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

This is How you Plant.

I know maybe you have been waiting for some practical planting advice. Maybe you wanted steps and soil types.But what if planting isn’t just doing—What if it’s remembering?

Remembering how to be in relationship.With earth. With water. With light.With life itself.

So here is my planting advice:

Touch the soil, let it sift through your fingers

Bring it to your nose, breathe it in

The rich fecundity of it, the livingness of it.

Fill the planter, watching the soil like a dark uncharted river flow in

Take that seed, that tiny life force hidden

Marvel at it.

With hands that have the knowingness of ancient ritual

With heart holding prayer, gently push into darkness

Take the water, not tap water

Sky water, life giver

Say, ‘water you are wonder.’

Slowly add with gratitude

Place all this mystery

Under the morning warmth of sun

More often than not-- now shunned,

Yet still, it’s sunlight that calls forward life

Every day, hold your hands over the darkness

Hold it with Reverence

Maybe sing, a song about stars or spinning planets

Or how Earth is our mother.

This is how you plant.

xo Christina, always grounded in gratitude.