Borrowed From the Forest: Backyard Lessons in Balance and Belonging

On days like this, life feels simple and good. I’m sitting at the back of the house in the shade, looking out at the yard soaking in the sun. It’s not the manicured grass of suburbia, but a patchwork of ground cover—clover, moss, and other wild plants that keep it lush and green even in the hottest seasons.

Around the edges, country-tough perennials thrive without needing any care, surviving droughts with ease. A willow-like tree stretches its long branches low to shelter the cool, shaded corner where I sometimes carve. In the back corner, a towering spruce provides the squirrels with pinecones and endless climbing ground. Two stubborn vines compete for the sun across the pagoda, while elderberry trees quietly prepare for their fruit.

It’s a small space, but a complete little ecosystem. A balance. A haven. Animals know it too—they return year after year, trusting me enough to linger instead of scattering at the first sign of movement. I’ve invested plenty into food to keep them coming, partly for my daughter’s joy, but also because their presence makes this place feel alive.

Why keep it this way? Because this backyard isn’t truly ours—it’s borrowed from the forest. We’ve carved our homes and yards out of wild ground, but the truth is, we belong to it as much as it belongs to us.

Spending time among animals has always reminded me of this. Their character qualities resonate with us—we borrow their sounds, their quirks, even their wisdom. Many animistic traditions see animals as messengers of deeper mysteries, truths still invisible to the Western mind. They honor the creatures in a way we often forget to.

Our modern way is different—we cultivate, harvest, and consume. And yet, even in small choices, we can reconnect. I recently tasted grass-fed milk again, and the difference from conventional milk was striking. My family has roots in cattle farming, so I know the richness of well-fostered animals. It was a reminder that care and respect change everything.

I don’t pretend to know it all. In fact, the more time I spend among animals and plants, the more I realize how little we truly know. But what I do know is this: we are kin. We borrow from each other’s lives. And if we must borrow, we should also give back.

So I carve, I observe, I give space. And I remain grateful—for this backyard sanctuary, for the animals who return, and for the reminder that all of this is borrowed from the forest.

Here’s to another day in the studio.