with sticky sap on my fingers and sun stained cheeks.

In the company of the Standing People.

It is there I listen carefully to the changing rhythm of the wind's breath

as it passes delicately through the branches and leaves.

it is there I mend the weathered fissures of my softening heart.

The Standing People.

That’s what many Native Americans call the trees.

To me, the title carries reverence and affection for the benevolent providers who anticipated our needs long before our arrival. Modern humans have walked the Earth for about 300,000 years. Trees have dwelled here for nearly 390 million years. With the assistance of a plethora of other photosynthetic organisms, the trees enriched the atmosphere with oxygen, stabilized climates, and birthed diverse ecosystems. They bore fruit for our hunger, medicine for our sickness, and wood for our warmth. They gifted us timber for our shelter, paper for our poems, and beauty for our spirits. From their offerings, we fashioned much of our civilization.

Across various cultures and for many generations, I believe humanity remembered how to bow its head in gratitude to these magnificent beings. Yet in the span of only a few centuries, we have accelerated toward the decimation of those that have sheltered, nourished, and breathed life into us.

It is my sincere hope we stand on the precipice of a revolution in the opposite direction.

Truth is, I don’t plan what I’m going to write about on here. Instead, I pay attention to the moments when my eyes well up with tears of gratitude as I move through the world. Then configurations of words seem to pluck themselves from the ethers and descend from my frontal lobe, to my heart, and finally to my fingertips.

The moment that caught my attention and beckoned to be transcribed into tiny symbols on my screen occurred while I was drifting down Colorado’s Shoshone River in a canoe recently. I was gazing at trees that seemed to be growing directly from stone. My eyes began to glisten as I observed their tenacity and radiance, and at that moment it felt as though the trees wished to be spoken about.

Speckling the canyon walls were firs, junipers, and pines growing in blatant defiance of gravity. I imagined their roots threaded through narrow seams of rock where very little soil existed. Their hardy forms anchored the canyon walls, helping to hold loose earth in place. Their fallen needles and casted shade created pockets of fertility where other forms of plant, insect, and animal life could gain traction. Their sturdy branches became prime real estate for nesting birds, who feasted on their berries and seeds. And their needles, boasting thousands of tiny pores, transpired faithfully — returning moisture to the sky and helping weave tufts of clouds that would one day be wrung out when it was time to cleanse the body of the Earth Mother.

Spend a day observing a single tree and its role in the whole would reveal its immensity. A tree is a gathering place where hundreds of relationships intersect, harmonize, and alchemize. Trees possess a genius for building soil, summoning rain, and maintaining the integrity of the landscape. They are carbon acquirers, water purifiers, and climate stabilizers.

Yet despite these incredible gifts, many people pass trees each day as though they are little more than decoration, background texture in the landscape of our lives, or resources queued up to be harvested. We seldom recognize them as living stewards of the communities they sustain.

But trees have never been background scenery in the story of my life. They have always been among the protagonists.

There was the orange tree of my youth, luminous beneath halcyon afternoons. Its limbs cradled my tiny body as I climbed to its canopy, devouring fruit that tasted as though it had been distilled from pure sunlight. That tree taught me about true wealth, abundance, and generosity before I possessed language for such things.

There was the mighty oak that stood unshaken through Florida hurricanes, whose vast arms supported a treehouse and countless imaginative adventures. That tree taught me unwavering strength and resilience.

There was the grapefruit tree I visited during solitary walks in high school as I grappled with the typical quandaries of adolescence. Somehow, regardless of the season, it always seemed to have at least one fruit waiting for me. I would sit with my back flush to its trunk, savoring the tart sweetness of each segment, while dragonflies used my arms and legs as landing pads to showcase their stained-glass wings. It was there that the boundary between where I ended and the wild forest began was blurred thin, leaving me with the epiphany that I was never truly separate from nature. I was nature.

There was the regal ōhi’a that gifted me songs to chant my way through the volcanic landscape as a form of prayer and gratitude. And the coconut tree that dropped its sustenance when I was sick and asked politely.

There was the mesquite tree that accompanied me through four days of fasting and prayer during my vision quest in the Arizona desert. With nothing to occupy my attention but the tending of a fire and observation of my surroundings, I came to know the textures of its bark and the curves of its branches intimately. Once again, I was taught that Mother Nature is ever-ready to breathe fresh life into even the harshest environs. She is ever-ready to prepare fertile soil many times over in order to feed her children.

While wandering through the jungles of Peru, I met trees who were regarded by indigenous people not simply as plants but as healers, teachers, and allies. Each one carried gifts for the body, mind, and spirit. Some had distinct protocols for interacting with them. Some had personalities that could be likened to human archetypes. The deeper I wandered into the jungle, the more I felt that I was not merely seeing the trees, but being observed by them as well.

There were countless others who witnessed both my grief and my laughter, my confusion and my devotion. Trees I sprouted from seeds of pure potentiality, mooning over them each day with sheer wonder at even the subtlest change in their growth. Trees I planted with tender veneration…with offerings of sweat, saliva, and song. Trees from which I gathered nourishment with calloused hands and a thankful heart.

My hope for humanity is, of course, that we use our energy to plant more trees and help the Earth become gloriously rich in vegetation once again. I dream of witnessing abused or neglected spaces awaken into abundance. I yearn to see landscapes overflowing with food, medicine, beauty, habitat, and all the miracles that emerge naturally when life is allowed to flourish.

I pray the medicine of the Standing People will seep into the weathered fissures of every heart that is eager for freedom, balance, and wholeness. Because perhaps our task is not to simply protect the trees, but to remember how to belong to the world as they do. Imagine if we lived how the Standing People did. We would unabashedly offer our unique gifts to contribute to the greater whole. We would be effortlessly steeped in beautiful cycles of reciprocity. We would understand viscerally that our well-being has never been separate from the well-being of the forests, the rivers, the soil, or one another.

The Standing People have never forgotten how to live in relationship with the Earth and each other.

Perhaps their presence is beckoning us to remember.

Keep plantin’,

Ash

I spent my final semester of college living at a permaculture cooperative named the Peanut Butter Palace, devoting as much time as I could to learning how to grow food in greater alignment with Mother Nature’s methods. It felt as though I was simultaneously finishing one degree and beginning another. To me, the finest instructor is always hands-on experience, and shortly after graduating, I bought raw land in Hawai‘i and began my second education with fervent determination. I traded the gray clay beneath my fingernails for dark brown earth, and my ivory skin slowly adapted to withstand far more sun exposure.

After spending time on my old homestead, my mom felt inspired to transform her Florida lawn into an edible landscape of her own. To me, that was one of the greatest gestures of encouragement any friend or family member could offer. It has been wholly awe-inspiring to watch her regenerative oasis grow richer in edible and optical nourishment with each passing year. When I visit, I get to devour mulberries, papayas, guavas, loquats, pineapples, and pomegranates each morning. By lunchtime, I am snacking on moringa leaves, fresh tomatoes, squash, and kale. I have the joy of greeting the bees, butterflies, and ladybugs while they use her flowers as landing pads, transform nectar into honey, and keep garden pests in check. And I am peacefully serenaded by countless winged ones while resting in the penumbra of her trees.

Perhaps most meaningful of all, I get to speak passionately about the subjects nearest to my heart:  clean food, clean air, and clean water for everybody, with someone who is actively deepening her relationship with both the natural world and humanity itself. We exchange knowledge and experience, navigate challenges with compassion, and encourage each other along the path.

One such challenge presented itself this past February. It was then that I received a call I never want to receive. My mom’s voice was on the other line. Usually, it is soothing and warm as sun steeped honey, but that day it was cloaked in heaviness. A freeze had descended over her Florida garden, an unwelcome adversary that caught everyone by surprise.

“It was 25 degrees for 10 hours for two consecutive nights,” she said. “I think I lost about a dozen trees. Can I send you some photos and you tell me what you think?”

People send me all sorts of photos of what may be afflicting their plants — I’ve see numerous varieties of insects, fungi, and disease — but I rarely receive photos of complete lifelessness. At that moment, I realized this may be part of why I have chosen to specialize in tropical permaculture. It is unbelievably forgiving. Everything feels alive and vibrant, even during the colder seasons.

But these specimens looked like extras from a horror film, and I found myself at a loss for optimistic words.

The verdant tree canopies that I had crouched beneath year after year during my trips to Florida, now displayed only brown leaves hanging by threads, curled like burnt paper. Her papayas (the most delicious in the world with absolutely no bias) along with her mangoes, guavas, coconuts, bananas, lychees, avocados, soursop, Barbados cherry, plumerias, and sea grapes — stood brittle and sepia-toned against a stark blue sky.

I found myself sifting through old photographs in our WhatsApp conversation, grieving their formerly vibrant green leaves, bright blossoms, and succulent fruits. I grappled with the thought that something so lush and alive could be gone in two nights time.

I thought about how much much time, energy, love, and care my mother had poured into nurturing these trees. So many days spent in the sun’s palm, tending her little edible Eden. Digging, planting, weeding, mulching, watering, and feeding these green kin of hers. It takes little acts of self sacrifice to plant trees and nurture them to fruiting size. Though permaculture certainly helps make the process more self-sustaining over time, those early years still require devoted care.

But even in the midst of heartbreak, she spoke with the steadiness of someone who understands, respects, and loves the duality of Mother Nature unconditionally.

“You know,” she said, “this is a learning experience. I’m just happy I planted enough diversity that so many plants and trees did survive.”

And of course she would say that. My mom has always had a a pair of rose colored glasses to lend me whenever mine became too smudged to see clearly.

If you know me personally, you know I have spent my fair share of time grieving the state of the world. Feeling deeply for the depleted soil, poisoned waterways, vanishing species, and communities deprived of healthy food and clean water.

But my mom has reminded me over and over again that I have the power to funnel my anger and sorrow into something fertile. That I can compost those feelings and use them as nourishment to help birth new life. Again and again, she reminds me that the Earth is both wounded and breathtakingly beautiful, and that we must continue doing what we can. If we truly wish to participate in earth’s healing, we must feel deeply and grieve honestly, but we also celebrate the beauty, tenderness, and possibility that remain, even while standing among the ruins.

To come face to face with the fragility and transience of Life is necessary from time to time. It gifts us humility and gratitude. It puts things into perspective and helps motivate us to expand in loving ways, because we never know what will come down the pike.

So this past Mother’s Day, I returned to my mom’s home for our yearly land projects together. We did the usual: played tug-of-war with weeds, pruned, and gifted the trees a healthy dose of compost and a fresh layer of mulch. These are moments I cherish with every cell of my being. To do something I adore alongside someone I wholeheartedly love is priceless, especially when I know we are creating nourishment for our family, friends, community, insects, birds, and wildlife.

We cut down the trees we knew had not survived. Now their carbon-rich forms will weave together with the high-nitrogen prunings and food scraps, transforming into dark humus. This material will soon be given a new purpose, creating and nourishing the bodies of others which are green and growing.

Tender new shoots are emerging from the bases of her avocado, lychee, sea grape, and guava trees, defying my original assumption that they would never bounce back. Her banana trees are rising from the dead, their leaves unfurling even greener and brighter than before.

There remains an abundance of healthy pineapples, grapevines, blackberries, loquats, pomegranates, pears, moringa, Peruvian apple cactus, thornless prickly pear, mulberries, kiwi, surinam cherries, elderberries, huckleberries, figs, gingko, dragonfruit, strawberry guavas, strawberries, lemons, oranges, rosemary, lemongrass, sweet potatoes, and generous patches of goldenrod, garlic chives, and other native flowers for the bees and butterflies. These plants weathered the freeze beautifully... wonderful information to keep in your back pocket if you're a Central Florida gardener. It's always wise to grow what naturally thrives where you live, and to grow a variety.

And thankfully, my mom had composted some seeds from her delicious papayas! They sprouted after the freeze; perfect time to be transplanted and carry on their delectable genetics.

I will surely be back to enjoy the harvest, when the time is ripe. ◡̈

The permaculture movement needs people from all walks of life willing to become living examples of what it means to exist in harmony with nature and with one another. My mom is one radiant example in my life — someone who has used her energy to cultivate a thriving edible landscape, and her voice to write books about permaculture, off-grid living, and following our highest joy.

To say I am inspired by her willingness to move through life with such an open heart and mind is a vast understatement!

Please check her out on Amazon

Keep plantin’,

Ash 🌱

And yet, we often gloss over these tiny creators. Sometimes we are reminded of their presence abruptly, through a glass of horchata* that doesn’t sit quite right in the belly. Other times, the reminder arrives through a world of radiant beauty they have shaped.

I experienced both this week. The latter was much more enchanting.

I am currently journeying through Mexico, a place brimming with vibrant hues. Buildings, food, art, clothing, and landscapes are all steeped in an invigorating palette. On the Yucatán Peninsula, hugging the Gulf of Mexico, there exists a place with a color scheme I never expected to encounter in the natural world. It’s called Las Coloradas, and if I didn’t know better, I might have believed only a chemical spill from the Pepto-Bismol company could yield something like it.

When I stepped out of the car, the heat greeted me like I owed it a large sum of money. It was intense and unrelenting. Beads of sweat gathered along my forehead before a sudden strong breeze offered a welcome reprieve. In the distance, flamingos stood perfectly poised, and I found myself wondering how they endured such harsh conditions.

We scaled a couple flights of stairs to the viewpoint, and it felt like the world’s contrast had suddenly been turned up several notches. Hot-pink flats stretched beneath an endless blue sky, bordered by mounds of stark white salt. I asked my guide if the color came from minerals, and if so, why the salt turned white when dried. She explained that the color came from halophilic microbes, bacteria and algae that thrived in these extreme conditions. As they adapted, they produced carotenoids that protected them from sun, wind, and salinity. When they died in the drying process, the color faded completely. She added that the flamingos acquired their striking pink hue from the organisms they consumed here.

We each interpret our experiences in the world through different lenses shaped by what matters most to us. My lens is often colored with curiosity about how living webs of relationship form, and how we can use these relational patterns to craft more beauty and harmony in the world. As I was overlooking the salt flats and listening to the guide’s knowledge, I felt I was witnessing an astonishing web of relationship unfolding in vivid hot pink. Under intense conditions, microbes adapted and transformed to relate better with their environment; they then nourished algae and brine shrimp; and from that chain, the brilliant plumage of the flamingo was birthed. Each echelon of existence carried forth the resilience and luminosity of the one before it.

It left me thinking how wonderfully fortunate we are, us humans, to be able to witness the full spectrum of life’s transformative dance… and to belong to it.

This creation we belong to is entirely born of connection. It is never solely individual. And the process of cultivating flourishing environments begins at the smallest scale. Thus, it feels pertinent to honor the unseen stewards of our creative world; to learn to exist in right relationship with them in our own environments. Because as life below ground thrives, life above it follows, and the landscapes we tend inevitably shape us in return.

*Horchata is a delectable, sweet, creamy drink, usually made from rice, water, cinnamon, and sugar in Mexico.

To become aware of our aliveness, our heartbeat’s steady rhythm.

To reflect on where we have been, and where we want to go.

For me, this awareness comes most easily in places where nature unabashedly plays full out. Where her virtues are not hidden beneath rugs of concrete; instead the magnificent color palettes of foliage, flowers, and fruit that are stitched into her verdant body are proudly displayed. In these landscapes, there is both immense edible and optical nourishment for all to experience.

When I lived in Hawai’i, I would disappear for a week or two at a time to contemplate how to live in deeper harmony with the land. I was drawn to a valley untouched by the hum of modernity. No roads, no cars, no grocery stores. Food wasn’t something to be bought or sold — it was scattered abundantly on the ground, dripping from the trees, freely available to whoever needed it.

There were a few ways to arrive:  by foot, by boat, or by helicopter. Hiking was my favorite. Each step propelled me into deeper communion with nature. The abundance of oxygen was purifying and deeply satisfying to my corporeal form. Along the cliff faces, passable only at low tide, the ocean inhaled and exhaled beside and into me, causing a certain exhilaration that awakened all of my senses. After about 5 hours, when I reached my destination, the scent of fermenting fruit and the stunning plant life made it feel like arriving to the Garden of Eden, but without the snakes.

There, we cooked solely over open fire. The scent of smoke perpetually inhabited our clothes and hair. We dwelled in simple bamboo structures crafted from Guadua planted decades before. And we ate well — exquisitely well. Mornings began with fresh sugarcane pressed into sweet, golden juice using a rusty hand-crank. At midday, we husked coconuts, grinded the meat, and strained it through the coconut husk fibers (the original nut milk bag). This process yielded a thick, delicious cream that crowned our boiled kalo (taro) or ‘ulu (breadfruit). Homemade banana vinegar enhanced fresh greens whose colors and flavors indicated high quantities of vitamins and minerals. Bananas, plantains, coconuts, mangoes, citrus, breadfruit, pineapples, and kalo were always abundant in their seasons. The gardens overflowed with nourishment year round.

I once watched someone slowly transform seawater into tablesalt over the fire. A few days later, I spent my share of quality time with the fire, reducing sugarcane juice into molasses for my ‘ulu pancakes. It was on this day that I realized there was always enough time for everything that felt essential.

We wandered the shorelines and ridgelines, tended to the plants, and wove artworks big and small from hala leaves. Stories were shared over warm cups of cacao from the very trees that shaded our sun-stained cheeks during the day. We swam beneath waterfalls, laughing when curious prawns pinched and nibbled at our toes. Under the Milky Way’s glimmering scarf of diamonds, we would rest around the fire and speak about our hopes, dreams, and visions.

We would talk about what freedom really meant to us.

One sun drenched afternoon, I was sitting among stone terraces left by those who came before and a question began to take root within me:  could we, as a species, learn to listen to the vast field of wisdom that still surrounded us, ever-present in each landscape on Earth? At that moment it felt like the stones were record-keepers, and they were ready to bestow their observations to those with ears to hear.

In that particular pocket of the cosmos, it was evident that the Hawaiians dwelled in a world of rich interconnectedness with their environment, its inhabitants, and the spiritual dimensions. They knew how to keenly observe and interact harmoniously with their landscape so that all the bellies of their island could be fed.

A food system based on sustainability, resiliency, and respect for the earth and its inhabitants was not a radical concept to the Hawaiians, who lived in one of the most isolated island chains in the world. It was essential for their survival. From this understanding emerged the ahupua‘a model, a way of organizing land and resources.

This system was guided by eight interconnected values, each a thread in a grander tapestry. Care for the ocean and all its life. Respect for the shoreline and the lands that meet the sea. Reverence for the mountains and forests. Protection of fresh water in all its forms. Responsibility to one another and to the community at large. Attunement to the movements of sun, moon, wind, and rain. Preservation of knowledge passed through generations. And a deep honoring of the sacred, of ancestors, and of ceremony.

These were not abstract ideals. They were lived daily, shaping how people moved, cultivated, shared, and cared.

Each ahupua‘a stretched from mountain peaks to the ocean’s edge in a wedge-shape. Each portion encompassed forests, gardens, and coastal waters. Timber material for construction was found upland. Rain-fed streams nourished malas (gardens) below. Kalo thrived in irrigated terraces, while sweet potatoes (‘uala), coconuts (niu), breadfruit, bananas (mai’a), and sugarcane (kō) flourished in rain-fed zones. The ocean was flourishing with fish. Each community shared resources up and down their slice of land, crafting systems of exchange that ensured balance and resilience.

This way of life rested on enduring ethics: care for the Earth, care for people, and a commitment to fair share. I first encountered these principles through my permaculture studies, but have realized they are far older than any modern framework. They emerge wherever humans learn to live in true harmony with the living world around them.

So, what would it mean to apply this model today? We exist in an age of incredible knowledge, tools, and possibility — yet the direction we take remains a daily choice. We can move toward greater harmony, or further away from it. While modern innovation offers extraordinary potential, progress without an ethical foundation risks leading us astray. Before we continue experimenting, we must first become crystal clear on the values that guide us.

If each day we simply ask, “How can I live in greater harmony with the people and environment around me?” the answers will undoubtedly begin to reveal themselves. From there, a different future becomes possible, one rooted in care. A world where meeting basic human needs is an expression of collective responsibility: clean food, clean air, clean water; fewer toxins, less pollution. A world not shaped by extraction, but by stewardship and a shared commitment to the well-being of all.

The last time I lingered at the land shelf’s edge, eyes drifting beyond the rustling sedge to the endless reach of the ocean horizon, a single thought rose within me…

Consider this within the macrocosm of our society: our disconnection from nature, ourselves, and each other was perhaps the most potent tool to ripen us to the palpable sweetness of coming together once again...from a separation which has deepened us on more levels than we can comprehend.

Blessings and Aloha,

Ash

Ready to turn your pocket of earth into a beautiful, functional, regenerative paradise?Our team has consulted, designed, and implemented food forests in 7 climate zones. Book your free 20-minute clarity call or full 1-hr permaculture consultation today 🌱

worn-out hiking boots and freshly skinned knees

I sat in silent communion with the greenery around

and observed the cypress trees.

⟡

I contemplated what visions, ideas, and dreams were spoken of there,

carefully crafted by articulate symphonies

of vocal cord vibrations and tongue flicks.

⟡

I wondered if the Earth's substrata absorbed the words

because she is too polite to not listen,

and how many visions were cocooned by eavesdropping gusts of wind and transcribed onto necks as goosebumps later on.

⟡

I wondered how many tears, infused with tender longing —

made their journey to the tufts of cotton clouds,

to be rung out like dishtowels when it was time to nourish the wealthy thickets of earth's fertile body.

⟡

I imagined the dreams pooling into puddles, being joyously stomped on by tiny yellow rain boots in mid-July,

or getting swallowed whole by the very same trees whose penumbra I took refuge in.

⟡

they are safe and sound and snug in their rings.

⟡

within this relay race,

we carry the baton of myriad words and visions and dreams

collected since the dawn of civilization...

perhaps our longings are not just "ours" but a conglomeration

of the never-ending craving for harmony, truth, and love,

given to us by our ancestral generations.

And yet, there exists a paradox.

You would think the soil is a complete buffet of nutrients, that anything you put in the ground could easily find what it needed to thrive. But the reality is, beneath the towering canopy of old growth trees, young saplings, climbing vines, bushes, and herbs — all eager to taste sunshine — the soil is often thin, acidic, and surprisingly poor.

How could this be? For a place so lush, abundant, and expansive, with greenery broadcasted in all directions, this seems counterintuitive. Until you understand all the nutrients are in the living bodies of what you see:  the leaves, branches, trunks, roots, fungi, and the unsung heroes of our creative world — the microbial life.

When a leaf falls in the rainforest, it does not have the luxury of lingering. Decomposition begins instantly, and its form is quickly reabsorbed into the intricate web of life to give birth to or sustain another form. The soil is not a reservoir, but a short-term vacation rental through which nutrients flow before returning to living systems.

Then there is the rain. I witnessed heavy, relentless downpours that transformed clear rivers into rushing currents the color of chocolate milk within minutes. These rains sweep through the land with force, carrying away soluble nutrients in a process known as leaching. What might have nourished new growth was instead washed away.

I observed similar patterns while living in Hawai’i. One big storm and it felt as if a massive percentage of fertility was washed into the ocean in a matter of hours. These dynamics are common in rainforest ecosystems.

What I’ve realized in this life is when there is a problem, there is always a solution. And the indigenous people of the Amazon left evidence that they found it.  Before modern agriculture, before endless quantities of synthetic fertilizers, you used what you had. And you used it intelligently. Their systems were rooted in longevity, reciprocity and balance; they wasted nothing, and they allowed nature to do her work — principles we would benefit from embracing today.

I first crafted this remarkable soil amendment in Ecuador while working alongside a highly skilled food forester at his homestead. He mentioned all we needed were simple materials such as fallen branches and kitchen scraps — commonplace remnants of daily life — in order to create the foundation for future abundance.

We spent a a few hours gathering dry wood and building an impressive fire. In the evening, beneath a clear, expansive sky, we sat between patches of banana and sugarcane as the flames flickered and danced. Laughter and music filled the air and delicious snacks from the land were shared.

Then suddenly, a sharp hiss as water extinguished the fire. “Why did you put it out? It was so nice,” I asked, reluctant to see it end. He explained that the wood must burn in a low-oxygen environment and cannot be allowed to turn to ash. We were creating biochar, the foundation of terra preta.

The next morning, I was handed a hammer and a flat board. My task was to crush the biochar into small pieces. It proved to be an incredible arm workout. If I ever design a permaculture workout program, this will certainly be part of it.

Once the biochar was broken down, we layered it into a hole with food scraps, crushed bones, and manure. Another component found in Amazionian terra preta was pottery, but we didn’t have any specimens to contribute to the batch.

For us as well as Amazonian communities, this process created a rich, living soil teeming with microbial life, able to retain both nutrients and water far beyond the capacity of the native earth. Its charcoal structure anchored fertility effectively, providing refuge for beneficial microorganisms, and releasing nourishment gradually back to plants.

What makes terra preta truly extraordinary is its longevity. Some of these soils are over a thousand years old and remain fertile today. Where many modern agricultural systems deplete their soil within decades, terra preta becomes richer over time. It does not merely sustain; it regenerates.

In order to craft a beautiful, nourishing, and joyous world, it is important to harvest fruits of knowledge from those who lovingly and intelligently stewarded this earth before us.  We must honor their wisdom, emulate their practices, and build upon those practices in reverent ways.

Ready to turn your pocket of earth into a beautiful, functional, regenerative paradise?Our team has consulted, designed, and implemented food forests in 7 climate zones. Book your free 20-minute clarity call or full 1-hr permaculture consultation today 🌱

just like that.

the roach paused momentarily, maybe thinking the end had come and gone in the same breath, then scurried off to whatever business keeps a cockroach honest in this curious world. my friend said, "imagine being that small and seeing a shadow swallow your whole sky. you're sure this is the end. but instead of doom, there's mercy. a fingertip of grace" and I thought, shouldn't this be the way of things? when faced with a chance to help, especially those much smaller and weaker than us, shouldn't we take the opportunity to tip the scales toward a deeper unfolding of love?

in this moment I understood the path of loving kindness is always an option. what an unsuspecting gospel that wasn't shouted from a rooftop but instead spoken softly in the shuffle of a little cockroach's feet given back their road

We, as humans, are always trying to find a sense of equilibrium. Balance. Wholeness. Cultivating balance in our lives starts with our environment. Our environment encompasses our immediate friends, family, home, and property. On a larger scale, our environment is our community, country, and the whole of the Earth.

Proper care for the Earth allows optimal conditions for life force energy to flow through — from the Micro to the Macro. We are here, interwoven on even the tiniest levels.

So how can we live in more harmony with this incredible blue, green gemstone we refer to as Gaia?

We can observe. Slow down. Take time to connect with her.

We can walk barefoot on her lush grasses and rich soils.

We can utilize her medicines… the plants she has brought forth to assist us in our own evolutions.

We can begin to understand that her expressions are not meant to cause us strife.

The dandelion “weeds” were never meant to cause so much stress that we resorted to killing them with poisons that also cause harm to us.

The dandelion came to indicate what nutrients were available and missing from the soil, or perhaps to cover up and heal disturbed earth. Maybe the dandelion’s yellow flowers were gifted to boost the vitality of your liver.

Or maybe it came to bring a child joy when they blew its threads of light.

Life works in mysterious ways.

When it offers us something, may we try to look at it with curiosity and non-judgment.

May we see with the eyes of Gaia, who constantly produces artworks, great and small, and whose creations all have their purpose and place.

May we remember each of us is one of those artworks.

Becoming more aware of — and appreciating — the numerous gifts from the Earth is the first step. Then, we can begin to recollect and invent ways to reside in the respectful cycle of reciprocity that our ancestors knew well, and that our descendants are counting on.

Ways to live in better harmony with our Earth and its inhabitants:

1. Give, give, give—then take a little.

As master Mayan healer Don Panti told his apprentice Rosita Arvigo, author of Sastun: My Apprenticeship With a Maya Healer: “The soil [of the Rainforest] is like a bank account. You have to give to the soil as you would give to a member of a family. Then you can take from the soil. You must give give give, then take a little.”

Delicious, healthy soil is made of food scraps, plant material, mulch, and microbes. Adding to the soil without tilling makes it infinitely more healthy and productive over time. If you walked into a forest today, you would see the trees and plants naturally drop their leaves to give nutrients back to the forest floor. This year, when summer transitions to fall and the trees drop their leaves, crafting their own compost, I invite you to let the leaves decompose in place so they can act as a protective layer of mulch and add nutrients back into your soil. Leaving the leaves saves time and energy, and allows nature to work as it effortlessly intended.

Another way to give back: create a compost system for your food scraps. Give your ‘waste’ back to the worms, the plants, the trees. They will greatly appreciate it — much more than a landfill!

2. Diversify your diet and include plenty of perennial food sources.

The vast majority of Americans live off some iteration of three main annual crops: corn, soy, and wheat. Within conventional agriculture, the pollutant load of these crops is immense. Many people are overfed and undernourished, consuming chemical-laden, food-like products that our great-grandparents wouldn’t recognize. This becomes a huge burden on their physical and mental wellness.

An integral aspect of permaculture farming is the planting of perennials, which contrast annuals in their longer lifespan and other beneficial qualities. Perennial plants are hardier, more productive, and less labor-intensive than annuals. They dig their roots deep to collect and transform a buffet of nutrients into something edible for the animals and people of Earth.

If you had the choice to subsist on weaker annual plants — whose shallow root systems do not mine for minerals and nutrients, and which are often fed copious amounts of synthetic fertilizers or sprayed with chemicals — or hardier perennial plants, lovingly cared for, rich in nutrients, and supported by beneficial microbes and fungi… which would you choose?

3. Support regenerative agriculture, polyculture planting systems, and chemical-free planting.

It is crucial to become familiar with our agricultural systems and support those which focus on diversity in their crops (polyculture systems), chemical-free practices, and giving back to the soil.

Why do many farmers opt to grow one crop across endless acres? Many argue it is for efficiency and convenience, harvesting large batches at once. However, when we compare monoculture to polyculture in the face of chaotic weather or disease, the latter would be the most intelligent option.

In monoculture systems, especially those relying on synthetic inputs and bare soil, we see a decline in the health of the entire ecosystem:  fewer birds, fewer bees, fewer insects, and much less plant diversity. These systems are extremely vulnerable to disease and environmental stress.

The solution is a diverse polyculture system, with many varieties of perennial trees, bushes, shrubs, and herbs. In such a system, plant immunity is strengthened, undesirable pests are deterred, and the overall beauty and value of the land increases. Nitrogen-fixing and dynamic accumulator plants feed the soil naturally, eliminating the need for synthetic fertilizers, pesticides, and herbicides.

Over time, yields increase, as plant health strengthens and roots reach deeper into the nutrient-rich layers of the Earth. A diverse polyculture system helps create a closed-loop ecosystem, where the needs of both the land and its inhabitants are met.

Ready to turn your pocket of earth into a beautiful, functional, regenerative paradise?Our team has consulted, designed, and implemented food forests in 7 climate zones. Book your free 20-minute clarity call or full 1-hr permaculture consultation today 🌱

I recognize I can only allow the destruction of something I keep at arm's length.

The beauty of our world opens me up to feeling all of the joy and grief necessary to stoke my fire of passion and continue to propel me on my mission.

At times when I feel so small and unable to make a difference, I set out to really get to know a plant. I take the time to devote myself to its beauty, intricacy, and purpose.

l immerse myself in its essence, form, colors, tastes, and textures. I meditate with it. I savor my time with it. I learn about its virtues within the ecosystem... how it adds vibrancy to the whole. I learn how to tend to, harvest, prepare, and propagate it.

Most importantly, I thank it.

Then I have the honor of sharing its unique gifts and medicine with others.

I recognize I don't need to envelop the entire world with my care and protection... that would be an impossible task.

One facet of the cosmos is enough.

One thread of pure attention and intention is enough for me to walk the path of devotion to our planet, and to give life the most incredible meaning.

When he left, the woman’s energy shifted immediately. Suddenly a penetrating, wise, and somewhat serious look took over her initially light and cheery disposition. She said she could feel my heart and my love for nature. She could feel my generosity of Spirit and my pain. She explained she had lived in nature for many years. Simple, free, yet completely vulnerable to the natural forces of wind and rain.

She didn’t go into much detail about how long and why she lived without a sturdy shelter, electricity, or access to grocery stores. But she did pick up a pen and look somberly into my eyes.

“We are connected,” she explained, “and we have all taken part in creating the toxicity of our earth.” She began speaking about the responsibility we shared for the manufacturing of the things in our world. "Even this piece of plastic you seemingly have no connection to. It is still a part of your home, and a part of your responsibility."

There was a moment of silence born out of complete disbelief on my end and perhaps for dramatic effect on hers.

"We are all responsible for the toxicity here... yes..." Her potent gaze shifted to the window. “And, we will all take part in the healing of the planet, if we so choose.”

She looked back at me with a sweet smile and said "and you have already chosen dear. Now find the others.”

𑁍

This woman with twinkling eyes had shifted the trajectory of my life within 5 minutes. Something about her just made me feel that anything was possible. Fresh out of college and willful — to put it mildly — I took her words and ran with them, soon realizing everywhere I went I met wonderful souls who seemed to have also chosen to live as I was striving to — lightly, kindly, and sustainably. I realized there were many walking the path of healing and regeneration. And we all have our role in the whole. We are gifted in some facets of life and struggle in others. Like pieces to a puzzle, we are here to fill the void spaces within each other’s lives. Not one gift or life experience is better than another, for all were born of Spirit with unique purpose and intention.

Little did I know my next move would be 4,800 miles away from everything I had known to the most isolated island chain in the world. There my boyfriend and I purchased a small piece of raw land. We wanted to find out exactly what it would take to be completely self sufficient, co-existing in deep harmony with the land.

It wasn’t as easy as I had imagined. But with many helping hands, we learned how to catch and purify water, harness solar power, grow food, build soil, propagate plants, and craft ecosystems.

We ran an eco-Airbnb from a friend’s home in Hilo, using our share of the income to plant more trees on our land. Each tree was dedicated to a guest from somewhere in the world, and we sent updates as they grew — sharing their precious first blossoms and fruits. Guests would join us for plant walks, learning about tropical flora and permaculture. Many discussions about what it means to live in harmony with the Earth took place over māmaki and hibiscus tea.

At the same time, we began cultivating a tree nursery filled with rare fruit and nut varieties and Hawaiian plants we had a hard time finding anywhere else on the island. Nurturing as much diversity as possible, and surrounding ourselves with food, medicine, and beauty quickly became an obsession.

I started working at a juice bar, which deepened my connection to community and healthy living. Many evenings were spent composting fruit and vegetable scraps from the bar into our land by the light of our head lamps. As I witnessed everything thrive, I fell in love with the quiet magic of closed-loop ecosystems — where one life continuously nourishes another, endlessly.

Eventually, I launched a full-scale edible landscaping business. I gained new clients every month for a year, helping others to realize their dreams of having fresh and nutritious sustenance right outside of their door. Each property presented unique gifts and challenges, and the learning was non-stop.

Over time I realized I felt most at peace in my quiet hours among rare plants, tending to unique genetics and focusing on conserving the plants that were endemic to the islands. Greenhouses filled, partnerships blossomed, and new opportunities unfolded.

The past decade has been rich and expansive, and I’m excited to see what unfolds next. I have a feeling it will have a lot to do with plants.

𑁍

And so it is said from an energetic perspective, that if we hold a certain frequency long enough, we will magnetize those who can assist us in seeing our visions through. They need us as much as we need them in this life; by divine will we find each other.