Kinship is Remembering: We Belong to One Another
Earth Day can sometimes feel like a call to care for the Earth—something outside of us, something in need of our help. But beneath that framing, there is a quieter, more ancient knowing: we are not separate from the Earth. We are within this living world. Of the waters, the soils, the air.
Kinship is not something we create. It is something we remember.
Kinship is the knowing that we are of each other—and responsible to one another.
Kinship lives in the breath we take in with the trees—and the breath we return. In the water moving through our bodies as rivers and rain move. In the way the ground holds us, and in how we are called into care in return.
As Richard Wagamese writes in Embers:
“We are all related. To each other and to everything else.”
To lean into kinship is to soften the edges of separation.
To notice where we belong, rather than where we stand apart.
This Earth Day, perhaps the invitation is simple:
Step outside—not as an observer, but as a relative.
Let yourself be met by the more-than-human world. Let yourself be part of the conversation already unfolding.
What recognizes you here?
And what in you recognizes them back?
Blessings,
Michele
Exploring Kinship: An Embodied Wander
Step outside, or come to a place where you can sense the living world around you—even through a window.
Pause.
Let your body arrive.
Begin with your breath.
Notice the inhale as something given.
Notice the exhale as something returned.
Stay here for a few cycles—receiving and offering.
Now, let your attention widen.
Who is here with you?
Not as objects, but as presences—
trees, sky, wind, birds, soil, water, even the unseen.
Let yourself feel into one being that draws your attention.
Without needing words, notice:
What is the relationship already here?
Take a moment to sense both directions:
What is being given to you?
And what might it mean to be in care, in reciprocity, with them?
You don’t need to answer fully. Just let the question live in your body.
Before you leave, you might offer something small—
a breath, a touch, a word of thanks, a quiet promise of care.
Notice how it feels to be here not as separate,
but as one among many.