Guten Tag, Reader,

The magpies in our backyard have been inviting us to play all summer, leaving us little puzzles.

Hide and seek: They removed a bottle used to water plants and left a bulb in the hole.

Spot the difference: They keep moving two Ponderosa pine cones around the deck, making our house sitter wonder if she lost her mind.

Splash and laugh: They looove to splash around in the bird bath and hop around the yard after, teasing each other like pre-teen kids at the pool.

Over and over, my brain insists I decline the invitation.

Once I am caught up, my brain says, I can plant the bulb and see what happens. Move the pine cones and watch what the birds will do with them. Go to the creek and splash myself just because it’s fun.

Once I have worked through all the open browser tabs, answered the emails, checked the boxes, THEN I will have permission to play, and my life will finally feel calm, joyous, and free.

I have a hunch my brain’s arguments sound familiar.

And you may follow those arguments. I am not here to tell you to ignore responsibilities. I’m inviting you to challenge the belief that responsibility is the only gateway to joy.

Most (all?) humans I know have been held hostage by a too-long list of things to do. For some it’s even a chronic state of being.

Being taken hostage is a scary scenario, and our brains can get exquisitely inventive when they're trying to protect us.

• Some of us double down on productivity.
• Others disappear into brownie baking,* binge-watching, or doomscrolling.
• Perhaps we simply find ourselves unable to do much of anything, adding a few numbing agents like wine or gummy bears.

Either way, joy keeps getting postponed.

Let’s be honest: The world will always open more tabs (unless we close them). People won’t stop sending us emails (unless we tell them to). Things in our homes will always break, fall apart, and get dirty (alas, I haven’t identified a dust authority to tell them to stop making it).

But here’s the thing, Reader: We will never catch up. The culture has designed it that way.

Our nervous systems need a new approach.

I argue that’s a return to nature.

A signal of safety.

Like the sound of a creek or bird song.**

So here’s what I did to guide my brain gently out of its totally made-up hostage situation scenario:

I closed my browser window and all the tabs and went outside to refill the water and sit in the grass.

My curiosity watched the interactions between the magpies and the chickadees and the squirrel. Everyone was hopping from rock to branch, branch to grass, continuously glancing at me with some suspicion. Or maybe it was recognition. I hope so.

I had already forgotten what most of the 25 tabs had even been about. Apparently, not one of them was as urgent as my brain had insisted for the weeks and months they’d been open.

Sure, I also unloaded my dishwasher and hung some laundry outside, hoping that the birds wouldn’t leave cherry-stained poop on my fresh towels.

I am not saying that we should abandon all chores and join a mischief of magpies (Yes, that’s actually what a group of magpies is called! Delight!).

But if you are a woman who’s spent years (decades?) tending to other humans’ joy and wellbeing, I am inviting you to be intentional about which tasks and to-dos truly move you toward the life YOU want for YOU.

What fits the summer you envisioned as the days were finally getting longer in the spring?

The good news is, you don’t have to visit a national park or go on a weeklong nature retreat (although I highly recommend a regular longer reset).

You don’t have to manufacture wonder, either. You can sit in your backyard. In a public park. With the weeds in an abandoned lot.

Nature is asking nothing else from us but our return.

She’s been waiting.

Until next time,

P.S. When was the last time you went outside to just BE outside? Not hike, run, or get anything else out of it. Let me know what you noticed; I’d love to hear.

* At least I have delicious proof I did SOMEthing.

** Our bodies hold the evolutionary knowledge that water means nourishment, and bird song (or birds splashing about in an upcycled pot lid, for that matter) means the absence of predators.

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