Small Acts, Wild Impact — an invitation to become a Rebel Rewilder.

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I never intended to become a Rebel Rewilder.

Yet, year after year, watching the quiet decline of the natural world, I suppose something in me grew a little feisty. I've shed so many tears for what we have been losing, and know there will be more tears in the dark of night. Grief has a way of stirring something else in us too. An ancestral remembering of the forgotten rituals of holding the land in deep gratitude, of honoring the sacredness of every living being, and of understanding that we were never separate from the Earth.

Perhaps what stirs within us is not simply the urge to resist, but the longing to remember how to belong. How to come back into right relationship with the land and thus ourselves. It's from this the rebellion stirs. Let's be clear, it is not simply the urge to resist, but the longing to remember how to belong.

Hmm, here is where the rebellion sparks.

A determination not to stand by as the living world diminishes, but to give back from this aching heart. It does not have to be a grand gesture on the world stage, or a voice amplified by 100.000 followers. Sometimes the most meaningful acts begin quietly, just outside your door. Think of small, intentional acts of reciprocity. Just telling the trees thank you, putting water out in the heat of the summer for birds, wasps and bees. Raking leaves into an area in the Fall for insects to snuggle under. Not spraying chemicals around your house - there are so many ways to be in harmony with your environment.

Let's be truthful. We in the Western world have largely unraveled ourselves from the fabric of life. We've forgotten the threads that connect us to the soil beneath our feet, the trees that breathe us in as we breathe them out. To the insects so necessary to sustain entire ecosystems, and the countless extraordinary lives just outside our doors that even unseen, weave us into the world.

These threads though, are not entirely lost. Frayed, worn, forgotten - yes. But not lost. Now, and I mean this moment, this now - is the time to begin reweaving ourselves lovingly back into the living tapestry of this Earth.

I remember listening to a talk by Michael Beckwith when something he said struck such a profound chord within me. It was like the ringing of this deep inner bell - such a subtle yet profound distinction between doing service and being service. Since then, I've begun my mornings - one of my daily rituals of asking the simple question, "How can I be service. this day."

One speaks to what we do. The other, to how we choose to be in this world. Not simply performing acts of kindness or care, but allowing service to become part of our very being, woven into how we live, and how we belong in this world.

I belong as a rebel. A Rebel Rewilder!

Yet It Is Alive

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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

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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