessing song holding the wounded rivers in my heart. Continually placing my hands in the soil, and let the earth hold what I could not carry alone.

The equinox circles us back into balance, but not perfection. It reminds us to honor the cycles of light and dark, joy and sorrow, loss and renewal. Just as the land finds its way back after a storm, so can we. Planting, even in the smallest container, becomes a quiet revival for both earth and spirit.

Grief doesn’t follow a neat timeline either, but nature’s rhythms remind us there is a larger complex pattern at work, even amid all the chaos. The shortening days, the softening light, the way leaves let go when it is time — they teach us how to carry loss and still move forward.

So some days I walk in rhythm with the earth, other days I stumble. Both belong.

Planting, walking, being with the land, breathing in stars — these are my rituals of quiet rebellion against despair.

This turning season, I invite you to create your own small ritual of revival. It doesn’t have to be grand, just one container, one patch of earth, one handful of seeds, one herb on a windowsill. Plant something in honor of what you’ve carried this past year — grief, joy, or simply the weight of being human.

Grounded in this Earth and in Gratitude,

Christina