Reader-Friendly Podcast Transcript

Guest: Erin

Co-hosts: Brad Swift and Marla Lise

Editor’s note: This transcript has been lightly edited for readability while preserving the substance, sequence, and conversational character of the recorded discussion. Timestamps are retained so readers can follow along with the podcast.

[00:00:03]

Hello, everybody. This is Brad Swift with Gaia’s Call 2.0, and I’m so excited to be here with my co-host today, Marla of the Eco Chapter. And we have a special guest, which we often do, and I’m very excited about that. So excited that I was able, even easily, as it turned out, to get up early in the morning. So you may see It looks kind of like the sun’s coming up. Well, it is kind of coming up here on the North Carolina coast. So, let’s just dive right in, Marla. Introduce our guest, if you would. Yeah. Thanks, everybody, for joining us today. And yes, we have Erin, and I’ve known Erin for a couple of years and, excited to have her on the show. So, Erin is Sydney-based, and she’s a researcher, writer, wife, and mother to three children.

[00:00:51]

She began her career in business working in national account management for Nestle, Unilever and L’Oreal. And then she took a break to raise her children. And then she became aware of the ecological crisis and has pivoted her career to raise awareness of these issues and what we can do about them. She’s the co-creator of Beyond Duality, which is an eight week online course, which goes beyond sustainability as usual to see what we can do to create an ecological future and how we can do that. Erin is also passionate about animal rights, whole food, plant-based eating, and is currently working on a course to raise awareness of the harms of industrial animal agriculture. So I’ve been really lucky to do a couple of courses with Erin. I did her Project Tipping Point course a couple of years ago,

[00:01:36]

and I’ve also done her Healthy Habits Accelerator twice, twice actually. So, so Erin, why don’t you start by Maybe telling us what was the biggest push to get you to pivot from that very corporate career in business to what you’re doing now? Firstly, thanks for having me on the show. I’m really happy to be here with you both. What was the push? I think there was a little bit of emptiness in the work I was doing anyway. So for 10 years I was a bit like, oh, shouldn’t I be doing something more meaningful than selling more Coffee, margarine, tea, fragrance, whatever. Shouldn’t I be doing something more than making... So L’Oreal’s mostly owned by the wealthiest woman in France, like it’s the family.

[00:02:25]

Shouldn’t I be doing something more than making her wealthier? So there was an emptiness in the work that I was doing already. But I think it takes stepping away from that work. And we often say this, like it takes a period of illness, a parental leave break, A sabbatical, any sort of break from the system to be able to see it a bit more clearly. And when I was home with my children, which is busy work, but not very often very mindful work, I had some mental space to see more clearly what was going on. And I was able to read more and learn more about what was happening in the world. And what I was learning, I was not liking very much. So when you talk about what was the thing, what was the moment that made you want to pivot your career? I remember it very clearly. My youngest, who is eight this year, she was three months old.

[00:03:13]

No, she was, I think she was five weeks old. And I was walking up and down my hallway just here, like trying to get her to sleep. I was wearing her. And as I was trying to get her to sleep, I was reading an article published by the New York Times Magazine, I think. And it was titled, The UN Says Climate Genocide is Coming. Actually, it’s worse than that. And it was written by David Wallace-Wells, who’s written The Uninhabitable Earth, which is a Difficult read, but probably important read. And it was written just after the IPCC released the special report into 1.5 degrees of warming in 2018. And it was just, just everything that was coming through. I was like, it’s so much worse than I realized. Like I really thought there was the Paris Agreement that had been signed and governments were doing something, but it was, it was,

[00:03:59]

I was horrified, but I was reading and I was like, you know, like I’d be waiting for the toaster a week later and I’d be like, Like you think about what you did in your head and you’re like, how is everyone just living like normally? Like this is horrifying. And I had another friend who’d passed the article on to me, which instigated me reading it. And she felt the same way. So between us, like we wanted to do something, but we didn’t know what it looked like. And, you know, everyone has these sorts of conversations. How can we be part of the solution? And we never ended up building anything, but it never left me that drive to do something. Sorry, I dabbled in working in carbon offsets, but it didn’t feel meaningful enough. So I’ve just kept trying to find something that ticks that box of this is going to help make a difference.

[00:04:45]

And, you know, there’s only so much one person can do. I don’t know how, you know, the idea that I can make a real difference is probably... If I get stuck on that, I won’t do anything because there’s probably nothing I can do that will make a significant difference. But still, I think the metric is if lots of people were doing this, would it make a difference? Yes. Then I keep going and I try and bring more people along with me so that eventually we hopefully do make that difference that we all aspire to. That was a long-winded way of telling you how I got here. Sorry. That’s good. I think many of us can relate to that path. Yeah. Yeah. Just that, like, I don’t want to, I don’t want to close my eyes to this. I don’t, I want to continue to look at it face on as terrifying as it is and do something

[00:05:35]

about it. Yeah. Yeah. So it seems you’ve done a lot already. I mean, you’ve done like university lectures and you’ve also done like all these courses and I guess your, your latest course is called Beyond Duality. Do you want to tell us about that? Yeah, I’d done a couple of courses. I think I’ve been doing maybe for the last three years. I started with Rebiz, which was like more related to how a business could exist in a non-harmful, regenerative, sustainable way. So that was very business orientated. And from there we did Project Tipping Point, which you’ve done with us. We did that for a couple of years. And then I was like, I was hosting Project Tipping Point calls, which is all about social tipping points and how I can contribute to them and how they can I was wanting to talk about other things on the calls for Project Tipping Point,

[00:06:23]

so I had this desire to talk about imperialism and colonialism and manufactured consent and all of these things that are bigger than the Project Tipping Point course was about. So I had this idea to create the course, like if I was to get hit by a bus tomorrow, Beyond Duality is the course that passes on the knowledge that I’ve acquired in eight years since I read that David Wallace Wells article. So it’s just, it’s the culmination of everything that I’ve learnt and would, you know, if I, those eight years ago, if I could have taken this eight week course, I would have saved myself a lot of work because it’s just, it’s all there in one place and it just takes you on the journey of A lot of stuff. I remember starting my climate journey going, all right, carbon dioxide, let’s go.

[00:07:12]

And then you go, oh, there’s eight other planetary boundaries, damn it. And like we’re transgressing six of them and it’s the seventh being climate. So we’re transgressing seven, but one of them I already knew of. So, oh, no, it’s worse than I thought. It’s not just climate change, it’s biodiversity loss and it’s So then you start to go like it’s bigger and bigger and bigger. And, it’s sort of helping people cut out years and years worth of learning and just get straight to the heart of the problem. Yeah. Yeah. And how have people been reacting to this so far? It sounds like it would terrify quite a lot of people, right? Yeah. So we’ve had like genuinely a couple of hundred people sign up and, far it’s all been very positive,

[00:07:58]

but there is a stage after about the second week where people go, literally people go, does it get more positive? I feel so anxious. Like I really like the course and the resources, but it’s making me feel a bit unsettled. It’s like totally, it gets better from us. So, like there is like a necessarily you have to take people through the world as it is today and how we got here and what that looks like. And then we do it does it gets better. We take people on a journey that is hopefully more positive and more action orientated and solutions based than just highlighting the problem. But I do very carefully never word people’s experiences having enjoyed the course because I don’t think it’s something you enjoy. I think it’s something that might resonate with you or you might find powerful or compelling.

[00:08:47]

But I don’t think it’s something you necessarily enjoy because the subject matter is not an easy one. It’s an important one, but it’s not, you know, it’s not. Oh, has anyone ever used the word? I’m so happy that you’ve got a new hobby or like that sort of tone with you about like being active in this space. No, I’m passionate. I’m so glad you found something you’re passionate about. Like if this is not something you do because it’s like fun and cool, like it’s not playing the guitar, it tends to be a moral imperative that we feel like we have to help because we’re in a state of crisis and chaos. So, this is not playing the guitar as such. This is just something people feel like they want to be a part of the solution and putting themselves forward for. Yeah.

[00:09:32]

I mean, me and Brad both work in this space, so it’s not fun. I mean, you’re definitely doing it, not for shits and giggles. I’m so glad you found something you’re passionate about. Why aren’t you passionate about it? You should be too. Yeah, exactly. Come and join me. Yeah, I mean, it’s a difficult conversation to have with most people and most people just don’t want to have those difficult conversations and that’s the part that we have to keep pushing for it because otherwise who’s going to have any of these conversations? Sorry, just one thing before you step into Brad. Roger Hallam, you guys know who he is? Founder of Extinction Rebellion and Just Stop Oil and that sort of thing. He cited some research that said like it’s never been a majority of the population

[00:10:17]

that have been changemakers. It’s always a small percent. And it was learning that was like, oh, okay. Like it’s never, everyone’s never going to step up. It’s a certain type of personality that wants to. To do this stuff. And it’s so, you know, that’s just who we are, I guess, those personality types. Sorry, Brad. And I guess that’s also a good thing because, you know, in the social tipping point, they said, what, 25%? That was the University of Pennsylvania, I think, that did this study. And, it’s like, if there’s three of us here right now, we just need one more person. And, you know, like that would become a normal behavior and 25% would be one of us. Yeah. So it kind of makes the big problem kind of small because if you could just talk to three people and that would be, That would be your responsibility. You know, it wouldn’t have to be like you had to change the world.

[00:11:02]

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. I think for myself, the part that’s kind of the counterpoint to the confrontational aspect of this is to balance that with a vision for what you see is possible and how to kind of hone that vision in your current reality to some small degree. You know, one of the things that keeps me inspired and relatively sane in the midst of all this is focusing on

[00:11:48]

My two grandkids who just this past weekend moved right up there. They start waking up any moment, might start hearing some sounds from them. But, you know, Logan’s five and Piper’s three. And all the whatever it takes to give them some hope and future is what keeps me excited about it. And like I said, kind of counterbalance that. You know, the massive confrontation that it can be when we really see how asleep we as a society have been. So I think vision is an important counterbalance to it. Yeah, absolutely. And I do want to mention while I got the podium here.

[00:12:35]

Yeah. My family has been in a massive amount of breakdown since the move. And, much so that we finally looked up the old saying, Mercury is in retrograde if things aren’t going right. And actually, Mercury is in retrograde right now. So I don’t know where you guys are in, but my end, we’re getting some, and that’s not our, I’ll blame it on Mercury. Just wanted to put that in. So I guess with both of you, well, Brad’s grandkids and Erin, you have three kids, right? So I guess,

[00:13:21]

how do we talk to people with parents and educators and carers of the youth and children? A lot of people are now not having children because they say that the world is becoming too scary of a place. So with both of you, how do you I guess with Erin, how do you talk to people who have kids and yourself? How do you navigate this conversation also with you? Yeah. I don’t always do that, actually. I find that People don’t want to know. So I don’t necessarily have conversations with people that are in my life face to face.

[00:14:07]

So I would use a platform like LinkedIn or not so much X anymore, but like that’s where I try and use my voice because it seems to be more received. And, that’s, yeah. And there’d be people that I know in my day to day life that follow me there, but I do find that Like it goes, it’s a real spectrum of, yeah, it’s a big problem, but it’s just not on my radar to, yeah, is it even real? Oh my God, yes, it’s real. You know, like people are obviously taking in different media to me and the bridge to, is that, am I saying it right? The bridge, the gap to bridge, sorry, is too big. It’s so enormous that I can’t bridge it.

[00:14:55]

I think it’s important that you, like I still, so I’m thinking specifically of people I see in my day-to-day life. I still have to have relationships with these people. I can’t exist in, none of us is an island, I can’t exist in isolation. So sometimes you just, you don’t have anyone around you who’s climate focused. I do have climate focused social groups and friends. But, for me, I write articles, which I have on, Substack and I use LinkedIn to try and reach more people because otherwise I would actually feel like I’m banging my head against a brick wall. I think I would have stopped a long time ago if I had to rely on the people in my circle. Yeah. So what I would say to people is if you don’t have anyone around you, try and find your crew.

[00:15:45]

And it could just be like a WhatsApp group. Like I had a WhatsApp group or typing signal or something for a number of years, which was such a savior. Like it was, oh, these people get it. Oh, these people care. And they were sharing information and I was learning from them. And otherwise, so there’s a real in the sociology of or like the research into social tipping points, they say that if you’re not insulated from the dominant culture somehow by a group of like minded people, It would be very easy and often does happen that people fall back into that dominant culture because you don’t have anyone helping you maintain these new values and behaviours and things. So that’s what that signal group did to me for a long time to help me stay in this space. So for other people who don’t have people also interested in keeping

[00:16:33]

the planet habitable around them, see if you can find some because it will make your life easier. Yeah. Well, if you’re looking for communities to join, all three of us have our own communities. We all write articles. I post them on LinkedIn as well. And we just formed a community in Sri Lanka and we have one in Singapore. And Brad has his eco stories and his community in North Carolina as well. So if you guys are looking for Sydney, Singapore, Sri Lanka, North Carolina, we’re all here. Well, most of the world covered. Yeah, exactly. Between us. We’ve got, we’re uncovering an important missing is like,

[00:17:22]

how do you introduce the crisis, even just one segment of it, like, you know, climate change, way that people that So I don’t know if either you have a social gathering where that doesn’t feel threatened to that gathering itself. We’re losing you a little bit, Brad, but I think I can take this one. So in Singapore, I mean, for me, it’s been really hard.

[00:18:16]

Like Erin said, like, you know, banging your head against the wall. That’s definitely been, you know, what I’ve been facing. And actually, when I did the project tipping course that Erin designed a couple of years ago, I was like, oh, my God, this is my tribe. You know, I’m still really good friends with so many people in that space. And that really helped me through that first year in corporate sustainability in Singapore, which I hated. But then I also set up the community because I felt like I needed it. So it’s been one and a half years that we’ve been doing these monthly meetups very informally at an alfresco bar in Singapore. And it’s really based around questions with the poly crisis. So introducing every week, every month, a new topic where people come together in an informal setting,

[00:19:04]

outside of the suit, outside of the like, what do you do? Here’s my name card, business card. Have a drink together, sit down, talk about family and friends, and then talk about, hey, how does creativity solve the polycrisis? Or how does a post-colonial world look like? And just really getting people to share those stories and taking that business corporate suit out of the conversation and really kind of focusing on needs and that this is affecting everybody and building that community around that. Yeah. I’m not sure if that answers your question, Brad. I didn’t really hear you very well. Yeah. Okay. So, I mean, going back to like the sustainability conversation,

[00:19:50]

like when, when I was working as a sustainability manager in 2023, like for me, that was quite strange because I come from a conservation background and, you know, Erin, you talk about this sustainability as usual business as usual. Yeah, sustainability as usual is things we can do that make sure the current system just continues. So, it’s a lot of what we call sustainability, but it really, it doesn’t change anything. So it makes people feel good, like we’re doing something. But actually we’re not doing very much. And, we can continue to do all of the industrial activity that was going

[00:20:38]

to happen anyway, essentially. And as you talk about corporate sustainability, like a lot of corporate sustainability is enabling some of the most harmful activities to continue because there’s a sustainability department, they must be doing something about it. But actually, you know, a lot of the work that they’re doing is ESG reporting and things like that. And ESG reporting is It’s trying to determine the impact of the external environment on the company, not the impact of the company on the external environment. And if you care about the environment, that’s a pretty key difference. Like it’s single materiality. How is the environment affecting The company’s like outlook, financial outlook, risk, all of those things. So, you know,

[00:21:24]

it’s not designed to stop a company from harming the environment or social outcomes or anything like that. It’s literally not designed for that purpose. And there’s a whole heap of other things that would fall under sustainability as usual. It’s like trying to value nature is another way to continue this financialization of everything, commodification of things, putting things like to be able to put... So the financialization of nature is when I heard about this through a book I read called The Value of a Whale and they literally Trying to think about which institution did it. The World Bank, I think. They valued humpback whales at two million US dollars each.

[00:22:13]

And the reason they did that is because when that whale dies, Two reasons, the tourism that the whales can generate from people I presume going to look at them and then when the whale dies they drop to the bottom of the ocean floor and they take a whole heap of carbon with them so now they’re sequestering carbon and you can value the whale because of that. And it’s like, that’s mad. Like, are you joking that’s what we’re doing to these beautiful animals who to them, their life is invaluable? Of course, like our lives are invaluable to us. And like just this idea that we could just put, so someone just pays $2 million and now we can kill the whale? I don’t know. It’s just crazy. So, you know, valuing nature is another one of them.

[00:22:59]

This idea of circular economy, like I’m not saying circular economy is not part of the solution. Obviously, we should be reusing as much as we can, but you can’t do that in a growth-based system. You can’t do that where your energy can’t be recycled. You know, if you’re burning coal, how is that becoming circular? Or if your solar panels have a 25-year lifespan on them. There’s so many elements of the economy that exist today that can’t be circular. Food. How do you make food properly circular? It’s a part of the solution, but it’s not the entire solution. It has to be incorporated into something like degrowth or something like that where it’s working with other elements of the economy to scale back our activity rather than just be thrown in there.

[00:23:46]

And let the growth economy keep going, because that’s what ultimately most businesses want to do, to keep growing. Yeah. I mean, the sad thing is that all the sustainability policies are based on financial models and accounting, which doesn’t work in a natural world. And, you know, they’re just putting band-aids on. And I write a lot about that in my Substack as well. You know, the idea that sustainability is a hoax and ultimately was designed by the financial industry where you’re looking at very linear, infinite growth in a finite planet of finite resources. Yeah. And the sad thing as well is that people in the sustainability industry are also not conservationists and not environmentalists. They’re probably from PR, sales, marketing, a very financial accounting background. And then you’re using these financial human-made models in a natural system where

[00:24:34]

that doesn’t work. And also looking at things very fragmented and very siloed rather than systems thinking and holistic design. You know, cradle to cradle or the cradle to the grave and things like that. I mean, these are things that really, really need to completely be overhauled in order to properly make change. Yeah, yeah. And something I love to remember and remind people of is that there’s no such thing as a sustainable business in an unsustainable system. So it really has to be systemic change. It’s not going to happen at an organizational level. It has to, like, we have to enable people to live good lives without Everyone having to have a corporate job because everyone needing to work in corporate is creating all this activity and production that we don’t need just

[00:25:20]

so everyone can to work. The whole system needs an overhaul and it’s not going to happen just by corporations adopting sustainability metrics. It’s just, it’s not enough. Yeah. And it’s also getting people to start to think of what a better future narrative would look like, right? Like decoupled from monetary gain and financial wealth and stuff and self-consuming. And, I mean, the nice thing was like, Erin actually wrote the endorsement for our book, Dreams of Unwritten Futures, where we’re really trying to get that out into the world that, you know, reciprocity, community, living together in sufficiency and, you know, those kinds of values are still what people want ultimately at the end of the day when you scrape off that suit and the money and the You know, constant rat race. People just want to have, like, you know, nice times to do hobbies,

[00:26:06]

you know, to be passionate about things, to spend time with your kids and your family and read a book under a tree, you know, go to the beach, you know, and stuff like that. There’s this book written by a palliative care nurse and it’s called The Five Regrets of the Dying. And like literally regret number one, might be two, I could be wrong, is that people wish they didn’t work so much because they get on their deathbed. They are on their deathbed. I don’t know how they got there. And they just look back and think, what was I doing? You know, I should have used my time to do something different. I should have spent it with my loved ones. I should have learned guitar. I should have helped make a better future for my grandkids. Any of those things, but they were working because at the time, I guess that’s what they felt like they should be doing.

[00:26:49]

But with the benefit of hindsight, they don’t always feel that way. Yeah. I mean, that’s good that you’ve done Beyond Duality because you said, wait, now you can die in peace. Yeah, if I get hit by a bus, it’s all out there guys. If I get hit by a bus, something’s sus though, right? Touching wood, touch wood. There’s not even any buses around here. There should be more buses around here though. So in the conscious of time, yeah, I guess because our, most of our audience is like, you know, educators and parents and youth and People associated with the next generation, like what kind of advice would you leave our listeners?

[00:27:36]

Oh, good question. I think more people should be curious. I reckon if more people were curious, then they would like delve into more topics and that would make them dive into another topic and then they’d be learning and asking questions and I learned this fact that I just find fascinating is that between 1970 and like 1996, people from the U.S. gained six hours of more free time each week. Do you know what people did with that six hours of more free time each week? They used it to watch TV. You know like there’s a lot there’s just so much of our time goes to Netflix and Amazon Prime and I don’t know like just watching TV and YouTube Shorts

[00:28:24]

and I think if we could take that time and read a book or have a conversation or read the news I just think we could learn more and who knows where that might take you then you know like you I just feel like I’m not saying never watch TV and, you know, have some time out from busy schedules and all that sort of thing, but do it as well as taking the time out to read and learn and converse and, that would be my advice. Right. Yeah. And if you guys are looking for things to read, I mean, author yourself. We’re all kind of addicted to learning and we’re constantly learning new things and putting new stuff out there and trying to rephrase stuff and make it

[00:29:11]

a little bit easier for anyone. So Brad, anything you want to end with? Yeah, I’m just saying to keep on the idea of curiosity, get more curious. About what’s your relationship to the web of life? And, you know, we talk about it as nature, but, you know, I’ve started thinking of it more as the web of life, which includes all this greenery we’re seeing behind here. Get curious about that. Take a walk out in nature and see if you can’t discover something you have not discovered. Yeah.

[00:29:57]

Absolutely. And what can you learn about it? And even just watching it fills you with awe and wonder, like, you know, and that fills you with reverence and wanting to be a part of bigger things. So that’s wonderful advice. There’s a really good book by David Haskell and it’s called The Forest Unseen. He literally draws like a quadrant in the backyard of his house and calls it a mandala and he watches it for a year. And it’s amazing. He managed to write a whole book about this thick, about just this quadrant in the backyard of his house. So the amount of things that went on there, the changing of seasons, the different animals, all the different animals that also came to visit, the different flora and fauna. It’s so amazing. So that’s a really good book to start if you don’t know where to start.

[00:30:43]

Yeah, sounds incredible. Well, thank you very much, Erin, for your time. It was really nice to hear, you know, what you’re doing and to catch up with you again. It’s been a few months. Yeah. And for anyone who wants to join Erin’s course, Beyond Duality, we’ll put the link in the post. Yeah. And I think you have a new season coming up in September, right? Yes. Summer of September is the next one. So, yeah. That’d be a good one to join for anyone who’s keen to learn more. Or I think it’s beyondduality.org. If you want to see the syllabus or brochure or anything like that. Thank you for having me. I’m on LinkedIn. Yeah, I’m on LinkedIn as well. It’s been really fun. Enjoy your day Brad. You’ve got a full day ahead of you now. Thank you.

[00:31:28]

Now you’re up nice and early so you have the whole day. Thank you. Bye guys. Thanks so much. See you later.

There is a particular kind of drama that unfolds in the life of almost every writer. It rarely appears on the page, yet it can determine whether the page ever gets written.

It begins quietly. You miss a few writing sessions. A chapter refuses to come together. You read another author’s work and wonder why the words seem to flow so effortlessly for them. Before long, you are no longer simply facing a writing challenge. You are having a conversation with yourself about what the challenge supposedly means.

Maybe you are not disciplined enough. Maybe you started too late. Maybe you do not have enough time, talent, experience, support, or confidence. And perhaps, although you may be reluctant to say it aloud, you begin to wonder whether you are really a writer at all.

I know this territory. I have visited it more times than I care to count, both as a writer and as a coach. I have also watched many gifted, purposeful writers become temporarily trapped there. They do not lack imagination or ability. What they have lost, at least for the moment, is their relationship with themselves as creators.

David Emerald describes a pattern like this in his book The Power of TED: The Empowerment Dynamic. He calls it the Dreaded Drama Triangle, or DDT. Although the model was not created specifically for writers, it offers a powerful way to understand what happens when fear, frustration, and self-doubt begin shaping our creative lives.

The Dreaded Drama Triangle at the Writing Desk

The Drama Triangle has three familiar roles: the Victim, the Persecutor, and the Rescuer. A writer can move through all three roles before finishing a morning cup of coffee.

The Victim says, “Why is writing so difficult for me? Other people seem to do this so much better.” The Persecutor looks for someone or something to blame: “Of course I cannot write. My job is too demanding. My family needs me. The publishing industry is impossible. I wasted too many years.”

Sometimes the Persecutor is not an outside force at all. It is the inner critic, standing over our shoulder and keeping a running commentary on every sentence we produce.

Then the Rescuer arrives with a solution: “Maybe I need another course. Another book about writing. A better computer. A new notebook. A different outlining system. Perhaps I should reorganize my office before I begin.”

There is nothing inherently wrong with courses, books, tools, or better systems. I have benefited from all of them. The problem arises when we begin treating them as something that will save us from the discomfort of creating.

That is when preparation becomes procrastination dressed in respectable clothing.

The Drama Triangle keeps us reacting to our writing life rather than creating it. We become so busy fixing, blaming, comparing, and searching for relief that we lose touch with the story that originally called us to the page.

The good news is that we do not have to remain there.

Choosing the Empowerment Dynamic

In the Empowerment Dynamic, each role in the Drama Triangle is transformed: the Victim becomes the Creator, the Persecutor becomes the Challenger, and the Rescuer becomes the Coach.

These are more than new labels. They represent three powerful shifts in how we relate to ourselves, our circumstances, and the work we have been called to create.

The circumstances may not immediately change. You may still have limited time. The chapter may still be troublesome. The rejection letter may still be sitting in your inbox. What changes is the power you give those circumstances to define you.

From Victim to Creator

The Victim focuses on what is happening and asks, “Why is this happening to me?” The Creator acknowledges what is happening and asks, “Given the present reality, what do I choose to create?”

That question has changed the direction of my writing more than once.

When I was struggling to complete my first novel, I felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the work. I could see the distance between the manuscript I had and the book I wanted it to become, and that distance felt enormous. My high standards, which could have served the story, became evidence that I was falling short.

For a while, I related to the discrepancy as a problem. Eventually, I began to see it differently. The gap between the current manuscript and my vision for the completed novel was not proof of failure. It was creative tension, and it contained the energy needed to move the story forward.

Creators are willing to stand in that gap.

They do not pretend the current reality is different from what it is. They also do not allow current reality to dictate what is possible. They hold the truth of where they are in one hand and the vision of what they want to create in the other.

Perhaps your current reality is that you have written only three chapters, while your visionary reality is a completed book. The Victim sees the unwritten chapters and feels defeated by them. The Creator sees the same unwritten chapters and recognizes an invitation.

There is still something here for me to create.

Becoming the Creator does not mean you will never feel discouraged. It means discouragement no longer gets the final word.

From Persecutor to Challenger

Writers face plenty of external challenges: demanding schedules, family responsibilities, financial pressures, market changes, criticism, rejection, and the unpredictable nature of the publishing world. But one of the most relentless persecutors is often the voice within.

It says your idea is foolish. Your writing is not original. You should be further along. You have already missed your chance. It points out every flaw while ignoring every sign of growth.

Trying to destroy this voice usually gives it more power. A more purposeful approach is to transform the Persecutor into a Challenger. A Challenger does not exist to diminish you. A Challenger calls something more from you.

I remember how easy it was to view an early rejection letter as a verdict. In the Drama Triangle, the publisher became the Persecutor and I became the rejected Victim. But when I allowed the experience to become a Challenger, the questions changed.

What can I learn from this? Where might the manuscript become stronger? What part of the feedback is useful, and what part can I release? What is this experience asking me to develop in myself?

Not every criticism is accurate, and not every rejection contains helpful feedback. Sometimes a rejection simply means that a particular person or publication was not the right home for the work. But every challenge can still help us deepen our commitment, clarify our intention, or strengthen our resilience.

The writing challenge before you may not be trying to stop you. It may be stretching you into the writer you need to become.

As I often remind the writers I coach, growth involves stretching. The intention is to stretch without pulling a muscle. We do not need to punish ourselves into becoming better writers. We can challenge ourselves firmly, compassionately, and purposefully.

From Rescuer to Coach

The Rescuer believes the answer is somewhere outside us. The next course will save the book. The right mentor will remove all uncertainty. The perfect writing routine will eliminate resistance. A new piece of software will finally make us productive.

Support matters. A wise coach, encouraging writing partner, skilled editor, or nurturing community can make an enormous difference. But genuine support does not take our creative power away. It helps us reclaim it.

A coach does not say, “You cannot do this without me.” A coach asks, “What do you know? What do you need? What is the next step you are willing to take?”

Over the years, I have discovered that some of the most important moments in a writer’s development occur when we stop asking someone else to guarantee that we will succeed. We begin listening more deeply to the story, to our experience, to our intuition, and to that purposeful part of us that knows why the work matters.

Self-coaching does not mean working in isolation. It means remaining responsible for our relationship with the work. We can receive guidance without surrendering authority. We can seek encouragement without becoming dependent on approval. We can learn from others without assuming they possess something essential that we lack.

The best coach, whether another person or the wiser voice within us, does not rescue us from the writing journey. The coach helps us become more fully present to it.

What Is Shaping Your Writing?

One of the most useful questions I have learned to ask, in writing and in life, is this:

What is shaping me in this moment?

Am I being shaped by fear, lack, and struggle? Or am I being shaped by love, possibility, contribution, curiosity, and a willingness to create?

The answer is not a judgment. It is an opportunity to notice.

When fear is shaping my writing, I often become tight and controlling. I obsess over results, compare myself with others, and become impatient with the process. I may procrastinate, overprepare, or fill my time with activities that feel productive but keep me safely away from the page.

When purpose is shaping my writing, I feel different. I become curious and more willing to experiment. I can acknowledge a weak scene without concluding that I am a weak writer. I remember that the manuscript is not a verdict on my worth. It is a creation in progress.

This awareness allows us to make what I call a purposeful pivot.

A purposeful pivot begins by pausing long enough to recognize that we have drifted into the Drama Triangle. We do not make ourselves wrong for being there. We simply notice the thoughts, emotions, and assumptions that are shaping us.

Then we ask:

If I allowed myself to be shaped by love, possibility, and purpose in the next moment, who would I choose to be?

Perhaps you would choose to be patient, curious, courageous, playful, persistent, or compassionate.

Then ask one more question:

What action would this version of me take next?

Not next month. Not when the schedule clears. Not after confidence arrives.

In the next moment.

The answer may be to write one imperfect paragraph, rework one page, make one phone call, ask one trusted reader for feedback, close the research tabs and return to the manuscript, or take a purposeful break so you can return rested rather than forcing yourself forward from exhaustion.

The action does not need to be dramatic. It simply needs to be consistent with the writer you have chosen to be.

Put Purposeful Play Back Into the Process

One reason writers become trapped in the Drama Triangle is that the manuscript begins to feel unbearably important. The book must succeed. The writing must be good. The time must not be wasted. The outcome must justify the effort.

Under that weight, creativity begins to suffocate.

Purposeful play offers another way. Purposeful play combines intention with experimentation. You remain committed to the project, but you loosen your grip on exactly how it must unfold.

You might try the scene from another character’s perspective, write the conversation you are certain will never appear in the book, let the villain explain why they believe they are right, or give yourself twenty minutes to write badly, extravagantly, and without correction.

Play does not make the work less meaningful. It allows us to remain open to surprise, and surprise is one of creativity’s favorite doorways.

Your Next Writing Challenge

Think about the writing challenge that has been occupying your thoughts lately. Perhaps you are trying to finish a first draft. Maybe you are revising a manuscript that no longer seems to cooperate. You may be returning to writing after a long absence, preparing to share your work publicly, or attempting to believe once again that your voice matters.

Notice where you have been standing in the Drama Triangle. Where have you felt like a Victim? What have you been persecuting yourself, or someone else, for? What have you been hoping would rescue you?

Now begin the shift.

As the Creator, what do you choose to create? As the Challenger, what might this difficulty be inviting you to learn or become? As the Coach, what compassionate truth do you need to hear, and what next action will you encourage yourself to take?

Write down your answers. Then choose one action small enough to begin today and meaningful enough to move the project forward.

Do not wait to feel completely ready. Readiness is often created through movement.

Your writing challenge is not evidence that you are on the wrong path. It may be the very place where your deeper voice, your greater courage, and your true purpose are waiting to emerge.

You are not merely writing a book, a story, an article, or a poem. You are creating a relationship with yourself as a writer. Every time you step out of blame, helplessness, or dependence and return to curiosity, responsibility, and purposeful action, that relationship grows stronger.

Every word becomes a step out of the Drama Triangle. Every page becomes an act of creation. And every challenge becomes another opportunity to write, and live, on purpose.

Let’s write on.

Ready for a Little Creative Clarity?

If you’re feeling stuck, uncertain about your next step, or ready to move your writing project forward with greater purpose, I invite you to reach out and schedule a complimentary Creative Clarity Session with me. We’ll explore where you are, what may be getting in the way, and what purposeful next step could help you regain momentum.

I’m also developing a new way for aspiring authors to work with me more deeply, so stay tuned. More details will be coming soon.

Book a Session

Tomorrow, the United States celebrates the 250th anniversary of its independence. Two hundred and fifty years is no small thing. By any measure, it is a remarkable milestone in the life of a nation, especially one born from a bold and imperfect experiment in freedom.

And yet, as I sit here listening to the pounding upstairs from the Loving Homestead renovations the day before this historic July 4th, I find myself strangely unable to simply join the celebration.

Not because I don’t love this country but because I do so very much. I’m so grateful that the forces of life allowed me to be born in Weymouth, MA a little over seventy-seven years ago. I do not take that bit of kismet for granted.

That distinction matters to me. This is not intended as a political article, even though politics is the language many of us have been trained to use when we talk about the state of our nation. Politics matters, of course. Policies matter. Elections matter. Leadership matters. But beneath the politics, there is something deeper:

Lately, as part of my morning One Cause vow, I’ve begun asking a simple question:

This morning, that question did not lead me to an answer so much as a deeper inquiry. What does it mean to honor Independence Day when so much in our national life (and consequently our world) feels fractured, fearful, and off course? What does it mean to love a country without pretending it is well? What does it mean to grieve the direction we seem to be heading while still refusing to surrender the possibility of something better?

I don’t feel at home in either of the easy camps. I cannot celebrate blindly, waving a flag as though all is well. But neither do I want to become one more voice shouting into the great national storm, convinced that outrage alone is a contribution. I know people who seem to think patriotism means defending everything America does. I know others who seem to think honesty requires condemning everything America has been. Neither feels whole to me.

Two hundred and fifty years ago, courageous and complicated people declared independence from a distant king. That declaration was visionary and incomplete, inspiring and flawed, liberating for some while excluding many others. It’s been a work-in-progress ever since.

The American story has always carried both promise and contradiction. Perhaps every human story does. What matters now, at least to me, is not whether we can polish the past until it shines or condemn it until nothing remains. What matters is whether we can tell the truth about where we are and still choose who we are becoming. Let me rephrase that as a question:

And that brings me to the possibility that maybe this particular Independence Day is inviting us into a new kind of declaration—not independence from another nation, but independence from the assumptions that have brought us to this moment.

For starters, let me suggest a few.

• How about independence from the belief that we are separate from one another and from the living Earth.

• Independence from the story that more is always better.

• Independence from the illusion that Earth’s resources are endless and ours to consume without consequence.

• Independence from the hope that technology alone will save us from the deeper transformation we are avoiding.

In the language of One Cause, maybe this is a moment to begin freeing ourselves from the Four Great Untruths and recommitting ourselves to the Four Great Truths:

Interconnectedness,

Sufficiency,

Reciprocity, and

Stewardship.

Not as political slogans. Not as ideology. Not as something to argue about online. But as ways of being we practice in our families, our neighborhoods, our communities, and our relationship with the living world.

When I look at Logan and Piper, this all becomes much less abstract. They don’t wake up asking whether the world is red or blue. They notice worms, flowers, birds, puddles, berries, bugs, and whether the adults around them feel safe and loving. They are learning, every day, what kind of world this is by watching how we live inside it. And I find myself wondering: What version of “normal” are we handing them?

Perhaps a new patriotism is being asked of us now. Not the patriotism of certainty or superiority, but the patriotism of stewardship. The kind that loves a country enough to help it mature. The kind that tells the truth without bitterness. The kind that plants trees, repairs relationships, protects children, tends soil, welcomes neighbors, and asks what freedom is actually for.

Freedom for compassion. Freedom for responsibility. Freedom for service. Freedom for the long, humble work of becoming better humans, parents, and ancestors. Freedom to participate in the healing of a world that is not separate from us, and never has been.

So tomorrow, I may still watch fireworks though probably just listen to them from the distance as I try to calm my two canine companions. I may still feel gratitude for the many blessings this country has made possible in my own life. And I may also feel sadness, concern, and grief for how far we still have to go.

Both can be true.

Maybe that is what maturity asks of us—to hold love and grief in the same heart without collapsing into denial or despair.

This Independence Day, I’m not sure I can celebrate in the old way. But I can recommit. I can recommit to living as though the web of life is real, sacred, and asking something of me. I can recommit to my family, my community, and this small patch of Earth we call the Loving Homestead. I can recommit to the future Logan and Piper deserve.

And perhaps that is celebration enough.

This weekend, maybe the question is not simply, “What are we free from?” Maybe the deeper question is,

Over the next few weeks, I’d like to invite you into an exploration of an idea that has been quietly growing in importance for me. It sits at the intersection of my work as an author, my role as a grandfather, my One Cause experiment, my Write On Purpose Coaching practice, and my growing conviction that stories may matter far more than most of us realize.

The idea is called Thrutopia.

If that word is new to you, don’t worry. A few months ago it was new to me too. In this first article, I don’t want to explain Thrutopia so much as explore why it matters. Why stories matter. Why imagination matters. And why the future we create together may depend upon the stories we choose to tell ourselves and each other.

Let me begin with a simple story.

A few weeks ago, I was spending time outdoors with my grandkids, five-year-old Logan and three-year-old Piper. We were in the backyard where there’s a fantastic playground set up that has been the site for many of our adventures. This day was no exceptions. One moment we were climbing the ropes of a pirate’s ship, the next we were on a spaceship flying to Mars. Then, in the blinking of an eye we were dragon riders. To Logan and Piper, these weren’t merely games. They were possibilities. They were rehearsals for who they might might someday become.

Watching these two beautiful children, I was reminded that long before children learn facts, they learn stories. Long before they understand economics, politics, or climate science, they begin constructing an understanding of how the world works through narrative. Who are the good guys? Who are the bad guys? What happens when challenges arise? Can ordinary people make a difference? Is the future something to fear or something to help create?

One of our favorite shows to watch with Logan and Piper these days is Bluey. On the surface, it’s a delightful animated series about a family of Australian dogs (already a winner in my book). But beneath the humor and playful adventures are stories about imagination, kindness, resilience, creativity, friendship, and the importance of family and community. Episode after episode, children are quietly absorbing messages about what it means to be human—and perhaps just as importantly, adults are too.

Stories answer those questions long before logic does. They help children—and grownups—develop an internal map of reality. They shape what we believe is possible, what we expect from others, and what kind of future we imagine ourselves inhabiting.

What Stories Shaped You?

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I’d love to hear from you. What book, movie, television show, teacher, coach, or family story most shaped how you see the world today? Share in the comments.

And then it struck me. Maybe adults aren’t all that different.

Most people assume the future is created by politicians, corporations, technological breakthroughs, and economic forces. Certainly those things matter. But I’m not so sure that’s where the future begins.

I think the future begins in imagination.

Explore One Cause

One Cause is my ongoing exploration of the deeper narratives shaping humanity’s relationship with nature—and how we can create a regenerative future together.

Before every nation, there was an idea. Before every movement, there was a story. Before every invention, there was someone who imagined something that didn’t yet exist. The Wright brothers imagined human flight. Martin Luther King Jr. imagined a different America. Jane Goodall imagined a different relationship between humans and the natural world. Every meaningful change begins twice: first in imagination and then in reality. Stories are the bridge between those two worlds.

The more I’ve reflected on this, the more I’ve begun to see that many of the challenges we face today are not simply political, environmental, or economic. They are also narrative challenges. We are living amid what many people call the polycrisis—a convergence of climate disruption, political polarization, technological upheaval, economic uncertainty, social fragmentation, and a growing crisis of meaning. Yet beneath all of these challenges lies a deeper question:

What story are we telling ourselves about who we are and where we’re headed?

Because the dominant story many people seem to be living inside right now goes something like this: the world is broken, human beings are the problem (or at least those ‘other’ human beings who don’t agree with me), everything is getting worse, and the future is something to fear.

If we’re honest, much of our entertainment reinforces exactly that narrative. Turn on the television, scroll through streaming services, or browse the bestseller shelves. Dystopian futures are everywhere. Civilizations collapse. Artificial intelligence takes over. The environment falls apart. Communities disintegrate. People betray one another. To be clear, I understand why these stories resonate. I’ve written a few of my own including The Stars Beckon, Babble and Rabble. They often contain important warnings. They can help us see dangers we might otherwise ignore. But warnings alone rarely inspire transformation.

As I recently learned during a Gaia’s Call 2.0 conversation with author Manda Scott, people don’t change simply because they’re frightened. They change when they can imagine something worth moving toward. That insight landed deeply for me because when I look around,

I don’t see a shortage of warnings.

I see a shortage of compelling visions.

I see a shortage of believable pathways toward a future people actually want to inhabit. I see a shortage of stories that tell the truth without surrendering hope.

And perhaps that’s one reason so many people feel stuck. Human beings can endure remarkable hardship when they can see meaning, purpose, and possibility on the other side. Without that, fear easily becomes paralysis. This is where I find myself increasingly drawn to the idea that writers, artists, musicians, filmmakers, teachers, podcasters, and other creatives have a larger role to play than we often realize. Yes, creatives like you and I.

Not because creatives possess all the answers. Lord knows I don’t. The deeper I dive into the polycrisis, the more aware I become of how much I don’t know. But perhaps our role has never been to provide answers. Perhaps our role is to expand what people can imagine.

After all, before we can build a different future, we must first be able to see it.

That realization has been quietly changing how I think about storytelling, about my own fiction, about Gaia’s Call, about One Cause, and even about the conversations I have with Logan and Piper. It has also led me to a fascinating question:

Why is it that so many of our stories about the future seem

trapped between two extremes?

On one side, we find dystopias—stories that warn us where our current path may lead. On the other side, we find utopias—visions of a perfected future that often feel disconnected from the messy reality of getting there. One leaves us frightened. The other can leave us skeptical. Yet it seems to me there ought to be another possibility.

What if there were stories courageous enough to tell the truth about the challenges we face while also helping us imagine realistic pathways toward a world we would actually want our grandchildren to inherit? What if stories could help us move beyond both blind optimism and doom-filled pessimism?

That question led me to discover a growing movement known as Thrutopia. And it may turn out to be one of the most important storytelling movements of our time.

In preparation for next week’s article, I’d like to invite you into a simple experiment.

Pay attention to the stories you encounter over the coming days. The books you read. The movies and television shows you watch. The news you consume. The conversations you have with family and friends. As you do, ask yourself:

What future is this story inviting me into?

Is it inviting me toward fear or possibility? Toward helplessness (as in learned helplessness) or agency? Toward isolation or connection? Toward resignation or participation? You don’t need to judge the answers. Simply notice them. Because once you begin paying attention, you may discover that stories are shaping far more of your worldview than you previously realized. In fact, they may be shaping your expectations of the future itself.

And that brings us to where we’ll begin next week.

We’ll explore Thrutopia—what it is, where it came from, and why an increasing number of writers, thinkers, and changemakers believe it offers something our culture desperately needs right now: stories that tell the truth about where we are while illuminating believable pathways toward where we might yet go.

Until then, pay attention to the stories.

They may be shaping the future more than any of us realize.

An Update on Write On Purpose Coaching

Since selling my small animal veterinary practice in 1989, I’ve been on a joyful adventure that has blended two lifelong passions: writing and transformational coaching.

A few years ago, I brought those passions together through Write On Purpose Coaching, helping aspiring and emerging authors move from “one day” to “today.” Then, in late 2024, I took a hiatus from coaching to focus on my own writing—including much of what many of you have been reading here on Substack.

Today, I’m excited to announce that I’m returning to Write On Purpose Coaching.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that most people don’t struggle because they lack talent. They struggle because they lack clarity, confidence, accountability, or simply someone who believes in them before they fully believe in themselves.

That’s why I continue to offer complimentary Creative Clarity Sessions.

Whether you have an idea for a book, a manuscript gathering dust, or a completed draft that’s waiting for its next step, this conversation is designed to help you move forward.

You’ll leave with:

• Greater clarity about your book and the deeper purpose behind it.

• A practical roadmap for what comes next.

• Renewed momentum and confidence to move your writing—and perhaps your life—forward.

One of my clients described me as “the person you want to have your back.” Another said our work together helped her become not only a better writer, but a deeper and more authentic human being.

Those words mean a lot because they capture what Write On Purpose is really about.

Yes, we write books.

But we also author our lives.

And sometimes the very thing standing between us and the book we’re meant to write is a conversation that helps us see what is possible.

If you’ve been carrying a book inside you for months, years, or even decades, consider this your invitation.

The world doesn’t need more unfinished manuscripts hidden away in drawers and hard drives. It needs your story. Your wisdom. Your experience. Your unique voice.

Don’t let your book die within you.

Instead, let’s explore what’s possible together.

To schedule a complimentary Creative Clarity Session, visit:

www.wbradfordswift.com/coach

I’d be honored to have your back and support you on your Write On Purpose journey.

In Part One of this series, we explored how the stories running in our minds shape what we believe is possible. If the narrative we carry says the future is doomed and nothing we do matters, our most likely response will be withdrawal, anxiety, or quiet resignation. But when we step back and notice that those stories are interpretations rather than inevitabilities, we begin to reclaim a small but powerful space of freedom. We can choose which stories we continue feeding and which ones we begin to question.

In Part Two, we looked at something equally important: the science of motivation. Research suggests that people rarely change because someone else tells them what they should do. In fact, that approach often creates resistance. What truly motivates people is discovering their own reasons for caring and acting. When we reconnect with something we love—a river we grew up near, a forest trail that shaped our childhood, a garden we tend with our hands—the desire to protect life arises naturally.

Join the conversation with others exploring this path

Taken together, these two insights point toward something quietly revolutionary. If we change the stories we carry and reconnect with our own motivations for protecting life, the possibility of meaningful action begins to open. But there is still one question that many people understandably ask when they look at the scale of the challenges before us:

What difference could one person—or one family—really make?

This is where one of my favorite metaphors enters the picture.

The architect and systems thinker Buckminster Fuller used the term trimtab to describe a very small device attached to the rudder of a large ship. When the trimtab moves, it creates a small change in pressure that helps turn the much larger rudder. Once the rudder begins to turn, the entire ship slowly changes direction. In other words, a relatively tiny input can help shift a much larger system.

Fuller loved this metaphor because it illustrated how complex systems often change. Transformation does not always begin with massive force. Sometimes it begins with small, well-placed actions that alter the direction of the whole.

When I think about the ecological challenges facing our planet, the trimtab metaphor feels especially relevant. Many people assume that only governments, corporations, or global agreements have the power to influence the trajectory of the Earth’s future. Those forces certainly matter, but history repeatedly shows that cultural change often begins elsewhere. It begins with shifts in how ordinary people live, relate, and imagine the world.

Over time, enough of those shifts begin to alter the larger system.

This is where the Four Great Truths of the One Cause framework come into practical focus. These truths are not abstract philosophical ideas; they are descriptions of how living systems actually function. Interconnection reminds us that life operates through relationships. Sufficiency invites us to reconsider the assumption that endless growth is necessary for human flourishing. Reciprocity reveals that life thrives through balanced exchange. And stewardship invites us to live as participants entrusted with care across generations.

When we begin living with these truths in mind, even small choices can become trimtabs for a larger cultural shift.

A family plants a pollinator garden in their yard, and suddenly butterflies and bees return. A group of neighbors organizes a repair café, extending the life of everyday objects. A school plants a small food forest where children learn how soil, water, and sunlight collaborate to create life. Someone chooses to support a local farmer, strengthening both community and ecosystem.

None of these actions, by themselves, solve the climate crisis. But they begin changing the story of how we live on Earth.

In my own life, I see small examples of this almost every day. When Logan and Piper come to visit, we wander through the yard and the small food forest we’ve been nurturing here at the Loving Homestead. What begins as simple curiosity—digging in the soil, noticing worms, watching birds—quietly becomes something deeper. They are not just learning about nature. They are forming relationships with the living world.

Moments like that remind me that transformation rarely begins with grand declarations. It begins with relationships—with soil, water, animals, neighbors, and children who still remember how alive the world is.

What’s one small action you’ve taken—or could take—that helps life flourish where you live?

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Leave a comment and reflect

Each of us can participate in this shift in ways both large and small. Some will influence systems at scale. Many of us will contribute more quietly—through how we live, how we relate, and how we care.

In systems language, these are trimtabs.

Small actions that help the larger system turn.

If you feel inspired, begin with something simple. Identify a place or relationship that matters deeply to you. Ask yourself: Why does this matter? What would I like to see flourish here? And what small step could I take?

You don’t need to solve everything.

You only need to begin. Because when enough trimtabs begin to move…

The ship begins to turn.

As we close this three-part series, I want to return to the simple experiment that began it. The stories we tell shape the possibilities we see. When those stories shift—from despair to responsibility, from separation to relationship—we begin to see new paths forward.

In a time when the challenges can feel overwhelming, perhaps the most powerful question we can ask is not:

How do we fix everything?

But rather:

What is one small way I can help life flourish today?

That question may sound modest.

But history suggests…

It is exactly how great turnings begin.

In Part One of this series, we explored something deceptively simple but profoundly important: much of our suffering—and much of our paralysis in the face of global challenges—comes not from the events themselves but from the interpretations we attach to them. If the story running in our minds says the future is doomed (or some similar disempowering story), the most likely result is despair. If the story says nothing we do matters, the most likely result is inaction. These stories we carry around as though they are true quietly shape and limit the possibilities we see.

But changing the story in our minds is only the first step. The next question is just as important—and perhaps even more challenging:

If we’re honest, most of us already know what we “should” be doing in many areas of life. We know we should eat better, move our bodies more often, spend less time staring at screens, and perhaps spend more time caring for the natural world that sustains us. Yet knowing what we should do and actually doing it are often two very different things. Information alone rarely changes behavior. If it did, the internet would have already solved most of humanity’s problems. (And yes, some might say such a wealth of information has only served to make matters worse, but that discussion we’ll save for another day.)

For many years I assumed that motivating people—including myself—worked in a fairly straightforward way. You explain the problem clearly, you explain why it matters, and then you encourage people to do the right thing. In other words, we tell people what they should do and then we try to persuade them that it’s important. Psychologists sometimes call this the “tell and sell” approach. It sounds reasonable enough, but research suggests that it rarely works as well as we think.

In fact, something interesting often happens when people are told what they must do. Instead of becoming motivated, they become resistant. There is a well-documented psychological phenomenon called psychological reactance, which describes our deeply human tendency to push back when we feel our autonomy is threatened. The harder someone insists that we adopt a certain behavior, the more our inner sense of independence starts to protest. Even if we might have agreed with the suggestion originally, the feeling of being pushed can make us want to do the opposite.

Anyone who has raised children—or remembers being a child—recognizes this dynamic immediately. Tell a young person that they absolutely must clean their room right now, and suddenly cleaning their room becomes the last thing they want to do. Adults are not so different. Study after study has shown that people often avoid actions they are strongly told to take, even when those actions align with their own interests.

This insight sits at the heart of a fascinating motivational approach developed by Yale researcher Michael Pantalon in his work on Instant Influence. His research suggests that people are far more likely to change when they hear themselves say why they want to change. In other words, lasting motivation rarely comes from someone else’s arguments. It arises when individuals connect with their own reasons for taking action.

The practical implication of this insight is surprisingly simple but powerful. Instead of asking someone why they should change, ask them why they might want to change. That small shift—from “should” to “might”—makes a remarkable difference. It lowers resistance and respects autonomy. Rather than triggering defensiveness, it invites curiosity and reflection.

From there, a short sequence of questions can help people uncover their own motivations. One might begin by asking, “Why might you want to make this change?” The next question explores readiness: “On a scale from one to ten, how ready do you feel you are to try this?” Then comes a clever twist: “Why didn’t you choose a lower number?” That question nudges the mind toward the reasons change already matters. From there the conversation moves toward imagining the positive outcomes of change, exploring why those outcomes are meaningful, and finally identifying one small next step.

Notice what is happening in this process. No one is being lectured. No one is being pushed. Instead, people are discovering their own motivations, and once those motivations begin to take shape, action often follows naturally.

When I first encountered this research, something clicked immediately in relation to the climate crisis and the broader polycrisis we are navigating today. For decades, much of the environmental conversation has relied heavily on the tell-and-sell approach. Scientists present alarming data. Advocates explain why change is necessary. Leaders urge people to adopt more sustainable behaviors. While these efforts are often well-intentioned and factually correct, they can sometimes trigger the very resistance psychological research predicts.

If psychological reactance is real—and the evidence suggests it is—then some of our attempts to motivate environmental action may unintentionally produce the opposite result. People do not want to feel pushed or shamed into caring for the planet. They want to feel that their actions arise from their own values and their own sense of meaning.

For example, given that my background and training as a veterinarian was science based, it felt natural to talk about and seek out the facts about climate change, but I found that data did little to motivate me or others into action. It wasn’t until Logan (and later Piper) came along that I realized it was time for me to take action to forward the process of creating a regenerative future that would leave them with a planet they would be proud to call their own.

So, what do you deeply care about that might inspire you into action to join the ranks of being an Eco-Guardian-In-Training? Why not leave a comment below?

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This insight suggests a different kind of conversation about the Earth. Instead of telling people what they must do to save the planet, we might begin with a much simpler and more human question: “Why might protecting the natural world matter to you?” For one person, the answer might involve their children or grandchildren as it did for me. For another, it might be the beauty of a nearby forest or river. For someone else, it may be the simple desire to live a meaningful life that contributes to something larger than oneself.

Whatever the answer turns out to be, the motivation becomes personal, and personal motivations are powerful.

I was reminded of this recently during a conversation with a friend about the state of the world. We talked about climate disruption, political tensions, and the growing sense that many of our systems are under strain. At one point my friend shrugged and said something I hear fairly often these days: “Honestly, it feels like there’s nothing ordinary people can do.”

In the past I might have responded by offering examples of practical actions—reducing consumption, supporting regenerative agriculture, planting trees, or restoring local ecosystems. Instead, I tried a different approach. I simply asked, “What do you care most about protecting in the world?”

He paused for a moment, thinking. Then he began telling me about a river where he used to fish with his father when he was a boy. That river, it turned out, held some of his most cherished memories. As he spoke, the entire tone of the conversation shifted. We were no longer discussing abstract environmental problems. We were talking about something he loved.

From there, it became much easier to imagine what kinds of actions might help protect places like that river. The motivation didn’t come from my arguments. It came from his memories and his sense of connection.

This approach aligns beautifully with the deeper philosophy behind the One Cause project. The Great Untruths of modern culture have encouraged us to see the Earth primarily as a backdrop for human activity or a warehouse of resources to extract. The Four Great Truths invite a different perspective: that life is interconnected, that sufficiency is possible, that reciprocity with nature sustains abundance, and that humanity’s role is stewardship rather than domination.

Those truths cannot simply be imposed through arguments or ideology. They have to be rediscovered through experience and relationship. When someone reconnects with a river they love, a forest they remember, a garden they tend, or a piece of land they care for, those truths often begin to reveal themselves naturally.

If you’re curious to experiment with this idea yourself, try something simple this week. Choose one small action that might support life in some way—something practical and manageable. Perhaps it involves planting a tree, reducing waste, supporting a local farmer, restoring soil in your garden, or spending time tending a small piece of land. Then ask yourself a few gentle questions. Why might I want to do this? On a scale of one to ten, how ready am I to try it? Why didn’t I choose a lower number? Imagine I did this—what positive outcomes might result? Why are those outcomes important to me? And what might be the smallest next step I could take?

Notice that none of these questions force action. They simply invite reflection. Yet once our own reasons become visible, action often begins to feel less like an obligation and more like a natural expression of who we are.

In the final article of this series, we’ll bring these two insights together. Changing the story in our minds opens the door to possibility. Discovering our own motivations ignites action. Together they can help us become something Buckminster Fuller once described with a beautiful metaphor: trimtabs—small forces capable of helping turn much larger systems. And in a time of planetary transition, the world may need many trimtabs.

P.S. — A New Ecosystem & A New Conversation

By the time this podcast episode airs, Ann and I will be with Logan and Piper for a much-needed—and deeply earned—family beach trip. It will be their first time experiencing an entirely new ecosystem in such an immersive way: the rhythms of the ocean, the pull of the tides, the vastness of something both playful and powerful.

I have a feeling we’ll all be learning something.

Shortly after we return, on Friday, May 29, a new episode of Gaia’s Call 2.0 will go live—one that feels like a natural continuation of everything we’ve been exploring together in this series.

Marla (of the Eco-Chapter) and I will be joined by Manda Scott, host of the Accidental Gods podcast, for a conversation that goes right to the heart of this moment:

• Why are we in this mess?

• What role do our deepest fears and cultural patterns play?

• What can one person actually do?

• And perhaps most importantly—what role does creativity play in shaping what comes next?

Manda speaks powerfully about what she calls “the imagination revolution”—the idea that creativity isn’t optional in times like these… it’s essential. It may, in fact, be the leading edge of change.

And as I watch Logan and Piper encounter the ocean for the first time, I’ll be reminded that imagination begins exactly there—in wonder, in relationship, in direct experience with the living world.

Politics at Thanksgiving.
Who left the dishes in the sink.
And, perhaps most of all…

Pee.

Yet here we are.

And honestly? If we’re serious about becoming a more regenerative culture—one that lives by the Four Great Truths instead of the old extractive mindset—it may be time to have a surprisingly practical conversation about what we flush away every single day.

Because here’s the startling truth:

Every time we urinate into a toilet and flush, we are literally flushing away valuable plant nutrients… using gallons of perfectly clean drinking water to do it.

Nature, meanwhile, is probably shaking her head.

Wait… Human Urine Is Actually Fertilizer?

Yes. Quite literally.

Human urine contains significant amounts of:

• Nitrogen

• Phosphorus

• Potassium

In other words…

the exact same core nutrients listed on commercial fertilizer bags as N-P-K.

Most of the nitrogen in urine is present as urea—the same nitrogen compound used in many synthetic fertilizers.

Researchers estimate that urine contains:

• roughly 80–90% of the nitrogen,

• 50–65% of the phosphorus,

• and 50–85% of the potassium found in household wastewater.

Or to put it more bluntly:

Your kidneys are producing fertilizer every day.

Congratulations.

You are a mobile nutrient recycling system.

The Strange Modern Habit of Flushing Nutrients Away

For most of human history, cultures understood that nutrients belonged in the soil.

Then modern sanitation arrived—which absolutely helped reduce disease and improve public health—but it also created a strange disconnect.

We began treating “waste” as something to remove rather than something to cycle.

So now:

• we mine phosphorus,

• manufacture synthetic nitrogen using fossil fuels,

• buy fertilizer in plastic bags,

• and simultaneously flush nutrient-rich urine into water treatment systems.

It’s a little like buying groceries while throwing dinner into the trash.

Nature Doesn’t Waste Anything

One of the deepest lessons of ecology is this:

In healthy ecosystems, waste from one process becomes food for another.

Fallen leaves become soil.
Dead trees feed fungi.
Animal manure feeds grasses.
Nothing is wasted.

Yet modern industrial culture often behaves as though humans exist outside these cycles.

One Cause calls this separation one of the Great Untruths.

And perhaps nowhere is this more obvious—or more oddly humorous—than our relationship with pee.

So… Does It Actually Work?

Surprisingly well.

Numerous studies have shown that human urine can effectively fertilize crops and gardens when used properly.

Researchers studying urine fertilization found:

• improved plant growth,

• increased yields,

• and performance comparable in some cases to synthetic fertilizers.

Gardeners often notice especially vigorous leafy growth because urine is nitrogen-rich.

Translation?

Your tomatoes may become strangely enthusiastic.

Before Everyone Runs Outside…

Let’s talk safety and common sense.

This is not about randomly spraying pee around the backyard like some kind of eco-apocalypse survival cult.

There are wise ways to do this.

And unwise ways.

Very unwise ways.

Practical Guidelines for Using Urine in the Garden

1. Dilute It

Fresh urine is potent.

Most gardeners dilute it somewhere between:

• 1:10

• and 1:20 with water

Some sources recommend even weaker solutions for delicate plants.

Think of it as a concentrate, not a sports drink for kale.

2. Apply to Soil, Not Leaves

Apply near the roots or soil surface rather than directly onto leaves.

This:

• reduces odor,

• minimizes leaf burn,

• and helps nutrients absorb into the soil.

3. Avoid Use if Taking Certain Medications

Many medications can pass through urine.

If someone is taking:

• chemotherapy drugs,

• heavy pharmaceuticals,

• or has an active urinary tract infection,

it’s best not to use their urine in the garden.

Good rule of thumb:
Healthy person + healthy system + common sense.

4. Don’t Overdo It

Too much nitrogen can overwhelm plants.

If your zucchini suddenly looks like it’s training for the Olympics but produces no vegetables…

you may have gone overboard.

5. Fruit Trees, Compost, Ornamentals, and Nitrogen-Loving Plants Are Great Starting Places

Many eco-gardeners begin by using diluted urine on:

• compost piles,

• fruit trees,

• corn,

• squash,

• ornamental plants,

• and nitrogen-hungry vegetables.

If the “ick factor” feels strong at first, starting with compost is often psychologically easier.

The Water Conversation We Rarely Have

Here’s another astonishing piece of the puzzle:

Modern toilets use drinking water to transport nutrients away from us.

Millions upon millions of gallons.

Every day.

Meanwhile, droughts increase.
Aquifers shrink.
And farmers spend enormous amounts on synthetic fertilizer.

The irony is hard to miss.

What Would an Eco-Conscious Family Do?

Not every family is going to install composting toilets tomorrow.

And honestly, that’s okay.

This isn’t about purity.
It’s about awareness and thoughtful experimentation.

Maybe it starts simply:

• using diluted urine on compost,

• feeding fruit trees,

• or teaching kids about nutrient cycles.

Imagine the conversation:

“Dad… are you peeing on the compost pile?”

“Yes, son. I’m participating in regenerative nutrient recovery.”

“Mom… Dad’s being weird again.”

Probably true.

But maybe wonderfully weird.

Logan, Piper, and the Great Nutrient Mystery

I can already imagine trying to explain this to my grandchildren.

Logan would likely think it’s hilarious.

Piper might announce it loudly in public.

“PAPA PUTS PEE ON THE PLANTS!”

Which, admittedly, could create awkward moments at the garden center.

Still…

there’s something deeply healing about reconnecting children to natural cycles before industrial culture convinces them that everything natural is somehow embarrassing or “gross.”

Kids often understand ecology better than adults.

They instinctively know:

• soil matters,

• worms matter,

• trees matter,

• and life feeds life.

The Bigger Picture

This article isn’t really about urine.

Not entirely.

It’s about whether humanity can relearn how to participate in living systems instead of endlessly extracting from them.

It’s about moving from:

• waste → regeneration

• separation → interconnection

• consumption → reciprocity

The Four Great Truths aren’t abstract philosophy.

They show up in kitchens.
Gardens.
Compost piles.
Water bills.

And yes…

occasionally in conversations polite society would rather avoid.

A Final Thought Before You Flush

I’m not suggesting everyone abandon indoor plumbing and sprint into the woods with a watering can.

But I am suggesting that regenerative thinking often begins by questioning habits we’ve never examined.

Nature wastes nothing.

Perhaps the future won’t be built only through massive technological breakthroughs…

but also through millions of small, humble acts of reconnection.

Even the surprisingly yellow ones.

Resources & Research

• Rich Earth Institute – Guide to Using Urine Fertilizer for Home Gardens

• Wild Abundance – Human Urine as Fertilizer

• Scientific American – Human Urine Is an Effective Fertilizer

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PS - Have you had personal experience with a composting toilet that allows you to reclaim and use your family’s pee? If so, I’d appreciate hearing about it. Leave a comment.

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Part 1: The Story in Our Heads Is Shaping the World

How our interpretations fuel despair—or possibility

Not long ago I was outside in the yard with my grandson Logan, who had discovered something that instantly captured his five-year-old imagination. It was nothing particularly dramatic—just a small worm wriggling through the soil after a rainstorm. But to Logan, it might as well have been a dragon. He crouched down, studying it carefully, narrating what he thought the worm might be thinking and where it might be going. Piper, his little sister, soon joined us, equally fascinated.

Watching them, I was reminded of something I think many of us lose as adults. Children don’t just see the world—they relate to it. The worm isn’t an object. It’s a character in the unfolding drama of life. The tree in the yard isn’t scenery; it’s a companion in the landscape of their play. Everything feels alive, meaningful, connected.

How our interpretations fuel despair—or possibility

Over the years I’ve developed a little morning ritual. Coffee in hand and a bowl of fruit in front of me for a few quiet minutes before my wife, Ann, wakes up. Often Rascal—my loyal canine companion—is curled up nearby. The early mountain light filtering through the trees here in the mountains of North Carolina. And if I’m honest, sometimes my mind wanders through the headlines of the world we’re living in: climate disruption, political turmoil, economic uncertainty, wildfires, floods, storms. Many of us feel it now—that sense that something larger than a typical “rough patch in history” is unfolding. I often refer to it as the polycrisis—a convergence of ecological, economic, social, and spiritual disruptions all happening at once.

It can be a lot to take in. Some mornings, if I’m not careful, my mind can start telling a story about it all. A story that has become all too familiar. To borrow a phrase from my own childhood: Our world is going to hell in a handbasket. Maybe you’ve heard versions of those stories in your own mind as well.

Recently, two articles I happened to read on the same morning stopped me in my tracks. Something about them felt deeply connected—not just to each other, but to the work many of us are trying to do in this time of planetary transition. And it dawned on me that the climate crisis—and the broader polycrisis—may not just be a technological or political challenge. It may also be a story challenge.

One of the articles explored something psychologists have been saying for a long time: much of our suffering does not come directly from events themselves, but from the interpretations we attach to them. The Stoic philosopher Epictetus put it bluntly centuries ago: “It’s not things that upset us but our judgments about things.” When something happens in our lives, our minds almost instantly begin constructing a story about what it means. A friend doesn’t text back. A project fails. A troubling news headline appears. The event itself may last seconds, but the story we tell ourselves about it can last for years.

Psychologists refer to these internal patterns as schemas—mental frameworks built from past experiences that quietly shape how we see the world and ourselves. Over time those schemas become so familiar that we stop recognizing them as interpretations. They begin to feel like reality itself. Not interpretations, but facts.

When it comes to the climate crisis and ecological disruption, I notice a similar dynamic playing out in the collective psyche. The facts are serious. We are destabilizing the climate. We are losing biodiversity. We are drawing down natural systems faster than they regenerate. These realities deserve our full attention. But the interpretation layer often goes much further. It turns into a narrative of inevitability: We’re doomed. It’s too late. Human beings are the problem.

Those interpretations can quietly shut down the very thing we need most right now—agency. If the story in our head says nothing matters, why would we act? But what if those interpretations are not the only story available to us?

One of the most powerful ideas I’ve encountered over the years comes from Viktor Frankl, the psychiatrist who survived the Nazi concentration camps. He wrote that between stimulus and response there is a space, and in that space lies our power to choose our response. That tiny space may be one of the most important places in the human experience. Because inside that space something extraordinary becomes possible. We can notice the story our mind is telling and decide whether or not we want to keep believing it.

The article I read put it another way: our thoughts are powerful, but they are not us. They are simply things our minds produce. Once we recognize that distinction, something begins to loosen. We don’t have to fight every anxious thought that appears. We can simply notice it. Ah…there’s my mind telling the “nothing will change” story again. Then we come back to the present moment—to our breath, our body, and the living world around us.

When I step back from the daily news cycle and look at the larger arc of human history, another story begins to come into view. Yes, we are facing unprecedented challenges. But we are also witnessing something else: millions of people waking up to their relationship with the Earth. Young people planting forests. Families restoring soil. Communities creating repair cafés and sharing networks. Scientists, farmers, and Indigenous wisdom keepers working together to regenerate ecosystems.

In the language of the One Cause project, we might say that we are slowly rediscovering what I call the Four Great Truths: that life is interconnected, that sufficiency is possible, that reciprocity with nature is essential, and that our role as humans is stewardship rather than domination. These truths do not erase the challenges we face, but they do change the story from doom to responsibility—from despair to participation.

Reading those two articles together sparked an idea that I’d like to explore with you over the next few weeks. Because the second article introduced another fascinating insight: if changing the story in our minds is the first step, the next step is understanding how people actually change their behavior. And it turns out the science of motivation is surprisingly counterintuitive. It’s not about telling people what they should do. In fact, the more we push people, the more they resist. Real change tends to happen when people discover their own reasons for acting.

That insight will be the focus of Part Two of this series.

Together, these two ideas—changing the story in our heads and discovering our deeper motivations—may help unlock something incredibly important for this moment in history. Not just awareness, but action.

What story about the world have you noticed running in your own mind lately?

Until then, I’d like to invite you into a small experiment. The next time you encounter a troubling news headline or feel anxiety about the state of the world, pause for a moment and ask yourself three simple questions. First: what actually happened? Just the facts. Second: what story is my mind telling about it? And third: is there another interpretation that leaves room for possibility? Not blind optimism—just possibility.

If you try this simple experiment, I’d love to hear what you discover.

Have you ever caught yourself telling a “nothing will change” story? What helped you shift it—if anything?

Leave a comment

Because the future we create will depend, in no small part, on the stories we choose to believe—and the actions those stories inspire.

In the next article we’ll explore something fascinating: why people almost never change when they’re told what to do, and the surprisingly simple questions that can ignite real motivation—for ourselves, our families, and perhaps even the wider culture.

Until then, I’d love to hear from you. What story about the future of our world have you noticed running through your own mind lately? And what might a more life-affirming version of that story look like?

I understand why.

When the ground beneath society feels shaky—politically, economically, ecologically—people naturally seek coherence. They seek community. They seek a moral compass and a story large enough to hold suffering. Religious traditions have long provided those anchors.

But as I’ve listened to these conversations, I’ve found myself wondering whether we might be looking in the wrong direction—not because Christianity is wrong, but because the search may need to reach further back in our collective memory.

My hunch is that we haven’t gone far enough back. Before Christianity. Before modern secularism. Before the idea that the world is mostly made of objects.

For tens of thousands of years, human beings lived with a very different understanding of the world: that we exist within a living community of beings—animals, plants, rivers, mountains, winds. Our ancestors did not think of nature as scenery. They experienced it as relationship.

Today we often call that worldview animism.

Importantly, animism does not have to replace other forms of faith. It isn’t necessarily an either-or proposition. Many people may find ways to hold both perspectives—honoring spiritual traditions while also rediscovering a deeper relational connection with the living Earth. If anything, animism invites us to focus on what many traditions share: reverence, humility, and participation in something larger than ourselves.

Where animism differs from much modern spirituality is that it is less about belief and more about relationship. It is embodied. Present-moment. Experiential. You don’t simply believe the world is alive. You participate in its aliveness.

Gaia: A Living System

Around the same time these ideas were beginning to stir in me, I also began listening more closely to the work of scientist James Lovelock and others who developed what is now known as the Gaia hypothesis—the idea that Earth functions as a vast self-regulating system, with life and environment interacting to maintain conditions favorable for life.

More recently, Nate Hagens has explored these ideas through his podcast and YouTube channel The Great Simplification, where he helps translate complex ecological and energy realities into language ordinary people can understand.

Taken together, these perspectives offer a powerful reframing.

If Earth behaves like a self-regulating system—a kind of planetary-scale organism—then communication does not occur through sentences.

It occurs through changing conditions.

Feedback. Adjustments. Signals embedded in the environment itself.

In that light, weather begins to look a little different. Not as punishment. Not as divine anger. Not as random chaos. But as information made experiential. Storms, droughts, floods, heat waves—they bypass ideology and go straight to the nervous system. They remind us, sometimes quite dramatically, that we are not separate observers of the planet. We are participants inside its processes.

Living here in the mountains of North Carolina, we’ve felt those reminders firsthand. Tropical Storm Helene. The fire that swept across the hills not long after. And this past winter Gaia spoke again with the winter storm of snow and ice someone decided to name Fern. These events are not “messages from God,” but they are interruptions to the illusion of separateness.

They encourage us to pay attention. Several years ago I heard the story about the Universal UPS truck. It goes like this. From time to time, the Universe tries to deliver a package to us within which is an important lesson we are to learn, but like the conventional UPS truck, it’s no big deal if we aren’t home or ready to receive the package. It will just schedule a time to deliver it again. The only real difference with the Universal UPS truck, is that each time it attempts to deliver the packaged lesson to us, it become a bit more deliberate and intentional until eventually it’ll drive its truck through our living room to get our attention.

I believe we are at that point today. Do you agree? What are your thoughts on the subject? How about sharing them by clicking the comment button below, or joining the chat?

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The Deeper Issue Beneath the Storms

If we step back even further, we can see that the storms and climate disruptions we experience today are not isolated events. They are symptoms of a deeper pattern.

For roughly the last two hundred years, humanity has been drawing down an enormous storehouse of energy in the form of fossil fuels—coal, oil, and natural gas. These fuels were created through geological processes that unfolded over millions of years. In a sense, they represent a vast savings account of ancient sunlight, stored underground.

But rather than treating that inheritance as a finite trust fund, we treated it as an endless supply.

The result was an explosion of industrial growth, technological progress, and human population. Much of modern civilization has been built on that energy windfall. Yet this rapid extraction also came with consequences—most notably the rising concentration of carbon dioxide in our atmosphere and the resulting destabilization of climate systems.

Here again we encounter one of the central insights of the One Cause framework. For centuries, many of us operated under what I call a Great Untruth: that Earth’s resources are effectively unlimited. But the web of life operates according to a different principle entirely—reciprocity.

Take without giving back long enough, and the system begins to respond. Not out of malice. Out of physics. Out of biology. Out of the simple mathematics of living systems.

Harm a river long enough and its vitality declines. As vitality declines, scarcity increases. Communities downstream suffer. Care for the river, restore its health, protect its watershed—and abundance often returns. The vitality of the system supports the vitality of the people.

Reciprocity is not a spiritual slogan. It is how living systems work.

From Resource to Relationship

This is where the Four Great Truths of the One Cause project come into clearer focus. The Great Untruths teach us to see Earth as backdrop, raw material, or resource. The Great Truths invite us to see Earth as relation—as kin.

If we begin from that place, stewardship stops feeling like an obligation imposed from the outside. It becomes something more intimate. Stewardship becomes love across time.

The choices we make today ripple outward—to forests we may never see, rivers we may never visit, and grandchildren whose lives will unfold long after we are gone. Seen this way, responding to the climate crisis is not merely a technical challenge.

It is a relationship challenge.

A Small Daily Practice

You don’t need to adopt a new belief system to explore this way of relating.

You can begin with a simple daily reflection inspired by many Indigenous wisdom traditions that focus on maintaining balance and vitality in the web of life.

At the end of each day, pause for a moment and ask yourself three questions:

• What did I do today that increased life—in myself, in another person, or in the land around me?

• What did I do that may have diminished life, even unintentionally?

• What is one small act of repair or care I could offer tomorrow?

This practice does not require perfection. Only our attention.

Returning to the Conversation

My own journey into these ideas followed a path I didn’t fully recognize at the time.

Animals first taught me kinship. The rainforest taught me sacred interconnection. And animism finally gave language to something my life had already been practicing. If we are indeed living through what many now call a polycrisis—a convergence of ecological, economic, political, and spiritual disruptions—then perhaps our task is not simply to solve problems.

Perhaps it is to rejoin the conversation with the living world. I’m not asking anyone to adopt animism as an identity. I’m inviting you to experiment with a different relationship to the world—one that feels strangely sane in a time that often feels anything but.

And if we listen closely enough, we may discover that the Earth has been speaking all along and we’ve simply haven’t been listening. It’s time to listen deeply.

After 32 years in our home, we are in the midst of a significant transition. We’re moving from 2300 square feet—multiple closets, two walk-in storage areas, and the accumulated contents of three decades—into a one-bedroom, one-bath apartment downstairs, roughly 1000 square feet. And we’re doing it by choice. Not because we have to, but because we want to make space for something that matters more. Our daughter Amber, her husband Justin, and our grandchildren Logan and Piper are planning to move in before the school year begins in August. Which means… we’re making room. Literally.

The Outer Work: Letting Go

If you’ve ever lived in a home for 30+ years, you can probably imagine what this process looks like. Closets that quietly filled over time, storage areas that became repositories of “we might need this someday,” and objects that carry stories—some of them easy to release, and some of them surprisingly not. A box of old papers, a tool you haven’t used in years, a random item that somehow feels harder to let go of than it should. And yet, piece by piece, we’re letting go—donating, gifting, sharing (our local Buy Nothing group is about to get very active). With each release, there’s a little more space. Not just in the house, but in us.

The Inner Work: Rethinking “More”

We live in a culture that quietly—and sometimes loudly—reinforces a simple idea: more is better. More space, more storage, more comfort, more accumulation. But what if that’s not actually true? What if “more” isn’t the goal? What if the deeper question is: what supports life, connection, and meaning? This move is, in many ways, an experiment in that question. We’re not downsizing because we’re forced to; we’re choosing to live with less space and fewer possessions so we can live with more connection.

A Living Expression of Sufficiency

In the One Cause framework, one of the Four Great Truths is Sufficiency: there is already—and always—enough when we remember how to share. It’s one thing to write about that. It’s another thing to live it. This transition is giving us the opportunity to do both—to ask what we truly need, what can be shared, what can be released back into the community, and perhaps most importantly, what kind of life we are actually trying to create.

The Messy Middle

I won’t pretend this is all graceful and serene. There are moments of overwhelm, moments of second-guessing, and moments of “Why did we keep all this stuff?” 😄 And also… moments of clarity, moments of lightness, and moments where it feels like we’re aligning our lives more closely with what we say matters.

Making Room for the Future

Logan and Piper don’t care about square footage. They care about connection—about shared meals, about being together. In a very real sense, this move is about making room for the future. Not just physically, but relationally.

An Invitation

You don’t have to move houses to explore this. But you might consider asking: What is “enough” for me right now? What am I holding onto that I no longer need? Where could I make a little more space—for life, for connection, for something new? We’ll keep sharing pieces of this journey along the way, including—quite possibly—a steady stream of items looking for new homes 😄 But more than that, we’re exploring what it means to live into sufficiency. Not as an idea, but as a way of life.

There are moments in a parent’s life when a conversation shifts from the everyday into something deeper—something that feels like it matters not just for your family, but for the times we’re living in. This was one of those moments.

Amber and I were talking—not about anything unusual at first. Just the world as it is right now. The noise. The intensity. The constant stream of headlines and opinions and reactions that can leave even the most grounded among us feeling unsettled. And then she said something that stopped me.

Not in fear—in wisdom.

She told me that instead of getting pulled into the emotional swings of social media, she’s been trying to step back… to look at what’s happening through the lens of history. To understand this moment not as chaos—but as part of a larger pattern. As a dad, and as someone who has spent much of his life trying to make sense of the deeper patterns of life, I felt a quiet sense of respect. And curiosity. Because that’s exactly the question I’ve been living inside of too.

What if what we’re experiencing right now isn’t random? What if it’s not just “things falling apart”? What if it’s part of something that has happened before?

That question led us into a conversation about a book I’ve been reading: The Fourth Turning Is Here by Neil Howe. And while the book itself can be a bit dense at times, the core idea is surprisingly simple—and surprisingly powerful. History, it suggests, moves in cycles. Not perfect circles, but rhythms. Like seasons.

According to this framework, society tends to move through four “turnings” over the course of roughly 80 to 100 years: a time of stability and building, a time of questioning and awakening, a time of unraveling and fragmentation, and then a time of crisis—a Fourth Turning. A winter. A time when systems break down, tensions rise, and the future feels uncertain. But also a time when something new begins to emerge.

If Howe is right—and many historians and observers of history across centuries have sensed that time moves more like a rhythm than a straight line—then we are living in that fourth phase. From Ibn Khaldun’s observations of civilizations rising and falling in cycles, to Arnold Toynbee’s view that societies move through recurring patterns of challenge and response, there has long been an intuition that history has seasons of its own.

As Amber and I explored this together, something else began to come into focus. This moment we’re living through isn’t just about “the world.” It’s about who we are in the world—at this moment in time. According to this model, each generation tends to play a different role during these cycles. And suddenly, it felt very personal.

My generation—what Howe calls the “Prophet” generation—we are the elders now. The ones who have lived through earlier seasons. The ones who remember, or at least can sense, that these cycles are real. Our role isn’t to control what happens next, and it’s not to rescue. It’s to offer perspective. To help name what’s happening. To remind others—especially our children—that winter, as harsh as it can be, does not last forever.

Amber’s generation—the “Hero” generation, those born roughly in the 1980s and 90s—came of age in a time of increasing instability and are now stepping into adulthood during a time of crisis. If this framework holds true, this is the generation that will do the rebuilding. Not alone, but together. They are the ones who will shape the next set of systems, the next culture, the next “normal.” Which means Amber’s instinct—to step back, to look at the bigger picture, to seek understanding rather than reaction—isn’t just wise. It’s exactly what this moment is asking of her.

And then there’s Logan. Five years old. Full of curiosity, energy, and that beautiful openness to the world. In Howe’s language, he would be part of what’s called the “Artist” generation—the ones who are born during the crisis but grow up in what comes after. The ones who don’t lead the rebuilding, but inherit it and shape it in quieter, more relational, more creative ways.

Just the other day, I watched him crouch down in the yard, completely absorbed in something most of us would have walked right past. A tiny line of ants moving with quiet determination across the soil. He stayed there for several minutes, studying them, asking questions, narrating what he thought they were doing. In that moment, the world wasn’t chaotic or broken—it was alive, fascinating, and worthy of his full attention.

Which raises a question that feels very real to me as a grandfather: what kind of world will he grow up into based on what we choose to do now?

One of the things I appreciated most about this framework is that it doesn’t try to sugarcoat the difficulty of times like these. Every Fourth Turning in history has included real hardship, conflict, loss, and uncertainty. The American Revolution tore apart loyalties and families even as it gave birth to a new nation. The Civil War brought unimaginable division and loss of life while redefining what that nation would stand for. And the Great Depression and World War II tested an entire generation through economic collapse and global conflict—yet ultimately led to a period of rebuilding and shared purpose. We have been through winters like this before. But it also offers something that feels deeply needed right now: orientation. A way of seeing that helps us move from “everything is falling apart” to “something is changing—and I have a role to play in what comes next.”

For me, this conversation with Amber didn’t end with answers. It opened something. A shared way of looking at the world that feels less reactive and more purposeful. Less about surviving the moment, and more about participating in what’s emerging. It also reinforced something I’ve been feeling more and more clearly: the future isn’t something that just happens to us. It’s something that is being shaped right now through how we live, how we relate, and what we choose to build together.

If it’s true that we are living in a kind of historical winter, then maybe the question isn’t “How do we get through this as quickly as possible?” Maybe the question is: Who is this time asking us to become?

As parents. As grandparents. As citizens. As stewards of this living Earth.

And perhaps most importantly: what are we creating now that our children—and our grandchildren—will one day call “normal”?

And for Ann and me, that question—what is my role in what comes next?—is no longer theoretical. It’s becoming practical. After more than three decades in our home, we’re in the midst of a significant transition—choosing to move downstairs into a smaller space so that Amber, Justin, and the kids can move into the main home. On the surface, it looks like downsizing. But at a deeper level, it feels like something else entirely. A quiet, imperfect, very human attempt to live into what this moment is asking of us—less accumulation, more connection… less “more,” and more enough. I’ll share more about that journey soon, because in many ways, it feels like our small, personal response to a much larger turning.

P.S. I’d love to hear how this lands for you. Does the idea of a “Fourth Turning” help bring clarity to what you’re seeing in the world… or raise new questions? Feel free to share in the comments or join the conversation in the chat. These are times that call for more than opinions—they call for shared reflection and connection.

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We awoke before dawn to the sound of birds I had never heard before—notes that seemed less like “song” and more like conversation. The air was thick, humid, alive. My fellow travelers from the North— still a bit jet-lagged, but also curious, slightly unsure—gathered near the Amazon River with members of the Sapara community who had graciously welcomed us into their village.

The ceremony was simple.

Sacred tobacco. Chanting. Leaves brushed gently across our bodies. Murmured words in a language older than my own. The smell of earth and river. The towering trees encircling us like quiet elders.

On one level, it was unadorned. No spectacle. No drama.

On another level, it blew my mind.

I did not merely “appreciate nature” that morning. I experienced being one with it. And especially with the trees.

Not in a metaphorical way. Not in a poetic way. In a felt, embodied way that bypassed analysis. It was as if some subtle membrane between “me” and “them” dissolved. The massive trunks around me no longer felt like background scenery. They felt like presences—vast, patient, ancient participants in a shared field of being.

It wasn’t that I believed the trees were alive. I experienced aliveness as a shared current. That’s a different territory altogether.

Perception as Participation

Looking back, I realize that moment marked a shift. Before Ecuador, I loved trees. I admired them. I had even planted a few. I cared about forests around me where I live in the North Carolina mountains. After Ecuador, something changed in how I related to my surroundings. It was no longer “I am here, observing nature.” It was “I am inside a living community.”

The crisis of meaning so many of us sense today is often framed as a loss of faith. But I’m increasingly convinced it is something deeper: a loss of relationship with thew living world of which we are an inextricable participant—the web of life.

In The Spell of the Sensuous, David Abram writes:

“For a thousand generations, human beings viewed themselves as part of the wider community of nature, and they carried on active relationships not only with other people but with other animals, plants, and natural objects… How, then, did humans come to sever their ancient reciprocity with the natural world?”

That word—reciprocity—landed hard. In that rainforest clearing, I did not feel like an observer of trees. I felt like a participant in a reciprocal exchange of breath, presence, and awareness.

This is not doctrine. I am not claiming a cosmology. I am sharing a lived moment that altered me. Interconnectedness ceased being an abstract concept. It became sacred and cellular.

From Experience to Vow

Out of that experience grew something that now forms an essential part of my One Cause Morning Vow:

We are here to create life, not destroy it.
We of Earth—of Gaia, of Pachamama—may be the only place in the vastness of the universe where the miracle and experiment of life is unfolding.
To support that miracle through regeneration is, for me, a sacred act.

When I say those words each morning, I am not speaking in metaphor. I am remembering a forest that felt like family.

The Four Great Truths shifted from philosophy to practice.

Interconnectedness was no longer an idea. It was a felt reality.

Sufficiency revealed itself in the forest’s quiet wisdom. Nothing in that rainforest seemed to operate on “more-more-more.” Growth was abundant, yes—but cyclical, balanced, regenerative. Leaves fell. Soil formed. Life fed life without hoarding.

Reciprocity became visible in every layer of that ecosystem. Exchange, not extraction. Giving and receiving as the rhythm of survival.

I am still learning this sacred rhythm and how to be an active steward of it all.

Back home in my garage, I plant seeds in small hydroponic containers and in small recycled containers designed to bring back food from the restaurant. I watch tender shoots push upward toward the light. I harvest greens and enjoy them in my salads. Even there—in that modest act of tending—I feel a whisper of the forest’s lesson: life thrives through relationship.

Meaning Recovered Through Relationship

If our crisis is one of meaning, perhaps it is not because we lack belief. Perhaps it is because we lack participation. The forest did not give me answers to geopolitical instability or climate complexity. It gave me orientation.

It reminded me that I am not outside the web of life. I am a thread within it. And threads have responsibility—not because they are commanded to, but because they belong. Meaning, I am discovering, does not come primarily from ideology. It comes from intimacy.

A Simple Practice

If you’re curious to explore this without flying to Ecuador, try something small.

For one week, choose a tree near your home. Visit it daily for two minutes. Stand beside it. Notice the light at different times of day. Notice the mood of the air. Notice what shifts in your own thoughts and breath. Imagine, gently, that this tree is a distant cousin rather than a decorative object.

Not as superstition. As experiment. Treat the tree like a beloved relative, not scenery.

See what happens. I didn’t leave the rainforest with a new religion. I left with a new way of listening. And then I discovered: this way of knowing isn’t new. It’s ancient.

And it has a name…which we will explore in our part three of this series.

I’m writing as someone who, late in life, has discovered that something he has been practicing for more than seventy years actually has a name.

Animism.

It’s an old word. Older than most religions. Older than most civilizations. And yet it feels strangely fresh to me—as if I’ve simply rediscovered a way of belonging that was always there, waiting patiently under the surface.

Before I had language for it, I had a dog.

His name was Tiddlywink.

I was five years old when he entered my life. A sturdy, loyal sled-pulling hero who changed winter forever. My brother and I would race down the hill on our sled, laughing wildly, and when we reached the bottom, Tiddlywink would pick up the rope in his teeth and pull the sled to the top. Over and over again. We were the envy of every kid on the block, all of whom had to drag their own sleds uphill.

But what I remember most isn’t the convenience.

It’s the companionship.

He wasn’t a “pet” in the ornamental sense. He was family. A presence. A personality. A partner in adventure. There was loyalty in his eyes. Humor. Even what felt like pride in his work.

Fast forward seventy years.

As I write this, Rascal—my current canine companion—lies sleeping under my desk. His gentle breathing keeps time with the clicking of these keys. The love affair continues.

Reflecting on it now, I realize it was that first love affair that had me decide at seven that I wanted more than anything else to become a veterinarian. Thanks, Tiddlywink. It wasn’t that I had some grand strategy, but it felt natural to devote my life to beings I had always experienced as “someone,” not “something.” Over decades of practice, I met thousands of dogs and cats—each with their own temperament, quirks, dignity, and heartbreak.

I also witnessed something profound in their human companions.

No one believes their dog (or cat) is family.

They know.

There’s a difference between belief and experience. You can read a book about how to ride a bicycle, memorize the mechanics, understand the physics—and still fall over the moment you climb on. Knowing the mechanics is not the same as riding.

In the same way, you don’t believe your dog is part of your family the way you believe a political opinion or a theological claim. You know it because you experience it. You’ve felt the nudge of a nose when you were grieving. You’ve felt the weight of a head on your knee. You’ve watched eyes light up when you walk in the door.

That’s not belief. That’s relationship. And this is where animism quietly enters the room.

Animism, at its simplest, is the shift from seeing the world as a collection of “things we use” to experiencing it as a community of beings we relate to. It doesn’t require superstition. It doesn’t require abandoning science. It simply asks us to notice that our most meaningful relationships often cross species lines.

This is not anti-science.

It’s relational perception.

When I say my dog is a “who” rather than a “what,” I am not making a scientific claim. I am naming a lived reality. A dog is not a human person—but he is undeniably a personality, a presence, a participant in my life. Rascal is one of my best friends who just happens to walk on four legs rather then two.

Over the past year, I’ve taken on what I call the One Cause Vow—to live as though the Four Great Truths are real: Interconnectedness. Sufficiency. Reciprocity. Stewardship.

In reflecting on this vow, I realized something that surprised me.

I didn’t learn interconnectedness from a textbook. I learned it from a dog who loved to pull my sled. I learned reciprocity from decades of two-way devotion—the simple truth that love is a current, not a possession. I rescued Rascal from the Blue Ridge Humane Society. And in the aftermath of losing my beloved Argos, Rascal rescued me from grief and loneliness. That’s reciprocity in its purest form.

And stewardship? Care is the original human technology. Before there were ideologies, before there were institutions, there was the act of tending. Feeding. Healing. Walking. Protecting. Sitting quietly beside another living being simply because they matter.

If this is animism, then perhaps many of us have already been animists without knowing it. Perhaps our first doorway into an ancient way of belonging has always been sleeping at our feet. Here’s a small experiment for today.

One Who Today

Choose one non-human “who.” It could be your dog. A bird at the feeder. A tree outside your window. For sixty seconds, relate without multitasking. No phone. No agenda. Just presence. Notice what shifts in your nervous system. In your breathing. In your sense of aliveness. You may find that meaning does not arrive as an idea. It arrives as relationship.

If animals were my first doorway into kinship, the rainforest blew the door off its hinges. And that’s where we’ll go next.