Cultivating Change

2016 was a pretty awful year for me. I couldn't look away from a spiteful election though it made me physically ill. My Gate 57, which often allows me to spot a scoundrel in the room first, made me afraid for the Earth. I feared a president that saw the planet as a commodity, and viewed climate catastrophe as a hoax, would make things worse for the environment for decades to come. You see, I hail from a clan of unapologetic dirt worshippers. Oregonians. My elders all worked their city lots--Mom with her roses, Nana and her dahlias and Auntie Grace doting on sweet peas. I joked that Mom, who worked as a hair stylist until she was 77, couldn't stop herself standing on her feet at work for 10 hours and then mow and rake and fond over backyard flowerbeds another 10. Mom judged others by whether or not their lawn was mowed AND edged. 

Like my elders, I took control of the only thing I could in the Spring of 2017, a 1/3 acre parcel 12 miles south of Portland, OR. I went outside and poured my broken heart into Mother Earth. I was determined to create a safe zone for the land and its creatures right here. 

The property has a creek and a greenway, and a resident family of beavers with their attendant muskrat. In 2016 there was a 40 foot laurel hedge across the front and you could barely see the ground on much of the property through the ivy, buttercup, black berries, morning glory, and all their invasive friends. 

Digging in the dirt soothes me, makes me feel like I am part of something bigger, and satisfies my insatiable creative director. As I work the dirt through the seasons I can see corollaries with life and with my own experience making small and large transformations to more closely match my body graph. We can learn from Mother Earth as a tireless energy transformer. Transforming the land is a lot like transforming the human spirit.

Restoration of a landscape is about returning it to its original form--in this case, with plants that would naturally have grown there. Human Design transformation is about returning to our unique energy from the influence of external pressures. Both land transformation and energy transformation can feel overwhelming. Both Mother Earth and humans are built for transformation.

To transform the land I read a bunch, attended workshops, consulted with experts, signed up for Backyard Habitat Certification, and felt a bit overwhelmed. I hired a crew to remove the laurel and grind the stumps. I pulled other invasives. I caged plants the deer often trample. I pulled invasives. I welcomed new and maturing residents each spring. I dug out the dead knick-knick the neighborhood dogs killed with urine.

Day by day, inch by inch the invasives are replaced by flourishing native plantings. This year's bonus was the appearance of volunteers that were merely waiting in the wings for a clear plot.

To transform myself I read a bunch, attended workshops, consulted with experts, signed up for more deeper training and consultation, and felt a bit overwhelmed. I started practicing by seeking the peace needed by a Manifestor. I embraced my energy and body graph. I overused my energy and got big sick. I eased into a peaceful cadence. I shared what I know about someone else's chart with them.

And each day I learn a little more. With every chart I read and share, I see a little more. With every energy-correct behavior I practice I am more in flow, and I understand a little more. Every near-miss brings learning, and most days I get some new clarity either about myself or one of my closest people.

After 5 seasons, 3 truck loads of compost, countless hours of pulling invasive weeds, planting, daily maintenance (March-October) raking, ongoing repair of underground digging and damage and lots of water, this parcel is filled with the kind of plants that might have grown here had the invasive ones not taken over--sword, lady, deer,  and other ferns, vine maple, mountain hemlock, wild lilac, fire weed, Nootka rose, snow berry, fringe cup, coastal strawberry, Pacific dogwood and rhododendron, grand fir, sorrel, elderberry, Douglas fir, wild huckleberry, current, lupine, beach daises and more. 

But I'm out there this morning to check on a bed that belongs to the commuter neighbor, but I keep contained. In my temporary lapse of attention blackberry teens have skulked through the bed a foot or so, two with minor root balls and one the size of my fist.  I thought those guys were gone. I mutter and remove each of their root balls as if it's one of my super powers.

This scene feels familiar because it is. Here I am pulling the same old invasives I have been pulling for years. Just like when I slip outside my energy and find myself angry. It's usually an old habit or short-coming built into the conditioning of my upbringing--like holding back tears instead of feeling all of my feelings and sobbing. Underneath, big root balls, likely to sprout again. But weaker and weaker each year.