Do Not Walk By
Beneath all the worry, concern, and striving, pausing for joy might mean everything.
It’s a rare morning for mid-summer. The typically high temperatures and humidity that have stretched for weeks have diminished overnight. The sun is still making her way over distant rooftops. Our morning ritual of coffee on the porch can be resumed in comfort.
I set aside my phone and my need for (addiction to?) finding out what has been said, done, discovered, or reframed overnight. To say that I am concerned about so many aspects of our world is an understatement. But now I am present to an array of living beings, all who seem to be embracing their lives without need for news from beyond the local scene.
It’s the insistence of the birds that first caught my attention. For reasons beyond my understanding, the catbirds have left the elderberries just when they are fully laden with scores of plump, purple-black fruit. Admittedly we have harvested some to make elderberry jelly, but multitudes remain for the birds. Although I miss the joyous variety of songs and sounds of the catbirds, I am delighted that mockingbirds seem to have set up house in a nearby tree, calling back and forth to a Carolina wren and a cardinal that I spot in the pussywillow. A quick peek at the Merlin app suggests another half dozen birds that I’ve not identified. I wonder, can even Merlin be confused by a Northern Mockingbird who apparently can imitate not only other birds, but the slamming of doors and car alarms? Does a mockingbird feel mischievously joyful as he confounds us with his varied medley?
Drops of dew hang precariously from the large, deeply lobed zucchini leaves. Tucked into their shadow is a delicate tomato plant with fruit no larger than my thumbnail. This baby must have been planted by fruit dropped from previous years for she has received nothing from humans except benign neglect. In that sense, she is kindred spirit to the 12-foot-high sunflower that towers over the vegetable garden, a welcome guest we suspect was seeded by birds. As I consider this plant’s upward trajectory, a wren hops from branch to branch, ascending the leaf ladder to the top. Perhaps this is a journey of fun and not a search for food, for no sooner does she arrive at the apex before she descends in the same hoppy way. The garden as food source, home, refuge. Of course. As playground? Well. Why not?
Our “yard” is very small, within 5-15 feet of the perimeter of our duplex home. There is no grass to speak of; the mostly native plants serve the more-than-human critters and interspersed plantings provide food for us. On two sides the yard adjoins a common area with the same random “design” so there is a sense of expanse that belies the actual measurements. As you walk the stone path along the porch, the scent of lavender arises to meet you. Pause by the basil and touch a leaf. Do the same with anise hyssop, rosemary, oregano, and fennel. And, at nose-height, you can’t miss the dill.
Creatures find a home here. Rabbits bound by; frogs hide in the dense foliage in the front of the house coming out only at night to sit on a stone by a small solar footlight to snap up a tasty dinner. Blazing stars invite swallowtails to linger. Bees love the unusual looking rattlesnake master and the late blooming beautyberry. Joe Pye and milkweed await endangered monarchs, ready to offer nourishments for butterflies and caterpillars should they arrive.
This garden, attentively nurtured by my husband, supports an abundance of life and beauty. And joy!
…it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,
Do not walk by…
- Mary Oliver
Do not walk by…
A few days ago, Earthlings lost a beloved friend and teacher, Joanna Macy, and there has been a much-deserved outpouring of appreciation and gratitude for her life and wisdom. Yesterday, I listened to half a dozen videos, podcasts, and interviews of Joanna, recalling and noting phrases that give purpose to pain, make the unspeakable possible, and gesture toward a way forward when all seems lost. Her words are just as compelling in these times as they have been throughout the decades of her life.
Although we lived on the east coast of the US, it took only a little nudging to entice my husband to join me on a trip to San Francisco in 2018 for a Work that Reconnects workshop with Joanna. Yesterday, I went looking for any pictures I might have of this time. I am not a photographer, and it was clear that the photos I took of Joanna were flat and uninspired. Snapped at a moment of speaking, a frozen nanosecond amid the stretch of a weekend, I could not capture her zest for life, her radiant joy.
Sensing that disconnect became a moment of clarity for me. What drew me to her work, what drew many of us to want to sit at her feet, was the wisdom she shared, yes. But more than that, we were drawn to and enveloped by the joy that she took in life, the genuine gratitude that poured from her, the boundless love for Earth. We may echo her words, but they will always be insufficient unless they come from the deep joy of connection to life in all its rich variety. I didn’t realize it at the time, but now I believe that I traveled thousands of miles to sit at the feet of Joanna Macy for a weekend because this was a woman who knew, who lived, joy.
Time and again, Joanna spoke of her joy in being alive at this moment. She invited us to “treasure” our sorrow and grief, encouraged us to be present, inspired us with the words of Rilke: “what batters us makes us stronger.” In his morning meditation, Matthew Fox, Joanna’s friend and colleague, wrote of her energy, enthusiasm, joy, and her “YES!” to life.
Joanna herself wrote: “To be alive in this beautiful, self-organizing universe -- to participate in the dance of life with senses to perceive it, lungs that breathe it, organs that draw nourishment from it -- is a wonder beyond words.”
Why do I keep forgetting about joy?
I sometimes forget
that I was created for Joy.
My mind is too busy.
My heart is too heavy
for me to remember
That I have been
called to dance
the Sacred dance of life….
~ Hafiz
Do not walk by.
****
It is nightfall, and I return to the back porch. I’m still tempted to grab my phone to see how the threads of democracy are bearing up. But oh, the fireflies. They bubble up from the bushes and grounds like tiny fairies dancing on air. They glimmer in the trees. The frogs must be happy to see them as well for they are supplying the bass notes to the crickets’ insistent chirping. Darkness descends. The joy quiets into a steady hum. I breath it in. Do not walk by.
And Mary Oliver continued…
It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could mean what Rilke meant when he wrote:
You must change your life.
“There's a song that wants to sing itself through us. We’ve just got to be available.” - Joanna Macy
Do not walk by. It could mean everything.
Please take a few minutes to enjoy Eva Cassidy’s “How Can I Keep from Singing.” It’s by far my favorite version of this song. Maybe you’ll want to dance and sing with joy!
I suspect that most of us who write regularly hope that at least some of what we’ve written is helpful, hopeful, or even inspiring. Still, it came as a happy surprise to be quoted last Saturday, July 19, by the Center for Action and Contemplation. CAC included a passage from our book in their publication “The Dance of Darkness and Light: Weekly Summary.”
Perhaps this excerpt may resonate with you too.
Beth Norcross and Leah Rampy from the Center for Spirituality in Nature seek to discover the spiritual wisdom of trees.
“The words light and dark may evoke contradictory feelings for many of us. We often speak of light as good, welcoming, and what we aspire to or reach for, while darkness is held in the negative, a condition to be overcome. At other times, we equate darkness with much needed rest, a fallow time, or an inward journey, as we note that creativity and life evolve out of darkness. Or perhaps we hold light and dark simply as different ways of seeing, without judgment or negativity. For hundreds of thousands of years before humans walked this Earth, trees grew, thrived, and died in a dance with day and night, summer and winter. Trees hold spiritual wisdom for us as we consider the possibilities held within light and dark….
“As we observe the patterns of trees, we might consider how to stretch toward the light. Our practice probably won’t look exactly like that of a tree, physically shaping ourselves to reach toward the sun. It might generate a similar feeling, however, as we listen for the places within us that are longing for more light and adapt our spiritual practices to respond to that need….
“To embrace the practice of trees, we might notice the places within us where the light seldom shines. We may long to look away from our shadows, to ignore the ways we feel least connected to the holy. Yet the trees would tell us that those are the very places to which we must attend, lovingly stretching into the pain, misunderstanding, grief, or confusion. The trees remind us that if we refrain from growing in those difficult, shadowy places, our journey toward the light will be constrained.”
Reference: Beth Norcross and Leah Rampy, Discovering the Spiritual Wisdom of Trees (Broadleaf, 2025), 73, 77–78.
UPCOMING RETREATS:
Deepening Earth Connections – An In-person Retreat
August 15-17, 2025
Virginia Mae Center at the Washington National Cathedral, Washington, DC
Everywhere we turn, we see signs of disconnection: an epidemic of loneliness, fraying community ties, fading empathy, a disregard for the Earth. And yet, the living world continues to sustain us—offering wonder, wisdom, and the quiet strength of deep time and mystery. Join us for a contemplative retreat in the tranquil surroundings of the Cathedral to awaken our sense of wonder and reflect on how the living world sustains us. Through plenary sessions, small group conversations and reflection, poetry, music, and quiet walks through the Cathedral grounds and gardens, we’ll attune our hearts to the spiritual guidance found in nature.
Residential and Commuter Options Are Available
Leader: Leah Rampy
The Spiritual Wisdom of Trees: Lessons from our Elders
October 8-11, 2025
Montreat Conference Center, Montreat, NC
The Spiritual Wisdom of Trees explores the ancient spiritual and ecological wisdom that trees offer for living into deep connections with our human and nonhuman kin, Earth, and Divine Mystery. Trees, our elders who have graced Earth far longer than the human family, beckon us to wisdom, beauty, and peace. During our days together, we’ll engage in rich conversations in plenary sessions and small groups, take time for spacious silence and reflection with the trees, and listen for their wisdom on this beautiful land. Practices that encourage spiritual deepening through connections with the living world will be introduced throughout the course.
Leaders: Beth Norcross and Leah Rampy
Listening to the Trees: An in-person silent retreat
October 17-19, 2025
Dayspring Silent Retreat Center, Gaithersburg, MD.
Come, be taken in by the resilient and steadfast trees on the grounds of Dayspring. You will be invited to rest in their presence during the quiet weekend as we reflect on the many ways we are gifted by trees. Listen for what they may tell you. Open to what they may share. Through readings, journaling, and silent wandering, we will soak in the divine wisdom of these radiant beings as they prepare for the coming winter.
Leader: Leah Rampy
I am sitting on my front porch this morning listening to our few mid-summer singing birds with the Merlin app also listening and hearing (and potentially misidentifying) birds I cannot hear. I only read your post this morning, skipping over everything else in my substack feed. Joanna reminded us that beauty and sorrow often walk hand in hand. By choosing to only read your post, I had hoped to tip the scales toward beauty this morning. Mission accomplished. Thank you for reminding us that beauty and joy are still here, even during these dark times, when we stop to pay attention. 🙏
Thank you for this beautiful reflection. We all desperately need these reminders in this time. Thank you for being a voice for hope.