Learning is a way of life
Curate your own school
September 27, 2026
I like to dig. In doing so it’s possible to explore the soil’s composition and inspect all that’s come before. Is it alive with life or compacted like a brick? Depending on how deep I choose to go or where the shovel pierces, what’s underfoot is revelatory; a mysterious story composed layer upon complex layer.
To dig, both literally and figuratively, is a way of learning. And as I was out in the garden a few weeks back the notion of learning as being none other than a participatory act of presence overtook me.
Gardening, a word like home or family, tends to be one of those small words with big meaning. The longer I participate the more it becomes an extension of my senses. I can smell autumn’s approach. And to prepare I raked back some mulch, threw that mulch on a massive compost pile I’m working, and watered a little in the areas I recently weeded. There’s always something to physically do like hauling wheelbarrows of manure from a neighbor's pasture. But there’s also the subtle. Like how it becomes a stage for contemplation so I may break myself open and aerate what’s become compact. The practice connects me with Spirit, the elements, the wind, I calm down.
Later as I reflected on the day's tasks my internal dialogue ran amok. Was that the right or wrong thing to do? Is there a better way I could have dealt with the shrubs I’m painstakingly trying to keep alive in this heat? A voice creeps in and spreads. I have to regularly stop this diatribe of judgement and remember there’s no right or wrong, more like surrender to learning the way.
Gardening in Alaska is not the same as gardening in Bali. My sense of home may be different than yours. Variables aside, it’s likely one’s habits and practices would dramatically shift if relocated. Let’s just say listening, inevitably making a few mistakes, and graciously adapting to what is are skills to embrace.
Begin. Again. And with Appreciation.
cozy corner library with Afghani Turkmen rig mentioned below
Life is for learning. It takes commitment, endurance, and a willingness to dig.
This time of year a tone of nostalgia washes over me. There have been many a late September that I’ve moved to a different State, started a new semester, boarded an airplane, or begun a new life without knowing a soul. It’s a time often accompanied by a yearning to learn something new—to step into the complete unknown.
Today it’s not about school in the traditional sense. I’m decades past my school days. Nonetheless the association and thrill of learning hovers close. I self-organize. There’s earth to be moved in order to plant the quince or transplant the rose and through that I learn about soil amendments, timing, sun pathways, light and shadow. And then there’s query and research when faced with an unknown subject, concept, or idea. If I run into obstacles which sometimes gain a foothold or conceal the path, I investigate solutions.
I see it as a means to remain spry. And the possibilities are endless.
Over the years I’ve:
Planned a four month stint to Guatemala and Mexico to learn Spanish.
Re-listened to Led Zeppelin from their earliest to latest album
Filmography benders, specifically to watch as many Pedro Almodóvar or Federico Fellini films.
Paid and downloaded Michel Thomas, a language learning method, to practice Portuguese. (The travel to Mexico and Guatemala was in my mid 20s. Maybe Portugal will be in my mid 50s. I’ve found immersion to be the best way.)
Currently I’m:
Rug mending. I have a large Afghani Turkmen rug, which I’ve been told is over 100 years old. I inherited it damaged and have been carting it around for almost 30 years. Not being able to afford the cost of restoration I decided to put my sewing/weaving skills to work and mend it myself. Luckily I had a smaller rug I was willing to cut up with the exact same color way and rose garden pattern. In the end, it’s not that much different than repairing a sweater, you just need robust tools. The best part about it, is actually what I love most about textiles. Over time and with wear and mending the piece becomes a magical living record of time and history.
Composting. I love it! I mean how cool is it when vegetation can completely morph (with the help of heat, moisture, and aerobic microbes) into soil. I think of it as facilitating rapid decomposition. Back when I lived in Oregon I got my Master Composting certificate and never looked back. I have two massive piles I’m working which my garden desperately needs and will be ready come spring to top dress.
Watching Dwell Hawaii’s videos on O’ahu’s real estate market. What can I say? I dig Hawaii. The woman reminds me of my Auntie from Maui. And I’m fascinated by context. In this case: O’ahu housing, neighborhoods, land, lifestyle, and people. It has rekindled a love of Hawaiiana history and culture. Subsequently I’ve pulled out my genealogy, poured over old books from my library, and even came across this amazing site Kumukahi. Even though Kumukahi is built and produced by Kamehameha Schools for kids, I'm completely obsessed! I’m happily going down the rabbit hole.
Studying the Gospel of Mary with Meggan Watterson. It’s called The House of Mary Magdalene.
I’m already a sleep enthusiast but this book, Why We Sleep-Unlocking the Power of Sleep and Dreams by Matthew Walker, PhD, is taking it to a whole other level. Read it and then take a nap.
May you find or return to something you dig. Begin again with the occupations of waiting, watching, learning, discovering, and using time not as a measure but a companion. Don’t be satisfied with a quick google search and the auto-generated AI summary. Ask more questions. Walk down uncharted pathways. Talk to people. Keep your ears open to stories sung or whispered. Notice if and when the bats arrive in the evening. Or the clouds overhead change. Really dig; deep and wide and in various locations. You never know what you’ll find.
Yours, Erin