And, in the process, I gratefully received much support from my Mom, who essentially transformed her own yard into a nature reserve over the past 14 years.

Bless those who have gone before us newbies!

She offers me six huge bags of maple leaves raked from her yard.

Yes – please! I spread this mulch amongst my ‘orchard alley’ so as to smother another section of grass.

My mom’s blow-up kayak developed a hole we couldn’t fix. Could I use it?

Ooooh - yes! It now lives a second life as a tool to smother more grass.

Would I like piles of arborvitae branches she’s trimmed?

Also yes!

Short on time, I heap the branches in an unruly pile outside my kitchen window, imagining that they’ll smother and compost the grass over winter.

Future Katie will figure out what to do with this unsightly pile, I reason.

Winter arrives. I have a wood-burning stove installed, but I build my own hearth (which ends up being a deeply symbolic act for me). And spend many hours reading and sleeping near it’s warmth.

Spring starts to peek, and I notice a bit of creeping anxiety – I’m coming out of hibernation and there is so much yard to transition!

How do farmers feel in spring?, I wonder.

While I started out participating in No Mow May this summer, it seemed less important to me this year, in terms of sowing my next re-wilding seeds. So I mow my front yard in mid-May, and continue experimenting in my backyard.

The random pile of brush under my kitchen window becomes what I now claim as an artisanal wattle fence. The thicker branches become posts, and the thinner branches I weave amongst the posts.

^{DURING: wattle fence construction (to The Cat Empire’s In My Pocket).}

As I move and weave the brush, I note how a small mammal – a vole perhaps - has feasted on the arborvitae bark over winter.

It feels nice to have offered this insulated mini-biome to eat under the winter’s snow. And, I say a silent prayer for my future veggie garden to not become a summer buffet.

Maybe they’ll chew on these volunteer tree seedlings popping up around my yard instead? Hmm, and maybe I can direct these seedlings to become living fences around my veggie garden?

So, I replant volunteer maple and elm seedlings in the same holes as the fence posts.

I’m happy with how the fence turned out. It even receives compliments from neighbors! But the remaining bits of brush still piled in the middle was discouraging. I was assuming I’d have to transform the garden bed into one more traditionally recognisable – that is, completely cleared as a blank soil canvas.

But after a while, my perspective shifts. Maybe this excess brush could work as an advantage? Could it be a weed and rabbit deterrent? Perhaps all I have to do is clear small spaces amongst it to plant my seeds?”

So, I push the brush aside, dig small holes, add a bit of Dirt Mother Collective worm castings and a handful of seed varieties I’d collected from previous Marbleseed gatherings.

— — —

In Turtle Island | North America, many Tribes share teachings of the Three Sisters, where corn, squash and bean seeds are planted together.

Corn creates the height. Beans grow up the stalk and fix nitrogen. Squash spreads and shades out other plants. All three work in harmony. And no doubt there are many more layers of meaning to this story.

But what I also appreciate about this cultural, storied and spiritual practice, is that this act of Three Sisters emerges from a relational perception.

In other words, these beings or concepts are perceived as working together in a mutually beneficial, reciprocal relationship; as compared to a logic of separation or disjunction (see my previous post), which dictates that we plant each seed in a different hole.

While grossly simplified and abstracted in a diagram above, these perceptions - of relationship or separation - play out in very real ways of land management across large swathes of our Earth, with big implications for the health of our soils, landscapes, water and people.

— — —

Inspired by the Three Sisters, I experiment with planting a variety of seeds together in my wattle fence garden.

Recognising that the Three Sisters act was born out of intimate relationships with and observations of these plants, and that my approach is much more based on the seeds I happen to have, I also took inspiration from my Grandpa Hanke, who - according to my Mom, used to say, Put the seeds in the ground and they’ll grow.

Melon with kale and quinoa.

Amaranth with ground cherries and squash.

Sorghum with pumpkin and sunflowers.

White fringetree with corn and tomatoes.

(With three months of growing season past, I can see - with these particular varieties planted in this particular way on this particular year - curcubits, tomatoes, corn, amaranth and white mustard seem to be working well together.)

And, it is not just me sowing seeds of rewilding. Those with a keen eye will also notice volunteer American burnweed and lamb’s quarters on the edges of the garden above, which have made nice additions to salads, and my own decadent morning garden grazing, biting deliciously straight from the plant.

There have also been volunteer lady’s thumb in the garden, which have fed the invasive Japanese beetles, e.g. very successfully kept the beetles away from orchard alley and my veggies.

I’ve also had quite a few volunteer nightshades popping up, of the edible variety.

I came to know this plant last year, when she grew up and over my porch, nearly taking over the whole south side. A bit of research showed that this kind of nightshade is a good source of iron (because the nightshade plants partner reciprocally with a specific microbe who delivers iron to the nightshade’s roots in exchange for yummy root exudates the plant provides).

Coming from a lineage of women for whom iron absorption is a challenge, this summer I let all my volunteer nightshades grow, and harvest several juicy, ripe, shiny black berries for each salad I make.

— — —

From the perspective of Bill Quackenbush, Ho-Chunk Tribal Conservation Officer in Wisconsin, everything Mother Earth gifts us is a form of medicine, we just have to find out what is.

While I am not yet fluent in Mother Earth’s language, I enjoy the conversations that arise with Nature in my yard, enabled by providing a space for re-wilding to sow.

I feel gratitude for every gift that arrives and hope to keep growing my awareness - through time, curiosity, and observation - and blessed help from those who have walked this path before.

How did water arrive on our planet? From the cosmos? From within the Earth?

How does water defy gravity to travel from roots to leaves in tall transpiring trees?

Why does water – when exposed to various thoughts, images and music - create unique, seemingly responsive crystalline patterns?

Scientists and inquirers from around the world - albeit with some in the fringes of the academe - have been offering fascinating provocations into water’s more mysterious characteristics.

To me, questions that help us expand our own perceptions towards seeing life as primary relative to all else, are the most energising, most helpful, and most wise.

We’ve witness this expansion towards life-perception in soil science, when we learn to see soil not just as chemistry or as physical structure but as thriving with microbial life; and life which actually influences soil chemistry and structure.

This more wholistic life-perception in climate science is gaining momentum, where climate is not just seen as chemistry and thermodynamics, but also – and perhaps more fundamentally - as an intricate dance between diverse and abundant life and water, a dance which creates and balances our climates.

Similarly, I also wonder what a living, agential perception of water itself might offer us.

But, regardless of which combinations of theories evolve and prevail, water surely feels darn near magic to me.

Take for instance, when diving into the ocean, that near transcendent feeling of sparkling cold invigorating every cell in my body.

That deliciously cool, crystalline taste of water bubbling up from an artesian Wisconsin well, which is satisfying to a degree unlike any other.

The soft silk touch of a freshwater lake on my face, as I glide and contribute to waves skittering across the surface, like diamonds.

- - -

It is these types of questions and these types of experiences that for me represent a type of water reverence.

It is a reverence that comprises holding space for more expansive questions about water, and space for engaging our full suite of senses to explore our waters.

A reverence where we build curiosity, awe, connection and embodied knowing.

And this river reverence - perhaps riverance* - is at the heart of a river journey that a friend and I experimented with earlier this year.

- - -

The Murray River at Dawn, March 2026.

This March equinox, Anthony James and I facilitated our first River Journey along Australia’s longest and arguably most contested river, the Murray/Dhungala. We called it Confluence, after a confluence of rivers, of cultures, of ways of knowing, of hopes and concerns, of stories.

Twelve ready participants, plus wilderness guide Tom Floyd and cinematographer Henry Smith, joined us for a five-day, 88 kilometre paddle, where we unplugged from technology and daily routines, to immerse ourselves in the life, sounds, cultures, and stars along the river.

When not paddling, we swam, shared food, and held space for expansive stories, questions and feelings.

Each evening, as we gathered around the campfire, two participants would take turns leading us through a story, or experience of writing, movement, or song.

And it was this experience of being together in reverence for each other, for river, and all her inhabitants, that seemed to awaken perspectives and feelings in us, in ways unexpected yet profoundly appreciated.

- - -

When the journey ended, every individual on the trip told us that Confluence needed to happen again, with feedback like:

A threshold experience that left me humming.

Life-changing.

An extraordinary experience.

And, it became clear to AJ and I that there was something special in this journey. So, we’re opening the invitation once more.

In March 2027, beginning at the point where our first Confluence ended - near Mildura, Victoria, Australia - AJ and I are holding another Confluence River Journey.

We are again committed to assembling a diverse cohort of people who bring depth, compassion and curiosity to the evolving narrative around and relationship with the Murray River, all rivers, and our water stories as a whole. There will be discussion, workshop, and generative visioning, in focused community, with ancient River. All are welcome, and no experience required.

If this type of River experience calls you, please fill out an application as soon as you can, or by 14 August. You can find more info on the website, or reply to me here.

We recognise Australia can be a fair way to travel for some. We are hoping to run more experiences outside of Australia too. If you have any requests – please put ideas in the comments.

Confluence crew gathering around the campfire for the sharing of food, stories and stars.

*Thank you AJ as always for your eagle eye, and the suggestion of ‘riverance’.

Last year was my first summer of home ownership, and I too was keen to participate in “No Mow May”, not least because it saves me a few hours on the weekend, but also because the height of the plant above ground often represents the depth of the roots below ground.

In other words, the taller the grass, the deeper the roots.

And, the deeper the roots, the deeper the soil exudates (that is, the yummy organic compounds plants share out of their roots to feed a microbial soil community in exchange for necessary nutrients from said microbiology).

And, the deeper the roots, the deeper rain can seep below ground, and also the greater the root’s access to water at lower levels.

Another reason I was keen to participate in No Mow May is my belief in the re-wilding of all places to help Nature thrive, and my desire to ultimately transform my yard into an abundance of diversity.

However, being the first yard I’ve had to steward, I was quite naïve about the transition process.

Fueled by visions of effortlessly growing a perennial field of canapés for our Monarch and Karner Blue Butterfly friends, I got out my pitch-fork, skipped around the lawn, made occasional holes, popped in midwest native grass seeds, and congratulated myself for starting.

Little did I know how mighty, thick and impenetrable a monoculture grass mat is, similar to concrete in many ways. Needless to say, none of the native grass seeds planted using my pitch-fork method flourished (yet).

I realised more effort would be necessary and I’d need to take my experiments up a notch. (The briefest of internet search, or chat with anyone who has gone before me, could have informed me about the tenacity of grass lawns. C’est la vie).

Despite this failed attempt to grow native grasses during my first No Mow May, I noticed bumble bees were attracted to the dandelions in my yard, and it felt nice, at the very least, to offer this as an early summer food, since bees generally do so much to keep our farms and forests, and thus us, thriving.

Bumble bee visiting No Mow May dandelions in 2025.

No Mow May ended last year, and I was loath to get a lawnmower. Instead, I ‘trim’’ the tallest growers with hand sheers.

And that very first week in June, a little over a year ago, I receive a letter from my local government, requesting that I mow my lawn, or - they inform me - they will do it for me and forward me the bill.

I acquiesce and use a lawn mower; then promptly submit a plan to the local government for transitioning my yard to a ‘naturalised’ landscape, to avoid receiving this notice again. (It’s quite an amusing, a-typical submission to local government, if I do say so myself, if you’d like to see a copy).

And my other lawn-transition experiments begin. My mom offers me raspberry canes from her yard. I plant them along my south property line as a ‘living fence’.

A friend offers me rhubarb cuttings. I also plop these perennial vegetables in the south side of my yard.

With more visions, this time of chestnuts roasting on an open fire, I pick up three very spindly chestnut trees sourced from a Facebook marketplace ad. The price was right, but these saplings did look like close cousins of Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.

My freshly planted raspberries, rhubarb and chestnut trees in June 2025. (The co-gardener I refer to is perhaps a squirrel, or chipmunk, but I am still not entirely sure what happened).

My mom and I plant plum, cherry, pear, peach, elderberry, and hazelnut trees in a northern ‘orchard alley’.

In addition to my nascent orchard, I pick another section of back yard – hidden from the neighbours - to not mow the whole summer and see if the grass growth eventually smothers itself out.

- - -

My mom and I share a cup of coffee in her kitchen. I off-handedly mention that I wished for a scythe, as I had just returned quite inspired from a week-long Didi Pershouse retreat, where we stayed with a land steward who is a very passionate meadow-keeper. His love for scythes and scythe demonstrations runs deep.

To my astonishment, my mom responds that she just so happens to have her father’s - my Grandpa Hanke’s - scythe in the garage. Bless - of course she does.

We pull it out, and I experiment with this seemingly dangerous piece of perfect ergonomic craftsmanship. The scythe creator selected a large 7-foot branch precisely for its natural curves to aid the placement of hands relative to the blade.

While I am sure my technique could improve significantly (and again, I am remiss at not doing any further internet research), holding on to these well-worn handles I feel moments of connection with my Grandpa Hanke, at least this is what the goosebumps and welling of feelings and tears suggest, and am so grateful for my mom to have care-taken and offered me this piece of our family’s story.

Using what Nature provides, the scythe‘s cuttings of my backyard grass meadow become mulch around the fruit and nut trees, and these 10 minutes a day are the most incredible workout I’ve ever had.

Seriously. Societies who scythe are buff and bad-ass.

Fast forward a year. This summer, in my second year of yard stewardship, while out on a run, I see a variation on the No Mow May sign. See if you can spot the difference.

Has anyone else seen these two signs? Or is this a uniquely mid-west dialogue?

Opposing stances aside, these neighbors have much in common. They both recognise our complete dependence on pollinators, and that everyone has agency to support pollinators.

The first sign explains the benefit of yards as pollinator habitat. In addition, No Mow May presumably fosters the soil and water benefits I mentioned above. ‘Not mowing’ doesn’t necessarily mean - as implied by the second sign - that this is my only action to support pollinators.

But, provocations aside, does the second sign also have a point? Did my yard last May support bumblebees and other pollinators? On one hand – yes, in the sense I saw bees visit my few dandelions.

But on the other hand, does a grass monoculture left to grow over a month provide much pollinator habitat? Not really.

Was No Mow May a valid starting point for me? Sure.

Is there more that I can do that would be beneficial for pollinator habitat? Absolutely, yes.

- - -

But, taking a step back, in what ways is it helpful for a community to get feisty with each other about different approaches, especially when every single person - you and I included - is experiencing our own unique set of contexts, challenges, opportunities, experiences and circumstances?

Seeing these two signs reminds me of how effortless it can be to judge others, and then just as quickly create divisions based on these judgments, even about something as seemingly innocuous as whether To Mow or Not to Mow. Perhaps a bit like Doctor Suess’s Butter Battle Book?

And, why is it so easy to judge? Where does this ubiquitous judgement-reflex come from?

What I came to believe when doing my thesis, is that this reflex comes from the dominant ‘logic’ used to make meaning in my culture.

Broadly speaking, in Western cultures, we make meaning by looking for distinction, difference, separation, disjunction.

Humans are defined as distinct to nature. Work is conceived as different to play. Inside oneself is perceived as separate to outside oneself.

Because the ‘Western’ logic defines concepts first by their separateness, we can then very easily rank concepts. Light is better than dark. Warm is better than cold. Left is right and right is wrong. We prefer A, and avoid B.

A corollary of this separatist logic - a logic which can be absorbed from the day we are born - is that this separatist and hierarchical way of making meaning can also obfuscate our own internal wisdom.

If we are constantly judging things - according to an external cultural code we’ve inherited - as right or wrong, preferable or worse, desirable or repellent, worthy or unimportant – be it ourselves, others, situations, plants, ideas, political posterings, approaches to healthcare, learning, dressing, earning a living, deciding who to love, how can we know our own unique internal wisdom?

And, for me, these past 10 years have been a journey back towards listening for my own unique knowing. How can I transcend this knee-jerk reaction to judge others and myself? How can I move beyond my judgements to connect with others and myself from a place of curiosity and grace? In other words, how can I honour diversity within myself and everyone else?

This practice can manifest - quite powerfully - in the mundane aspects of communal living - including not judging either position of Mow or No Mow as better or worse, but recognising that it is entirely contextual, at any given time, depending on where I am - or you are - on my own - or your own - unique path.

- - -

This percipience (the capability of sensitive, perceptive insights) of those who intimately observe, and connect with, their land never ceases to amaze me.

Their observational wisdom (science) is often condensed and distilled into powerful adages to live by.

One such pearl, echoed around the world, is simply: If you cut the trees, you cut the rain.

Time and again – from Mesopotamia, Easter Island, northern Africa, the Mediterranean - as humans cleared forests, drained wetlands, and tilled soils, those with acute knowledge of their lands might have said a tearful prayer – and perhaps felt a hot rage.

Cutting the source of sky-bound water (e.g. trees and the living skin of the earth that delivers water to the sky, so it may return in the form of rain), means life-giving rains will disappear.

Tragically, so often in the halls of academia or government, the profound perceptions, intelligence and sagacity of farmers and land+water stewards are not received with the requisite awe, humility, and respect.

But today – like any day – is a day to do better. We can seek out these knowledge holders to learn from their AI – Actual Intelligence – born from countless moments of pausing, wondering, learning.

And, we can all develop rhythms of observing the land where we live.

- - -

In this conversation*, I bring together Valerie Dantoin, an incredible leader in so many ways.

She is a beloved educator, an advocate, a wholistic thinker and doer, a compassionate human, and an award-winning farmer of Full Circle Community Farm in Wisconsin.

Full Circle Community Farm is completely perennial, with managed cattle grazing, and has been organic since 2003, only adding organic fertilisers to improve soil health and hold more water.

I first heard of Valerie at the 2025 Marbleseed Conference in Wisconsin, our annual organic farm gathering. One of Valerie’s students mentioned Valerie’s observation of receiving more rain on her farm, presumably because of her proximity to a thriving forest.

This story caught my attention, both because of my deep respect for nature-based insights, and because of its potential on-the-ground evidence for a living systems view of climate.

I reached out to Valerie, which was a joy for so many reasons.

During our conversation, she confirmed her perception of receiving more rain than other areas in Wisconsin during drought times, and she wonders whether it is because her farm is located in the rain shadow of the Menominee Forest (a Tribally-owned and managed forestry operation roughly 20 miles northwest, or upwind of her farm).

Valerie followed up our first conversation with this drought map from 2016.

Figure 1. US Drought Monitor showing a small portion of Wisconsin not in drought.

Figure 2. A close-up of the drought-less area, highlighting the proximity of the Menominee Forest and the location of Full Circle Community Farm.

The award-winning Menominee Tribal Forest has similar production values of monoculture forestries but is stewarded in ways that mimic a native forest. This thriving ecosystem - filled with diverse soils, plants, animals, waterways – likely maintains healthy transpiration of water to the sky (e.g. transpiration filled with living microbiology necessary for water vapor to condense back into rain).

And, because of the organic, regenerative and biological ways that Full Circle Community Farm is stewarded, their land can actually slow and receive the rain, store the precipitation in their soils, sink it back into ground water, and be ready to transpire this water back up through their living, diverse landscape.

Valerie observes how their farm is often an oasis of green, surrounded by brown, which highlights the resilience of living in harmony with nature.

Similar to the Menominee forest, Full Circle Community Farm tries to “be a part of the ecosystem as much as we can, while maintaining productivity.”

- - -

To contextualise the significance of her observations, I bring Valerie together in conversation with David Ellison, a consultant who researches the science, policy, and politics of climate, with a primary focus on forests and their role in water and energy cycles.

David argues for a paradigm shift to recognise the climate-cooling and water-balancing effects of trees in addition to a purely carbon-centric model. He emphasizes that forests are crucial for regulating global and regional moisture transport, cloud formation, and the creation of latent heat, which contributes significantly to planetary cooling.

The hope for this conversation is to celebrate the work of both Valerie and David, who question the dominant way of perceiving and doing. Together, they demonstrate the power of bringing multiple ways of knowing together into conversations about landscape regeneration; and how protecting and fostering native landscapes leads to:

• more water infiltration,

• more ground water recharge,

• green grazing pastures for longer,

• more carbon sequestration,

• more farm productivity,

• more clouds,

• more patterned precipitation,

• less surface heat.

And as usual, the conversation diverges into many interesting realms and questions, for example:

• Previously, in summer, Wisconsin would have a set of perfect thunderstorms to provide about an inch of rain per week, but our rain has now become unreliable – either a dumping deluge or non-existent. How does this relate to changes in land-use patterns and thus shifts in the volume and patterning of local water transpiration and precipitation cycles, upwind from Wisconsin?

• Most rural Wisconsin properties used to have a woodlot, as a source of firewood, shade, wind break, etc. But with new forms of heating and new economic drivers, many Wisconsin farms are removing these wood lots and transitioning to ‘fence row to fence row farming’. What is the impact of the increased land-based heat in summer, decreased transpiration, and decreased snow capture? Were these woodlots just enough of a buffer to hold onto the rain and snow, and to transpire enough water to keep more regular rain patterns?

• Wisconsin used to be a place of low humidity summers. And, we used to have 50/50 tillage to perennial forage. But along with the increasing ubiquity of annual crops, we have some days with over 60% humidity. What contributes to this ‘corn sweat’? Why does this form of transpiration not lead to cooling effects of native ecosystems? Do mono-cropped agricultural lands with mostly dead or inert soils produce the necessary biological nucleators of rain? Do annuals decrease the amount of transpiration so that there is not enough moisture to condense into clouds?

- - -

*I hope you enjoy this informal conversation, recorded Autumn 2025, and as always, all comments and feedback welcome. Please excuse the jumping spotlight, and the delay in video. It might just be more enjoyable to listen as an audio.

And, again, a deep bow of appreciation to the Rural Regeneration 2025 Storyteller grant for funding this conversation.

- - -

To learn more about the people and places discussed in this conversation, visit Full Circle Community Farms and Menominee Forest, and, delve into more of David’s work:

• David Ellison, et al. 2017. Trees, forests and water: Cool insights for a hot world. Global Environmental Change, 43.

• David Ellison, Jan Pokorny, Martin Wild. 2024. Even cooler insights: On the power of forests to (water the Earth and) cool the planet. Global Change Biology, 30 (2).

Towards the end of the river path is a sign, commemorating the year that the City deepened, straightened and channelised her – in order to develop, and thus commodify, her meandering and marshy expression.

Similarly, looking over my snowy backyard this winter, another curiously unnatural straight line of melted snow appeared, following the property’s southern border. My hunch is that this path mirrors Moses Creek, which my City diverted - into a below ground storm sewer system – to, arguably, increase the financial value of the land.

Zooming out, it is not uncommon across my state of Wisconsin, and across the entire Midwest, for wet landscapes to have been drained and tiled, removing water as expediently as possible to make the land suitable for commodifiable agriculture.

- - -

The compulsion to ‘terraform’ – that is completely change a landscape - is not the only reason why our soils and ecosystems are increasingly parched.

Before colonisation, millions of beavers stewarded nearly every Wisconsin water way. Beavers created the plugs in the bathtub, so to speak, to allow water to move slowly across the landscape (fostering diversity above) and sink deeply (replenishing ground water below). But as these water stewards were excised to near extinction, the waters began to zip too quickly down our watersheds and into the Mighty Mississippi.

- - -

All of this to say - I wonder:

Across all our watersheds, how many rivers, creeks, streams, marshes, wetlands, swamps, bogs, fens have been terraformed out of existence?

And what are the subtle impacts of this radical terraforming, both below and above ground?

And how can we, as communities, help restore waters’ meanderings so that Nature can demonstrate her intelligence for abundance?

- - -

To explore these questions, I am honoured to host an upcoming film club for Thinking Like Water,* in partnership with the incredible filmmaker Renea Roberts and Biodiversity for a Livable Climate.

Thinking Like Water is a five-part docuseries inspired by, and following a man named, Bill Zeedyk. Bill was born with a keen eye for observing the subtleties of nature, which in his second career, he turns towards watershed restoration.

Starting Tuesday Jan 20^th (21 Jan Wednesday, AUS), and for the next five weeks, we’ll watch and discuss each of the five episodes, which collectively show how Bill’s powers of observation, humility, care, and collaboration manifest in small interventions leading to incredible impacts by helping water re-engage with her natural relationship with the landscape.

Each week, we’ll be joined by guests from the episode, including:

· Brad Lancaster. Brad is an expert in rainwater harvesting, water management, permaculture, and community-stewarded native food forestry; and author of Rainwater Harvesting for Drylands and Beyond. It is exciting to see how Brad brings rainwater harvesting techniques to transform dry urban areas into cool, green oases.

· Jeff Boland-Prom. Jeff is Vice President and Founding Member of the Illinois Beaver Alliance, whose mission is to is to improve the health and function of watersheds, by restoring beaver habitat and beaver populations, advocating for supportive policy, and helping to manage beaver conflicts.

· Lia Griesser. Lia serves on the board of Albuquerque Wildlife Federation, an all-volunteer group caretaking conservation specialist Bill Zeedyk’s legacy projects throughout New Mexico. She’s passionate about process-based restoration techniques that offer landscapes tools to regenerate themselves.

· As well as – fingers crossed – Bill Zeedyk himself.

You can register here.

- - -

One of the many things I love about this docuseries is the story of how it came to be. While filming one of Bill’s workshops, Renea was moved deeply by his humility and wisdom. She also immediately and intuitively knew how important his message of “keeping water meandering slowly through the landscape” is for life.

This experience inspired Renea to experiment with some of these small interventions on her property, where water was contributing to erosion (rather than rehydration). And a few years later, it became obvious to Renea how well these actions worked. And thus she became committed to tell Bill’s story.

- - -

I feel where my words perhaps fall short of conveying how profound these actions truly are, the docuseries captures so beautifully.

Through many interwoven stories - with Tribal nations, ranchers, and urban communities - Renea shows how, by getting our hands dirty with simple interventions, water is able to do the work of restoring Nature: more plants, more animals, more clouds, more rain, more resilience.

- - -

My hope is that by being a part of this film club, I too will take my first steps towards getting to know my own watershed and her needs more intimately. And, I hope to see you there.

- - -

* Thinking Like Water was officially selected for the 2024 Sante Fe Film Festival, Nature Without Borders International Film, and the International Migration and Environmental Film Festival.

And, starting Nov 10 (Nov 11 if you are in Australia), I’m sharing a short story of what I’ve learned, over four one-hour gatherings.

In part, this story feels like my love letter to Nature, and to our world.

To share my awe at how Nature can work together as one magnificent orchestra, in ways more intricate and subtle than I had imagined.

I know that that there is so much that I don’t know, and this gathering will barely scratch the surface of how inseparable everything is.

But, I suppose the point is not to know everything - for this is impossible when it comes to the mysteries of life - but rather to cultivate a deep curiosity and appreciation for life, towards fostering an intimate relationship with ourselves and the world which reflects us.

If you are keen to join and learn more about this living perspective of climate, or would like to bring a friend who has not heard this story and the science behind it, please register here:

https://bio4climate.org/course-offerings/balancing-our-climate/

Free scholarships are also available.

If you can’t attend, below are some resources I have found profoundly inspiring.

And if you only have time for one resource, I strongly recommend this essay by Rob Lewis.

If you have time for two reads, check out this UNEP summary by Stefan Schwartzer.

And the third? Erica Giles’ contribution to Nature.

Documentaries

Regenerating Life: How to Cool the Planet, Feed the World & Live Happily Ever After

Water is Love: Ripples of Regeneration

Short videos

How Plants Cool the Planet [links to citations]

How Water Makes Climate

How Water Can Save the World from Climate Change

Presentations

Allan Savory: How to fight desertification and reverse climate change

Alpha Lo: Restoring Water Cycles and Ecosystems

Anastassia Makarieva: Natural Geoengineering Methods for Cooling the Planet

Christopher Haines: Heat Planet: Another View of Climate Change

Stefan Schwarzer: Working with plants, soils & water to cool & rehydrate the Earth

Walter Jehne: Climate solutions for a Blue Planet

Books

Charles Eisenstein: Climate: A New Story

Judith Schwartz: Water in Plain Sight

Peter Bunyard & Rob de Laet: Cooling the Climate: How to Revive the Biosphere & Cool the Earth Within 20 Years

Philip Mulvey & Freya Mulvey: Ground Breaking: Soil Security and Climate Change

Scientists

Anastassia Makarieva: Biotic Regulation

Antonio Donato Nobre: Flying Rivers, Amazon Rainforest

David Ellison: Trees, Forests & Water: Cool Insights for a Hot World. Part 1 & Part 2.

Jim Laurie: Scenario 300

Jem Bendell: The Dangers of Climate Dogma and What We Can Do About It

John D Liu: Healing the Earth, Ecosystem Restoration Communities

Mallory Barnes et al: A Century of Reforestation Reduced Anthropogenic Warming

Michael Kravcik: The New Water Paradigm and Global Action Plan

Millan Millan: Water, Landscape, Desertification. Farming water at its proper scale.

Stefan Schwarzer - Climate Landscapes

Substacks

Ali Bin Shahid - Regenesis

Alpha Lo - Climate Water Project

Annastasia Makarieva - Biotic Regulation and Biotic Pump

Rob Lewis - The Climate According to Life

Hart Hagan - The Climate Report

Organizations (and courses)

• Biodiversity for a Livable Climate

• EcoRestoration Alliance

• Water Stories

• Land and Leadership Initiative

• Global Earth Repair Foundation

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Earth continued her perpetual turning eastward, and Sky offered a pastel pink and lavender blessing, mirrored without blemish, on the quiet Waters.

With setting Sun at our backs, we followed an essence of a watery trail, made by unknown explorers before us, beyond Lake’s edge.

We glided quietly upstream into the increasingly smaller narrows of marshy Creek.

The floor of Creek crept upwards, embracing the tips of our paddles and kissing the bottom of our canoe.

Swirls of muck, mud, silt and the stuff of life began punctuating every pull of our wooden oars. Still, the yearn to explore, sung us forward. Through Water Lilies. Through Reeds. Through Manoomin.

Our canoe finally perched. ‘No further shall I intrude’, she said. So, where we had un-ceremoniously nested atop a marsh aerie, we began our slow, ungraceful about face.

And, back we headed, increasingly - ever so slightly - more easily as the silt receded with each pull and push. Back past Manoomin, Reeds, and Water Lilies.

And there You were. Ancient. Silent. Knowing. Graceful. Gliding but a whispers breathe ahead of our canoe. Black nose and silky back just barely peeking above the surface.

Almost as if our guide. The master of ceremonies. The bouncer escorting these young humans out of places that were not ours to be in. It wasn’t an admonishment. More like a patient elder returning us to places more appropriate.

‘We are honoured to have you here,’ You might have been saying. ‘And we are grateful that you come respectfully. But the night approaches, and we have important things we must attend to, so please follow me back to where we must part, and so that you may attend to your nightly rituals as well.’

Up and down, You flowed in those waters, guiding us slowly, softly, stately into Lake. In that moment, I could have canoed behind You for eternity.

- - -

A version of this was originally published in The Nature of Our Times, June 2025.

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Many times prior, I had envisioned this field becoming a communal space for growing and harvesting diverse foods and medicines. Wishing I had reached out to the corporate landowners earlier, the asphalt’s acrid smell sharpened in my body.

A story came to mind of an Indigenous colleague who cried tears of joy when asphalt outside her office was removed. “The Earth can breathe again!”

At the time I did not fully feel the wisdom within these few words. And I now know that like all complex life, soils – too - breathe in oxygen and release CO₂.

In working with regenerative farmers, soil microbiologists, and landscape / atmosphere ecologists, I have since learned of the breath-taking value and volume of life under our feet. And how this influences what’s above.

As below, so above.

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- - -

If water is life, then soils are life’s womb (Millan in Lewis, 2023). Roughly four times more carbon is stored below ground in living systems, than in all terrestrial biomass (Evans, 2022).

When this thriving soil microbial soup is eating, excreting, moving, procreating and decomposing, it is building a latticework for life. Water and air move through this biologically created lattice, or ‘soil sponge’, to sustain the greenery above.

And the soil’s proffered sustenance is not just air and water: most of our essential nutrients come from soil life (Evans, 2022; Masters, 2019). These synthesised nutrients that the soil gives to plants are in turn offered to the insects, birds and us in their nuts, berries and blooms.

The plants, in reciprocity, offer delicious photosynthesised sugary and fatty exudates (often just simply referred to as ‘carbon’) through their roots to their soil communities.

The healthier the soils, the healthier the plants, the healthier the insects, animals and people.

- - -

- - -

A week later, I head out for another run. I notice thick low clouds forming to my east and west, over diversely vegetated state wildlife areas and Tribally owned and managed forests.

There are no clouds above my street, the new paved parking lot or my city.

It’s not that clouds never arrive over cities, but rather that thriving ecosystems, with diverse trees, plants, waterways and soil communities create the clouds and the rain (Schwartz, 2019).

In other words - with each moment of transpiration or evaporation, living landscapes and oceanscapes release bacteria and bits of life. It is precisely these bacteria, pollen particles, fungal spores, and liquid compounds released by phytoplankton that travel with the water vapor and enable it to condense into thick low clouds which reflect the sun (Ellison et al., 2017).

When we cut the plants, cover the soil, kill our oceans and remove biodiversity, we also cut the cooling clouds and life-sustaining rain (Millan, 2005). And, with cloud cover diminishing, we are letting in more solar radiation (Goesling et al., 2024; Hansen and Kharecha, 2025).

- - -

- - -

Back to basics. We are warming because we have an energy imbalance. More energy is entering our atmosphere than leaving.

Thick, low reflective clouds should account for a third of our Earth’s reflection of solar energy, but our Earth’s albedo is decreasing with shrinking cloud coverage, which according to James Hansen, is a ‘BFD’ (Hansen and Kharecha, 2025).

Not to mention, the solar energy that should be hitting living vegetation and infinite phytoplankton in our waters is now hitting more ‘dead’ surfaces. When we pave, plow and pollute, we replace the cooling processes of Nature’s transpiration with exponential heat-generation (due to hotter re-radiation temperatures when the sun hits ‘dead’ surfaces; Schwarzer, 2021).

We’ve also significantly decreased the biological nucleators of rain, meaning evaporated water vapor stagnates in the atmosphere, gathering more incoming and out-going heat (Haines, 2021; Ellison et al., 2024). Considering water vapor is our most potent greenhouse gas, this is significant in more ways than one, not least because with a loss of natural cooling processes and increasingly stagnant water vapor, we become more sensitive to carbon emissions (Makarieva, 2025).

Climate models are just now beginning to recognise that the disappearing clouds are responsible for the unpredicted temperatures jumps in the last few years (Goessling et al., 2024), but not many acknowledge that living landscapes are essential for cloud formation (Gies, 2025), nor are built on data from healthy functioning forests and other diverse landscapes (Makarieva in Hagens, 2025).

In other words, we don’t fully value the importance of forests - and all of the diverse living landscapes on Earth - in climate balancing processes; processes such as transpiration, low thick (e.g. high albedo) clouds, and rain allowing clear night-time re-radiation windows (Jehne, 2022).

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- - -

Fifty years ago, the global scientific community recognised healthy land and water cycles to be as important as anthropogenic greenhouse gases (MIT, 1971 and WMO, 1979 in Lewis, 2023), but along the way, and in our eternal race for ‘more’, we’ve accidentally fallen into the silver bullet trap we so often set for ourselves.

To be clear: we should cut fossil energy use. And we have additional actions we can take, whose wholistic impact are not often recognised. Just as every dollar spent on energy conservation and efficiency makes renewable energy more effective; every moment spent in landscape and water cycle regeneration makes us less sensitive to carbon emissions.

- - -

For Indigenous people, abundance has always been shared (Kimmerer, 2024). When the soil, forests and animals thrive, we thrive too.

Indigenous peoples own an estimated 11% of the earth’s land, representing perhaps half of the world’s remaining intact forests and grasslands, and steward passionately to protect these intricate, often unseen threads that cool and balance the climate, and keep life thriving.

It is common to hear the statistics of far greater biodiversity on Indigenous lands. In a similar vein, and moreover directly because of this biodiversity, I would bet that there is a statistically significant difference between Indigenous-stewarded land and land managed in an extractive paradigm in regards to:

• trends of low, thick cloud coverage,

• average soil and air temperatures,

• and local rain (e.g. when water flows more frequently, in smaller cycles, up into the atmosphere and down close to where it transpired),

• and, just generally, what it feels like to walk and be in and with the land.

And, if so, how do we recognise and value the crucial role that Indigenous stewardship has in maintaining Nature’s ability to cool and balance the climate?

Land Back is an important start.

Most importantly, Land Back is an ethical and moral imperative, and Land Back equals clouds back equals climate back.

- - -

A version of this article will be published in PIMA’s forthcoming 10 Year Anniversary Bulletin.

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Resources

Ellison, D., Morris, C., Locatelli, B., Sheil, D., Cohen, J., Murdiyarso, D., et al. (2017). Trees, forests and water: Cool insights for a hot world. Global Environmental Change, 43, 51-61. DOI: 10.1016/j.gloenvcha.2017.01.002

Ellison, D., Pokorný, J., Wild, M. (2024). Even cooler insights: On the power of forests to (water the Earth and) cool the planet. Global Change Biology, 30(2), e17195. DOI: 10.1111/gcb.17195

Evans, M. (2022). Soil: The incredible story of what keeps the earth, and us, healthy. Murdoch Books.

Gies, E. (2025). Climate Science and the Case of the Missing Moisture. Nature Water, 3, 634-637. DOI: 10.1038/s44221-025-00455-2

Goessling, H., Rackow, T., Jung, T. (2024). Recent global temperature surge intensified by record-low planetary albedo. Science, 387(6729), 68-73. DOI: 10.1126/science.adq7280

Haines, C. (2021). Greenhouse Gases: True, but not the whole truth. Journal of Sustainabiliy Education. 25. ISSN: 2151-7452.

Hagens, N. (Host) (2025, September 10). Why We Need Forests: Their Vital Role in Climate Dynamics, Rain, and the Biotic Pump, with Anastassia Makarieva. (No. 193) [Video podcast episode]. In The Great Simplification.

Hansen J., Kharecha, P. (2025). Large Cloud Feedback Confirms High Climate Sensitivity. Accessed September 16, 2025.

Jehne, W. (2022). “Cooling the Climate Mess with Soil and Water.” Presentation. Cambridge, MA: Biodiversity for a Liveable Climate Lecture Series.

Kimmerer, R. (2024). The Serviceberry: Adundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World. Scribner.

Lewis, R. (2023). Millan Millan and the Mystery of the Missing Mediterranean Storms. Resilience. Accessed September 17, 2025: https://www.resilience.org/stories/2023-07-17/millan-millan-and-the-mystery-of-the-missing-mediterranean-storms/

Makarieva, A. (2025). Natural ecosystems and climate stabilization: Ideas on how to integrate Nature’s Complexity into the climate change narrative. Accessed September 16, 2025:

Masters, N. (2019). For the Love of Soil: Strategies to regenerate our food production systems. Printable Reality.

Millan, M., et. Al. (2005). Climatic Feedbacks and Desertification: The Mediterranean Model. Journal of Climate. 18, 684 – 701.

SMIC. (1971). Inadvertent Climate Modification: Study of Man’s Impact on Climate. Study of Man’s Impact on Climate (eds). MIT Press. ISBN: 9780262690331.

Schwartz, J. (2019). Water in Plain Sight: Hope for a Thirsty World. Building Soil, Restoring Land and Working with the Water Cycle for a Cooler, Wetter Planet. Chelsea Green Publishing.

Schwartzer, S. (2021). “Working with plants, soils and water to cool the climate and rehydrate Earth’s landscapes.” Emerging Issues Brief. United Nations Environmental Program. Accessed September 17, 2025: https://www.unep.org/resources/emerging-issues/working-plants-soils-and-water-cool-climate-and-rehydrate-earths.

WMO. (1979). Proceedings of the World Climate Conference: Conference of Experts on Climate and Mankind. Geneva, 12-23 February, 1979. WMO No. 537.

And it went something like this:

“PS on a very different note – I meant to share with you a few months back, that I adapted your `Seeds` poem that was published in our Bulletin, for a Women’s Liberation Course I am working on with an African alliance. The participants are women from 6 African countries, who have limited schooling; they are activists challenging mining companies in their communities – they loved it! So few of them have time to meditate in Nature. Thank you for the wonderful work you do. xx”

My colleague’s simple postscript prompted me towards sharing on Substack.

For, we never know how our creations may ripple forth.

So, for this inaugural post, here is a meditation I wrote for my undergrad students, when we were meeting on-line in Zoom during the COVID lock-downs in Australia, and were all craving an embodied experience of connection and relationships (and I later published this guided inquiry in PIMA Bulletin No 49, Climate Justice Education, Nov 2023).

Please trial, experiment, use, adapt this meditative inquiry.

And, if you’d like, let me know how it goes.

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Seeds as a connection, via self, to all:
a meditative inquiry

Preface: Remembering our seeds

Seeds are perhaps nature’s most incredible technology.

Within these tiny little packets lie dormant, not only the potential for another life, but generations upon generations of life to emerge.

All these incredible beings must do is lay in wait until the perfect set of conditions arise to coax, or spring, them into action.

Yet, all too often in the frenetic pace of today’s world, it can be rare that we pause to take notice of, and honour the complex histories and wisdom embedded in these tiny packets of inconceivable simplicity and complexity, as well as our shared destiny.

But as Rowen White, Robin Wall Kimmerer, Diane Wilson, Martin Prechtel and many others remind us, our relationships with seeds transcend the practical (where do I source them?) and the logical (how do I grow them?).

Rather our relationships are grown and fostered in the liminal space between our own inter-steeping sources of knowing: our senses, our family histories, our societal structures, and our cultural and disciplinary perspectives.

What is offered below is a simple self-inquiry - a moment to take pause and remember and honour the seeds that have sprouted and nourished our lives.

We know that attention and presence are fertile grounds for healing; and bringing these two gifts to focus on seeds [our more-than-human co-creators filled with agency to provide life] is no exception.

For the inquiry, go to your cabinet, select one edible seed or nut, find a quiet space with just yourself, or with several others who want to share in the journey with you.

Take several deep, centring breaths, and begin.

Holding the seed in your hand –

Look at the seed with a beginner’s mind.

That is, without any preconceived ideas, but rather with a present and open mind.

Become a curious and gentle observer of this seed in your hand.

Also become a curious and gentle observer of your internal self in this experience.

Now, exploring with your senses –

Close your eyes for a moment.

How does this seed feel?

What does the pressure feel like on your hand? Heavy, light?

Running your fingers over it, what are the textures? Smooth, rough?

Keeping your eyes closed, hold the seed up to your nose.

What does it smell like?

What does it smell differently if you inhale deeply?

Hold up to ear and roll it around.

Does it make any sound?

What if you flick it?

Or drop it from one hand to another?

Opening your eyes, at this new seed, what colours do you see?

How do those colours change and blend?

Does it have shadows? (Who doesn’t?)

While looking intently at your seed, take the time to contemplate –

How much has nature given to provide this nut and seed?

How many times was its parent watered? What was the health of the water source?

How many days did the plant soak up the power of the sun?

How much carbon did the plant funnel down deep into the soil? (Plants grown in diverse paddocks have much greater root depth and carbon storage.)

What did the soil offer for essential nutrients and minerals? (Most of what we need comes from the soil.)

Were these diverse elements produced naturally by a healthy and fundamentally alive soil?

Or were only a few select nutrients available, made by heavy industry or mined overseas and shipped to the farm?

And as we move at the pace of breathing, for a moment, consider:

we breath in from the plants, and the plants breathe in from us.

Taking an even longer view of history –

When did this plant first evolve?

Which indigenous communities co-evolved with these seeds?

Where on our earth were these seeds originally cultivated?

Which peoples did the seeds feed, and which peoples fed the seeds in mutual reciprocity?

How did this seed travel across the world over time, and into which cultures?

What cultural stories and histories are attached to this seed?

Are they histories of reciprocal exchange? Violent conquering?

How many human generations have shepherded this lineage of seed to bring you the one you hold now?

And what about your families’ history?

Where do your parents, grandparents, great grandparents, great great great great grandparents come from?

Was this lineage of seed or nut part of your families’ stories and cultures?

What seeds played an important role in your family’s deep time?

Which seeds were sewn into hemlines to travel with your distant relatives during times of migration, in the hope that these seeds would continue to offer life and connection to culture, ancestors, history - even in new places?

And now, perhaps imagine -

If you were able to visit the actual mother plant from which this seed came, what would it tell you?

Would it be found in a field in which pesticides killed the plants at the same time for efficient harvesting?

Is the plant tended with love and able to communicate scents and electrical impulses of gratitude?

Is it in regenerative fields where the false separation between agriculture and nature is utterly erased?

As you look at the seed, imagine how many hands it has passed through when

Planting

Watering

Tending

Harvesting

Preserving

Packaging

Transporting

Unloading

Shelfing

Stocking

Purchasing

Bringing home

To now sitting in your hand

Everything has a complex story.

Laying on the other side of complexity, what other simple pathways might be possible?

Pulling out our imaginative microscopes and time machines:

What is this seed made of?

If you zoom in – you might see carbohydrates, sugars, proteins, minerals, micronutrients, phytochemicals.

If you zoom in more, you’d see space; lots and lots of space.

Consider for a moment, this nut or seed is more space than anything else.

And if you zoom in more, you might see atoms, electrons, neutrons, protons.

Where have these atoms been for the last 4 billion years?

What other living beings and ecosystems have they been a part of?

From a relational perspective, this seed is an electron/wave field of probabilities.

And it is just a probability that is manifesting coherently in this moment in your hand.

And yet –

And yet after a reductionist inquiry, there is still the mystery of life.

What if you put this seed in water?

Would it sprout and spring into life, as it should?

Does it still have the ability to give life?

Or has that ability been removed by man, compromised through industrial agriculture?

If this was your last seed, would you eat it, or grow it to bring more for yourself, your community and nature?

Now, again, with a present and beginner’s mind, try taking a small bite of the seed -

Chew slowly and with open awareness.

What does it feel like?

What does it taste like?

Did you know, our bodies are able to taste the complex nutrient density of food, and tens of thousands of necessary phyto-chemicals, that science hasn’t even quantified yet.

As you finish slowly eating this seed, contemplate -

What kinds of agency does this seed have over you?

How does it move you?

What does this seed offer you?

What energy will it bring when you eat it?

How are you reliant on this seed for nourishment?

What micronutrients is your body currently rushing to absorb?

To which parts of your body will these nutrients be ferried and how?

And how does your body know what to do? What type of intelligence is that in your body?

As this seed literally becomes part of you, what isotope markers will this food leave in you?

We are literal creations from the land from which we eat. As the land goes, so do we.

And finally, perhaps take a moment –

Take a moment of gratitude for the abundance offered to us by nature.

And perhaps give a nod of deep appreciation to the evolutionary co-dependency between seed, plant and animal health.

Recognising, we are completely dependent on the earth’s continual gifting, and the question becomes, what are we gifting in return?

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Paintings by Seth P. Morrison.