Tomorrow, the United States celebrates the 250th anniversary of its independence. Two hundred and fifty years is no small thing. By any measure, it is a remarkable milestone in the life of a nation, especially one born from a bold and imperfect experiment in freedom.

And yet, as I sit here listening to the pounding upstairs from the Loving Homestead renovations the day before this historic July 4th, I find myself strangely unable to simply join the celebration.

Not because I don’t love this country but because I do so very much. I’m so grateful that the forces of life allowed me to be born in Weymouth, MA a little over seventy-seven years ago. I do not take that bit of kismet for granted.

That distinction matters to me. This is not intended as a political article, even though politics is the language many of us have been trained to use when we talk about the state of our nation. Politics matters, of course. Policies matter. Elections matter. Leadership matters. But beneath the politics, there is something deeper:

the stories we live inside, the assumptions we rarely question, the values we embody, and the future we are either consciously creating or unconsciously drifting toward.

Lately, as part of my morning One Cause vow, I’ve begun asking a simple question:

What is the web of life asking from me today?

This morning, that question did not lead me to an answer so much as a deeper inquiry. What does it mean to honor Independence Day when so much in our national life (and consequently our world) feels fractured, fearful, and off course? What does it mean to love a country without pretending it is well? What does it mean to grieve the direction we seem to be heading while still refusing to surrender the possibility of something better?

I don’t feel at home in either of the easy camps. I cannot celebrate blindly, waving a flag as though all is well. But neither do I want to become one more voice shouting into the great national storm, convinced that outrage alone is a contribution. I know people who seem to think patriotism means defending everything America does. I know others who seem to think honesty requires condemning everything America has been. Neither feels whole to me.

A nation, like a family, can be deeply loved and deeply troubled at the same time.

Two hundred and fifty years ago, courageous and complicated people declared independence from a distant king. That declaration was visionary and incomplete, inspiring and flawed, liberating for some while excluding many others. It’s been a work-in-progress ever since.

The American story has always carried both promise and contradiction. Perhaps every human story does. What matters now, at least to me, is not whether we can polish the past until it shines or condemn it until nothing remains. What matters is whether we can tell the truth about where we are and still choose who we are becoming. Let me rephrase that as a question:

Can we tell the truth about where we are and still choose who we are becoming?

And that brings me to the possibility that maybe this particular Independence Day is inviting us into a new kind of declaration—not independence from another nation, but independence from the assumptions that have brought us to this moment.

For starters, let me suggest a few.

* How about independence from the belief that we are separate from one another and from the living Earth.

* Independence from the story that more is always better.

* Independence from the illusion that Earth’s resources are endless and ours to consume without consequence.

* Independence from the hope that technology alone will save us from the deeper transformation we are avoiding.

In the language of One Cause, maybe this is a moment to begin freeing ourselves from the Four Great Untruths and recommitting ourselves to the Four Great Truths:

Interconnectedness,

Sufficiency,

Reciprocity, and

Stewardship.

Not as political slogans. Not as ideology. Not as something to argue about online. But as ways of being we practice in our families, our neighborhoods, our communities, and our relationship with the living world.

When I look at Logan and Piper, this all becomes much less abstract. They don’t wake up asking whether the world is red or blue. They notice worms, flowers, birds, puddles, berries, bugs, and whether the adults around them feel safe and loving. They are learning, every day, what kind of world this is by watching how we live inside it. And I find myself wondering: What version of “normal” are we handing them?

Perhaps a new patriotism is being asked of us now. Not the patriotism of certainty or superiority, but the patriotism of stewardship. The kind that loves a country enough to help it mature. The kind that tells the truth without bitterness. The kind that plants trees, repairs relationships, protects children, tends soil, welcomes neighbors, and asks what freedom is actually for.

Because freedom is not only freedom from.

It is freedom for.

Freedom for compassion. Freedom for responsibility. Freedom for service. Freedom for the long, humble work of becoming better humans, parents, and ancestors. Freedom to participate in the healing of a world that is not separate from us, and never has been.

So tomorrow, I may still watch fireworks though probably just listen to them from the distance as I try to calm my two canine companions. I may still feel gratitude for the many blessings this country has made possible in my own life. And I may also feel sadness, concern, and grief for how far we still have to go.

Both can be true.

Maybe that is what maturity asks of us—to hold love and grief in the same heart without collapsing into denial or despair.

This Independence Day, I’m not sure I can celebrate in the old way. But I can recommit. I can recommit to living as though the web of life is real, sacred, and asking something of me. I can recommit to my family, my community, and this small patch of Earth we call the Loving Homestead. I can recommit to the future Logan and Piper deserve.

And perhaps that is celebration enough.

This weekend, maybe the question is not simply, “What are we free from?” Maybe the deeper question is,

“What are we free to become?”

If this exploration of freedom and independence calls to you I invite you to become a free or paid subscriber. Let’s continue to explore these topics together

Check out Nate's interview of Rob Hopkins at https://drive.google.com/file/d/1lspKl7pjUtz3WQDy9To8qp4-gRBpOTsJ/view?usp=sharing

Over the next few weeks, I’d like to invite you into an exploration of an idea that has been quietly growing in importance for me. It sits at the intersection of my work as an author, my role as a grandfather, my One Cause experiment, my Write On Purpose Coaching practice, and my growing conviction that stories may matter far more than most of us realize.

The idea is called Thrutopia.

Subscribe for the Thrutopia Series

If that word is new to you, don’t worry. A few months ago it was new to me too. In this first article, I don’t want to explain Thrutopia so much as explore why it matters. Why stories matter. Why imagination matters. And why the future we create together may depend upon the stories we choose to tell ourselves and each other.

Let me begin with a simple story.

A few weeks ago, I was spending time outdoors with my grandkids, five-year-old Logan and three-year-old Piper. We were in the backyard where there’s a fantastic playground set up that has been the site for many of our adventures. This day was no exceptions. One moment we were climbing the ropes of a pirate’s ship, the next we were on a spaceship flying to Mars. Then, in the blinking of an eye we were dragon riders. To Logan and Piper, these weren’t merely games. They were possibilities. They were rehearsals for who they might might someday become.

Watching these two beautiful children, I was reminded that long before children learn facts, they learn stories. Long before they understand economics, politics, or climate science, they begin constructing an understanding of how the world works through narrative. Who are the good guys? Who are the bad guys? What happens when challenges arise? Can ordinary people make a difference? Is the future something to fear or something to help create?

One of our favorite shows to watch with Logan and Piper these days is Bluey. On the surface, it’s a delightful animated series about a family of Australian dogs (already a winner in my book). But beneath the humor and playful adventures are stories about imagination, kindness, resilience, creativity, friendship, and the importance of family and community. Episode after episode, children are quietly absorbing messages about what it means to be human—and perhaps just as importantly, adults are too.

Stories answer those questions long before logic does. They help children—and grownups—develop an internal map of reality. They shape what we believe is possible, what we expect from others, and what kind of future we imagine ourselves inhabiting.

What Stories Shaped You?

I’d love to hear from you. What book, movie, television show, teacher, coach, or family story most shaped how you see the world today? Share in the comments.

And then it struck me. Maybe adults aren’t all that different.

Most people assume the future is created by politicians, corporations, technological breakthroughs, and economic forces. Certainly those things matter. But I’m not so sure that’s where the future begins.

I think the future begins in imagination.

One Cause is my ongoing exploration of the deeper narratives shaping humanity’s relationship with nature—and how we can create a regenerative future together.

Before every nation, there was an idea. Before every movement, there was a story. Before every invention, there was someone who imagined something that didn’t yet exist. The Wright brothers imagined human flight. Martin Luther King Jr. imagined a different America. Jane Goodall imagined a different relationship between humans and the natural world. Every meaningful change begins twice: first in imagination and then in reality. Stories are the bridge between those two worlds.

The more I’ve reflected on this, the more I’ve begun to see that many of the challenges we face today are not simply political, environmental, or economic. They are also narrative challenges. We are living amid what many people call the polycrisis—a convergence of climate disruption, political polarization, technological upheaval, economic uncertainty, social fragmentation, and a growing crisis of meaning. Yet beneath all of these challenges lies a deeper question:

What story are we telling ourselves about who we are and where we’re headed?

Because the dominant story many people seem to be living inside right now goes something like this: the world is broken, human beings are the problem (or at least those ‘other’ human beings who don’t agree with me), everything is getting worse, and the future is something to fear.

If we’re honest, much of our entertainment reinforces exactly that narrative. Turn on the television, scroll through streaming services, or browse the bestseller shelves. Dystopian futures are everywhere. Civilizations collapse. Artificial intelligence takes over. The environment falls apart. Communities disintegrate. People betray one another. To be clear, I understand why these stories resonate. I’ve written a few of my own including The Stars Beckon, Babble and Rabble. They often contain important warnings. They can help us see dangers we might otherwise ignore. But warnings alone rarely inspire transformation.

As I recently learned during a Gaia’s Call 2.0 conversation with author Manda Scott, people don’t change simply because they’re frightened. They change when they can imagine something worth moving toward. That insight landed deeply for me because when I look around,

I don’t see a shortage of warnings.

I see a shortage of compelling visions.

I see a shortage of believable pathways toward a future people actually want to inhabit. I see a shortage of stories that tell the truth without surrendering hope.

And perhaps that’s one reason so many people feel stuck. Human beings can endure remarkable hardship when they can see meaning, purpose, and possibility on the other side. Without that, fear easily becomes paralysis. This is where I find myself increasingly drawn to the idea that writers, artists, musicians, filmmakers, teachers, podcasters, and other creatives have a larger role to play than we often realize. Yes, creatives like you and I.

Not because creatives possess all the answers. Lord knows I don’t. The deeper I dive into the polycrisis, the more aware I become of how much I don’t know. But perhaps our role has never been to provide answers. Perhaps our role is to expand what people can imagine.

After all, before we can build a different future, we must first be able to see it.

That realization has been quietly changing how I think about storytelling, about my own fiction, about Gaia’s Call, about One Cause, and even about the conversations I have with Logan and Piper. It has also led me to a fascinating question:

Why is it that so many of our stories about the future seem

trapped between two extremes?

On one side, we find dystopias—stories that warn us where our current path may lead. On the other side, we find utopias—visions of a perfected future that often feel disconnected from the messy reality of getting there. One leaves us frightened. The other can leave us skeptical. Yet it seems to me there ought to be another possibility.

What if there were stories courageous enough to tell the truth about the challenges we face while also helping us imagine realistic pathways toward a world we would actually want our grandchildren to inherit? What if stories could help us move beyond both blind optimism and doom-filled pessimism?

That question led me to discover a growing movement known as Thrutopia. And it may turn out to be one of the most important storytelling movements of our time.

In preparation for next week’s article, I’d like to invite you into a simple experiment.

Pay attention to the stories you encounter over the coming days. The books you read. The movies and television shows you watch. The news you consume. The conversations you have with family and friends. As you do, ask yourself:

What future is this story inviting me into?

Is it inviting me toward fear or possibility? Toward helplessness (as in learned helplessness) or agency? Toward isolation or connection? Toward resignation or participation? You don’t need to judge the answers. Simply notice them. Because once you begin paying attention, you may discover that stories are shaping far more of your worldview than you previously realized. In fact, they may be shaping your expectations of the future itself.

And that brings us to where we’ll begin next week.

We’ll explore Thrutopia—what it is, where it came from, and why an increasing number of writers, thinkers, and changemakers believe it offers something our culture desperately needs right now: stories that tell the truth about where we are while illuminating believable pathways toward where we might yet go.

Until then, pay attention to the stories.

They may be shaping the future more than any of us realize.

If this article sparked something in you, please share it with a fellow reader, writer, teacher, parent, grandparent, or changemaker. Stories spread one conversation at a time.

An Update on Write On Purpose Coaching

Since selling my small animal veterinary practice in 1989, I’ve been on a joyful adventure that has blended two lifelong passions: writing and transformational coaching.

A few years ago, I brought those passions together through Write On Purpose Coaching, helping aspiring and emerging authors move from “one day” to “today.” Then, in late 2024, I took a hiatus from coaching to focus on my own writing—including much of what many of you have been reading here on Substack.

Today, I’m excited to announce that I’m returning to Write On Purpose Coaching.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that most people don’t struggle because they lack talent. They struggle because they lack clarity, confidence, accountability, or simply someone who believes in them before they fully believe in themselves.

That’s why I continue to offer complimentary Creative Clarity Sessions.

Whether you have an idea for a book, a manuscript gathering dust, or a completed draft that’s waiting for its next step, this conversation is designed to help you move forward.

You’ll leave with:

* Greater clarity about your book and the deeper purpose behind it.

* A practical roadmap for what comes next.

* Renewed momentum and confidence to move your writing—and perhaps your life—forward.

One of my clients described me as “the person you want to have your back.” Another said our work together helped her become not only a better writer, but a deeper and more authentic human being.

Those words mean a lot because they capture what Write On Purpose is really about.

Yes, we write books.

But we also author our lives.

And sometimes the very thing standing between us and the book we’re meant to write is a conversation that helps us see what is possible.

If you’ve been carrying a book inside you for months, years, or even decades, consider this your invitation.

The world doesn’t need more unfinished manuscripts hidden away in drawers and hard drives. It needs your story. Your wisdom. Your experience. Your unique voice.

Don’t let your book die within you.

Instead, let’s explore what’s possible together.

To schedule a complimentary Creative Clarity Session, visit:

www.wbradfordswift.com/coach

I’d be honored to have your back and support you on your Write On Purpose journey.

In Part One of this series, we explored how the stories running in our minds shape what we believe is possible. If the narrative we carry says the future is doomed and nothing we do matters, our most likely response will be withdrawal, anxiety, or quiet resignation. But when we step back and notice that those stories are interpretations rather than inevitabilities, we begin to reclaim a small but powerful space of freedom. We can choose which stories we continue feeding and which ones we begin to question.

Follow the series and stay connected

In Part Two, we looked at something equally important: the science of motivation. Research suggests that people rarely change because someone else tells them what they should do. In fact, that approach often creates resistance. What truly motivates people is discovering their own reasons for caring and acting. When we reconnect with something we love—a river we grew up near, a forest trail that shaped our childhood, a garden we tend with our hands—the desire to protect life arises naturally.

What’s one place or relationship that makes you care more deeply about the Earth?

Join the conversation with others exploring this pathTaken together, these two insights point toward something quietly revolutionary. If we change the stories we carry and reconnect with our own motivations for protecting life, the possibility of meaningful action begins to open. But there is still one question that many people understandably ask when they look at the scale of the challenges before us:

What difference could one person—or one family—really make?

This is where one of my favorite metaphors enters the picture.

The architect and systems thinker Buckminster Fuller used the term trimtab to describe a very small device attached to the rudder of a large ship. When the trimtab moves, it creates a small change in pressure that helps turn the much larger rudder. Once the rudder begins to turn, the entire ship slowly changes direction. In other words, a relatively tiny input can help shift a much larger system.

Fuller loved this metaphor because it illustrated how complex systems often change. Transformation does not always begin with massive force. Sometimes it begins with small, well-placed actions that alter the direction of the whole.

Small actions can shift big systems. This might be exactly what someone you love needs to hear.

When I think about the ecological challenges facing our planet, the trimtab metaphor feels especially relevant. Many people assume that only governments, corporations, or global agreements have the power to influence the trajectory of the Earth’s future. Those forces certainly matter, but history repeatedly shows that cultural change often begins elsewhere. It begins with shifts in how ordinary people live, relate, and imagine the world.

Over time, enough of those shifts begin to alter the larger system.

This is where the Four Great Truths of the One Cause framework come into practical focus. These truths are not abstract philosophical ideas; they are descriptions of how living systems actually function. Interconnection reminds us that life operates through relationships. Sufficiency invites us to reconsider the assumption that endless growth is necessary for human flourishing. Reciprocity reveals that life thrives through balanced exchange. And stewardship invites us to live as participants entrusted with care across generations.

When we begin living with these truths in mind, even small choices can become trimtabs for a larger cultural shift.

A family plants a pollinator garden in their yard, and suddenly butterflies and bees return. A group of neighbors organizes a repair café, extending the life of everyday objects. A school plants a small food forest where children learn how soil, water, and sunlight collaborate to create life. Someone chooses to support a local farmer, strengthening both community and ecosystem.

None of these actions, by themselves, solve the climate crisis. But they begin changing the story of how we live on Earth.

In my own life, I see small examples of this almost every day. When Logan and Piper come to visit, we wander through the yard and the small food forest we’ve been nurturing here at the Loving Homestead. What begins as simple curiosity—digging in the soil, noticing worms, watching birds—quietly becomes something deeper. They are not just learning about nature. They are forming relationships with the living world.

Moments like that remind me that transformation rarely begins with grand declarations. It begins with relationships—with soil, water, animals, neighbors, and children who still remember how alive the world is.

What’s one small action you’ve taken—or could take—that helps life flourish where you live?

Leave a comment and reflect

Each of us can participate in this shift in ways both large and small. Some will influence systems at scale. Many of us will contribute more quietly—through how we live, how we relate, and how we care.

In systems language, these are trimtabs.

Small actions that help the larger system turn.

If you feel inspired, begin with something simple. Identify a place or relationship that matters deeply to you. Ask yourself: Why does this matter? What would I like to see flourish here? And what small step could I take?

You don’t need to solve everything.

You only need to begin. Because when enough trimtabs begin to move…

The ship begins to turn.

As we close this three-part series, I want to return to the simple experiment that began it. The stories we tell shape the possibilities we see. When those stories shift—from despair to responsibility, from separation to relationship—we begin to see new paths forward.

In a time when the challenges can feel overwhelming, perhaps the most powerful question we can ask is not:

How do we fix everything?

But rather:

What is one small way I can help life flourish today?

That question may sound modest.

But history suggests…

It is exactly how great turnings begin.

Note: Due to tech issues with our regular recording modality, today’s episode was recorded using Google Meet.

In Part One of this series, we explored something deceptively simple but profoundly important: much of our suffering—and much of our paralysis in the face of global challenges—comes not from the events themselves but from the interpretations we attach to them. If the story running in our minds says the future is doomed (or some similar disempowering story), the most likely result is despair. If the story says nothing we do matters, the most likely result is inaction. These stories we carry around as though they are true quietly shape and limit the possibilities we see.

But changing the story in our minds is only the first step. The next question is just as important—and perhaps even more challenging:

How do we actually change our behavior?

Thanks for reading Unleashed - W. Bradford Swift! This post is public so feel free to share it.

If we’re honest, most of us already know what we “should” be doing in many areas of life. We know we should eat better, move our bodies more often, spend less time staring at screens, and perhaps spend more time caring for the natural world that sustains us. Yet knowing what we should do and actually doing it are often two very different things. Information alone rarely changes behavior. If it did, the internet would have already solved most of humanity’s problems. (And yes, some might say such a wealth of information has only served to make matters worse, but that discussion we’ll save for another day.)

For many years I assumed that motivating people—including myself—worked in a fairly straightforward way. You explain the problem clearly, you explain why it matters, and then you encourage people to do the right thing. In other words, we tell people what they should do and then we try to persuade them that it’s important. Psychologists sometimes call this the “tell and sell” approach. It sounds reasonable enough, but research suggests that it rarely works as well as we think.

In fact, something interesting often happens when people are told what they must do. Instead of becoming motivated, they become resistant. There is a well-documented psychological phenomenon called psychological reactance, which describes our deeply human tendency to push back when we feel our autonomy is threatened. The harder someone insists that we adopt a certain behavior, the more our inner sense of independence starts to protest. Even if we might have agreed with the suggestion originally, the feeling of being pushed can make us want to do the opposite.

Anyone who has raised children—or remembers being a child—recognizes this dynamic immediately. Tell a young person that they absolutely must clean their room right now, and suddenly cleaning their room becomes the last thing they want to do. Adults are not so different. Study after study has shown that people often avoid actions they are strongly told to take, even when those actions align with their own interests.

This insight sits at the heart of a fascinating motivational approach developed by Yale researcher Michael Pantalon in his work on Instant Influence. His research suggests that people are far more likely to change when they hear themselves say why they want to change. In other words, lasting motivation rarely comes from someone else’s arguments. It arises when individuals connect with their own reasons for taking action.

The practical implication of this insight is surprisingly simple but powerful. Instead of asking someone why they should change, ask them why they might want to change. That small shift—from “should” to “might”—makes a remarkable difference. It lowers resistance and respects autonomy. Rather than triggering defensiveness, it invites curiosity and reflection.

From there, a short sequence of questions can help people uncover their own motivations. One might begin by asking, “Why might you want to make this change?” The next question explores readiness: “On a scale from one to ten, how ready do you feel you are to try this?” Then comes a clever twist: “Why didn’t you choose a lower number?” That question nudges the mind toward the reasons change already matters. From there the conversation moves toward imagining the positive outcomes of change, exploring why those outcomes are meaningful, and finally identifying one small next step.

Notice what is happening in this process. No one is being lectured. No one is being pushed. Instead, people are discovering their own motivations, and once those motivations begin to take shape, action often follows naturally.

When I first encountered this research, something clicked immediately in relation to the climate crisis and the broader polycrisis we are navigating today. For decades, much of the environmental conversation has relied heavily on the tell-and-sell approach. Scientists present alarming data. Advocates explain why change is necessary. Leaders urge people to adopt more sustainable behaviors. While these efforts are often well-intentioned and factually correct, they can sometimes trigger the very resistance psychological research predicts.

If psychological reactance is real—and the evidence suggests it is—then some of our attempts to motivate environmental action may unintentionally produce the opposite result. People do not want to feel pushed or shamed into caring for the planet. They want to feel that their actions arise from their own values and their own sense of meaning.

For example, given that my background and training as a veterinarian was science based, it felt natural to talk about and seek out the facts about climate change, but I found that data did little to motivate me or others into action. It wasn’t until Logan (and later Piper) came along that I realized it was time for me to take action to forward the process of creating a regenerative future that would leave them with a planet they would be proud to call their own.

So, what do you deeply care about that might inspire you into action to join the ranks of being an Eco-Guardian-In-Training? Why not leave a comment below?

This insight suggests a different kind of conversation about the Earth. Instead of telling people what they must do to save the planet, we might begin with a much simpler and more human question: “Why might protecting the natural world matter to you?” For one person, the answer might involve their children or grandchildren as it did for me. For another, it might be the beauty of a nearby forest or river. For someone else, it may be the simple desire to live a meaningful life that contributes to something larger than oneself.

Whatever the answer turns out to be, the motivation becomes personal, and personal motivations are powerful.

I was reminded of this recently during a conversation with a friend about the state of the world. We talked about climate disruption, political tensions, and the growing sense that many of our systems are under strain. At one point my friend shrugged and said something I hear fairly often these days: “Honestly, it feels like there’s nothing ordinary people can do.”

In the past I might have responded by offering examples of practical actions—reducing consumption, supporting regenerative agriculture, planting trees, or restoring local ecosystems. Instead, I tried a different approach. I simply asked, “What do you care most about protecting in the world?”

He paused for a moment, thinking. Then he began telling me about a river where he used to fish with his father when he was a boy. That river, it turned out, held some of his most cherished memories. As he spoke, the entire tone of the conversation shifted. We were no longer discussing abstract environmental problems. We were talking about something he loved.

From there, it became much easier to imagine what kinds of actions might help protect places like that river. The motivation didn’t come from my arguments. It came from his memories and his sense of connection.

This approach aligns beautifully with the deeper philosophy behind the One Cause project. The Great Untruths of modern culture have encouraged us to see the Earth primarily as a backdrop for human activity or a warehouse of resources to extract. The Four Great Truths invite a different perspective: that life is interconnected, that sufficiency is possible, that reciprocity with nature sustains abundance, and that humanity’s role is stewardship rather than domination.

Those truths cannot simply be imposed through arguments or ideology. They have to be rediscovered through experience and relationship. When someone reconnects with a river they love, a forest they remember, a garden they tend, or a piece of land they care for, those truths often begin to reveal themselves naturally.

If you’re curious to experiment with this idea yourself, try something simple this week. Choose one small action that might support life in some way—something practical and manageable. Perhaps it involves planting a tree, reducing waste, supporting a local farmer, restoring soil in your garden, or spending time tending a small piece of land. Then ask yourself a few gentle questions. Why might I want to do this? On a scale of one to ten, how ready am I to try it? Why didn’t I choose a lower number? Imagine I did this—what positive outcomes might result? Why are those outcomes important to me? And what might be the smallest next step I could take?

Notice that none of these questions force action. They simply invite reflection. Yet once our own reasons become visible, action often begins to feel less like an obligation and more like a natural expression of who we are.

In the final article of this series, we’ll bring these two insights together. Changing the story in our minds opens the door to possibility. Discovering our own motivations ignites action. Together they can help us become something Buckminster Fuller once described with a beautiful metaphor: trimtabs—small forces capable of helping turn much larger systems. And in a time of planetary transition, the world may need many trimtabs.

P.S. — A New Ecosystem & A New Conversation

By the time this podcast episode airs, Ann and I will be with Logan and Piper for a much-needed—and deeply earned—family beach trip. It will be their first time experiencing an entirely new ecosystem in such an immersive way: the rhythms of the ocean, the pull of the tides, the vastness of something both playful and powerful.

I have a feeling we’ll all be learning something.

Shortly after we return, on Friday, May 29, a new episode of Gaia’s Call 2.0 will go live—one that feels like a natural continuation of everything we’ve been exploring together in this series.

Marla (of the Eco-Chapter) and I will be joined by Manda Scott, host of the Accidental Gods podcast, for a conversation that goes right to the heart of this moment:

* Why are we in this mess?

* What role do our deepest fears and cultural patterns play?

* What can one person actually do?

* And perhaps most importantly—what role does creativity play in shaping what comes next?

Manda speaks powerfully about what she calls “the imagination revolution”—the idea that creativity isn’t optional in times like these… it’s essential. It may, in fact, be the leading edge of change.

And as I watch Logan and Piper encounter the ocean for the first time, I’ll be reminded that imagination begins exactly there—in wonder, in relationship, in direct experience with the living world.

Be one of the first to hear this powerful conversation on imagination, creativity, and the future we’re shaping together.

Part 1: The Story in Our Heads Is Shaping the World

How our interpretations fuel despair—or possibility

Not long ago I was outside in the yard with my grandson Logan, who had discovered something that instantly captured his five-year-old imagination. It was nothing particularly dramatic—just a small worm wriggling through the soil after a rainstorm. But to Logan, it might as well have been a dragon. He crouched down, studying it carefully, narrating what he thought the worm might be thinking and where it might be going. Piper, his little sister, soon joined us, equally fascinated.

Watching them, I was reminded of something I think many of us lose as adults. Children don’t just see the world—they relate to it. The worm isn’t an object. It’s a character in the unfolding drama of life. The tree in the yard isn’t scenery; it’s a companion in the landscape of their play. Everything feels alive, meaningful, connected.

This moment with my grandchildren reminded me of something we don’t learn from books… we remember it by being alive.

How our interpretations fuel despair—or possibility

Over the years I’ve developed a little morning ritual. Coffee in hand and a bowl of fruit in front of me for a few quiet minutes before my wife, Ann, wakes up. Often Rascal—my loyal canine companion—is curled up nearby. The early mountain light filtering through the trees here in the mountains of North Carolina. And if I’m honest, sometimes my mind wanders through the headlines of the world we’re living in: climate disruption, political turmoil, economic uncertainty, wildfires, floods, storms. Many of us feel it now—that sense that something larger than a typical “rough patch in history” is unfolding. I often refer to it as the polycrisis—a convergence of ecological, economic, social, and spiritual disruptions all happening at once.

It can be a lot to take in. Some mornings, if I’m not careful, my mind can start telling a story about it all. A story that has become all too familiar. To borrow a phrase from my own childhood: Our world is going to hell in a handbasket. Maybe you’ve heard versions of those stories in your own mind as well.

Recently, two articles I happened to read on the same morning stopped me in my tracks. Something about them felt deeply connected—not just to each other, but to the work many of us are trying to do in this time of planetary transition. And it dawned on me that the climate crisis—and the broader polycrisis—may not just be a technological or political challenge. It may also be a story challenge.

One of the articles explored something psychologists have been saying for a long time: much of our suffering does not come directly from events themselves, but from the interpretations we attach to them. The Stoic philosopher Epictetus put it bluntly centuries ago: “It’s not things that upset us but our judgments about things.” When something happens in our lives, our minds almost instantly begin constructing a story about what it means. A friend doesn’t text back. A project fails. A troubling news headline appears. The event itself may last seconds, but the story we tell ourselves about it can last for years.

Psychologists refer to these internal patterns as schemas—mental frameworks built from past experiences that quietly shape how we see the world and ourselves. Over time those schemas become so familiar that we stop recognizing them as interpretations. They begin to feel like reality itself. Not interpretations, but facts.

When it comes to the climate crisis and ecological disruption, I notice a similar dynamic playing out in the collective psyche. The facts are serious. We are destabilizing the climate. We are losing biodiversity. We are drawing down natural systems faster than they regenerate. These realities deserve our full attention. But the interpretation layer often goes much further. It turns into a narrative of inevitability: We’re doomed. It’s too late. Human beings are the problem.

Those interpretations can quietly shut down the very thing we need most right now—agency. If the story in our head says nothing matters, why would we act? But what if those interpretations are not the only story available to us?

One of the most powerful ideas I’ve encountered over the years comes from Viktor Frankl, the psychiatrist who survived the Nazi concentration camps. He wrote that between stimulus and response there is a space, and in that space lies our power to choose our response. That tiny space may be one of the most important places in the human experience. Because inside that space something extraordinary becomes possible. We can notice the story our mind is telling and decide whether or not we want to keep believing it.

The article I read put it another way: our thoughts are powerful, but they are not us. They are simply things our minds produce. Once we recognize that distinction, something begins to loosen. We don’t have to fight every anxious thought that appears. We can simply notice it. Ah…there’s my mind telling the “nothing will change” story again. Then we come back to the present moment—to our breath, our body, and the living world around us.

When I step back from the daily news cycle and look at the larger arc of human history, another story begins to come into view. Yes, we are facing unprecedented challenges. But we are also witnessing something else: millions of people waking up to their relationship with the Earth. Young people planting forests. Families restoring soil. Communities creating repair cafés and sharing networks. Scientists, farmers, and Indigenous wisdom keepers working together to regenerate ecosystems.

In the language of the One Cause project, we might say that we are slowly rediscovering what I call the Four Great Truths: that life is interconnected, that sufficiency is possible, that reciprocity with nature is essential, and that our role as humans is stewardship rather than domination. These truths do not erase the challenges we face, but they do change the story from doom to responsibility—from despair to participation.

Reading those two articles together sparked an idea that I’d like to explore with you over the next few weeks. Because the second article introduced another fascinating insight: if changing the story in our minds is the first step, the next step is understanding how people actually change their behavior. And it turns out the science of motivation is surprisingly counterintuitive. It’s not about telling people what they should do. In fact, the more we push people, the more they resist. Real change tends to happen when people discover their own reasons for acting.

This is Part 1 of a 3-part exploration. Part 2 goes into what actually motivates real change—and it might surprise you.

That insight will be the focus of Part Two of this series.

Together, these two ideas—changing the story in our heads and discovering our deeper motivations—may help unlock something incredibly important for this moment in history. Not just awareness, but action.

What story about the world have you noticed running in your own mind lately?

Until then, I’d like to invite you into a small experiment. The next time you encounter a troubling news headline or feel anxiety about the state of the world, pause for a moment and ask yourself three simple questions. First: what actually happened? Just the facts. Second: what story is my mind telling about it? And third: is there another interpretation that leaves room for possibility? Not blind optimism—just possibility.

If you try this simple experiment, I’d love to hear what you discover.

Have you ever caught yourself telling a “nothing will change” story? What helped you shift it—if anything?

Because the future we create will depend, in no small part, on the stories we choose to believe—and the actions those stories inspire.

In the next article we’ll explore something fascinating: why people almost never change when they’re told what to do, and the surprisingly simple questions that can ignite real motivation—for ourselves, our families, and perhaps even the wider culture.

Until then, I’d love to hear from you. What story about the future of our world have you noticed running through your own mind lately? And what might a more life-affirming version of that story look like?