A beautiful white blanket of snow greeted the morning. Before going out to harvest fresh greens from the underground greenhouse for breakfast, I decided to clear the snow from the path. I pushed the shovel ahead of me, not really looking around. When I got close enough to the plastic tunnels, I looked up.
Only one word escaped my mouth: oh no.
Neither of the greenhouse covers had withstood the night’s freezing rain and the heavy weight of snow. The structures had collapsed. The frames were broken, the plastic torn, and everything planted for winter and spring was now buried beneath the fallen sheets and snow. I simply stood there and looked.
There was no outrage in me, no anger, no sense of injustice — not even real loss, not drama. I did not see an ending, nor the promise of a new beginning. I saw only what was there: torn plastic, broken frames, and a deep, pool-sized hollow filled with snow. The picture was clear and simple. It asked for nothing more.
I finished clearing the snow, then went inside and told my beloved: we no longer have a valipini.
During breakfast, I was asked how my soul was. I said there was a small sadness — and honestly, nothing beyond that. I am aware of how much money and work lived in that space, and also that the way of life we chose does not currently allow the financial means to rebuild it. It was meant to be one of our winter and spring food sources, and the seeds for the next season would have sprouted there. By all measures, it is a significant loss. But like everything else, that too is only a concept.
The brief sadness gradually gave way to a quiet cheerfulness. I remembered how, three years ago at Christmas in New Zealand, a violent hailstorm destroyed the entire garden. Since this morning, I’ve been smiling often, recognizing that nature has surprised me again at this sacred time with an important experience — the gift of grace revealed behind apparent loss.
There is an uplifting gentleness in collapse. It clarifies. The unexpected always measures something within us — it shows where we truly stand in inner maturity. Do we cling to values, images, and ideals we have built around things? Do we become fixed in the feeling of loss, surrendering ourselves to fear and lack — letting anger, resentment, unworthiness, or victimhood become our constant companions?
We are allowed to feel any of this. We may let these responses move through us — and that is perfectly human. Only identification traps them in place; otherwise, they have nothing to attach to.
Or we can allow what is truly here: a direct experience born from a situation. In this sense, there is only one essential difference between such an event and a cacao ceremony: our judgment. That is the seal we place upon each moment.
With love,
your traveling companion
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