I come from loggers and farmers, cooks and seamstresses, Girl Scout leaders and indigenous Sámi: lovers of all things green and magical who taught me the art of simple, seasonal living.

In 2019, hoping to “codify” some of their lessons, I became certified as a Climate Reality Leader by former Vice President Al Gore.

I pictured big things: traveling the country—the world, maybe—sharing everything I had learned from a lifetime spent outside and bringing people along with me. But instead of heading down the activist road, I stayed home, completely overwhelmed by the enormity of our collective need and the limits of my singular voice.

Like so many, I had seen too much apathy toward the pains of this world… too much direct action to harm our planet and its creatures, and I could not parse out how to respond. Instead of leading a call for change, I stopped doing... anything.

I needed something to wake me up—to make me uncomfortable enough to search for my center and find some clarity.

I needed to go camping.

Several times every year, my friends and I set up our sleeping bags and lawn chairs in one of Minnesota’s glorious state parks—simply for the experience of easing into the land and its inherent promise of healing. It’s not easy, but it’s also not hard.

It’s a good challenge.

On one of our recent trips, I stepped into a visitor center filled with educational posters and artifacts covering everything from early native life to local topography to species management. The smell of old wood and the sound of rustling leaves prompted a wave of treasured childhood memories marked by Echo Trail blueberry patches, and Great Lakes beaches, and Upper Peninsula farmer’s markets.

I found myself wondering how many people get a chance to experience the deep joy offered by a people-friendly, planet-positive life, and how many people understand the impact such a life can have on one’s physical and mental health—not to mention one’s perspective on humanity, as a whole.

And I found myself wondering how I could spend the rest of my creative professional journey attempting to grow that number—to help people advocate for action in support of inclusive and sustainable living, but to do so in ways that feel easy, instead of hard... celebratory, instead of desperate... possible, instead of impossible.

Because while the Earth is filled with people doing big things and using big voices to make the world a better place, advocates of all ages need to understand that it's okay to do small things and use small voices. It's okay to limit one's contributions to random acts of kindness and small acts of service—which can matter more than any large (and sometimes empty) promise.

It's okay to keep it simple.

One of the displays in that state park visitor center was dedicated to celebrating Minnesota’s state butterfly: the monarch, highlighting its local lifecycle in all its gleaming summer glory. It all felt so familiar—and comforting—because I know monarchs. How? I had been raising them in my backyard since 2005.

Oh, how I loved it! From hunting for eggs on chilly, wet mornings to releasing them into the air on bright, steamy afternoons, it filled my soul to find and learn about and nurture something so fascinating and so beautiful. But at some point, I stopped. Life gets in the way, you know, and things just... stop. But finding that state park display prompted a return to the garden.

Soon enough, I had expanded my practice into my local neighborhood, riding my bike to local ponds in order to look for milkweed leaves. Every time I found an egg, I would race home to add it to my collection, feeling like a seven year old bringing home a fantastic bug in a paper cup! It brought me pure and unconditional joy.

As I worked to raise those caterpillar babies up, I worked to share their lessons with others. And as I worked to share their lessons with others, I shared a simple mantra:

Be kind. Live green. Find beauty.

And I began to believe that making the world a better place just might be possible.

Kinfeather is my proof.

Listen: My faith in humanity still falters every single day. And every single day I use that mantra to remind myself how to get it back.

Sometimes it’s something huge and powerful like a climate seminar or ocean clean-up. But sometimes it’s just one tiny green shoot pushing through the soil, proving the power of nature to transmute dirt into gold.

Regardless of the size and scope, I commit to soaking in as much beauty as I can, so I have some fuel in reserve for when the going gets tough.

Isn’t that what faith is, anyway: finding beauty, even when it’s hard to see, then hanging on to it like a pocket talisman, ready for a spit shine?

Same as it ever was, people.

Same as it ever was.

Heather I. Succio, MSEd.