The way we see the world is really no more than a social convention. When we experience the Earth not as a place where everything can be bought and sold, but as a place of wealth and generosity, we open the door to a life of gratitude and wonder.
The story begins two years ago. We’ve just moved out of the city to a house in the countryside. From my urban perspective, the garden looks enormous. For forty years, it has been lovingly cultivated by the previous owner, who covered it with flowers, plants and a few trees. We begin unpacking in midsummer, when the garden is just past the height of its growth. As we walk the narrow paths through the wilderness of greenery, its beauty astonishes us. I am seized by a sense of responsibility for this plot of land, and my mind fills with questions. What we will do with it? Will we thin it? Grow more edible flowers and plants? Or maybe turn it into a field of flowers?
I’ve spent time in wild nature, and we’ve had a small garden, but I’ve never tried to design a plot of land before. The garden is beautiful, but so big. Do I really know enough about the world of plants to take care of it? To be honest, the weeds creeping up between the cobblestones are the kinds of plants I’d like to have in my garden.
We have to renovate the house, so at first we don’t have time for gardening. In autumn, the dying plants turn every color of the rainbow. But by winter, we’re making good progress with the renovations, and I take a more critical look at the bare garden. What can go and what can stay? We pull up some bushes and fell a tree at risk of toppling over, but instead of being glad that we’ve finally gotten to work, I feel like crying. Strange, I’ve always heard that gardening is good for you, that grass is there to be mown and weeds to be pulled. Letting the
garden run wild would be like never straightening up the house.
When spring arrives, the garden truly explodes. At first we’re amazed by the wealth of flowers and salamanders and the tree laden with sweet currants. But I soon come to see the garden as a jungle I could never tame. I try to do some weeding but don’t trust myself. What am I pulling up now? And why? Meanwhile, the unchecked growth continues, blocking the paths and making it ever more difficult for me to reach the chickens in the back of the yard. I put a bench in front of the house and get into the habit of drinking my coffee on the street side. It’s an odd situation: At last, we have a patch of soil where I can try out all my ideas about permaculture —planting an herb garden, a vegetable garden and fruit trees, but every time I touch a plant or pick a flower, it feels as if I’m taking something that doesn’t belong to me. You might even say I feel like a shoplifter. No matter how hard I try, I can’t tap into the joy of gardening that I saw on Instagram and in my glossy guides. The garden doesn’t want me — that much is clear — so when autumn comes around again, I let it wither untouched.
That winter, I stay indoors by the fire, and we unpack the last of our moving boxes. When Marie Kondo’s series on tidying up comes on TV,
something clicks for me. Before Kondo starts to reorganize, she sits with her eyes closed and introduces herself to the house. Of course! Even though I took the time to cleanse our new house of negative energy, introduce myself to it, and get to know each room, I never did anything similar in the garden. I just started digging and tugging, seeing it through judgmental eyes. How could I have been so arrogant?
In a thick winter coat, I sit under the large beech in the back of the garden and follow Kondo’s example. “Hi, garden, plants, trees and animals, I’m Sarah. We moved in recently, and I’m sorry I never introduced myself. I’ve only just realized how rude that was. Will you give me a second chance? I’d really like to get to know you.”But nothing happens. The garden remains a closed door to me. A while later, I find myself standing by the holly tree by the drive with a pair of pruning shears, but I can’t bring myself to touch it. Who am I to cut off a branch? To pick the holly berries that feed the birds? And what for? To decorate my dinner table? I slink back indoors, defeated. As a human being, I feel I don’t have anything to add to nature; it doesn’t need me at all, and everything I pick or do or plan or buy will only lead to more for me and less for the Earth. I know our relationship with nature is out of balance, but now, for the first time, I can really feel the truth of that. My attitude toward the holly tree at my doorstep is the world in microcosm. It’s all wrong, but I don’t know how to change it.
For my birthday, a friend sends me a present. “Because this beautiful book keeps making me think of you,” she writes as an inscription. The title is Braiding Sweetgrass, and the author, American scientist Robin Wall Kimmerer, a botany professor of Native American descent, combines her traditional, local knowledge with modern science. That gives her a unique perspective on nature and the role of humans in it. I learn how surprised she was the first time she encountered university research on plants. “In moving from a childhood in the woods to the university I had unknowingly shifted between worldviews, from a natural history of experience, in which I knew plants as teachers and companions to whom I was linked with mutual responsibility, into the realm of science. The questions scientists raised were not ‘Who are you?’ but ‘What is it?'” Later, she grasped the importance of this difference. “It robs a person of selfhood and kinship, reducing a person to a mere thing. So it is that in Potawatomi and most other indigenous languages, we use the same words to address the living world as we use for our family. Because they are our family.”
Her words go to the heart of my relationship with my garden. I know I should try to listen, but I don’t have any idea how to talk to nature or what she wants from me. All I can do is think about what I want from her: a place to recharge, a source of food, a way to show my Amsterdam friends why I chose to move so far away. I’m conscious of my limitations, but even so, I find it hard to look beyond them. How can I heal my
relationship with nature if I can’t even imagine how a more positive relationship might look?
I read on. Kimmerer describes the arrival of European colonists in North America. The land of her ancestors, which they had always seen as sacred, as a place of abundance and tranquility and a communal home, was suddenly turned into private property. Columbus introduced a new worldview: You could own land and do whatever you liked with it — as if the countless creatures around us weren’t living beings with personalities of their own, but resources, just waiting to be exploited. Kimmerer writes, “One thing our people could not surrender was the meaning of land. In the settler mind, land was property, real estate, capital or natural resources. But to our people, it was everything: identity, the connection to our ancestors, the home of our nonhuman kinfolk, our pharmacy, our library, the source of all that sustained us.”
My cheeks are burning. I know all this, and no matter how much I may reject the settler mindset, it’s rooted deeply in my genes and character. It’s all too clear to me now that I’ve been approaching my garden like a colonist: “You’re mine now. Let’s see what I can do here, how I can benefit and profit from you.” How short-sighted I was to believe that only colonists in history books thought that way, and not modern nature lovers, or that the Earth is dependent on humans and needed me to flourish. The garden is an organism in so many ways I can’t understand. All around me in my village, I see people pruning, weeding and raking. I apologize for letting my garden get so overgrown. But why? In the newspaper, I read about the decline in the numbers of insects, wild animals and wildflowers, but my garden is full of them. When I try to prune away some stinging nettles and prickly shoots, a blackberry branch hits me full in the face, leaving a bleeding scratch.
Kimmerer says, “In the Western tradition there is a recognized hierarchy of beings, with, of course, the human being on top — the pinnacle of evolution, the darling of Creation — and the plants at the bottom.” That kind of thinking, she writes, is what got us into the climate crisis. We imagine that we’re alone in the world, that we’re the ones who give everything form and meaning, that we’re in charge of the planet. “Philosophers call this state of isolation and disconnection ‘species loneliness,’ a deep, unnamed sadness stemming from estrangement from the rest of Creation, from a loss of relationship. As our human dominance of the world has grown, we have become more isolated, more lonely when we can no longer call out to our neighbors.”
I sit down under the tree Kondo-style again. This time I start by offering my deep and sincere apologies. “Dear Garden, I’m very sorry about the way I acted. So arrogant, greedy and self-centered. I ask your forgiveness and would like to show you I can do things differently. Could you point the way for me? Could we move toward a more balanced relationship?” And then, for the first time — I can hardly believe it — something happens! I feel a gust of wind, smell a flower in bloom, notice a blade of grass tickling my leg. Suddenly the purple and yellow and white and green all seem a little brighter. For the first time, I feel a tiny bit like part of this green world instead of an outsider. But the same
questions still hang over me: What can I give you, when you already have everything? As a human being, what could I contribute that might
nourish our relationship?
I’m confronted not only with my relationship to my garden, but with all my relationships. I have to admit that I usually focus on what I can get out of things. How often do I ask myself what I can contribute to a party, a school event, a work meeting, or my relationship with my parents, husband, or neighbors? And what can I offer the people around me? I find the answer in the teachings that Kimmerer passes on from her ancestors: “In return for the gifts of the Earth, gratitude is enough.” We receive all the gifts the world around us has to give, from water and food to natural resources to shade and relaxation, and we are permitted to have it all in return for our gratitude. By being grateful, we show that we understand our place in the order of things. We render an account to our natural habitat of what we have received and what we have to give.
Kimmerer describes her family’s daily ritual of paying homage to the Earth, “By those words we said, ‘Here we are,’ and I imagined that the land heard us — murmured to itself, ‘Ohh, here are the ones who know how to say thank you.'” Ceremonies like these remind us of the gifts we receive and our responsibilities toward those gifts. By showing respect for them, by offering our attention and wakeful presence, and by knowing how to say thank you, we forge a reciprocal relationship with the world around us. “Ceremony is a vehicle for belonging — to a family, to a people and to the land.”
Finally, I’ve found words for my feelings about the garden — that patch of land that doesn’t need me. We have no reciprocal relationship. My critical gaze conveys the message that I will exploit the land and sends nature into retreat. When I see the countless gifts the garden gives me — from serenity to fruit and nuts, from beauty to firewood — and feel truly thankful for it all, I have an immediate sense of connection. I realize what a nuisance I’ve been, with my critical attitude, my ideas about what had to change, what I would pull up without stopping to wonder whether it was meant to be there. But now, from this new point of view, the garden finally seems to open up to me. The sun breaks through the clouds, and the plants seem to wave to me. I murmur a thank-you to each berry that I pick. When I find a toad tangled up in the undergrowth, I release it with care, stalk by stalk, talking and singing all the while. I tell the Earth its plants will be returned in the form of compost. Nothing will be lost. I sit down and ask the dandelion how it wishes to be picked. I put the flower on the table to admire it. Suddenly I don’t need a big bunch of flowers anymore; one is enough. I leave the others for the bees and insects.
Gratitude proves to be not only the doorway to a sense of connection and mutual satisfaction, but also the antidote to taking too much. In her book, Kimmerer describes a dream in which she is strolling through a familiar market. She has a long grocery list, as usual, but when she opens her purse to pay for her cilantro, the vendor waves her off with a smile. She says a surprised thank-you. Then, at the next stall, exactly the same thing happens. She looks around and is overcome by a sense of euphoria. No one is being asked to pay for anything. The only currency accepted there is gratitude. The merchants are just passing on the gifts of the Earth. Her shopping basket is only half full, holding just a few of the things on her list. Yet it feels full. She admires the goods on display at the cheese stall, but knowing she won’t have to pay there either, she decides she has as much as she needs. She realizes that, strangely enough, if everything at the market had been very cheap, she would have bought as much as she could carry. But since everything is free, she doesn’t feel like taking any more than she needs. On her way home, she thinks about what presents she’ll bring the vendors the next day.
The dream fades, but the feelings of euphoria and restraint stay with her. She’s often thought back to that dream, she writes in her book. “I was witness there to the conversion of a market economy to a gift economy, from private goods to common wealth. Across the market stalls and blankets, warmth and compassion were changing hands. There was a celebration of abundance for all we’d been given.”
I try to walk through the garden as if strolling around the market from her dream. I do the same thing in the supermarket, around town, and while scrolling through the wares at an online clothing store. When I look through the prism of gratitude, how much do I need? Following Kimmerer’s lead, I acknowledge and use gratitude as the powerful human quality it is. When I drink a glass of water, I take a moment to imagine its long route to my faucet. It comes from a wild river that flows from a spring somewhere high in the mountains. Starting out as rainwater running down rocks and treetops, it sank into the earth, came gushing out again, and rushed down the mountainside in a raging current. It takes me a moment to retrace the whole journey in my mind’s eye, but when I make the effort, the water tastes so much better. All I have to do to go on cultivating my relationship with the world around me is keep my eyes open. Hello, coffee, so far from your tropical home. Thank you for coming all this way. Hello, wooden table, you were once a tall, strong cherry tree, laden with fruit that fed many people and animals. Now you support me, day in and day out, as I write. Thank you for your faithful service.
Kimmerer reminds us that although gratitude and reciprocity may seem like weak medicines in our day and age, there is nothing more powerful than changing our perspective and choosing to see the world in a new way. I can live as if the world is a gift and I am the grateful recipient. And if I change my perspective that way, then maybe I can change yours as well. And then we can change minds together. What if we stop doing that and instead agree that the world is a gift to us?
The story of the world in which everything can be bought or sold is only one of the stories we tell ourselves. We are free to return to a different story that shaped our lives much longer, for tens of thousands of years. A story that opens the door to a life of gratitude and wonder at the richness and bounty of our world. One that asks us to offer the world our own gifts of friendliness and gratitude, and to celebrate our connection with the earth. The choice is ours.
Every morning when I wake up, I put on my yoga pants and boots and open the kitchen door to the garden. Instead of grumbling as I clear a path to the coop in back to let out the chickens, I now take my time. I say hello to all the plants, the flock of sparrows in the ivy, the rose beginning to bloom, the flourishing chicory with its beautiful blue flowers and the sage that doesn’t feel like growing. It strikes me that the herbs I’d like to use — mugwort, ground elder, teasel — have naturally started growing within easy reach. I pass them and let gratitude flow from my heart as if watering them, as if love were raining down. I say hello sun and hello grass and clouds and trees. Thank you for being here again today and sharing your lives with me.I thank the bees, the slugs, and the chickens for their presence and for the eggs I gather. And one sunny early Monday morning, I sit down under the old beech for the third time.
Dear world of nature, I understand that I am a member of the family of humans, who have forgotten how to be your friends. I would like to remember what that kind of friendship means and offer a flood of gratitude for everything you give us. I would like to remember how to receive your wisdom, food, medicine, and joy and learn what I can give in return for that abundance. I am here. I am present. I am ready. Tell me what you need and I will listen. Please help me understand what I must do to repair my connection with you.
On the way back, I pick some raspberries, red currants and wild strawberries. Not all of them, just enough for breakfast. The garden is still wild and overgrown. I still don’t know how to weed or what the land wants from me, but it no longer feels urgent. I believe it will be all right; as long as the earth has room to breathe, it will find its own balance. And before returning inside with a smile, I pause for a moment, holding my breath. If I’m very quiet, still quieter, maybe I can hear it. And then, somewhere deep in my heart, beyond all today’s thoughts and ideas, blows a gentle wind: Thank you for being here.
This article is part of Edition 23 – Rituals. Order it in our webshop now!
Text: Sarah Domogala
The American author Tosha Silver is a spiritual guide with a wonderfully simple and liberating message: All you have to do is trust in a higher power, whether you call it Love or the Divine. Because, according to Tosha, there is a greater plan.
In her book It’s Not Your Money, Tosha Silver tells the story of her old Polish-Russian grandmother Baba, who would come by twice a month to take her out to lunch. After they parked at the restaurant, Baba would say, “Okay, ve need to vemember zat ve parked next to zat nice green car, darlink. So ve don’t get lost!!!” And after lunch, every time, she was confused to find that the green car had vanished… After a few times, Tosha realized there was a better way. “We’re in the second row from the entrance.”
This is just like the way most people rely on transient anchors in life, like a job or a partner, Tosha explains. When they lose those anchors, they lose the ground beneath their feet. So it’s better to trust in something lasting: The divine source, divine intelligence. Then you’re grounded in a deep knowing, she says. “The perfect solution has already been selected,” she says. “I’ll be guided to it in the right time and way. If something needs to end, the new route will come, and I will gladly follow.”
That, in a nutshell, is Tosha Silver’s message. From her home near San Francisco, she runs an online learning program called Living Outrageous Openness with a fast-growing fan base and tens of thousands of followers on social media. These days, many people believe you create your own reality with your thoughts, so you’re solely responsible if things don’t go the way you planned. For all those people,
Tosha is a breath of fresh air.
Outrageous Openness is the title of her first book, and that’s the inner attitude that she teaches. Total, one hundred percent openness to whatever life brings. Trusting whatever comes. Praying for signs, for clues and going through the day as if the power of cosmic love is always there to help. Because it is.
But if you don’t receive an answer or solution right away, how do you deal with impatience? “Ha!” Tosha says. “I know all about that. I have two brothers; at the kitchen table we always had to compete to be heard. For a long time after that, I lived in New York City, where you’re
constantly trained to be impatient. Everything has to happen Now. Right Away. That’s rooted in fear — the fear of not having enough time, of not getting what you need. Impatience is fear. So when you feel impatient, you can pray, “Please give me the confidence that my needs will be met. That everything that needs to unfold will unfold. Most important of all, that there’s enough time for everything. When you believe
there’s enough time for everything, your impatience will disappear. And you know, it’s not your time — it’s God’s.”
This article is part of Edition 23 – Rituals. Order it in our webshop now!
Text: Lisette Thooft
If you look at a childhood photograph of yourself and then in the mirror, you’ll see it: You’re still the same person, and yet you’re not. Your face has changed, becoming rounder or more angular. Lines and wrinkles have formed. Between then and now is a life, and that life has left visible traces, which tell a story about you.
Practitioners of the ancient art of face-reading say your face reveals a great deal about who you are and how you’ve responded to the events
of your life. A branch of Chinese medicine, this art was first developed three thousand years ago, and it is still practiced today. Siang Mien, as
it is called in Chinese, is used in Asia for purposes such as assessing job applicants, because their outward appearance is believed to hold clues to their personalities, innate talents and character.
But other cultures also have face readers, people who can read the story your face tells. A face reader looks at how people have used their inborn energy and sees their strengths and limitations. A face reading offers insights into your personal qualities and talents and how to make the best possible use of the energy that nature has given you. It is meant to help you live a more authentic life and display your true self to the world. When you live that way, you are less likely to get overwhelmed or to suffer from burnout.
Chaja Kruijssen is a psychologist and a face reader. “When clients come to me in my role as a psychologist, I ask them to tell their own stories,” she says. “But as a face reader, I start by telling them what I see in their faces and what that tells me about the issues in their lives.
That often leads to a deep and fundamental conversation about the person’s life. When we are truly seen, it has a healing effect. It brings about the recognition and acceptance that we have all struggled and gone through the same processes. By noticing where you still have inner work to do and accepting the challenge, you can even change your face.”
The main goal of face reading is for you to become more truly yourself. According to Chinese teachings, that naturally makes you more beautiful. The Chinese believe that true beauty mainly has to do with the degree of shen that radiates from your eyes. Shen is your natural vital energy, your flame of life. When you take good care of that energy by doing things that really suit you and developing your talents, your face takes on a bright, healthy glow. Then you’re in your element, walking your “Golden Path.” Happy people have light in their eyes and lustrous skin. You can see their spirit.
“But becoming your true self and discovering what suits you is still a big job. We often try to fit in, run ourselves ragged, or have jobs that don’t really make us happy. We spend too much time caring for other people or stay in a relationship that isn’t flourishing,” Chaja Kruijssen says. “It’s interesting to see that people in poorer countries often have a lot of shen in their eyes. They’re better at taking life as it comes and going with the flow. The cultures of those countries are less ego-driven, and success is not the measure of everything. They may have many lines in their faces — after all, they’ve lived, learned lessons, and experienced sorrow — but their faces are their own. There’s great beauty in that.”
You can see quite a bit in your own face. Stand in front of a mirror and look at your face while it’s at rest. What do you notice, if you’re gentle and honest with yourself? Is there a certain expression? Do you see shen in your face?
Maybe you’ll notice that one half of your face is different from the other. Face readers say the right side of your face is what you show the outside world. The left side is connected to your inner world. To see the differences, you can cover each side of your face with a piece of paper. Start by covering the left side. Then the face you see in the mirror is the self you show to the outside world. Then cover the right side of your face. Now you see the left side, the side that reflects your inner life, the person you truly are. Now put down the piece of paper and take another look at your whole face. Notice whether and how the two parts of your face differ. Are you showing the world who you are inside?
Lines in your face form partly from a repeated facial expression. Facial expressions stem from a certain feeling. Suppose you see that your mouth has a dissatisfied curl. You might ask yourself, What am I unhappy about? Or if you often wrinkle your forehead, you might wonder, What am I angry about? Am I too driven?
If you accept, resolve, or cope with everything you experience in your life, it won’t leave deep marks on your face, according to Taoist tradition. But when you can’t cope, your energy stagnates. Stagnant emotions like sorrow can cause deep lines. Lines of sorrow run down the cheeks. According to Chinese teachings, they correspond to the lungs, which are linked to the emotion of sadness. When you see lines of sorrow in your face, you might ask yourself, What am I still sad about? What emotions haven’t I fully acknowledged yet? “If you then make a
place for your sorrow, you can even change the weight and depth of the lines,” Kruijssen says. “You can be proud of those lines. They show that you’ve been through transformation.”
Here’s an interesting test: Hold a pen or pencil against your cheek, in a straight line down from the middle of your eyebrow. If you can easily blink without touching the pencil, you have deep-set eyes. Face readers say that’s a sign of an introverted nature. Introverted people tend to recover their energy best by spending time alone. If you can’t blink without touching the pencil, then you’re probably an extrovert. Extroverted people recover their energy best in the company of others.
Text: Julika Marijn
What is it that makes you feel welcome and acknowledged when you arrive somewhere? What makes you feel at home in a place or at a table that isn’t your own? The art of hospitality is revealed through the little things.
How about an invitation with a key attached, as a symbol of how welcome your guests are? Phrase it in the plural to show there’s room for an extra guest.
The light points the way and says: It will be safe and warm here, and you’re expected. A lantern by the door, a candle in the window or a string of lights welcome you even before you ring the doorbell. And the door is ajar, there’s no doubt about it: You’re already welcome.
In these times of pandemic, we may not be able to embrace or kiss or even offer a handshake when someone visits. Rather than offering disinfectant, a very intimate gesture might be to pour soft, soapy rose water over the hands of your guests and feel instantly connected.
Sometimes a hospitable welcome can be surprisingly simple. Like being handed a cup of tea soon after you step in the door, as something to hold. If that same cup is filled when it becomes empty, you have the feeling: I am seen here.
When you’re received with the welcoming words, “Make yourself at home,” you’re probably not inclined to kick off your shoes right there and then, unless there are slippers waiting for you, or nice thick socks bought especially as a welcoming gift, for you and everybody else, because we’re all equal.
Text: Sunna Borghuis
Photo: Jeroen van der Spek
Styling: Cyn Ferdinandus
It is time to help others.
Are you a Pisces? In this case, “healer” is your middle name. You are only happy when others are, and you can go a long way in this. The best way to do this now is by helping others to become aware of their self-worth or the lack thereof. Think about people who do everything to get appreciation from others. Like in a relationship or on Social Media. Often, behind this need to please, a huge emptiness and insecurity reside. The feeling of not being good enough to be allowed to receive the love of others.
You will probably recognize this in yourself, but if you were able to find more wholeness and to love yourself unconditionally, then it is time to help others. By showing them their worth, by showing them they do not have to be beautiful, rich, or successful. They do not need to do anything, they are all right, just the way they are, and they are loved no matter what. You don’t need to say it often, just your presence and loving gaze can kiss this realization awake.
By motivating others, you will stay motivated yourself, Aquarius.
Just like Capricorn, you can heal by using the right words. But your mission is one of a different color, the one of Chiron in Aries. This is mostly about body awareness. By living healthier and getting enough exercise, you can be a guide to others that need to recover their bond with their body. The people who need you, know where to find you. And the fun part is: By motivating them, you will stay motivated yourself.
Text: Johanna Blok
The people who need you will naturally come your way, Capricorn.
Your shamanistic side could be able to focus on a different way of communicating, with Neptune in Pisces. Your empathic abilities are stronger developed than normal, which allows you to see both sides of the story clearly. And this helps to bring people together.
As a Capricorn you feel a bit exalted above others anyway, you have a bit more distance and overview. Use this to look at what is happening with compassion. You will see that the people who need you as a guide, when forming their opinion, will naturally come your way. They know how to find you, like moths drawn towards a flame.
Text: Johanna Blok
Don’t get stuck in your insecurity, Sagittarius.
With Chiron in Aries, your healing qualities will show themselves on the level of creativity. Ingenuity can help you when life gets you down. And because we, as humans, are so creative, we know how to deal with anything. But this does need you to acknowledge your own qualities in this field.
This month, you can linger in insecurity about your own inventiveness. Only when you see what an infinite creative creature you are, you can help others develop their creativity. In short, there is much fun work to be done, for creative spirits such as you. And the most fun part is that you don’t have to think for others: The trick is that they will become more creative themselves, by the questions you ask them.
Text: Johanna Blok
You help children deal with insecurity this month, Scorpio.
Naturally, Scorpio is a fantastic mother and educator. This is thanks to the fact you are able to look right through people, you can see what is hidden beneath a smile or a temper tantrum. But the memories from your youth make you understand what children need on a deeper level. Maye it seems like children do not suffer as much when things don’t go well, they do not have to adapt much. But this is just appearance.
On a subconscious level children will see the fears and worries of their parents and the problems in the world surrounding them. You can use your qualities to help children deal with insecurity. In the first place, this will mean your own children are in safe hands. But you can also create a safe space for other children, simply by what you say and do. You do not need to think about it first, it goes without thinking, from a deep love for the generation that physically might not be the most vulnerable, but mentally all the more.
Text: Johanna Blok
You help people to take small steps towards awareness this month.
With Neptune in Pisces, you can be more aware of what the animals, the earth, and plants need. Maybe you might even think they are the ones who need healing. But in reality, it is us, the people, who need to heal how we deal with our environment.
This seems a practical subject, and it is when you think about the execution. But it basically is a spiritual theme. Do you feel a deep connection with the people we have in our environment? Do we know our position in the great whole? Or do we think we, as humans, are at the top of the food chain, and that it is our birthright to pluck the earth bare, without any consequences?
By starting up a conversation, you can help people make small steps in this awareness. Because thanks to a certain sensitivity you can anticipate the music. You can show others how we can become as happy as we can be, with more love and less materialism, while nature will get the chance to run its course. It is actually about building a healthy relationship: And this is something you are naturally good at.
Text: Johanna Blok