We have forgotten who we are.

We used to know each other. We used to know each other according to seasons, cycles, energy, vibration, pheromones, heart and gut feelings, oral tradition, and storytelling. Life on earth is increasingly automated, autopiloted, simulated, and produced with the intention of never-ending consumption and reaction. Manufactured urgency, FOMO, artificial lighting, and results over means have warped our sense of time. Our worldviews have been flattened, the animacy of teeming life around us reduced to “things” to be commodified, commercialized, consumed. The air and earth are increasingly polluted with waste, noise, and toxicity. And it’s polluting us.

We’re stuck. Stuck in our heads. Stuck on screens. Chasing the next dopamine rush. Trying to tackle our never-ending lists of things to do. Doing. Reaching. Grasping. Trying to hold on to some kind of meaning in all of this ‘life’ we’re living. And if it’s not perfect, we feel ashamed. We’ve traded sacred work and ritual for conveniences. Many of us don’t know who our ancestors, even recent ones, were. Or think it matters. This rootlessness leaves us wandering, looking for something that matters, affecting our attachments.

We are not well. But we do not regulate, feel safe, and realign alone. We all have intrinsic value, purpose, and meaning beyond what we have been influenced to believe. And I’m not just talking about human life. Without the living systems and beings around us, we perish. Without a healthy direct connection and relationship with others, we perish. We really are all in this together on earth.

A few years ago, I learned of the word Sankofa (SAHN-koh-fah), a Ghanaian word meaning “go back and fetch it,” or “it is not taboo to go back for what you forgot or left behind.” One of the symbols of this word is a mythical bird with his feet forward and head turned backward, protecting an egg, representing the need to go back and bring knowledge from the past for beneficial use in the present-future. I have never forgotten it.

What have we forgotten that we can go back and bring to the forefront of our daily lives?

How to relate to each other in this whole natural world.

To remember our place in it and get to know our neighbors again.

I have been turning to the place where my nervous system becomes unfried and I can recalibrate: outside. Every time I go outside, it’s a mental cue to tune in to the who, what, where, and even why around me—and get to know the place I call home over time. A sense of place is a way of rooting. Without this daily ritual, I would lose my mind.

The Year of the Raptor

This has been the “year of the raptor” in my creative work. After exploring the ecology of native wildflowers, songbirds, and shorebirds in 2023 to 2024, I was motivated to learn about birds of prey. The ones who eat the ones about whom I just learned—but also shape the ecosystems in which they’re an integral part. Beings who have spent millions of years honing specific sensory processing abilities and physical adaptations to survive.

Raptor comes from the Latin rapere, “to seize.” They do not mess around. Their outward features and physical abilities are signs of the lessons they hold for us, and with us. Call it sympathetic magic or intuitive learning: I am taking notes and sharing them here.

Visual Recalibrating: Go Back and Look, Attend

One July evening, our Aussiedoodle, Louie, was giving me his cues: it was time for our evening neighborhood walk. I try to use this time to empty my head and just sense: what I see, hear, and smell. Some days are harder than others to do that; this was one of those days.

What lifted me up and out was the aroma of Linden tree blossoms along the boulevard. When I stopped to inhale, I heard a ruckus at the block corner. A few steps closer, and I was suddenly in the midst of a high-speed chase, a smaller bird of prey chasing another bird. I stood entranced, watching them whip around houses and trees at about 30 mph, then gasped as the larger bird broadsided a brick house 20 feet away. My eyes were fixed on him. He recovered quickly, as though this happens all the time, and flew to the top of the lamp post next to Louie and me—and stared for 1.5 seconds: a Merlin falcon. I BLURTED, concerned, mortified, “ARE YOU OKAY?!” Then he flew off to resume the chase.

That Merlin, with his 1.5-second stare and fierce resilience, inspired me that evening.

Focused attention is part of his nature. Part of his survival. Millions of years in the making.

Attention is currency.

Daily, I struggle with myriad demands for my attention; it’s a fight for focus to thrive. What we attend to matters evermore. Here we are, a Merlin and a human (and a canine who wants his walk), living in the same Fargo neighborhood. He has to focus and fight to live. I am inspired to do the same. When we offer our fullest attention to our neighbors, and maybe blurt out ARE YOU OKAY, we’re on the right track.

Whether it’s the human shift to work more indoors, mental health issues, overloaded nervous systems, the anthropocentric colonial overculture, or the capitalist attention economy, the way we connect (or don’t) to other beings has changed so much. But a little ruckus, in proximity, is refreshing.

Our ancestors had to visually attune to their environment to survive. Their fields of awareness were much broader—color, shape, pattern, texture—all of which had something to do with survival. Modern life has afforded us ultimate convenience and comfort amid a culture of individualism and endless visual distractions.

How much do we think about what we see every day? What we pay visual attention to, visually consume?

To shift that visual priority (sighted folks) to the beings around us, especially in natural environments, realigns us to purpose and community. We’re hardwired to prefer the colors blue and green, organic shapes and lines, and have physiological benefits from environments with these characteristics—outside in natural spaces. Beauty and visual aesthetics are not luxuries; they are physiological needs that signal safety and belonging.

Daytime raptors have exceptionally high visual acuity, estimated to be up to 8 times that of humans, with eagles and falcons among the highest in the animal kingdom. Their vision is enhanced by anatomical adaptations such as high-density photoreceptor cells, a tubular eye shape, and, in some species, two foveas, which provide a telephoto-like lens for magnifying images and spotting prey at great distances. They also see color, and most see UV light.

It’s no mystery why these raptors have been revered as powerful intermediaries between earth and sky, sending us messages. In a spiritual sense, they teach us to remember to focus, discern, and maintain a keen field of awareness—and a healthy perspective.

Working with these birds, whether it’s something amazing like falconry or drawing them slowly in my studio, they teach us to live with all our senses on board.

Auditory Recalibrating: Go Back and Listen

The world has gotten LOUD. The planet’s natural auditory environment is being displaced by human-generated noise pollution. Industrialization, urbanization, the ubiquitous use of media, technology, and traffic—it takes a toll on our health, causing hearing damage, sleep issues, stress, anxiety, and cardiovascular/neurological issues.

And yet, certain sounds are highly therapeutic and elicit positive physiological responses. Music therapy, for instance, engages a diverse network of brain regions and circuits with positive effects on social bonding, cognition, and language processing. Natural sounds, such as bird song, waves, and wind, improve concentration, reduce stress, and improve mood. Our ancestors associated birdsong with safety. When the birds are singing, they are at their baseline and feel safe. What if humans have auditory memory?

The realm of aural architecture considers the human experience of sound and space, with attention to inhabitants’ needs in spaces. We shape the spatial acoustics of a space, and are in turn shaped by our aural environments—social spatiality. Many factors determine whether a given space feels nourishing or draining.

A question that follows is: who, and how, do we design or prioritize attention to the aural architecture of a space? We often consider visual aesthetics; do we also consider the acoustic aesthetics of spaces?

Our nervous systems could use it.

Owls have captivated human attention since our ancestors lived in caves. One of the earliest depictions was found in 1994 in a French cave dating back 30,000 years. Owls have been associated with witchcraft, medicine, wisdom, knowledge, prophecy, protection, birth and death, and as spiritual messengers for millennia. As science and technology have demystified owls’ lives and patterns, there is no question of their enduring impact and connection to something esoteric. Darkness can evoke feelings of both serenity and profound fear, with the “fear of night” often stemming from the unknown, the lack of visual clarity, and the heightened sense of vulnerability it can bring. But the night offers quiet stillness of deep thought and deep dreams, away from the bright lights and noise of day. And, as these are our feathered elders, they offer their medicine to us in the ways they move in the world--if we can get quiet, listen, and pay attention.

Owls are one of the most successful birds on earth, evolutionarily speaking. They’re found on every continent except Antarctica and in every habitat. Though they are known for excellent low-light visual acuity with forward-facing, tubular eyes and huge retinas, they also have exceptional auditory acuity due to unique adaptations: asymmetrical ear cavities and a facial disc that allows them to precisely locate prey, even the faintest sounds in complete darkness. If you notice owls flying away when you approach, don’t take it personally—we’re too loud and scare away prey. A Great Horned Owl glared at me with his yellow eyes the other night as I came home from another dog walk.

If ever there was a feathered ancestor to teach us about appreciating aural space and deep listening outside, it’s the owls.

How do we personally navigate aural space? What we listen to and the different ways we listen are part of our daily prioritization—it’s aural attention. What we pay aural attention to is partially a choice. If we are given a daily smorgasbord of aural choices, a buffet of sound experiences, how can we be selective? Are we comfortable with quiet? Answers lead to more questions for me.

Putting the Commune Back in Communication

As I researched the different types of listening recently (apparently, there are nine?), I was struck by the basic notions of being a good listener. Using different listening skills is crucial for effective interpersonal communication, enabling us to interpret information at various levels. To comprehend what someone is saying requires full presence and attention.

What about interspecies communication? Or communication with the landscape? Perhaps the same listening skills we use with other humans can be applied to plants, animals, and the landscape where we live. Indigenous animist views hold all beings to be sacred and sentient, not a backdrop for human activity filled with things for us. Learning bird language, the various calls, songs, and behaviors as Jon Young discusses in his book “What the Robin Knows,” was the beginning of a new communication dimension for me. I can ‘read the room’ with my ears, and visually read the movement of birds. Plants have a language as well. I’m partway through “The Hidden Life of Trees” by Peter Wohlleben and learning about the language of trees. Any gardener learns the language their plants speak.

Two summers ago, I planned an outdoor drawing session during a wildflower series. I brought all of the supplies I would need, except the flowers I would be drawing—Rudbeckia hirta, or ‘Black-Eyed Susans’. Creative improvisation is a skill I’ve been honing. I silently asked the land for help with whom to draw. I shifted my attention to the woodland edge and spotted some tall yellow flowers with interestingly shaped leaves. I smiled as I identified the flowers: Rudbeckia laciniata, Cutleaf Coneflower—a cousin. I had no idea these flowers grew out here; now I do, by name. I believe that if we shift our attention and align our minds with our hearts and guts, we remember how to commune with other more-than-human beings and the landscape at large.

This language (re)development entails another critical aspect that is often dismissed: intuition. Say what you will, but intuition is as intricate a neurobiological function as any other. It’s an experience-based process that involves the brain and body working together. It involves information processing, subconscious filtering, memory, the gut-brain axis (gut feelings/hunches, anyone?), and pattern recognition. This complex interplay of sensing and processing of information, and our response, is how we commune the way our ancestors did.

Bringing It Home

Community is key to survival, and we are relational beings. We can hear all day that we “need to get back into a healthy relationship with the earth,” but unless we talk about how to do that, it’s moot. How we go back and look for what we’ve lost is key: connection grounded in collective purpose and thriving. We’re all in this together, and the languages we (re)learn are a bridge to remembering. My hope is that we collectively come back to our senses.

~Alicia

Every autumn, the familiar dread seeps into daily conversations.

“The Farmer’s Almanac says it’s gonna be a cold one for sure, lots of snow.”

“If we get blizzards in April again, I’m leaving.”

“I need to move where the air doesn’t hurt my face.”

Or, if you’re a ‘snowbird,’ you opt out of winter for a few months of the year and hope it spans the coldest temps.

At some point growing up in the upper Midwest, I learned that winter was something to get through, filled with drudgery. That it was hard and, frankly, unacceptable. The uncertainty of what kind of winter we would deal with is likely half the misery. But here’s the kicker: the ones who complain about winter will inevitably gripe about rain, wind, and heat later.

To even consider that winter can be a beautiful season all its own is an affront to the cultural pastime of griping about the hardship. But what if we considered the industrial, psychological and cultural ways we make it hard? What if we remembered how to winter, and live according to natural rhythms?

What if we moved from resistance and denial to a place of greater attunement, flow, and alignment—and joy?

On the Clock

As elder millennials, my husband and I joke about being the ‘last analog generation.” Get a group of millennials together, and we could spout for hours about landlines, playing hide-and-seek until the streetlamps went on, riding our bikes to the local gas station for candy cigarettes and other goodies, and climbing trees to write in secret diaries. Dial-up internet alone has been the subject of comedic routines, and I love to joke about running outside with corded headphones and an anti-skip CD player in hand.

Nostalgia aside, the rate at which technology has advanced in the past few decades is head-spinning—and with negative effects on how we feel, connect, and sleep. A host of devices run our lives, telling us what we need to know, who’s doing what every second of the day, what’s coming and when, buzzing and dinging and shining with a brightness that assaults our corneas.

In this post-industrial capitalist society, time is money, productivity is value. And ‘if you’re on time you’re late.’ Like the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, we constantly move to the next thing, watching the clock. Activities. Appointments. Socials. Meetings. Phone calls. Emails. Our attention is demanded before we can think about what we want or need to tend to at the moment, nevermind the dishes, laundry, cooking and cleaning to do.

Hans Gelter writes in Nature First: Outdoor Life the Friluftsliv Way, “In addition to being flooded with information, speed has become the icon of our time, determining both our behaviors and consumption patterns. All our technological development is oriented towards increasing speed and ‘saving time,’ resulting in an ever increasing quickening of the pace of life.”

What does real rest mean to us these days? To hop off the hamster wheel? We’ve been conditioned to keep going, keep moving, keep working, keep reacting.

But literally slowing down gives us the opportunity to let ourselves catch up with ourselves, to integrate and notice things. To breathe.

We’ve forgotten how to winter.

Winter is the season that calls for us to slow down. Snow blankets and dampens sound. The cold pushes us inward. The ice forces us to be mindful of our tread and proceed with full senses on board. The dark alters our circadian rhythm and hormones shift—all signals to our mammal selves to conserve energy.

We can hate this and suffer, or we can choose to embrace its medicine. Real power comes with moving with natural cycles and seasons instead of pushing against it.

We can see winter as a time to rest more, reflect, review, and process. Take our energy back in as the plants all around us do. To regenerate. To let yourself rest more, and do less.

Katherine May speaks to this in her book, “Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times, saying “There is not enough night left for us. We have lost our true instincts for darkness, its invitation to spend some time in the proximity of our dreams. Our personal winters are so often accompanied by insomnia: perhaps we’re drawn towards that unique space of intimacy and contemplation, darkness and silence, without really knowing what we’re seeking. Perhaps, after all, we are being urged towards our own comfort…Over and again, we find that winter offers us liminal spaces to inhabit. Yet still we refuse them. The work of the cold season is to learn to welcome them.”

Reflecting on the night often brings up a complex mix of emotions. Darkness can evoke feelings of both serenity and profound fear, with the "fear of night" often stemming from the unknown, the lack of visual clarity, and the heightened sense of vulnerability it can bring. Uncertainty itself is enough to grapple with these days.

What if we viewed darkness, night, as an invitation to quiet spaciousness? Like a blanket, let it wrap us up and hold us and our dreams?

Outside our doors, the natural world we’ve lost touch with but crave connection to can teach us how to winter. Outside our doors, the natural world waits for us to realize that world is also within.

We Are Earthlings

I’ve spoken before about how the stories we tell shape our worldview and our perception of place—and in Western culture, ‘nature’ is the monolith of a passive backdrop or stage where human things unfold, a place to go.

At some point, as geology professor Marcia Bjornerud laments in Kinship: Volume 1, “Western society stopped seeing the Earth as full of wisdom…and demoted it to dumb matter that we can easily outwit. I suspect this began in the early days of Christianity, when the church set out to purge every vestige of nature worship from the poplulations it sought to convert. Old pantheons that were deeply embedded in the landscape were replaced by an abstract, nonlocalized God and theology that depicted this world as an imperfect, temporary dwelling place…Earthly matter was corrupt, defiled. It is telling that mundane—meaning literally “of the earth”—is a pejorative.”

To remember we are of the earth, we are nature and ecosystems, is the foundation of a field I’m just becoming acquainted with: ecopsychology. But I’m not here to intellectualize our relationship with the earth; I’m here to remind us to embody that relationship.

To be of the earth, an earthling, is to remember the iron that flows in our blood is also in earth’s geological striae or river rock we find. The water within is just visiting, shared with fellow rivers and ponds. The oxygen we breath is exhaled by the trees and plants. The minerals in our earth bodies are all around us; we are walking landscapes. We are as much geology and weather pattern as we are human. After all, human is close to humus, the root “hum” (h-YOOM) means “ground,” of earth.

Human ego is out of balance with the rest of Earth, to say the very least.

And though winter is a season outside our walls, it is also a season for ourselves that comes and goes—be it illness, injury, grief, loss, or other challenge that asks us to go inward. To moderate, listen, and put one foot in front of the other slowly.

Even the experience of remembering this way of life, a way our ancestors knew and practiced—working with the land intimately, honoring and even extolling the land spirits and seasonal cycles—is its own form of grief to move through. I know this because I’m still moving through it. But I have never felt more grounded in who I am on this earth.

And there’s a concept for everything I’ve described so far, a way of living that hails from my Nordic ancestors: friluftsliv.

Open-Air Life

Whether it was one of the many calls from my ancestors to change or utter wit’s end, I had had enough. I was one of the upper-Midwesterners who bemoaned winter for many years, joining the cranky chorus of others at work as I ran my numb, white digits under hot water to regain circulation. I took my Raynaud’s alone as a sign I wasn’t meant to live here. And yet, here I was.

But something ‘had to give’ about five years ago. It was one of those “if I can’t beat it, I gotta join it somehow.” I really needed to understand why I was allowing the weather to dictate my disposition and outlook—mostly self-imposed limitations. This was still years before the concept frilufsliv entered my ecosystem. In hindsight, it was a part of me all along—the need to be outside as much as possible, studying everything around me, and relating to plants and animals in a heart-centered way. Like an ancestral gift waiting to be noticed.

Friluftsliv, pronounced “FREE-loofts-leev,” is the Nordic concept of “fresh-air life” or “open-air life,” with a central focus of relationship and deeper connection with natural landscapes. The Norwegian government defines it as “possibility of recreation, rejuvenation and restoring balance among living things.” It is often as simple as daily walks in the neighborhood (bonus points if it’s blizzarding a little and you don your thickest layers or snow suit to get out there) or as major as a backpacking trip somewhere in the wilderness. A key component: it is slow, intentional, and allows for a depth of connection and presence, especially over time and through the seasons. To embrace going outside on a day of ‘inclement’ weather is to say to the landscape, “I still want to spend time with you, and this is where I am today.”

As Linda Åkeson McGurk writes in her book The Open-Air Life: Discover the Nordic Art of Friluftsliv and Embrace Nature Every Day, “It’s about embracing simplicity, resisting consumerism, and living in a way that is sustainable to both ourselves and the planet. It’s the kind of life that transcends generations and connects us deeply with the land that sustains us. And it is in every respect a rich life.”

This looks like:

1. Getting to know the local plants and wildlife and their stories

2. Spending time outside every day, no matter the weather, with the intention of being present—no rules for how long

3. Noticing what’s going on around you with curiosity and wonder (what bird is singing?)

4. Forgoing motorized sports and activities and choosing the slow ones (paddleboard or canoe over the speed boat)

5. And more…

Living an open-air life is much more than the stylized photos and travelogues found on social media or getting a selfie at some peak destination. It’s an ethos “for those who long to get away from the noise, stress, crowds, pollution, must-haves and must-do’s, and—more recently—the incessant pinging of our smartphones. Those who strive to live simpler, more sustainable lives, deeply connected to nature,” says McGurk.

Deeply connected to ourselves, to natural rhythms, the ways of our ancestors (Nordic or not), and our instincts. There is freedom and sovereignty waiting here.

The friluftslive North Star: “There’s no bad weather, only bad clothing.” So get outside and get some fresh air.

More to come on friluftsliv and how we can embrace its praxis, whether you live in a cold climate or not.

May you continue wintering well as we transition into spring.

Thanks for reading!

~Alicia

Leave a comment

“Do you think it’s time?” my husband asked, standing in the kitchen.

“Time for what?” I replied. I’d been venting again.

“Time to be done and start your art business.” He was gentle but somber. The question reverberated in my mind, jolting my train of thought to a halt.

“What?” I said. Was he seriously asking me this? Was he asking me if I was ready to quit, to throw away the work I’d invested in so much?

I had been working in homeless and carceral health for almost eight years, a path that began with someone telling me, “You know, you’d make a great nurse” and (at least legally) ending with me bawling regularly in my bathroom releasing grief, shame, and guilt. I heard recently, “if you don’t make the choice, the choice makes you.” And that’s exactly what happened when I burned out so much I had to go a different way.

That different way? Maybe it was always the way, just winding around more than I ever imagined.

When I quit listening to my ego and started listening to the dreams that had always been, following the breadcrumb trail of what lit me up inside, I began a new way of being and moving in the world.

Cosmologies and Stories Told

I grew tired of people asking me if I’d read it yet. I had purchased it at the Minneapolis airport during a layover months prior but had put it off. To this day, I think I knew somehow this book would change me, and I wasn’t ready for the discomfort. And I just don’t care about trends.

The book was “Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants” by Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer. In the first chapter, “Skywoman Falling,” Kimmerer introduces the Indigenous creation story of Skywoman falling from Skyworld. The animals of the lower depths catch her, and together, they form the earth from mud on a turtle’s back—Turtle Island. She dances in gratitude for their gifts, and she herself arrives with a handful of seeds and fruits from her world and the instruction: “Use your gifts and dreams for good.” She scatters them on the new ground, carefully tending each one, spreading abundance and medicine everywhere. Sweetgrass is the first to grow, a most sacred plant, the hair of Mother Earth.

This vision of co-creation, collaboration, and collective care contrasted starkly with the creation story I had been given of banishment from a garden for not following the ‘rules,’ left to subdue the earth to survive. By this time in my life, I had already composted the religious narratives I was raised with, but this stung. The stories we’re told shape our worldview, and our worldviews guide how we relate to each other and the earth. Follow the two paths: which leads to ecological and cultural sustainability and abundance? Dr. Kimmerer asks.

Wild ink sketch with roses from our garden with an unexpected female profile to the right—Skywoman?

When we have the courage to ask questions, to speak new storylines into being, or simply to ‘go back and look for what was lost,’ we begin to shape new ways of being and relating.

Walking a little further into this contrasted worldview is the Indigenous story of the Original Man: Nanabozho. He was created from the four sacred elements, part man and part spirit-being, the last being created. As with Skywoman, he was given instructions for how to move in the world: “Walk as though each step is a greeting to Mother Earth.” He realizes that “all the knowledge he needed in order to live was present in the land. His role was not to control or change the world as a human, but to learn from the world how to be human,” Kimmerer writes. Notice he is not instructed to subdue the earth and have dominion over all creatures.

He first travels to the East, the direction of knowledge, and meets sema, sacred tobacco. Here, he is given the responsibility of learning the names of all beings by observing how they lived. Notice that he does not go around naming other beings; he must discern the names they already have.

Drawing a Blue Jay in the studio this spring

As Nanabozho walks in each direction, learning lessons from sacred plant elders and animal people about how to live, he understands that each gift carries responsibility—bringing balance to the interconnected whole of Nature.

“By honoring the knowledge in the land, and caring for its keepers, we start to become Indigenous to place…to live as if this is the land that feeds you, as if these are the streams from which you drink, that build your body and fill your spirit…to know that your ancestors lie in this ground. Here you will give your gifts and meet your responsibilities…to take care of the land as if our lives and the lives of all our relatives depend on it. Because they do.” ~Dr. Kimmerer

With ‘Deer Ears and Owl Eyes’

If we desire to learn how to walk through the world differently, how do we do that today? How do we learn to walk as though each step is a greeting to Mother Earth?

I believe the answer lies in learning to listen and observe our more-than-human neighbors and elders over time.

After I left healthcare in the autumn of 2021, I spent another year coming home to myself and my creativity. I experimented with a variety of media, ideas, and techniques, often dissatisfied. But what did I circle back to? A practice of research, nurturing connection, and community care with attention to detail. My entire creative practice evolved to center relationship with the land I call home. All of 2023 was spent researching and creating paintings with native prairie wildflowers and their stories. As I spent time outside with them, I noticed the birds who rely on them…and inspiration took flight.

Research for my first bird series began January of this year with the book “What the Robin Knows” by Jon Young. The book is about what he calls “deep bird language,” learning various bird call types and behaviors, implications, and ultimately ‘reading’ your immediate environment. Modern technology (bird ID apps) partnered with a practice of opening my field of vision/noticing (owl eyes) and opening my aural field (deer ears) has led to both a more profound respect and sense of wonder for these neighbors.

For example, this summer, I was doing the dishes in the kitchen when I heard a Robin alarm calling loudly outside. I had to see what the fuss was about. I walk to the front yard to see a bird of prey perched on the edge of our roof (later identified as a Merlin, a petite falcon), Robin taking swoops at this bird (who was unbothered) while further down the rooftop a Mourning Dove sat, also unbothered. Witnessing this scenario and the apparent spectrum of tolerance for others was fascinating; I learned that day that Robin knows how to defend and protect fiercely; and that perhaps Mourning Dove was showing his gentility.

The lesson of Young’s book is that we often blunder through the world, not listening to our bird (and other) more-than-human relatives, often stuck in our heads. We can learn to slow down, open our ears and eyes to be fully present, especially outside, and mind our energy. Instead of “bird plowing” through, what if we paid attention to who else is present, noticing and acknowledging as we go, as Nanabozho would do? It is then that we can move from “collision to connection,” Young writes.

Of Lineage, Place, and Time: Re-Rooting

I remember it clearly. I was standing in my living room midday some time in the summer of 2021. I was in a state of emotional overwhelm, navigating a pandemic, social chaos, and what my place was in all of it. Then, as though right next to me, I heard someone say, “You have to *DO* THE WORK!” No one was physically around me, but somehow I sensed this voice was coming from a well-meaning ancestor or guide who knew I needed a kick in the pants. "Buck up, it’s time to do some work that we all need.”

Not long after that kick in the pants, I was introduced to the work they were talking about: ancestral medicine. Dr. Daniel Foor, author of “Ancestral Medicine: Rituals for Personal and Family Healing,” writes:

• Consciousness continues after death.

• Not all of the dead are equally well.

• The living and the dead can communicate.

• The living and the dead can strongly affect one another.

Many cultures have practices of ancestral reverence and connection, and factors of religious/spiritual views, personal experience, and instinctual belief shape how we connect. We can learn to cultivate relationships with our well ancestors, understand the burdens and blessings, embody and share those blessings, and transmute the burdens/help heal what needs healing.

As I began ancestral research and connection, something shifted deeply for me. I saw harmful patterns and learned what I can do to help without becoming codependent. I saw the ingenuity, humor, and deep love for family. I saw the stubbornness and spiritual practices that kept them alive, and have been able to say, “we can lay that down now. I am changing some things for us.”

Re-rooting asks: Who are my ancestors? Where did they come from, what were they dealing with? Why did they do that, and how can I do it differently or similarly? Even from a practical standpoint, genetics are ‘stored environment;’ what am I in for health-wise?

Re-rooting is a process of integrating the ancient with the modern; of trusting our bodily wisdom as a guide (we are ‘walking shrines to our ancestors,’ after all, Dr. Foor writes); and honoring where we’ve come from with courage for where we’re heading. Ancestral medicine has inspired a journey of understanding ancient Northern European beliefs and traditions, ways of relating to the earth that might inform my life ways today.

This is not a “love and light” spiritual bypassing or New Age trend. This is getting down into the dirt, unearthing what needs to be held, grieved, understood, and acknowledged. This is walking in the world knowing you are the face of your ancestors, feeling resourced and grounded in connection with them. It is working towards mutual understanding, healthy relationships with living family and community, and celebrating life in all forms. It is extending that relationship to ancestors of place, who may be more-than-human. And it is medicine we need right now.

Bringing it Home

It took me some time to see that all of the skills, time, and lessons I learned while practicing nursing are all still utilized today. Nothing is wasted; everything has a purpose and I still care, deeply.

Creativity, healing, and relationship have always been a part of what I do. The outward expression of that continues to evolve. Our sense of place, home, and community determines how we move in the world—and I want to continue exploring this through creative inquiry, sharing what comes through. Our collective root cellars need some love.

As I research, create, and share here, I hope you feel welcome to share your thoughts and experience.