A single, wild asparagus plant grows along a rocky trail through a canyon carved over millennia by rhythmic flows of snowmelt sliding off 13,000 foot peaks overhead.
"How did you get here?" I asked out loud, admiring its unexpected presence in this rugged landscape, strangely isolated from the rest of the foliage around it as though holding court for itself with generous space. I drifted along the possibilities of its history with fascination.
I had never seen asparagus in the wild and only recognized it because I spent the last few months harvesting hundreds of its cultivated cousins at the farm up north.
From that moment on, I paid this asparagus deliberate visits, pausing each way on this oasis of an out-and-back trail where my dog loves to muddy her paws, happy to see this new friend reliably reaching toward the sun. All on its own. At first it was a towering stalk, climbing toward nearly 5 feet. I was amazed it remained intact against all odds. Only a few weeks later, it explosively bolted, becoming more substantial – ferning out into dozens of spindly arms, crowned with tiny flowers. I may have walked past it a hundred times in its young state, just a solitary spear piercing through spring-softened soil. Now it captivated me in its maturity.
There are parts of me that feel ridiculous to revel in this quiet, private joy week after week. Childlike in my wonder: is it still there? Has it been trampled by a reckless mountain biker? Wrecked by a riled up pup? How has it changed? What will happen next? I’m relieved when I see it, regal and resplendent. There are parts of me that swell with tender, sweet grief to reflect on the significance of this simple recognition, the knowledge to identify this being outside of its “typical” context, the attentiveness to *see* it in the first place. I have not been hospitable to this kind of noticing for very long, to this kind of satiation with the subtle moments of life, to say: "This. Here. Enough. Thank you."
I continue to meet myself anew in this kind of softness that is finding its way to the surface. For a long while I encased this soft center with a hard shell. Hard edges met hard edges out there on hard streets, every one of us conditioned to expect harm and hurt and heartbreak amongst our fellow humans, so afraid of the unloving realities of our times, too raw in our longing to let ourselves learn to be loved together.
I have been on a path of inverting this paradigm, this broader world frequency. I am learning how to show up and out soft and receptive, by holding myself fortified and protected within.
How does my gaze greet all others with curiosity instead of judgment, receptivity instead of righteousness, compassion instead of victimization?
I crave it, so I give it.
There are ways cruelty, ignorance, and hypocrisy are showing up on my doorstep and expecting me to answer in this old way, pressuring me into a fight to reinforce the fading residues of retaliation and retribution. I simply don’t have room in myself anymore to maintain animosity. I step back and instead offer a bow of dignity. The violence demanded of a world built upon scarcity and threat must yield to brave surrender and wide, all-encompassing heart. I am not enlisting to tired battles of distraction anymore. There are other, pressing demands on my awareness: namely the cultivation of love. This asks us to no longer water what we no longer seek, but to tend vigorously to what we do.
In some ways, I am realizing my own capacity for love.
One of my life's greatest mentors is john a. powell, the founder of the Othering & Belonging Institute at UC Berkeley, a man who has architected an entire pedagogy of practical and pragmatic ways to reweave moral uprightness and enduring wholeness at scale. How he meets those who despise him for not only his work, but his ideology, his cosmology, his very existence, is soul medicine. He is a living, breathing sanctuary of peace, and the clarity of his own being allows all distortion to be reflected with precision. Arrows dissolve in the magnitude of his grace.
This planet is also one of my greatest mentors. In the generous presence of her abundance I remember my own. In her embrace, tenderness and sensitivity are gift. Tears are rehydrating rainfall requisite for the cycle of life. Warmth is the caress of the summer breeze on my skin. Gratitude is the radiance of a river at golden hour. Soft hands, soft lands.
Leaders are simply those who have the most impact on the system.
What kind of leadership is called for now? Toward what impact? To create what system?
This is not abstract. It takes practice and effort and repetition to rewire ourselves toward nurturance and alignment in a world that prioritizes constant concessions to arbitrary power. We are invited into this state through the spirit of the place that we're in, through meeting the ever-unfolding now and all the beings that shape this relational experience of incarnation with utmost dignity.
Will we look at our neighbor with the same reverence we hold for the most spectacular sunset? Will I honor you because life has honored you?
Wholeness itself is unconditional love. At this time on Earth, our only collective model for this is our very planet itself. What does it mean to grow our capacity for unconditional love as the mirror back, creating safety through a voluminous reality of supreme regard? The arrows might dissolve in this magnitude of grace.
This.
Here.
Enough.
Thank you.
Holiness is everywhere. In the wild asparagus and the rising moon.
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Gorgeous piece, RSS.
I love that little asparagus. Such a beautiful, tender thing, like this piece.