We’ve all had that moment when we realized that what we’ve been believing is not true. It’s helpful to remember how our beliefs have changed so that we can hold them with a more open hand. And it’s also important to share our journeys with one another so we learn, over and over again, that we are not alone.

The seed for my joyful European adventure was planted years ago while I laid in bed, unable to move without excruciating pain.

Here we were, as in so many moments that we’ve spent together as a Joy Collective, reverent and irreverent at once. Balancing precariously between upright and flat-on-our-faces, trying not to hold our breath, and reaching for one another’s hands.

How beautiful it is to surrender to love when we are down, trusting someone else has the energy to hold the light. Or to be that light shining, regardless of circumstances, because this is what we practice.

Living close to the earth, the seasons set the pace. I find that the development of flowers, fruits, and vegetables don’t follow a calendar, but they do proceed to ripen in a somewhat orderly rhythm.

On one of the hottest days of summer, our local Joy Collective group gathered from the nether reaches of Lane County to grace our back deck with all colors.

This “de-railed” version of pesto topped just about any other I’d eaten. Sometimes the greatest gift is lack.

Watching the antics of my habit-mind, I caught a glimpse of how important it is to realign my sensibilities with nature.

As I make more time to rest, my attitude brightens. The responsibility of harvest grows more fun as well.

In social situations, we are often uncertain of our roles and can feel afraid of how folks will respond to us.

Every year when our Marionberries ripen, my heart grows tender, reminding me that this bush roots into my family history. Picking berries, I find my grandmother right there beside me.

I scrubbed for almost four and a half hours straight, finishing up by headlamp. In 2019, I’d laid in bed and wondered if I’d ever be able to pick up a glass of water without excruciating pain. Astounding.

When the day’s work was done, we’d all go down to the river, and there, “weedy” St. John’s Wort would wave a golden hello.

Priming is the act of intentionally imagining what is going to happen and feeling the way you’d like to feel about it, sometimes even imagining all the joyful possibilities that could occur. The twin sister of priming, by default, is worry.

We notice things for the first time when we discover their value.

If our lives can flash before our eyes at the point of death, so did I see, with horror, a vision of myself preparing and assembling the mix entirely that night.

We have learned and grown together in our forest garden. Over the years, children have hidden beneath the Goumi’s canopy and have plucked its berries in June.

Celebrations at the shift in recession of lightness or dark can bring our attention to all that Mother Earth is and offers. It is an opportunity to notice how we, in parallel, experience darkness and light within our own natural rhythms of growth and creativity.

Soft, cool water invited my cares to flow away, invited me to let go and enjoy the moment. Water is sacred, and water is love.

His home is clearly everywhere, his touch and his vision stretch from sunny cabins and older growth plantings to the infant rows of seedlings.