In the beginning, my words turned this farm into a self-sustaining economy. Language is powerful tool, but I found the secret. When you connect beyond language--to the meaning we share within that language--the world changes.
It's really beautiful when you realize:
This is how the world worked before words got in they way.
The Farm Never Stops, The Growing Never Ends
A farm is the perfect metaphor for how the post-scarcity economic model should work, and it happens all the time. Every seed is a risk if you want to see it that way, but your belief makes it grow. And that is just like another seed in our lives: money. When you read the words on this page, I hope you'll donate to keep them coming.
Trust in What We Do
You don't have to understand, you just have to believe. These words help you find yourself and you leave meaning for others to find themselves too. Sometimes that meaning comes from you being changed and carrying this spirit forward. Sometimes that comes from you sending a note and telling us you believe in what we are doing or how it made you feel. And sometimes, that's money. Money that we use to change the world and start the whole process over again.
Become A Revolution By Yourself
Click Any Button To Find Out How To Invest In Our Success
Donate And Be The Reason Everything Changes
STAY: This Is Where I Stand
A story of resilience, grounding, and learning from the ground beneath me
Accompanied by somatic and resonance self-reflection prompts
I've been working on a book for several years about what the land has taught me. I didn't want to publish it and charge people an arbitray amount, and I wanted it to live here where I am.
Each section is followed by a self-practice I developed through my writing and living. I expect it will help you as much as it helped me. If it moves you, support the work we are doing here. You can do that through thought, energy, intention, and yes, financial support.
So, welcome. This Is Me.
Not a metaphor. Not a theory. Not a story wrapped in a framework. If you don’t understand this, you won’t understand the rest— but that’s okay. Because everything that follows comes from this moment. And it always will. That's the beauty we are surroudned with..
This project—this writing, this research, this living, this farm—is not about extracting value. It’s about coherence. It’s about presence. It’s about trust.
You’ll notice symbols throughout this book—
⭑✰✮༄➰;↯(∞⚘️∞ + ❀️)↯;➰༄✮✰⭑
These aren’t decoration.
They’re resonance markers.
In the spirit of co-creation, I’ve left them behind like breadcrumbs—to mark the places I knew I’d want to return to. Places where I felt the pulse of something more. When I write I leave them so I cannot miss them. Sometimes I just leave the symbol.
Sometimes I leave a string of thoughts. And this time, when I finally formed the metaphor that I thought best expressed my intention in that moment, instead of removing the symbol that got me there I'm leaving it for you, too.
If one of those symbols stops you, I invite you to pause and to feel what it brings up. Let it move through you, because this is how we truly feel one another.
(∞⚘️∞ + ❀️)This is how we create harmony inside of chaos.(∞⚘️∞ + ❀️)
Some might answer with resonance.
Some will answer with stories.
Others will with money.
All are welcome.
This is not a closed system.
It’s a living one.
It starts with me.
It continues with you.
Welcome to the Meadow.
I'll publish chapters every week or two. There is much more of this work to come soon, I hope you'll check back often. And for those who have been wondering how a farmer was able to connect retina scanning technology to neurodivergent communication skills, the answer is right here in front of you. I can't wait until you can't unsee it.
-Brett
Become A Revolution By Yourself
Click Any Button To Find Out How To Invest In Our Success
Donate And Be The Reason Everything Changes
INTRODUCTION
Being present in this life, on this farm, has changed me. It's shown me where the real music is in life. It's not some ideal we chase or aspire to, it's simply right here.
∞You want to experience something divine? Try cleaning up placenta in the rain after a horse birth. ∞
∞You want to experience what ascension is like? Try holding that same horse while they die. ∞
∞You want to know what true power is? Stop bailing on your own life. ∞
∞You want to experience this reality? Try having the best day of your life when you don't know how you'll eat the next. ∞
Being a dreamer has always been a romantic concept to me. Dreamers are doers, never held back by the constraints of reality. Dreamers are aspirational, courageous, and free. Never bothered by pressures of today, never chained to some path…the promise of a dream is that there is always hope for tomorrow.
I wanted to be a dreamer.
I have spent a good portion of my life pursuing dreams. Dreams that were noble and good in my mind, good for me and for others, intentions that deserved my full attention.
Truth is, my dreams never felt to me as though they were freeing—they were holding me in a cage.
There’s probably just one thing that defined the entire first half of my adult life: I was incessantly obsessed with the future. I lived in my mind. The only thing that mattered was getting somewhere else.
My husband Ryan and I ran a publishing business and had a magazine. I was traveling 3 weeks each month doing the photography and sales, Ryan was constantly writing while working freelance PR jobs and it didn’t feel good.
This desire to have more, to be more, can be incredibly taxing. It robs you of peace, of rest, and of time. My mind never stopped, I was always planning while thoughts kept coming—The next month will be better; the next job; the next car. It just never ended.
I sit back and look at my life during my 20s with a tinge of regret. I didn’t get to live through and truly experience so many moments of my life. It was impossible, because I was somewhere else entirely in my mind.
When you push too hard, you force a sad reality upon yourself—You’re never satisfied where you are.
My dreams became larger than life for me and lead to a paralyzing fear of the unknown. I spent so much time planning exactly what the future would hold, that if anything went a different direction, I was woefully unprepared. This, along with some other trauma mixed in, manifested into depression and debilitating anxiety and some fairly dark seasons in my life.
But then I found this land, and then I found myself within this land. The earth has a way of grounding you, I hope you feel it in this book. This farm has been a lifeline for me, pulling me out of regrets of the past, away from uncertainties of the future. The farm exists right now, it needs work in this moment, not tomorrow.
Finding the lessons and the joy in the work has been messy at times and confusing. Farm life can seem romantic and wholesome from the outside, and I’ll tell you that it often is, but in reality it’s far from glamorous all the time. There are the days that you work the hardest you have in your life to prepare for a storm only to have your work destroyed. There are times you lose an animal that was part of your family and the process is gut wrenchingly raw. There are good seasons, amazing seasons, and seasons you make it through just barely hang on.
The lessons this farm has given me have moved me, changed me, and made me a better person. These lessons haven’t been remotely easy, but boy are they worth it.
There is an element of life where you absolutely must be able to roll with it. To find hope within despair, to find humor in failure, to build resilience instead of resentment. In farm life, you’re forced into finding a perspective that keeps you going on days that would make most people quit.
⭑✰✮Life is fleeting and overwhelming, but standing in a field, your feet touching the grass, your entire body grounded by the earth, the moment is fulfilling. Being grounded in the earth has helped me feel myself also grounded in time. ⭑✰✮
My life here has taught me the past is not coming back, the future is uncertain. We can learn, we can prepare, but all of that happens right now, outcomes be damned.
The secret sauce really is learning to let go, sit back and enjoy the ride.
That doesn’t mean we aren’t working. Far from it. It means we are always working. Working to stay grounded, working to stay connected. Working to establish boundaries that allow us to enjoy that ride.
Because living in this moment, embracing all that it has to give us, this is how we are able to prepare for the future—whatever it may bring us.
We choose to move forward, even in darkness. It’s a powerful choice, one that gives us agency in our darkest hours. We are moving forward not because it’s easy, nor are we staying because it will be hard. We choose moving forward because the reward is great. It is often through our darkest chapters that the grandness of our own story is revealed.
These moments, the hard ones, when we commit to the journey, they teach us.
They build resilience.
Some people seem to be born with resilience, and we love that for them. But for the rest of us resilience is built through time in the trenches, and then making it through. If we can’t be resilient, it’s hard to exist in this world and ever reach our full potential. We are holding ourselves back.
This book is the story of how the farm built my resilience. Working with the land inspired a desire to stay grounded and let go of the future. Living this life has taught me that the journey is where the magic is happening.
Some of the greatest lessons I have learned have been heartbreaking. Loss on the farm is something we face often, an unavoidable segment of the circle of life that we choose to live within. Even in these moments of sadness, the farm goes on every single minute of every single day. When it’s cold, when it’s storming, when it’s hot, when you’re tired and when you’re broken hearted—there is work to be done.
Sometimes, this life is a lot. A hard day can really make you question what you’re doing here. Yet I know I would choose no other path, even when given the option on the worst day. I’ve learned the key to getting the most out of your life is understanding you always have a choice, the perspective you choose to see through.
The work we do on the farm, the work I’ve done on myself, it’s put me in a place where I’m finally grateful for the present moment. It wasn’t an easy journey, and I still work on it all the time.
You can’t phone in Intentional living.
But one of the most valuable secrets this life has taught me is this:
⭑✰✮༄➰;↯(∞⚘️∞+❀️=➰= ❀️ + ∞⚘️∞)↯;➰༄✮✰⭑
You’re always right where you need to be…. Right where you want to be…. When you commit to the journey.
⭑✰✮༄➰;↯(∞⚘️∞+❀️=➰= ❀️ + ∞⚘️∞)↯;➰༄✮✰⭑
What if the key to finding resilience isn’t pushing harder, but learning to let go?
The joy is found in the work my friends. I’m excited to share with you what I’ve learned.
༄Intentional Practice: Breathing༄
4-4 Ground Step Breath
What it is:
Inhale for 4 steps, exhale for 4 steps while walking on solid ground.
Why it works:
It syncs your breath to your body’s motion, anchoring you in the physical moment. The rhythm grounds your nervous system and creates an embodied sense of presence and pacing—perfect for nervous regulation or subtle activation. On mobile, Slide For More.
Box Breathing - 4-4-4-4
What it is:
Inhale 4 seconds → Hold 4 → Exhale 4 → Hold 4. Repeat.
Why it works:
Regulates the parasympathetic nervous system and smooths inner chaos. Great for returning to neutral in high-stimulus environments or emotional spikes.
One Minute Spiral - 3x3
What it is:
Take 3 deep breaths—slow in through the nose, slow out through the mouth—then pause. Repeat twice more. Total: 9 intentional breaths.
Why it works:
Simple, fast reset. Feels ceremonial, like a micro-ritual. Gives the body space to integrate a shift without overthinking it.
CHAPTER ONE
My Greatest Teacher
Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve felt a call to the land. I’d rather be in the mountains than a metropolis, rather be sitting in a field by a pond than partying on a beach. I was born in Colorado and moved to Texas by age three, but I spent most of the summers of my youth with my grandparents in the mountains.
This is where an instinctive love of the land and nature was fostered and grew inside of me. Many of my very best memories come from time spent in the mountains, and of those, the most vivid and meaningful memories often came on horseback. I spent days riding horses in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado during those summers. Often with my sister and my cousins, but many times my grandmother would drop me off at the livery by myself, and I’d hang out for the afternoon and ride with the wranglers up to see the lake from a mountain view. Sitting on a cliff, seeing the lake valley below, drinking a cold RC Cola is a vision seared inside of me, and if I try really hard, I can still conjure up this exact moment in my mind. The view, the smell, the horses, the moment.
I did this for years. Those mountains, those summers, I’m so grateful for them. But when I became old enough to drive, and started wanting all of the standard teenager freedoms, I spent a lot less time in the mountains.
Life gets crazy really fast when you’re growing up. You’re at the top of the world, big fish, and small ponds, and most of us leave high school without a care in the world. But the reality of the real world can be quite a shock. It’s a very quick loss of innocence.
As I went through life, ups and downs, I often felt out of place. I went to school in New York City, and I lived a lot of life. I became a professional photographer and found my way back to Texas where Ryan and I were destined to meet.
As the pressures of life grew, so did my yearning for a more intentional life. An intentional life for me meant living and learning on the land. It took time, but I convinced Ryan and we moved out of the city. I had a dream of some land, a home, a sheep and a horse, and more dogs than you could count. We could start a family. It would be more than perfect.
So we did it. We bought land and started to build a house. One day on Facebook, the Houston SPCA made a post about a horrible case of animal cruelty where they brought in six pregnant horses. One horse, a chestnut with a flaxen mane, had been shot and left to suffer on the property. Standing next to the picture of this horse was a foal just hours old.
Ryan took a screenshot and sent it to me, and I felt something come over me. A longing from deep inside that I could feel in my chest. It was intense and even a little uncomfortable.
Ryan and I actually did a lot of photography and PR volunteer work for the Houston SPCA, and so I called and asked when this horse could come home. The farm manager said, “Whenever someone can get the mom into a trailer.”
I told them I wanted the horses. They were meant to be with me.
The next day, Ryan, my mother, and I went to the SPCA with a trailer. The mom and baby were in the first stall of the barn, standing in a corner. They were beautiful and just what I always wanted.
I went into the stall to talk to them and the baby came right up to me, awkwardly sniffing my hands and fumbling her lips on my skin. She had just been born the morning before, everything was new to her!
I fell in love instantly. She had a curiosity and innocence about her that made me smile; it made me feel warm inside.
The mom was nervous. She sniffed my hand from inches away and took a step back. She turned her head away a little bit, but she never once took her eye off of me.
I felt her intent gaze and that same feeling returned from the day before. A feeling that was loaded with emotions across the entire spectrum. I was nervous, I was enthralled, I was in love, I was invigorated.
I didn’t need to know anything else. Let’s go.
I told the barn manager we were all in, and she said, “Oh great. Let’s back the trailer up.” When we got ready to go back for the horses, I’ll never forget what she said to me.
“You know we can’t touch Lead (that’s what they called the mother, because she survived a gunshot and had a bullet lodged in her shoulder), so we will all form an alleyway to the trailer and push her in. The baby will just follow her.”
“Oh, of course,” I said. I looked at my mother and then at Ryan. This sounded weird.
It is important at this point to tell you something. All those summers with horses? I was a child. It was trail rides. I knew I loved horses; I had absolutely zero knowledge of the day-to-day aspects. I was a fish out of water, but I had jeans and boots on so I guess I fooled everyone. (To be clear, the SPCA did not know I had embellished my experience, and I never should have gotten into this situation as unprepared as I was.)
Two minutes later, a frightened mom ran into the trailer followed by a bouncing baby, the door was closed, and we were headed down the road.
For a few seconds no one talked in the car. It wasn’t an awkward silence, it was much-needed relief. A lot just happened and I’m sure everyone was thinking what I was.
As we exited the SPCA lot, it was silent except for the clanging of the trailer back and forth over the speed bumps. I glanced in the mirrors and said one thing:
“What the hell am I going to do?”
When I look back on this day—April 21—I know that it is the day most responsible for who I am today. The singular moment that changed my life the most. It was the beginning of an entirely new journey, a journey that was going to take me to Hell and back. A journey that would be physically and emotionally hard, but with more reward than anything I could hope for.
On the way home we settled on names. Ryan named the baby Dolly, after his absolute favorite, Dolly Parton. The mother was mine to name, and I settled on a very special name close to my heart—the name of one of my grandmothers who had passed a few years earlier: Lucille.
Lucille was nervous, she was scared, and you really couldn’t touch her. Honestly, I was nervous. I felt this deep soul-connection with this horse, but I also had no idea if I knew what I was doing. Could I trust my intuition, or should I call this whole thing off before anyone got hurt?
I kept going. Our house wasn’t built yet and we boarded the horses. Every day I sat with Lucille and Dolly in their stall, and Dolly and I became fast friends. She would often lay down across my feet in the stall while I wrote in my journal or just watched the two of them. Lucille perpetually had her eyes glued on me, but was always just out of reach.
One day I let the horses out into the barn aisle while I cleaned their stall. Dolly was running up and down the aisle, being silly, and I was playing with her at one end of the barn. Lucille was at the other. She had her nose up to the door and—just as I realized I had not latched that barn door—so did she. She pushed it open. I ran and scared her, and she was gone in a flash—out the front of the barn, onto the road, and through someone else’s property.
I ran after her. I felt entirely helpless, but I kept running. I had no phone service at this barn, no idea where I was, I had never touched this horse, and I wouldn’t know what to do if I could. But I knew I needed to keep my eyes on her. I’d figure the rest out later.
Just when I thought I’d given it all, I had to launch into full sprint to keep up—but suddenly, we stopped.
Lucille paused to look at some barking dogs down the road. The moment she stopped, so did I. I doubled over breathing and put my hands on my knees. I looked up, and Lucille’s eyes were once again fixated on me.
I did the only thing I thought of. I just sat down and talked to her. For ten minutes we sat there just off the road in someone’s front yard. I didn’t have the energy to move anyway, and I’m sure Lucille thought I looked a little crazy.
When I regained my composure, I stood up and told Lucille we would have to get back together. I couldn’t walk fast anyway, my body was exhausted, so I started slowly walking behind her. She started walking, but not too fast. She was matching my speed, keeping that same just-out-of-reach distance between us.
I talked to Lucille the entire way back to the barn, and somehow we made it. I know she was going to get back to her baby one way or another, but I could tell in this moment we were linked. I felt a draw between our energies. But I also could feel when I got too close.
➰There was a sweet spot, a place where we both felt safe, and were still working together.➰
Lucille was showing me her boundaries, and I was lucky enough to be moving slowly enough to see them.
It would be two months from that day before I would even be able to touch Lucille and put a halter on her. I could tell that Lucille trusted me—you could see it in her eyes—but I don’t think she had much confidence in me for a long while. A horse like Lucille would never succumb to leadership by force, and to earn the confidence of such an animal was an uphill task.
To understand horses, you have to understand their nature as one of the largest prey animals on earth. A prey animal’s survival for centuries has depended on their ability to make decisions in a split instant. This fact is probably one of the biggest things I overlooked about horses before Lucille.
Humans are apex predators. We don’t even realize our nature at the top of the food chain. The fact that horses allow us to do anything at all with them—much less climb on their back like a lion—is incredible. And they’re not just taking their chances with us. By the time you’re within walking distance of a horse, they have already completely evaluated every part of your intentions. Horses are absolute masters of unspoken communication.
I threw myself into every bit of horsemanship education I could to get better for Lucille. I learned the basis of pressure and release, and I spent hours practicing communication with her. I spent five straight years of my life devoted to learning horsemanship just so I could speak with Lucille. I desperately wanted her to trust me implicitly so she could feel comfortable and safe.
Whenever I was out on the farm, I knew she was watching and reading my every move. Horses see everything anyway, but there was a constant connection between us. Underneath that connection, though, lingered a tension. A push and pull instead of the harmony I knew we could have and wanted for both of us.
Lucille is woven through every bit of my horsemanship journey with every horse, and along the way, the lessons have been profound. One of the strongest lessons was while teaching Lucille to lower her head and relax. This was a difficult exercise because Lucille naturally held her head high, ready to bolt. She didn’t want to relax. She also had a major issue with anything touching her ears.
When the SPCA pulled Lucille in on cruelty, she was significantly pregnant. Because of this, they could not anesthetize her fully to remove the bullet. She was pushed into a cattle chute, and her ear was pinched while the procedure was done to deaden her nerves so they could continue. No doubt, a necessary but very traumatic experience.
One thing I did know was that a horse with reactivity to touching their head is dangerous.
I had a significant amount of nerves when doing anything near Lucille’s ears, which always made her pull back anyway. I was scared I would do something wrong—or even scared one of us would get hurt.
It seemed like there were so many roadblocks to this exercise, and I was having difficulty. A very wise horsewoman, Cat Parks, once said to me, “You have to ask for less in order for you to get more,” and she repeated this to me when we were discussing my work with Lucille.
Cat essentially told me in a very gentle way that I was too much. I was asking too much, I wanted too much.
Ask for less and I would see, she reiterated several times to me.
And so I did. Instead of going straight to the top of her head, I put my hand on her neck and gently applied a little pressure. I felt her go down the slightest bit and I stopped asking. And Lucille noticed. Her eye met mine directly. I asked again. I got more. I stopped. I took my hand away, and Lucille lowered her head a couple of inches and started licking her lips.
✰Asking for less allowed me to release for the slightest movements, to reward a try instead of waiting for the win.✰
Celebrating these small wins gave both of us more confidence in our relationship, and the change was immediately palpable. In two weeks, I could rub my hands across Lucille’s ears and ask her to lower her head.
It’s no secret in the horse world that horses can read a human in an instant from a mile away. I didn’t know this. And so, I spent a significant portion of my horsemanship journey as simply too much for a sensitive spirit.
Even when my intentions were noble and good, they came off too strong. When I wanted Lucille to desperately feel comfortable, I was pushing her away. She was telling me in all the ways she could: I was just too much.
This was one of the greatest lessons in how my emotions can affect others. Could I, at times, be putting people off merely by being too excited? Too energetic? Has an angry attitude or disconnected spirit kept opportunities for connection away?
Over the years, my horsemanship mentors and I decided I should try to ride Lucille. The thought was that it would be good for both of us—to grow our partnership, and for Lucille to experience more. It was clear to most of them Lucille had been under saddle at some point in her life.
We took a few days practicing putting the saddle on Lucille and then just sitting on her. The feeling was absolutely surreal. I never imagined taking my relationship with Lucille this far, and my mind was racing with all the places we would go together. The morning I was to have my first steps on Lucille, I was beaming inside but working on releasing my nervous energy. After working with several other horses, it was time for Lucille. I did all the groundwork, put her saddle on, tightened it, and climbed on. This was it. I asked for a step. She gave it to me. And then I asked for another. I was in heaven. We were connecting.
We were just going to ask for a few steps, of course, because you always want to leave your time with a horse on a positive note. So it was a few more steps and I was going to get off. I’m not really certain what happened next—if there was a tree snapping or if I squeezed too tight—but Lucille got startled. I remember feeling her tense up and do a little hop and then, ⭑it was as if I was on a comet.⭑
She breathed in quickly and was further spooked by her saddle cinch around her chest as her lungs filled. She had had enough and needed to get out of there.
So she took off with such unyielding force that I tried to hold on but instead went flying off her back end. I hit the sand completely flat, and a pulse flashed throughout my entire body. I had the wind knocked out of me in more ways than one. But things weren’t finished quite yet. I got up and headed toward Lucille to make sure the reins were secure. Then, I listened and worked as my trainer guided me through the steps to keep Lucille’s feet moving so she could release her energy and calm down, so we ended the lesson on a positive note.
But I was left questioning. I was also left in pain. I wasn’t 19 anymore. It seemed really dramatic, this entire scene, and it just didn’t seem like the Lucille I had come to know. She was cautious, alert, apprehensive at times, but never dangerous.
I asked Cat Parks to evaluate her and she came and got straight bucked off of this horse. Cat Parks does not come off of a horse—this I know for certain. Lucille was bucking so violently she either had part bull in her or something was going on. Cat immediately assumed severe pain.
And it turns out she was right. We never did a full body scan on Lucille, and when we did, it was clear she carried even more injuries than just the bullet wound near her shoulder. She would be in far too much pain to ever ride.
So I worked with Lucille from the ground. As I was able to leave more and more of my emotions outside of the field, Lucille and I were drawing closer and closer together. She started waiting for me at the fence, and whinnying when she saw me coming. ➰Somewhere along the way, after the working-so-hard bit softened, after we just started existing together, we started to both find comfort in one another.➰
One day a few winters ago, I was going outside to put a blanket on Lucille. She’s one of the horses that likes to be outside 24/7 and she doesn’t grow the thickest winter coat, so every now and then she needs some extra protection.
I got to Lucille and brushed off her back with my hand and slung the blanket up on top of her. It was already pretty chilly so I was working a little fast. I pulled it even, fastened the front, and fastened the middle underneath her. Then, I took the back straps, crossed them under her tail between her back legs, and clipped them to the blanket. I rubbed her face, turned around, and started to head back to the warmth.
But I stopped and turned to face Lucille. She was still looking at me—there was that eye again. I walked back to her and put my arm around her neck and took a moment to take everything in. I had just come out and blanketed Lucille with no pause, like she was any other horse on the property.
✮This is where I always wanted to be. This moment. I wanted Lucille to feel safe with me. I wanted to know I could provide for her. And here I was, blowing through this moment like it was old news.✮
To be honest, this sort of was old news. This was probably the second or third time I had to put the blanket on Lucille that winter. Come to think of it, there weren’t any issues any time—with me feeling hesitant or her feeling nervous. It was a thing of the past.
I think about this moment with Lucille often because I think it illustrates an incredibly poignant reminder: ✰we miss out on the journey when we are focused on the goal.✰
And it isn’t actually just that. ✮We miss out on appreciating the goal, because the goalpost was already moved, long before.✮ I know I’m not the only one that does this. We are so used to wanting more, needing more, and having more expected of us, that we can’t stop to appreciate how far we have come.
I was filled with emotion outside on that cold night with Lucille because I knew how far we had come. There was a time that a moment like this—just a simple everyday task being just that, an everyday task and not some huge lesson—seemed like it would never come. I felt warmth inside of me as I acknowledged the version of me in the past that would have given anything to be right where I was.
And I almost missed the chance to celebrate this moment.
We need to be able to take time and honor our path and how far we have traveled, even if the destination has changed. The trials, tribulations, and triumphs can easily seem to be for nothing if we can’t see where they have taken us.
It’s important to acknowledge that wherever we are, we made it there. Lucille and I both worked for this moment, and it felt fulfilling to acknowledge that work.
There are lots of things we need to do for horses that they don’t necessarily need in the wild. Living with humans is different in almost every way for them. We have to trim their feet, monitor their diet, give them vaccinations, and routine vet care. It’s hard to see horses struggle through routine care because they are not comfortable, and it was such a relief to me that we had Lucille to a point where she handled all her routine care with ease.
Horses have to have their teeth “floated” every year. The food and forage they get in modern times is far different than what their historical counterparts and wild horses of today eat. The horse is sedated, but still standing. Their mouth is held open, and a dentist or technician can examine their teeth and file any down as needed.
Large animal vets are different than small animal vets. They handle their own emergencies, and they’re on call 24/7. You build a very long-term and personal relationship with your large animal vet. And my vet at this time, Semira, had become a very good friend. We had traveled together and had children of the same age.
We always chatted about life while she was working with the animals, and she was obviously familiar with my story. She loved Lucille and was intimately involved in my quest to communicate with my horse.
So I was a little taken aback during Lucille’s teeth float when she turned to me and said, “How old is Lucille?”
I said, “She is 16,” and I could feel immediately something was about to happen.
Semira just said, “Okay,” and kept working.
“They told me she was 7 when I got her.”
My mind started racing. That’s what they said. Could they have just said that? No. You can tell. You can tell by the teeth. Surely someone looked. Right? Please don’t tell me she’s older.
Semira kept working and glanced back at me. I could tell she needed to say something.
“How old is she? Do I want to know?”
Semira winced a little as she turned back to me.
“She is at least 29.”
I remember being stunned. Taken aback. In two seconds, I lost 12 years.
12 years that I had plans for.
12 years we had been working for.
12 years we deserved together.
After Semira left that day, I stayed with Lucille as the medication wore off so we could talk. I felt bittersweet, sad, and a little angry too. This horse had taught me far more than I deserved in this life—I knew I had to be grateful for any time I had with her. But selfishly, this was just a crushing blow.
As I talked to Lucille about her age, and how much more she must have seen in her life than I knew about, the tension eased a bit in my body.
There’s a thought that the electromagnetic field of a horse’s heart is so large that when you’re within it, your heart actually slows down to try and match their slower rhythm.
༄It’s a beautiful thought.༄
I stood leaning on Lucille and rubbing her chest and thought of how much I had been robbed of. My thoughts started piling up and it was starting to look in my mind like I was already losing her. I needed to find another perspective.
I gained it from looking at Lucille’s eyes, soft and connecting to mine as I was desperately looking for something calm to grab onto.
✰I recognized that eye. It was the exact same eye from ten years before in the stall at the SPCA—but now it was different.✰ My first glimpse into that eye, it was cautious, reserved, and skeptical. But the eye I was looking into at that moment was content.
I had what I wanted and had it right now.
Lucille doesn’t even understand the concept of tomorrow, or aging—perhaps even time. All she knows is right now. Of all the lessons this magnificent being has taught me, ↯perhaps this one is shaping up to be the most important.↯
The future is plagued with what-ifs. We’ll never truly know what’s in store for us, no matter how hard we try, no matter what we do to prepare. ➰Right now is where the magic exists.➰
I didn’t need to wait for the future to celebrate Lucille and all she taught me. I can do it now. I can be thankful for the clarity to see the gift of the perspective she has given to me, and I can celebrate today.
Losing twelve years with my spirit animal absolutely is a punch in the gut. Even though I know nothing lasts forever, I was not ready for the realization that my time with this horse would also end.
I felt a mix of emotions as I left the barn, still reeling in my head over the sheer loss of time I was facing. But maybe my perspective was still holding me back.
Perhaps the question I need to ask is: what was I waiting for to happen during those twelve years?
⭑✰✮༄➰;↯(∞⚘️∞+❀️=➰= ❀️ + ∞⚘️∞)↯;➰༄✮✰⭑
What did I need that time to do that I couldn’t do right now?
⭑✰✮༄➰;↯(∞⚘️∞+❀️=➰= ❀️ + ∞⚘️∞)↯;➰༄✮✰⭑
Lucille may be in the sunset years of her life, but she can’t help but teach me every day. Our relationship is a powerful one that goes beyond companionship. Having Lucille in my life has shifted my perspective of the world—changed who I am at my core. ✮The kind of change that lasts forever, the kind that unites our energies beyond time.✮
Lucille’s eye locked onto me the very first time we met, and I felt it deep within my soul. That silent, intentional gaze became my safe space through the trials of life. ↯And the greatest gift of all is what Lucille’s eye taught me to see.↯
She taught me to see her—not as something to be controlled or fixed, but as a being with her own truth, her own boundaries, her own way of existing in the world.
She taught me to see myself—not just in my reflection, but in the way I move through life. When I push too hard. When I need to soften. When I need to trust. She made me better.
She taught me to see time—not as an enemy to outmaneuver, but as something to step into fully, without fear.
⭑Lucille’s eye has been my mirror, my teacher, my guide. And now, as she watches me, I finally understand—she has spent all these years showing me how to truly see.⭑
༄Intentional Practice: Honoring Yourself༄
What it is:
A slow, grounding practice to remind your nervous system what safety feels like, by honoring how far you’ve come.
How to do it:
Ask: What have I already survived? What version of me would be proud I made it here?
Feel: Let the memory settle inside. Let it ache if it needs to. Place your hand where the pride lives, even if it feels faint.
Move: Walk with it. Let your body feel the rhythm of movement without pressure. Breathe. Let yourself exist in this moment with the memory—not as escape, but as integration.
Why it works:
You’re not bypassing pain—you’re building a bridge.
Anxiety often comes from forgetting that we’ve already been through the unthinkable and made it. This practice roots you in what is already true. You are not escaping anxiety—you are letting it sit beside pride, letting it soften in the company of resilience.
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CHAPTER TWO
THE WAR WITH TIME
Farming has a way of reflecting life, providing clarity amidst pressures of the modern day. The work we put in day after day is hard and thankless at times, rigorous to the extreme. Every farmer has to have a why.
I’ve always felt drawn to the land for one purpose—to experience life where I can be a part of it. Where my curiosity knows no bounds and the learning never ends. There are moments of breakthrough daily on a farm, and the clarity this life brings me is worth all the tribulations.
For me, there is authenticity in the labor of tending to the soil, the thrill of watching seeds sprout, and the anticipation of what lies ahead. This space is where I thrive.
In gardening and growing, the joy truly is in the work.
Teaching moments are part of daily life on a farm. Sometimes it’s being outside grounded to the earth, sometimes it’s an accomplishment you worked really hard for, many times it is loss. One minute you are giving your all to the task at hand, experiencing intense emotions, or drained to your maximum. But then all of a sudden your mind has achieved clarity on something you’ve been struggling with for some time.
Putting my hands in the dirt, being a steward of the land, and growing things has been the very best teacher. I needed something in my life to bring me back from incessantly planning each moment of the future inside my head.
✮Growing things is in itself an act of optimism.✮ It is a belief in the future, an acknowledgement that tomorrow will come. There are hopes and aspirations tied to the harvest, of course, but every step of getting to the harvest is rooted in the present moment.
Preparation is now. Planting is now. Tending is NOW. Every step is in front of us and keeps us rooted and moving forward at the same time. ➰Each stage of the journey to harvest is a mini arch in the story.➰ The mere act of planting seeds in the soil and the anticipation of waiting for them to emerge is a hero story unto itself.
The harvest is there, but it can’t be the focus until you’ve been through all the steps. Counting eggs before they hatch is far more reliable than counting tomatoes before they’re grown.
Most commercially available products that are farmed come from generic hybrids, designed to produce consistently and reliably. It’s the same for flowers and for food. Usually, some attribute is sacrificed for another one that is more desired for production. In food, it’s often taste that is back-burnered for a crop that is consistently colored, quicker, pest resistant, longer storing, or has any number of attributes that will support the economy of scale and of the sale.
This is why tomatoes, for example, are exceptionally bland from the store. But they look uniform, transport well, and last longer in your fridge. These are all necessary attributes to feed all of us—even those who live thousands of miles from where their food is produced.
Consistency is imperative to the wholesale and transport trade. Transport and storage is designed around specific parameters for each crop. The same amount of those tomatoes needs to fit into each crate so they can project finances and run their business.
Well, it’s the same for flowers. We often plant hybrid flowers that will reach an exact height and size in a specific number of days. Specific varieties of flowers have been bred for attributes that are preferred by florists. You can’t rely on the reproduction genetics of these flowers because they are hybrids with a specific first season purpose. After that, all bets are off.
Every year, you plant new seeds ordered from the seed houses.
This process enables us to know exactly what we are producing. Customers expect it. Many times, like with sunflowers for example, this comes at an environmental cost. The sunflowers we grow have no pollen.
I remember the first year I realized what that meant. I left a significant number of sunflowers to bloom in the late fall after we were done with the season, specifically for the birds and the bees. One of the things I was most shocked at when I became a flower farmer was that we have to cut most blooms before a bee can even get to them. I thought by leaving our last harvest to actually mature in the field I could be doing something important for the bees.
As these sunflowers reached their peak, there were bees everywhere and my chest stuck out a little higher as I walked through the garden. I was making a difference. We left hundreds of flowers to bloom in the field and every one had multiple bees buzzing.
But when I went to look at the bees, I noticed they were bare. There was no yellow pollen stuck to their legs from these pollenless flowers, of course. I didn’t even put things together until I had consulted Google. Apparently, my sunflowers were of little to no benefit to the bees, and all I was really doing was distracting them from finding real sources of food. They may have received minimal energy from the nectar, but absolutely zero sustenance.
I felt rather bad. We chose to leave these flowers FOR the bees and here they were, suffering in front of my eyes.
So I cut down all the sunflowers right away. I spent that winter learning more about farming and something I knew little about: heirlooms.
The word itself is heavy with meaning.
There are a lot of qualities that make a plant an heirloom, but one of the most important is that it must be open-pollinated. Essentially, this means a plant must be able to reproduce pure offspring on its own with no human intervention. It’s simple enough in meaning, but layered in practical purpose.
I always thought heirloom plants were difficult in my vegetable gardens of the past, and mostly because you had to grow them from seed. Seed starting is an art and often unreliable when you first start. I’d much rather start with transplants. Unfortunately, most transplants are hybrid plants and not heirlooms.
Now that I farm for a living, you could say I’ve mastered the art of starting from seeds. And after my encounter with the bees taught me it was time to look beneath the surface of what I was growing, I fully ventured into the world of heirloom plants.
Heirloom plants are full of intrigue. These plants have been passed down through their seeds for generations. Some heirloom varieties can be traced back thousands of years. All over the world, communities have evolved their farming practices to their environments and with that comes further refining of heirloom breeds. There are varieties still being discovered to this day, but it seems like a race against time to preserve them. Heirloom seeds account for such a small percentage of the plants people grow, and small-scale farming—where heirloom breeds thrive—is a struggling field.
The history of heirloom varieties can be deep and multilayered. Heirlooms can be traced to the caves of the Anasazi Indians of southwest Colorado, to remote villages in Peru, to your grandmother’s backyard. Their histories are as deep and varied as we are. There are several incredible seed keepers who have collections of thousands of seeds—many of which you or I have never even heard of. The jar of seeds they have being the only of its kind, the only connection to its past.
✰Every seed is exciting when you hold it.✰ There is so much potential in everything you hold in your hand in that moment, and it’s hard not to feel a level of responsibility settle on your shoulders.
There’s anticipation and wonder to the nth degree, and a feeling of magic. There was a time I was planting some seeds of a snapdragon for the first time and marveling at the size. Many cut flower seeds are smaller than a poppy seed. You think your packet is empty when you pick it up, and there could be 1,000 seeds inside of it.
From this tiny resilient seed emerges a thing of such splendor and beauty, in what seems like the most effortless way. ↯It makes me feel insignificant at times.↯
Living on this farm, it’s almost like being surrounded by metaphors. The metaphor within seeds is one of the strongest. ➰It’s a message I’ve spent years understanding, and I’m still figuring it out.➰
Yet an heirloom seed is even more.
Just the name commands respect and carries a generational weight to it. Some words are so unique they have an ability to draw an immediate picture in your mind—a picture that’s worth 1,000 words on its own. Heirloom is one of those words.
It is a steady theme of my life that I am presented with messages to stay present, but it is with heirloom seeds that I have started to understand why. ✮These seeds are an entire time capsule wrapped in the tiniest package possible—the wisdom and experience of generations waiting to unfurl into the present.✮ And yet, somehow these seeds with all of their rich history are also our key to a diverse future.
Seeds bring so much potential. They’re just waiting to burst forward into the future. But heirloom seeds, they also pack the weight of the past into their shell. The deep history and knowledge of all those who grew the plants before you. And without these seeds—these open-pollinated masterpieces of nature—our ecosystem could very much be in peril. It would be out of balance.
Standing in the garden holding an heirloom seed, it’s a powerful moment if you open your eyes to it. ⭑This seed carries the past and the future, but it only exists right now.⭑ You, and that seed, and the work you’ll put into it are the bridge between the past and the future. ➰That is what right now truly is.➰
It’s a significant moment in your life when you can truly grasp the power of living in the moment. It’s human nature to have a fear of the unknown. At times we want so desperately to control outcomes, to control the future and our own destiny. But the only way the future even exists is by putting the work in now.
It’s the work that gets us to the future. The work of choosing a perspective that lifts us up. Of committing to the experiences before us. Of committing to building resilience instead of resentment.
Every day.
Even on days when you’re just holding on, you’re still doing the work right now. ✰Weathering the storm always leads to stronger roots.✰
Every time.
I made quite a few mistakes launching our subscription business at the farm, I’ll be the first to admit. But none of them hit me harder than feeling like I had disappointed a new subscriber.
We took a huge leap and went from a small wholesale foliage farm to a full-blown flower farm with members. We thought we would have a few dozen members—and instead we had 400 people sign up.
As we built toward the season, I wrote regularly to the new members, sharing so much about the excitement building with the season. I truly felt like I was creating a journey for all of us, and they felt it too. It was enthralling watching this community come to life.
The first season threw us plenty of curveballs. None bigger than a hurricane in July. It was devastating to my ego and to the crops at the farm. Everything was going so well, and reality came crashing upon us.
The truth was, I didn’t even have a backup plan. Hurricanes were rare and I just didn’t even think about it before. Sure, I had lots of plans—where we were going, what we were doing, how important the message could become—but nothing about how we would get through not having crops for a month. Lots of plans for the future. Nothing for right now.
I wrote a philosophical email to our subscribers about how storms couldn’t keep us down and that flowers were resilient. Then, I stuck my head in the sand. I spent a massive amount of energy cultivating a very put-together sort of image for the farm and for myself, and I was terrified of shattering it. I was convinced that was a major part of why we had support from so many people, and I couldn’t lose it. We needed that support to build seasons 2 and 3 and get where I wanted to go.
What I neglected to realize was that for months I had emailed our members once a week at least. And all of a sudden, I went radio silent. I was too worried to show concern, too fearful of being exposed for not having a plan, and never having experienced anything like this since becoming a farmer.
One day a member sent me an email. This was a member I remembered really well. The first delivery to her home, she came out to the van to greet me, gave me a hug, and told me how proud she was of me. We had never met, and those words were so massive to me at that time.
But this time, she felt different. She felt forgotten—and in no uncertain terms, told me exactly that. I was shattered. I was mad, upset, embarrassed… just so many emotions piling on top of each other. This was a nightmare. If one person is telling you something, at least ten more are thinking it. I lost the script.
But it turned out this was the turning point I needed. Words are so important, and she chose the word “forgotten” for a reason. At first I thought it was about product. Of course you feel that way, I thought. But what can I do about it… no one was getting flowers at that point, just like I told you right after the storm. Did this person think they were special?
Of course they did. But not for the reason I thought.
They thought they were special because they were included. Because I made them feel like they were a part of something. ✮My attempts to cover up the present and focus on the future had stolen that from them—and from me.✮
When you pull out on the timeline of life—of all of humanity—you notice something really interesting. Looking at humans in that kind of scale, we are really no different than a seed. In our own minds, there may be a past and a future. But outside of our own perspective, ➰we don’t exist in the future or the past. We are right now a very distinct link in a long, unbroken chain.➰ Everything before us led to us. Everything after us depends on us. In the present, we hold both the keys to the past and the future right now.
⭑✰✮༄➰;↯(∞⚘️∞+❀️=➰= ❀️ + ∞⚘️∞)↯;➰༄✮✰⭑
Anxiety is a war with time within us.
⭑✰✮༄➰;↯(∞⚘️∞+❀️=➰= ❀️ + ∞⚘️∞)↯;➰༄✮✰⭑
We spend so much time reliving moments that have long passed and even more time planning and fretting about uncertain futures. And when we do, we are living in a state of stress.
One of the biggest lightbulb moments of my life came with this realization: ↯When anxiety manifests inside of us, our bodies are telling us that things are not right—that we are
stuck in the wrong place.↯
Future-tripping is incongruent with who we are as humans. All we are is right now.
Farming has taught me how to succeed in life. This life we have been given is the seed. Lessons of the past, glimmers of hopeful futures are real—but we exist only right now, tending to what matters today.
Then, tomorrow can come.
What matters is that we are here now.
And that is enough.
✰It is in the soil this message springs to life most clearly for me.✰ All the secrets of the past and the joys of tomorrow lie within the soil. There are so many secrets waiting to be discovered in the dirt. The only way to truly honor the weight of the past and the expectation of the future is to be present right now.
Watching a seed transform into a towering beauty is a thing of magic. It shouldn’t be able to happen, and if you saw it for the first time, you’d be convinced it was magic.
Well, maybe it is. And like magic, maybe the beauty of life—the beauty of growing things and growing ourselves—is that we aren’t supposed to figure it out.
We are supposed to live it. Experience it. Marvel at it.
⭑I think the beauty of life is it is the biggest magic trick of all.⭑
Flowers are meant to bloom gloriously. Then, they are meant to die. Flowers and nature—they are our reminder to stay present because things cannot last.
The entire purpose of a flower is to exist NOW and be fully alive while doing it. Flowers aren’t afraid of their impermanence. ➰They give everything to the present moment and then go.➰
As humans, we fight impermanence. We are terrified of change—yet change is what makes THIS moment sacred.
We see the beauty in flowers right now and we elevate it. We celebrate that beauty and take all we can from it right now. But somehow, we pretend that our lives are different.
But we are seeds, and we do bloom. ✮And just like traditional seeds, we don’t belong in the past or the future. We belong here and now.✮
A seed cannot live in the past—it was just a seed. It cannot grow in the future—it will be something else. A seed only exists NOW.
It exists in the planting.
And so do we.
The work is right now. The magic is right now. The joy is right now.
And that is enough.
༄Intentional Practice: Settling Anxiety༄
What it is:
A ritual of resonance. This is movement medicine for the anxious mind—led not by thought, but by rhythm.
How to do it:
Curate your soundtrack: Choose the songs that feel like a lifeline. Let an AI or friend help you build a playlist that holds both your grief and your hope.
Step outside if you can. Barefoot. Let the ground hold your weight.
Move with abandon: Let the music pull you. Don’t control it. Let your body say what your mind doesn’t know how to say. Feel what needs to be felt—without commentary.
Why it works:
Anxiety is a war with time within us. You’re not escaping anxiety—you are letting it settle within you. You are giving it form, sound, gravity. The rhythm becomes a container, and your body becomes a sanctuary for all that you’re carrying. This is not about fixing. This is about meeting yourself fully, right here.
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