











With your presence and grace, you plant me more firmly in this, my chosen place.
With your presence and grace, you plant me more firmly in this, my chosen place.
Trailer, wheelbarrows, and root slayers. Canes pulled from ground and sky. Digging, cutting, sifting. Thorns drag across skin. Trees released. A clearing.
Rain, rain, rain and cool for weeks and weeks and now heat. We dance with the edges of the shade, find refuge in a cool pocket of air held by trees. We identify snowberry, marvel at the fitness of Himalayan blackberry, dig out root balls the size of beaver kits. Hard topics broached, we listen and share with openness and grace. We create the medicine we need in these times: Connection with the earth, with plants, with each other. We fall away with gratitude and warm hearts, knowing we will come together again.
We came with gifts, with missions, with generous hearts. We were present to the next right work. We were together. It was good.
This is how we make a difference. One moment at a time. Together.
Stepping up and into new beginnings. Kneeling on soil beneath a young Western Red Cedar, tenderly disentangling shallow Himalayan blackberry root balls from ki. Prayer. Strangers turned connections, connections family. Magical alchemy. Rain. Dry shelter under branches that honor both earth and sky. Dirt on knees, shirts, masks, boots. Wet hair plastered to foreheads, dirt there, too. Pulling up yellow arch angel tangled into mats carpeting the forest floor. Tall Oregon grape stand sentry, watching as we come and go.