Write something today.

Write something today. Solstice. Radiance. Warming earth. Wild heart. Thank you. Umbrellas. I wish for. A poem of day to day life, simple prose. The gift of our language, for each other, looking up at the stars, dancing with laundry in the wind, a peach, a job well done, a sharing. These energies of life making up our lives. So why share THIS? When we are so busy. It isn't very useful. Or is it? These small pauses. To pick up a pen. For a thank you note, a celebration, a kindness for someone. It's good for our health anyways. The gentle staccato of a keyboard when typing for connection. I share this because in the act of even short writing I find my common humanity so easily. (No wonder we stall, this, an invitation into vulnerability. Every day.) And we find beauty. Experiencing this, we WILL be effective, already tapping into something big, loving this world yet desiring its transformation. More effective, clearer on the path. Enough and still capable of more. “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about," writes Rumi. So write. Experiment. Until the solstice? I'll do the same. Yes, THAT grass.

| unsplash |

| unsplash |

an antidote to greed

1969: Apollo 11 lands on the moon. "Oddly enough the overriding sensation I got looking at the earth was, my god that little thing is so fragile out there," reports Mike Collins.

1982: Koyaanisqatsi: Life Out of Balance - an experimental film. For 86 minutes, slow motion, time-lapse, American cities and landscapes. Haunting images, music by Philip Glass. No voices or text. Cliffs, canyons. Mining trucks, oil fields. Fleeting skies, forests. Hot dog assembly lines. Beauty and sorrow amplified.

No one spoke of climate change. No one spoke much at all. Bewilderment. Few facts.

Early 2000s: The science of awe begins. Awe: An embodied feeling that changes us irrevocably. Self-transcendent. To know even fleetingly that we are part of something greater. This vastness. Awe diminishes the story of me. It drops us into a plane of timelessness, connectedness. We think more critically, become less materialistic.

2006: Al Gore publishes An Inconvenient Truth. Facts. Bewilderment turns into urgency. Be still the stars, desert blooms. The necessity of beauty.

A thought: What if I expand my capacity for awe? Or all of us, our teams, our customers? Convening around awe. Antidote for greed. So that care becomes a natural choice.

2019 0604 nasa | unsplash

2019 0604 nasa | unsplash

#consciousbusiness #wildheartedleaders #consciouscapitalism

Language of kindness

How do I speak to myself? Or to others? Really, the words I choose. Spoken or unspoken.

Kindness is "a way of honoring and supporting one another’s vulnerabilities, acknowledging our need for others and our human frailties," says Dr. Dan Siegel. "Being kind to ourselves and others means caring for each other’s most vulnerable ways of being."

This tenderness. A way to speak then. Our wild heart gets it. A sensitivity to the energy and information of words, the space that opens beyond them. Or not. We have always known, from the inside out, the pain of spaces closing down, this aching. Just because of what we say. Walls going up. The heart runs deep with compassion, with joy: Because it knows. Knows this awesome gift: Kindness in language. I respect myself. I respect you.

Words focus our attention. Their energy hardens or opens things. Words and the spaces beyond words affect our nervous system, our state of mind. References, meaning. Sounds, silence. Brittle words - hate, pain, stupid. Fluid ones - love, ease, wellbeing. Courage, a word seeing the heart. We may not always feel fluid in ourselves, with each other, but even just noticing this allows a bit of space.

Clarity. Space. Forgiveness too. The language of kindness, choices. Shall we speak?

credit: ian stauffer | unsplash: language of kindness

credit: ian stauffer | unsplash: language of kindness

Wild-heart connection

Connection, owning ourselves. Little things essential to the wild heart. Belonging. And so the theme in this piece is about chefs, the ones who live connection through the food they share. Ingredients to play with. Perspectives on our rebellious hunger to feed and be fed. Even if we don't recognize this hunger, prefer to go out as lone pioneers. "We are wired for connection, but the key is that, in any given moment of it, it has to be real," writes Brené Brown in Braving the Wilderness. Chefs are often very real. The great ones lead through respect, engagement, paradox, trust, intentionality, transparency, and moral compass.

Read More

rebel leader: a tribute

A sudden death and work unfinished. This friend of ours, wild-hearted leader to the max. Science, economics, a ruckus for scalable practical pathways to reverse climate change at the nexus of food, water, and energy.

He was at home in the gap, the open space lifted by the tension between what is (for him: data, stats, science, models, the beauty of this planet.) and what one knows that can be from the depth of knowing (for him: more science, prototypes, applied research, more models, the beauty of this planet.). Something else in this space of paradox: Heart at peace; diligence; skill; the willingness to learn; urgency, and love. The ultimate outcome of the research - shared with a cohort- was not up to him. He had just finished a book, so close to publishing. He could only show and live in what he knew to be true.

Our meditation teacher spoke of the ones more peaceful than peace itself. The ones that embody an awareness bigger than our small fearful selves. The ones that are messengers alongside old age, illness, and death. The truth where paradox itself ceases.

We who love life so fiercely, our powerful missions - we just do our work then, showing up, vulnerable, courageous, real. We know what can be. Heart at peace.

photo credit: geoffroy hauwen | unsplash

photo credit: geoffroy hauwen | unsplash