Micro Gardens, Art, & Laughter

Creating pockets of resilience in a shifting landscape

Welcome to the quiet month. December, when the great freeze settles over much of the West (or at least it has in our little patch of it). The deciduous trees have finally all gone dormant. I’m taking their lead, using this time for a little inward contemplation.

Our drive over Independence Pass toward the end of October, just as winter started to settle in.

Taking down time during this particular December feels especially important. With such unstable times swirling on the horizon, it’s a good time to strengthen our foundations. I’ve been giving thanks to my body with good food and exercise, plus seeking out laughter. I’ve also and put focus on our home, acknowledging it as peaceful, sacred space. I’ve cleaned and organized the cupboards. We emptied the storage shed, finally. And Steve built a magnificent tree-inspired bookshelf.

Still in process of filling it up!

The bookshelf is already paying off, as I’m finally opening a slew of gems I’ve been meaning to make time for (for years). I’m particularly liking a collection of essays by Edward Abbey, called “One Life at a Time, Please.” The first one is about the myth of cowboys — and more importantly the scourge of cattle — on western public lands. If you have ever read any Abbey, you’ll know it’s more entertaining than my description just made it sound.

For the last six weeks, nearly everyone I’ve talked to has been feeling a similar need to withdraw (though maybe “regroup” would be a better aim). Many of my friends have also expressed a sudden urge to clean house and create art. This is one positive consequence of traumatic times. Like the music revolution in the ‘60s, art is a form of healing, exploration, and resistance. So pick up the paintbrush and guitar, and know that you are not alone.

Fostering nature is another form of art. I was talking with some folks at the National Wildlife Federation last week, and one of their pushes for 2025 is to encourage us to create tiny native plant gardens in urban areas. These help reconnect migration corridors and foster biodiversity, plus add more nature into our lives, which feels good and helps us remember how we’re connected to a dazzling community of countless life forms.

I think my art form this year will be macro photograhy. See that tiny spider web there? There are creaturs everywhere, living lives that we will never know about.

But beyond that, the idea of mini gardens comes at an especially evocative time — to me, these little oases are micro pockets of resistance — one positive action, where we can make a difference, in a world where it’s otherwise easy to feel helpless. I’m looking forward to growing this idea, literally.

This private world of ballerinas was inside a dadelion in Florida.

“You can’t save everything, but anything you can save is worthwhile,” said writer Rebecca Solnit during a recent zoom, which included Terry Tempest Williams and other wise women, hosted by the Upaya Zen Center in New Mexico.

Yes.

Anything you can save is worthwhile.

Any moment you are truly present deserves celebration.

Any laugh out loud will spread.

Any time taken to contemplate, imagine, or just be still is not wasted.

We are all connected to everything on this pale blue dot, hurling through the universe at unfathomable speed. So whatever happens next, know you are not alone.

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Before I sign off, just two other tidbits:

I highly recommend this newsletter by Annie Sand, whose prose are artistic, hopeful, and strikingly in tune with the time. Here is one of her essays she suggested I share, which is particularly poignant, though all of them are worth the read.

Next, Steve has been up to something this fall. With our abandoned house project coming to a close, he set his sites on finally building a workshop, so he can make his own creations possible. It has been inspiring to watch what he and one other friend have accomplished over just a couple of months.

Steve's new workshop. Finally, after almost five years without one.

See you in 2025, friends. And in the meantime, don’t forget to find reasons to laugh, create, get outside, and appreciate everything we have in this wild, wondrous world.

A parting shot…

This photo is not mine, and unfortuantely, I don’t know who to credit it to, but I love that these are our cousins.