On Time, Permaculture and Living in the Mystery

The mark of another indelible year.

And with each closing that precedes my birthday, now on the horizon in the new year, I can’t help but reflect on the passage of time.

There is a humility that begins to set in when you realize we are only ever here, right now. The people, landscapes, and relationships we’ve known, sometimes for a lifetime, can change in an instant, leaving us with the reminder that tending the interior landscape is as important, if not essential, to growing into time with grace.

Last January, just after the fires, the breakups and the moves, the robberies and the reckoning, I lost one of my best friends. She was twenty years older than me, skipped barefoot along Topanga paths with grandchildren in both arms, wore her long white hair in a ponytail, and laughed with a resonance so deep it filled the room. Her eyes and smile carried the grace of ages, the kind of love only someone who has loved bigger than herself can know.

We shared many laughs and also tears. And her tears watered the landscape I inhabit, softening me, opening my eyes, reminding me how important it is to settle into a rhythm with life that allows me to be with life as it is. To notice the hawk circling in the sky or the bobcats grace, the change in the sky, the pause in conversation, the silence and the secret of the day, each one a gift and a reminder that we are part of this mystery.  Nothing in nature stays dead for very long.  There is constant and never ending cycle of renewal and change and knowing where we are in the continuum both for a moment in space and a cycle in time breeds wisdom.

In the Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu speaks of the “mother of ten thousand things,” the mystery from which all things arise and to which they return. We spend so much of our lives trying to compartmentalize and label, judge and make sense of this wild life we find ourselves a part of. Reckoning with loss and change on massive levels reveals something simpler. The yoga is relationship. The practice is learning how to be with it all. The heart begins to open, slowly, toward compassion for ourselves and our neighbors.

The Tao is the way things are when they’re not being forced.
It’s the intelligence that moves rivers downhill, seasons forward, seeds toward light without asking permission.

When you align with it, you stop asking,
Why is this happening to me?
and begin asking,
How is life moving through me right now?

Each moment becomes an opportunity to cultivate patience and kindness, to integrate, to connect, to learn, to observe and reflect. To remember that how we perceive the world has always been a reflection of who we are, not the world itself.

When we grow with time, when we allow the losses and the successes, the seasons that shape and size us, we soften. The rain teaches tenderness. The wind teaches resilience. The animals and patterns remind us to keep going, that life goes on. And in this way, we cultivate inner beauty.

As time leaves its mark, deepening laugh lines and humbling resistance, we stand the impossible opportunity to actually know who we are. Our depth, our true nature, becomes visible, like a vine ripening or a blossom that can only open with the passage of time.

People come and go throughout our lives. We cry an ocean of tears alongside a cascade of laughter within one lifetime. And then, once again, we become the wind and the rain and the sun, drawing our children or our grandchildren’s eyes to the sky to catch glimpses of stars that remain hidden, inspiring a courage to look more deeply into the darkness of their hearts, their lives, the stories they tell, and find the light there again.

Trust and patience reveal themselves as companions. Allowing life to unfold with grace and teaching us that solutions are always possible and that through creativity, connection, and collaboration, we are capable of so much more than we once believed.

I don’t take life for granted the way I did in my twenties or thirties. And now, nearing the end of my forties, preparing to embark on a new chapter, I understand this:

Time doesn’t heal all wounds.
What heals is living honestly inside time.

Aging isn’t a narrowing.
It’s an accumulation.
Scars, loves, losses, joys.
Evidence. Proof of having been here.

Growing older isn’t about becoming less.
It’s about becoming more yourself, with fewer apologies and sharper compassion.

These days I’m less interested in the opinions I once held as truth and more devoted to truth-telling. To a fair assessment of where I am. To noticing what still draws my own sun-kissed face toward the sky.

I no longer confuse youth with possibility.
Possibility doesn’t disappear with age. It concentrates.

The life you imagined may not look like the life you live within. And in this way there is a true intimacy with reality, with life that begins to reveal itself, where real connection and perhaps even true love are found.

Growing in time means we don’t erase the past. We make room for it. The grief stays. The joy stays. The contradictions stay. You learn to carry them without asking them to cancel one another out.

Growing with time, shaped by the world like a tree, a rock, or a river, is not about becoming smaller or quieter unless you choose it. It’s about no longer abandoning yourself. About telling the truth sooner. About loving with discernment rather than performance.

And so, at the end of another wondrous and at times challenging year, filled with dreams actualizing that I once imagined and losses, too, that I never could have, standing within the changed landscape of these Santa Monica Mountains I’ve come to call home, I realize:

We have never been late.
We have never broken.
We have always been becoming.

There is no arrival, only a deep exhale.

The Dream of Possibility: An essay post Palisades Fire

The world has never been a place—it has always been a process, a continuum. Each circumstance creates conditions for the next, an unbroken chain of cause and effect. When we begin to understand whole systems—seeking to cultivate relationships, even in seemingly diverse landscapes—we start to see how life, how nature, is always conspiring to bring forth new life, to close loops, to maximize yield, to support the whole.

Diversity in natural systems is key. Backup systems, overlapping functions, stacking efforts in time and space, recycling the flow of energy, optimizing biological technologies, increasing edge—these are the ways we use the filters of natural design. They mimic the intelligence of nature, reflecting how it responds and thrives. As system thinkers and ecological designers, our role is to allow these ecological functions to occur while making space for humans within them.

As a designer, I have always believed that the more purposeful, the more mapped a landscape experience is to the people I am working with—optimizing how they want to live in the garden—the more meaningful the garden becomes. The more they pay attention, the more they become curious, the deeper their relationship with the land grows. And from that relationship, stewardship is born.

Earth care and people care are the ethos that drive permaculture design. We use the filters of design not just in the physical infrastructure of our lives—land stewardship, water management, regenerative architecture, energy, and transportation—but also in the invisible structures that shape us: community alliances, education systems, economies, legal frameworks, and social structures. The same principles apply to both.

We learn to observe the world with the understanding that everything is in motion—moving from one state to another. Nature is never static; it is always unfolding. Nothing is held in a freeze frame, and nothing stays dead for very long.

As we witness the devastation of the recent fires in Los Angeles—my beloved home—I find myself holding friends, clients, and neighbors as they grieve, driving through Malibu and Topanga, seeing charred black mountainscapes in all directions. I have been reflecting on these patterns: the cycle of death and rebirth. And asking—where do we go from here?

The consequences of the climate crisis—fueled by decisions made too long with capitalism as the driver, rather than an intelligent understanding of natural systems—create conditions for increasing imbalance. And the climate, in turn, seeks to restore equilibrium.

At one of our events last year, we talked about flooding—how so many of the problems we face could be managed with simple tools if we intervene early, at the top of the watershed. But by the time the slide reaches the base of the mountain, we have no choice but to use heavy machinery. So we must ask ourselves: Where are we in the watershed?

The same thinking applies to fire. Living in California means living with fire. The landscape has evolved in relationship with it. Many native plants and seeds require the heat of wildfire to germinate. That said, understanding fire-resistant building materials, native plant systems, water catchment, and regenerative land practices is essential to coexisting with a land that will burn, will flood, willexperience drought, and will get hotter.

We need solutions that acknowledge this reality—designing for fire, for floods, for droughts, and for the entire system, rather than isolating one problem at a time. We cannot plant grasses with gelatinous roots to hold hillsides in place during heavy rains while ignoring the fact that those same grasses are highly flammable. Where we place things matters.Relative location—the thoughtful arrangement of elements in relation to one another—determines whether a design will be resilient or vulnerable.

This approach applies not just to land management but to how we build community—recognizing our shared needs, resources, and skills. The same decision-making protocols we use to design regenerative landscapes can be used to design alliances—creative, resilient, and regenerative ways of living together.

We are being asked to grow, and the time is now. We are resilient, and we will become more resilient. We can do this. But we must do it together. Not everyone needs to agree, but we must cultivate respect, communication, and diplomacy.

At a permaculture salon I hosted in Topanga a few years back, my dear friend Larry Santoyo was speaking about fire. A young woman asked him, What should we do? If we live in Topanga, how do we protect ourselves? Should we even live here?

Larry looked at the group and said: "The best thing you can do to help mitigate fires is learn to cool your hot temper."

Caring for the earth and for people is essential. As the world changes, so does our place within it. And we are being called to meet this moment—with intelligence, with humility, and with care.

Every person alive carries a unique gift, a medicine only they can offer. Whoever taught you that you could live in a community without participating was wrong. It is not for us to determine the worth of someone’s contribution—only to recognize that each of us has something to give. It is our responsibility to use our talents, resources, and skills in service to the whole.

A magnanimous spirit has always driven nature’s resilience, governing how abundantly systems thrive. When we think beyond ourselves, we grow beyond ourselves.Cultivating reciprocity—with the trust that when our time of need comes, we too will be supported—is how we build regenerative circles of community and alliance.

I am honored, inspired, and fully committed to this moment we have been called to rise to. I will continue to do all I can to be part of the regenerative rebuild—an opportunity not just to repair, but to reimagine. To create something new. Something possible. To build the world we dream of living in—together.

Lessons from the Garden: Exploring Host Plants

Each spring and summer the air fills with the gentle hum of native bees, and the glimmer of delicate butterflies coasting on the breeze. Our gardens blossom with color and life. As with all life, the process begins long before, with plants and insects coevolving over centuries to create intricate, interdependent relationships. It is only alongside their host plants that many of our precious native butterflies can survive, migrate and participate in the pollination of plants. 

What Is A Host Plant? 

Host plants serve as both the habitat and primary food source for specific insects. A well-known example being the milkweed plant, on which monarch butterflies lay their eggs. The larvae of the monarchs exclusively feed on milkweed and rely on it for cocooning.

 A Whole Systems Approach.

Including host plants in our garden, not only creates a home for butterflies, but builds a system of connection and exchange! Designing a garden that hosts our most precious pollinators is also one that attracts beautiful native birds and insects.  Nothing exists in a vacuum. In a garden that nurtures native butterflies, you are sure to find native solitary bees, dragon flies, birds and soil teeming with life. In permaculture, we view the garden as an interconnected holistic system. By including these beautiful plants you are contributing to building biodiversity in your backyard. 

Host plants provide an essential ecosystem service of increasing butterfly population, as well as a food source for birds and other wildlife. 

Examples & Inspiration For Your Next Garden: 

At Viola Gardens it is integral to our design philosophy to create gardens that can be enjoyed by all. Below are some of our favorite host plants to include in our Southern California gardens. 

Mallow, Peas & The Painted Lady

The painted lady butterfly, visually similar to the monarch, eats plants exclusively within the pea and mallow families. She is known for her long migratory flights, some species traveling as far as North Africa to Mexico. She is spotted in California in the summertime, en route to her resting place.

Native Grasses & Skippers 

Skippers are a fascinating group of butterflies, somewhere between a grasshopper and a moth in appearance, they flit and jump through the garden. All of their lower classifications depend on California bunching grasses to host and feed their larvae. One we love to work within our designs is fescue. 

California Lilac 

The California Lilac is host to many. Her woody stems and abundant foliage host the pale swallowtail, California tortoiseshell, hedgerow hairstreak and even the ceanothus silk moth. California lilacs intoxicating blue or white blooms are a beautiful and generous addition to the garden. 

Buckwheat & The Acmon Blue 

Buckwheat is host to many butterflies, her soft inflorescence are perfectly tailored to the butterflies landing patterns and feeding style. The acmon blue, has a particular affinity for this sacred California native. 

Your Path To Plant Stewardship

As you soak up these final rays of summer we encourage you to raise your gaze to the skies, reviling in the little worlds of our precious native pollinators! When planning your next garden, consider including some of the beautiful and functional plants above. Visit our Malibu Art and Ecology Center to gather more ecological inspiration and education.