It's past 3 AM! Come outside with me and BREATHE!

For many years, I've awakened between 2:50 and 3:30AM almost every night. As I've gotten to this amazing age of 73, it's also a convenient time to head down the hall to the bathroom. Sometimes I slip on my shoes and a robe or sweater depending on the weather and step outside to my small porch that faces my front yard open to the sky. Almost immediately I take a deep, full breath as I close my eyes and, when they open if I'm lucky, on a clear night, I find Jupiter or Venus, the Pleiades or Orion or the Big Dipper. And most rare and magical, I might glimpse the fading whoosh of a meteor passing in front of me. 

I need the deep breath and sky to help me with whatever issue or question was circling in my brain when I woke up. I've read that it's common at the Lung Time (3:00-5:00AM) according to Traditional Chinese Medicine to be dealing with worry or guilt or unresolved issues of pain or grief. 

The time between 3:20 AM to 3:40 AM, is also known as the Brahma Muhurta, defined to be the best time to connect with the higher frequencies of the universe. This is the hour of possibility which means that the seed of spirituality that has been sown inside you starts sprouting. Yogis describe Brahma Muhurta as the best time for meditation.

Amazing what a quiet porch under the inky clear sky can do for your soul. You have started to respond to the consecration of the universe according to Sadhguru, “...if you become in rhythm with the life you will also wake up somewhere after 3 AM.”

Tomorrow's Full Moon in Aries will arrive around 4:57AM here in southern Illinois. Come join me. I'll probably be up, inhaling all the beauty of this world, grateful once again that I can rise on my own, breathe and exhale with ease, smell the fading of September and feel the dew on these feet that have walked so many miles. It's a good life and I am thankful for it all! Perhaps that's all the enlightenment I'll ever need.

Blessed Be!

On this Virgo New Moon

 And the hint/scent of autumn is definitely in the air or is that simply this land sighing with deep relief that the heat has passed? After five days away and the pleasure of caring for my 11 month old grandson, I return to my simple but lovely home near the Shawnee National Forest. I'm grateful for the watchful eyes of neighbors who walked their dogs twice a day around the yard who sniff and pee and let the wild things know that I'm only temporarily away. Another friend slipped onto my porch to water the inside plants. I am as always grateful for these connections. Deeply grateful for friends and for the peaceful residence I have been gifted.

A New Moon signifies a time for setting or seeding new intentions and this one is particularly powerful for me in many ways. I have a Mars in Virgo so I should (should?) feel significantly driven to complete, finish up projects, clean the house, reclaim my routines of self-care. Mostly, I just want to read and write and sit on my porch while this weather allows, before the snows will close it down except on certain sunny days. I feel compelled to walk the woods I have neglected all summer due to the heat and the ticks and the chiggers which absolutely love me. But I have promises to keep: to check the turtles in the old lagoon, to mark a few paw paw saplings for a friend to dig in a few months, to see what autumn flowers I want to wrap with paper bags to collect their seeds. As a volunteer with Project Wingspan, I'll be heading out to places around here in a few weeks to do the same on a larger scale. I am disappointed that no monarch caterpillars have so far laid eggs on the milkweed I have carefully avoided mowing this year. I pray that is not some omen. So many butterflies have visited the zinnias and other flowers by the house yet I have only counted three or four monarchs this year. I force myself not to imagine that next year there may be none. How can we humans allow that to happen?

I say my gratitude for the winged ones who have made it here and send energetic love to those who are struggling in other places to find safety, food, shelter, in order to birth and renew their species. Sounds too much like humans in so many parts of this beloved planet who also suffer from the ignorance of war, prejudice, environmental factors, poverty, or lack of compassion for their plight. 

On this New Moon I collect the seeds from all the dying flowers, to dry and put away in the multiples of recycled glass jars I save throughout the year for just such a purpose. These are my 'intentions.' Who knows what will blossom next year but I want to be ready to make my 'offering' to Gaia next year, to throw out the seeds, hopeful for more butterflies and bees. It's not much, my small assembly of glass jars with handwritten labels. But I intend to be part of the cycle of life as best I can for as long as I am able.  

~Blessed New Moon, September 14, 2023 - 8:40pm CDT~

More information about this New Moon from Pam Gregory, astrologer.

Dispatches From The August Heat Dome

 

[Two weeks on from the massive fire that swept away lives and heritage on Maui, I continue every day to be grateful that my dear friend, Marjorie, managed somehow to escape from Lahaina in her car and is safe with a friend on the north coast. Here is a link to her Go Fund Me page with more details. Although she is blessed with the many friends she has made and the many artists she's mentored over the years, to reconstruct your entire life at 81 takes determination, grit and yes, money. Thank you for helping and sharing this link to assist a beautiful soul rebuild her life from the ashes.]

6:10 AM.  I take a few minutes off from my work in the perennial bed that is desperately in need of deadheading to sit down on the screened porch and embrace the simple pleasures of my life. I have much to be grateful for, sitting with an iced coffee, made from the leftovers of yesterday's breakfast I saved in a glass jar in the fridge for just such an occasion.

I close my eyes as I hold the mug, and acknowledge all the minor miracles swirling in my hand. From the beans that were grown and gathered and roasted far from my home to all those who made it possible for a bag of Organic Guatemala Medium Roast to conveniently sit on a display at Aldi's that I plop into my shopping cart. Everything I can touch, taste or smell, see or feel, has one origin: Mother Earth. And I do not waste her blessings. 

I apologize to the trees and the grasses and flowers and Mother Gaia for the day old coffee, as I know they prefer the fresh perked variety I make for us almost every day with a splash of their preferred Italian Sweet Cream as they have let me know on those occasions when my pocketbook is low on cash and there is only regular milk or a little Half and Half to stir into a big mug for our morning ritual. 

Our daily ritual is a walk about to some point in my acreage, where I collect my thoughts, let go of my fear of lack, or aches and pains, or occasional bouts of loneliness and offer thanks for all that has been shared with me. I honor Mother Gaia with the first sips from the cup that I pour over this one precious Earth that embraces me and all that I love. 

It's late August in southern Illinois. The second heat dome of the summer encases us like hot, wet towels we can't shake off while volcanoes are erupting, the Earth shakes, and a rare tropical storm unloads masses of rain at the same time on southern California. Wild fires further north are creating new refugees while here I sit, comfortable if sweaty, my eyes following the flight of the swallowtails and sulphurs and frittilary threading among the wild and unruly patch of annuals blanketing the raised bed in front of my porch. I tossed out my odd assortment of saved seeds haphazardly in my beds and along the pollinator fence I started last year. It may take awhile for the native perennials to grow and expand but this year's zinnias are everywhere. Any and all food for the butterflies and bees is food for my soul---and of course, the planet. I'm eager for the monarchs to return, knowing they are about to head south. Only one has visited so far but I hope that when the heat moves out they will begin to show up in higher numbers. Their migration story always renews my hope for our own survival, if we can tap into our ancient instinctual need for moving and working together to create home.

7:35 PM

How often do you take time to sit and just thank the Mother Earth for all the splendor, color, abundance, variety that She gifts you? In the midst of all this madness, of vitriol, unwavering loyalty to beliefs founded on quicksand, of ignorance, greed, unholy alliances, loss of vision, loss of faith in goodness and humility, fractured community, there are still sunsets so radiantly glorious and golden, dazzling white ribbons shot through the forest, that I am blinded with yet another miracle I witness from my porch while talking to the tree sisters, "Look ladies! Another evening shared!" Another moment of peace, another turn on the wheel of life. And I am so grateful. It’s my quiet rebuke to the nonsense of the world waiting to choke me from inside cell phones or social media.

After a day inside away from the oppressive heat and humidity, I can sit on my porch and once again acknowledge how damn lucky I am to have air conditioning, an up and running power grid, my cell phone charged and plenty of food in my fridge, pantry, and in the raised beds I built from my own compost pile. I sit back as white clouds turn pink then orange, then blue-gray and sip the last of my iced sun tea as dusk descends, trancelike over the remnants of day. 

I’m the lucky one, the voice in my head reminds me, the same voice that so often begs for mercy, for the outside world oblivious to monarchs, or swallowtails, peach colored sunsets, water, to just notice. I take another sip before heading inside to wash up, grateful for chirping crickets, a trio of fruit bats zapping mosquitos near the light pole, a soft breeze offering to cool the garden. Life is good.   

Blessings, Mahalo,

           Yvonne

To help you identify the marvelous winged ones circling your flowers, check out Owlcation.com.  

Check out the many independent YouTube channels popping up with on-ground interviews and material and resources beyond FEMA, Red Cross, to get directly to those who need it most. Such as www.mauilfg.org.

A Decade On: Trudging to Santiago de Compostela

 

"Tell your story: Yes, tell your story.  Show your example. Tell everyone it's possible,
and others shall feel the courage, to climb their own mountains." ~ Paulo Coelho) 

I do not by any stretch of the imagination claim that I am in the same league, or at the same table with Paulo Coelho EXCEPT, that we have both set our feet on the same well-worn, blessed path trudging across Spain toward Santiago de Compostela. For that, we will always be bonded together as peregrinos, pilgrims on The Way.

While Coelho made his pilgrimage in 1986 which he later wrote about in The Pilgrimage (1987) I set out in June of 2013 near my birthday. I was 63, had not prepared beyond a few days of walking with my overloaded backpack in the hilly area were I was living at the time. I had a good pair of handed down hiking boots and researched good socks and what I might need. I nixed the strong suggestion of ear plugs (wrong!) and walking sticks although veteran pilgrims shook their heads at my ignorance and then bestowed one of theirs on me. 

What moved me to do this is one of those 'where did that idea come from?' moments in my life. I'm not sure but on January 1st, 2013, the idea drilled itself into me like the sound of a mosquito inside a dark, tent. The relentless nagging from Spirit, or Divine Guidance or my long-dead mother who also had happy feet, would not be silenced until I agreed to go. That summer. Six months away. As I have often been gifted these sudden urges to travel for no particulate reason, I knew better than to question the source. Or refuse the invitation.

I flew to Marseille in early June, to rest up a bit and board a train on my birthday for the border with Spain where I would officially set off. Now, I do love the French (and their food) but they can call a railroad strike at the drop of an unkind word so as the days passed, I sought out another way to Irun on the border with France. After many hours on a bus, I was very unceremoniously dropped at the train station in Irun around 5am. Station is closed, I'm shooed off the benches in front of the station by police where I attempted to sleep. I wandered just a few feet away to the bench in a churchyard next to the station, and, using my backpack as a pillow, waited for the 6am opening to grab something to eat and a cup of coffee to begin the search for an albuerque, one of the hostels or other establishments set up just for those walking the Camino.

In retrospect, I see this delay as preparation for the long road ahead: being ready to improvise and deal with what showed up, letting expectations drop-about time, distance, available comforts-letting trust not expectation be my constant companion. 

I treasure the photo above from my second day on the Norte, the north road of the Camino, taken by a stranger, another pilgrim who flashed the universal hand sign for 'let me take your picture' at just the right moment when I stopped to take in the view of the Atlantic. I intentionally left my cell phone behind in the States but kept my camera at the ready the entire trip. I rarely passed anyone who didn't speak with reverence if not joy as they shared some unexpected comfort or small kindness from their day--passing a corner burdened with wild flowers, cold water offered for blistered feet at a small village fountain, having the last bed space in an over-croweded albuerque, a cup of fresh, free hot coffee offered from the tiny restaurant on a rainy morning. Simple needs, simple pleasures. As pilgrims, we chose to give up everything we could not carry on our backs just to put one foot in front of the other for weeks and by doing this,  realized the richness of our lives was not what we had but what we did not need.

“I have come to believe that we do not walk alone in this life. There are others, fellow sojourners, whose journeys are interwoven with ours in seemingly random patterns, yet, in the end, have been carefully placed to reveal a remarkable tapestry." ~ Richard Paul Evans

How did I walk over 350 miles or more for six weeks? One footfall after the other. Learning to trudge. I now know exactly what that word means. Trudging is how I got across Spain.  A trudge is a pace that is not quite walking speed and not quite stopping speed. A trudge is almost metronomic, rhythmic, like breathing. Balancing a backpack makes it easier to trudge. Trudging is how we become closer to the earth. Like turtles. Slow, sure, steady. Timeless.

 Trudging is a meditation. It slows us but does not impede our life. We can make progress but without chaos or losing our ability to see, be present in the moment. In fact, trudging IS living in the moment. I don’t trudge anymore since I’ve left the Camino. I would, but I feel self-conscious. Unless I’m alone on a hike or walking down a very deserted road up to my house. I never felt self-conscious on the Camino but I had the perfect reason to be slowly lifting one foot and then the other: the backpack with the large shell hanging on the back that entitled me to walk any old way I wanted as long as my destination was always westward, toward a point on this globe already christened through the centuries by other humans as confused by the world and life as I was.  Trudging united me with millions of feet that had worn down paths through the woods, slept in monasteries and open fields, climbed high peaks and left soft prints on sandy beaches. Our trudging feet blessed the Earth with each step, each slow moment we created, acclimating to a collective sacred daily ritual. Santiago de Compostela could be Mt. Kilimanjaro or Lake Titicaca. Any destination that gives trudging a purpose is sacred. But in reality, the trudging IS the purpose. 

My Camino was constant change cocooned within constant motion, a world where generosity was the common currency, laughter the exchange rate, and everyone had the same amount to spend. As I linger over photos from that walk a decade ago, sitting here in my small house in southern Illinois that I love surrounded by woods and a few wild things from time to time, I start to wonder if I could do this again. My right knee certainly didn't like the mountainous Norte and my right ankle later suffered a stress fracture on the French Way in July as if to say "I told you it was too hot down here." But I would not give up any of the aches and soreness that I still carry. My body holds all these as memories, memories of ancient ruins I investigated, acres of sunflowers that appeared to nod as I passed, broad vistas shared with others trudging beside me, simple food shared communally, the daily blessings of 'buen camino!' poured over us from locals as we passed, of strangers who became instant family as we walked side by side for a few days or even just a few hours. 

Yeah, I'd do it again. There is still hopefully more trudging left in me. Only this time I'd definitely bring along ear plugs and a pair of my very own walking sticks.

I need solitude. I need space. I need air. I need the empty fields round me; and my legs pounding along roads; and sleep; and animal existence.—Virginia Woolf

Blessed Lughnasadh Full Moon August 1st!

 Even if you're not of the pagan variety (although I would offer we are all descendants of pagan people) this time of year we need to pause and reflect on all the bounty of our life, however small or brief. 

Life on this planet is a balancing act yet if anything can show us we are out of balance --"Koyaanisqatsi"--it must be this summer of fires, extreme heat, floods, landslides, and oceans too warm to swim in. That word koyaanisqatsi is the title of a 1982 film, a wordless, montage of moving and still photographs depicting the definition of the titular Hopi noun ("crazy life; life in turmoil; life out of balance; life disintegrating; a state of life that calls for another way of living.") We certainly need another way of living...

We have known for many decades that life on this beautiful blue ball is  upside down and inside out.  I believer we are capable to make the adjustments needed to correct the devastating path we are told is before us. I see a much different path. One of beauty, of compassion, of connection. Of love. Where the path of despair and denial diverges is when we step onto the path of love for it all, everything, everyone -- through gratitude.

Lughnasadh or Lammas is a harvest celebration, a ritual of thanksgiving and giving back. I believe that we turn away from constant fear, anxiety, separation, denial, through simple moments of grace and gratitude. 

From the first moments when I open my eyes, gratitude flows to all that I 'harvest' from my eyes to see the sunrise, to my hands to make the necessary coffee with chicory, then outside to pour the first sips on the ground reminding me that EVERYTHING I have comes from this planet we call Earth. She is our provider and we are totally dependent on her. Yet how often do you  acknowledge this, whisper it to the skies or the water or the trees and put your hands on her rich skin in awe? 

With this, I am returning to regularly posting. There is much that I can share. The title: Healing the Heartland, feels more and more a calling than ever before. The Heartland is wherever you are. Healing is not only  possible but desperately needed, and each of us can offer something no matter how simple wherever we live. 

In future posts I'll share from those who inspire me, how I've integrated their thoughts and words and ideas into my life and where I still have a long way to go to make changes. We're all in this together and there is no one 'right way' except perhaps this: to be willing, to keep your heart open, to offer thanks for all you have, and to be ready to offer what you have to share. 

This weekend the Southern Illinois Pagan Alliance will be holding the first of three harvest celebrations.  Lughnasadh pronounced luna-suh, will be held on Sunday, July 30. The public ritual begins at noon at Shelter 4 at Giant City State Park in Makanda, Illinois and all are welcome. The gathering starts at noon with the ritual starting around 2:00 p.m. After the ritual, there will be a potluck.

Those attending the event are invited to bring seasonal harvest items. They can be from a farmer’s market, a local grocery store, or even your own personal garden. Come celebrate with the Alliance or create your own Harvest Festival with family and friends. 

I am grateful to be writing this post and for any who happen to find it. 

Blessings!

      Yvonne

Ho'oponopono* for Mother Earth

The last day of March and quite possibly it will go out racing if not raging. As the warm earth will be meeting up with cooler clouds today, it's spring in southern Illinois, in not only the traditional lands of the Osage, Kickapoo, Potawatamii, Miamii, Shawnee, Quapaw but also the alley of tornados. What did I expect by moving back to my homestate after twenty some years? Spring equals tornadoes, wind, rain and then humidity, mosquitos and flourishing earth shaded by trees of every size, shape, color. I left behind the parched constantly arid southwest because I thirsted for green earth where rain danced and shimmered and nourished me. After decades of counting every drop of rain for my gardens, I sit today on my porch awaiting what is forecast to be one of 'those' - another round of heavy rain and wind and possible tornadoes. Prominent forecasters say it's unusual for so many of these potential storm fronts appearing in the heavy rain and snow out west and continuing snow further north. These storms are more severe they comment, more frequent. Climate change? Hmm. 

At almost 73 years of watching winds and sunlight and rain and living on this Great Mother Earth, and as a mother myself and grandmother eight times over, I wonder if She is not actually giving us a talking to, you know, like moms give to their children when one of them breaks a sister's toy or throws a tantrum or refuses to take a bath after a day at play in the backyard. We first talk to them like thinking beings "we can't break other people's things" or "it's ok to be upset but we need to finish the shopping and Mom really needs your help" or simply "you stink! Get in that tub now!" 

Could our one and only Mother Earth, the one being on whom we all depend for EVERYTHING--from air and water and food to all that a toilet paper you waste and even the batteries in your phone so you can read this post--comes from her. But how often do you, before you get out of bed or open your cell phone that you just cannot live without realize gratitude for the very living being you sleep upon each night?

For reasons I can't explain I have been gifted throughout my life with traditions and rituals of various ways to show gratitude. Before I throw the covers off each morning, I fold my hands across my chest look up into the morning light and repeat "arigato, arigato, arigato." Years ago reading about how to bring more abundance into my life, this simple Japanese phrase stuck with me as more than money but the wealth of family, my own good health, a fertile garden, good neighbors. Or just waking up each day.

My mother taught us to say "Grace" before meals and I have attempted to instill the same in mine with mixed results. I do, when present at family gatherings agitate for at least a simple grace we can all remember: "Thanks to Mother Earth, thanks to Father Sun, thanks to the fruits from the garden where the Mother and Father are one." Over time children and grandchildren added their personal touch at the end: "SQUEEZE!" and we all squeeze hands which seems to be their most important part of the blessing. 

Even alone I say that prayer before eating. As a gardener of more than 60 years, I damn well know where my food comes from and what it takes even in my raised beds to bring in healthy food. I also mentally thank the workers in the fields who planted it, weeded it, picked it, drove it to processing centers, shipped it to my markets and those who put it on the shelves and the cashier who rang up my bill. Aren't they too, part of the circle of life? I think they are. 

Back in the late 1990's, I had the privilege to work for the Jicarilla Apache Tribe in northern New Mexico for two years. One of my closest friends and co-workers invited me to attend a few feasts, celebrations of young women coming of age. It's a four day celebration with lots of food, ceremonies, community support and honoring of a girl taking her place as a woman in the tribe. At table with S. and others I watched hoping not to make some stupid White person faux pas and saw her before putting a bit of food on the ground and pouring some of her drink over it, before beginning her meal. When I asked her what happened she gave me one of those looks I actually came to like from my tribal co-workers and friends, the one that could best be translated "White lady, were you born stupid?" My friend said quietly, we give thanks to Mother Earth and the Great Spirit before we eat. Ahh.

This was where I also first witnessed the preparation of the Spirit Plate. And again many times during the days at Standing Rock. It humbled me. As we hungry people stood in the cold November days and evenings, plates in hand, a plate was passed around the serving line with a portion of the various foods for that meal, then blessed and given a place of honor before anyone was served. In the eight days I was there, receiving these gifts of free food, I only heard one person complain: a skinny white man from California who said he was starving and was also angry that the young males ate last. Go figure. Fortunately he left.

I have gathered all these moments into a basket from which I pull these offerings freely shared to enrich my life. Each morning before I take my breakfast, I make sure to walk outside with a fresh cup of coffee into the trees behind my house or simply from my front porch, acknowledge the sky and the ground and the life that surrounds me here, verbalize my gratitude for all that I have, and pour out the first sips onto Mother Earth. On those days when I'm away from the house or forget when a phone call or text interrupts my usual habits, I tend toward going out at a later time and apologizing. When I forget that I am part of, not above all that is contained on this beautiful blue sphere spinning in a vast cosmos among billions of galaxies, the need for forgiveness is strong. 

This morning, as I poured my dark roast with Italian Creamer over the center of the tree sisters (they prefer Italian Creamer to hazelnut by the way,) I began to cry. And it came to me that I needed to add something today. In my awareness of the coming storms, in my intuitive belief that Earth, as a sentient being is trying to awaken us, chastise us even, alert us that She is frankly quite exhausted being taken advantage of on so many levels, I began to recite the prayer I've used often when I needed to make things right with others: "I'm sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you, I love you." After several repetitions as the tears flowed for all those yet who live in ignorance of their bounty, the winds stirred around me even more, inviting me to lighten up a little and dance with them. 

My trees are very forgiving of my slights from time to time. The land is forgiving, as well, allowing me more opportunities to reseed or replant when I fail to listen to Her. 

I wonder when more earthling humans will begin to read in these winds and rains and cyclones and droughts the voice of a loving Mother on her last nerve. And start to show some humility. Climate change? I'm sure. Or Gaia is just changing her tone from "Mom really needs your help now" to "You stink!" 

Gratitude grows exponentially, you know. The more of my life I acknowledge in gratitude the more I have to be grateful for it seems. What might happen if we all begin a simple thank you every day and every evening no matter what emotional or social or political pains we encountered in the hours between? I believe I know. Let's try. And let's begin with some Ho'oponopono for our tired, overworked, constantly giving, constantly degraded, thoroughly neglected by too many, Great Mother. 

And the only Mother we all have.

*"Hoʻoponopono" is defined in the Hawaiian Dictionary as:

(a) "To put to rights; to put in order or shape, correct, revise, adjust, amend, regulate, arrange, rectify, tidy up make orderly or neat, administer, superintend, supervise, manage, edit, work carefully or neatly; to make ready, as canoemen preparing to catch a wave."

(b) "Mental cleansing: family conferences in which relationships were set right (hoʻoponopono) through prayer, discussion, confession, repentance, and mutual restitution and forgiveness.

Late August Dispatch from The Porch

 

I am grateful for the purple coneflowers that call to any monarch butterflies winding their way south each August. The numbers are dwindling. Even with the over-large tithonia near the porch screaming red-orange flowers at every insect and hummingbird, still, the monarchs are few and far between.

If you didn't know, these amazing beings may soon be on the Endangered Species list. Can you imagine that? Creatures this brilliant and complex, who have survived for probably thousands of years navigating changing terrains, storms at sea, human invasions to their ancestral lands are about to be placed on life support. At least that's how I look at anyone on the ESL. It means that we have failed to coexist with yet another beautiful being on this planet because we are foolish, intent on taking all that we can and sharing nothing--if it doesn't produce wealth for us or a few. 

In our zeal to grow more and more row crops for animal feed and for foods poisoned with glyphosate to limit plants like milkweed, we bring ourselves and the future of such beauty close to the end. Milkweeds are the only food that monarchs depend on as the location for their eggs and to feed the larvae as they grow and change and move through that amazing metamorphosis. What would a world look like absent butterflies, hummingbirds, bees? That's right. Dead. Unlivable. For all of us. 

It's incomprehensible to me that our leadership, politicians, wealthy humans gobbling up or destroying swathes of land for megafarms and cattle ranches, refuse to look further down the road at the world their children and grandchildren will be forced to live in.

I want my grandchildren to feel the softness of the wind as a butterfly chases by them while they stand in my meadow. Is that too much to ask? 

Wherever you live, you can plant milkweed and flowers. Both will support the monarchs and other insects that pollinate and nurture us. We need them. They need us to work and live WITH them once again. Somewhere we got disconnected from our true purpose on this amazing blue ball spinning in space: to be her guardian and protector and in return she would provide all we needed. But not all we greeded. Let's become guardians of the Earth as we were sent here to be. 

If you wish to be part of a solution, and we all must be part of the solution, I urge you to consider these.

Or create a monarch way station with your yard or school or club.