On the weekends, I go outside and listen to the earth.
During the work week, my days are very full. Some weeks I travel and teach. Other times, I am in meetings all day or visiting with people on an individual level. There are days when I am in the office, researching answers to problems, reflecting on lessons learned, or mapping out future presentations.
For the most part, I spend a lot of my time at work listening. I listen to strategic problems and operational challenges. I listen to issues about people, structure, systems, and culture. I listen to complex problems and complicated problems. I spend hours trying to figure out what happened and why. And then countless more hours, helping people figure out realistic solutions and effective strategies to move forward.
However, on the weekends, I step away from the computer, the e-mails, and the piles of paperwork. After my usual Saturday morning chores, I step outside and listen to the earth.
Here, in this world, time changes from minutes and hours to days, months and seasons. Here in this world, I listen to the wind. I listen to the plants. I listen to the calls of nature.
In this world, I get to work with flowers and dirt, weeds and plants. In this world, birds and animals, the weather and the trees are all growing, moving, changing. The cycles and rhythms of life are all around me.
And as this October quickly moves toward November, I rest in the knowledge that the five hundred plus tulips, daffodils, and crocus I planted over a week ago are settling into their new homes. They begin their journey to becoming spring miracles.
When I step outside and listen to the earth, everything comes into perspective. This morning I am reminded of the words of Hodding Carter who wrote, “There are only two lasting bequests we can give our children. One is roots, the other, wings.”
All the spring bulbs I planted recently are focused on one important task, namely to put down roots. Roots to prepare for winter. Roots to prepare for spring. Roots to become what they are meant to become.
This past August during the later half of the month as I listened to the earth I realized that the seasons were changing faster than I thought. I was outside in the middle of the week rather than just on the weekend because nearly all of my clients were on vacation, in meetings, or helping their children transition back to school. A rare pause in the hustle and bustle of consulting and executive coaching. Everyone was busy doing something else, and I could step outside and shift out of work mode.
It was a sunny day. I was down on my hands and knees pulling out invasive weeds and some very persistent grass that was sure my flower bed was the better place to grow. I paused in all of the work to just enjoy the moment. It was then that I realized that the new green of spring and the brilliant green of full summer was changing into the dark green of fall. I could just feel the difference. With the last flush of flowers taking place all around me and some of the summer drought having passed due to recent rain, I could feel the plants putting down roots, reaching deep and growing stronger. They were preparing for the return of winter.
Right now, in a world filled with many challenges and complexities, we need roots. We need to feel connected to our families, friends, and community. We need to feel a part of meaningful work within the context of caring communities. We need to feel like our lives matter, and that we are making a difference.
At the same time, we need wings. We need to grow and continue learning. We need to rise to our challenges and integrate new ideas and perspectives. We need to see the bigger picture, to explore the far horizon, to comprehend the length and scope of our existence.
About three weeks ago, I was out back of our house cleaning flower beds and hauling the trimmings out to the field where our neighbor’s horses, two large Belgium breeding mares, live. With dinner plate sized hooves, I have to look up into their eyes when they come over to the fence, curious to see what I am up to and wondering if I will pick up fallen fruit from our apple tree and feed it to them.
On this particular September day, I came to the gate and the horses where thirty feet away nibbling on some tender grass. I opened the gate and pulled in my little garden way cart. I often dump the flower bed trimmings under a nearby walnut tree where the horses like to stand in the afternoon shade before heading to the barn for the evening. They like to push the garden trimmings around with their hooves and eat the tender bits.
I looked at the mares as they moved further away to the east and came on into the field. As I dumped the load under the walnut tree, I looked up just in time to see the younger mare trot out the gate, heading west. I dropped the cart and sprinted after her. I knew I had to get in front of her to stop her forward progress. She went around the north side of vegetable garden, heading toward the apple tree. I raced around the south side of the garden and we meet on the western edge.
I stopped. She stopped. I raised my arms and said “No. Back into the field with you.”
I slowly approached and she backed up a step. I stepped forward one more time and she turned tail and galloped toward the gate just before the other mare escaped. Then, the two of them then raced into the field at a full, big horse gallop, kicking their heels and throwing clods of dirt in all directions.
When they stopped in the middle of the field, the younger mare looked over her shoulder at me. I could have sworn she was smiling, and that the two of them were giggling. I paused and picked up my cart. I walked back and closed the gate. Then, I watched them as they meandered over to the new pile of greens under the walnut tree, looking for the tender bits. By then, all three of us were smiling.
In world where busy is the new definition of success, we actually have few adventures anymore. We instead have full days followed by full days followed by even fuller days. We are connected to our flat devices twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. We get so wrapped up in trying to get so much done that we actually don’t experience the miracle of living. We actually don’t have many wing or root experiences anymore; we just have stuff to do.
So, on the weekends, and even some days after work, I go outside and listen to the earth.
This fall, I watch the big V’s of Canadian geese migrating to the south. I notice that the blue jays have started to fly together in small groups from tree to tree. A dear friend of mine tells me the juncos have come down from the north to over winter in the more milder climate of Iowa. I notice that the hummingbirds have migrated south and the gold finches have gone that way too.
And I slowly move out of living life by minutes and hours and back into the world of days, months and seasons, I keep thinking to myself we all need roots and wings. We all need big adventures where at the end we have a smile on our face, joy in our heart, and the blessing of being alive. We all need to find a place where life is meaningful and the community is caring.
It all begins with wings and roots… roots and wings.
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