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.