I cleaned my paint brushes and then read some random article about the poisoning of the Earth, the poisoning with pesticides to grow potatoes on land that belonged to Native Americans. I did these two very diverse things before 5:30 in the morning. My brushes were in need of a good scrubbing, for they had helped me with a painting that brought me spiritual joy. It is a small painting, one of whimsy with a bit of fantasy and realism all mixed up together, sort of like this world we are in. In the faint light of the morning, I walked across the wooden floor of my studio to the kitchen sink with brushes that dripped of turpentine, not really caring, for the floor had been through the childhood of five children and, most recently, the pathway into our house for Elizabeth and Erik’s outdoor wedding. The worn oak planks shamelessly sport paint stains and blemishes, much like I do myself. I have grown to love its secret story and consequentially have little concern with its flawed veneer. So began this new day in the middle of August, in the seventh decade of my life. I have coffee now and I am writing, the clock just struck 6.

These two occurrences I mention unexpectedly set a direction for my day. I tried to pull them together, these two different and extreme situations that casually presented themselves to me in those mystic moments before sunrise, those moments where the adjustment of my day at hand somewhat formulates.

My day, this day in the middle of 2021, is a time of confusion, a time of much disarray. Sometimes, like you, I feel this weight of the world and other times, I only see what is in front of me. We all have our places we “go to,” places that adjust the balance and equilibrium of our thoughts and therefore our lives. Like many of you, I find that place in my garden. I find comfort in planting and watching things grow. I have recently moved toward a prairie sort of arrangement lately, a situation that grew from a deeper love of Nature and her natural beauty. I also know that if you fill your garden with native plants, the butterflies and the honey bees will come, they know the difference. My garden is an ongoing journey, it will never “get there;” instead, it will evolve and change as my life does. One day I will be older and it will be older too. I will not be as able to tend it and Mother Nature will have a heavier hand. I will have to allow that. It may be that I am enjoying the natural state more because somehow I know that later in my life it will be different.

The swallowtails, monarchs, dragonflies, the wild bunnies from the woods and my honey bees are all welcome here in this space that is only a small part of the world, but it is mine to share with all that come (except maybe the squirrels; they are eating my pecans, ha). I have written so many hundreds of heartfelt words, so many itemized descriptions about Nature; this one, however, is somewhat of an indirect plea. We can all be kinder, we can all give something back to her.

That’s it, that’s how I adjust this contemporary world in my mind. I can hardly do much to solve the global problems but I can tend to the small circle I exist in and I can do my best to make it better. I can be kind to the earth and to my neighbor and I can grow food for my family and lastly, I can feed my spirit.

I share my simple morning ritual with you and extend this concerning thought in hope that you find a place of peace and charity within these days ahead, these days of uncertainty.

When we all do a little, it will all help a lot.

PAM SHENSKY is a wife and mom to five.