Through The Willows

Lessons from the Long Haul

The willow arms stretched low toward the ground. It was late spring in Alaska, and the thinnest branches held the shape of a heavy winter, curved as if the weight of all that snow was still there. Buds had reached their second stage of growth, sides slowly splitting to reveal tightly wound green leaves.

To us cousins, the thicket of willows seemed to beckon us forward. We got on our hands and knees and crawled in a single line, intent on discovering where the tunnel through the branches would take us. Our pant legs went damp against the soggy earth. Brambles caught our sweatshirts and tangled our hair. A fellow traveler would gently release the snags, and onward we'd go.

We could still hear the chatter of adults around wood picnic tables covered in brightly colored oil cloth, every square inch holding potluck contributions. Somewhere behind us, a firepit and grill with moose burgers and salmon filets. But we were moving forward. Through the willow tunnel, we found a wider space where we could sit shoulder to shoulder, knees pulled up to our chests, feet touching in the middle.

The next time we returned to my aunt's house, the willows' feather-shaped leaves had fully emerged. Our gaggle of cousins found the tunnel anyway, and the internal space had grown a little wider. The adults around the fire were no longer visible through the dark green canopy. What had started as a crawlway became a fairy hut, and then a portal: a treacherous rocket launch to outer space one afternoon, a voyage across a sea to fish for stars the next, like Wynken, Blynken, and Nod sailing off in their wooden shoe.

I recently found the work of illustrative artist Jakob Martin Strid. His story, The Fantastic Bus, features a group of friends on an enchanting journey to save the life of a friend who is ill from the pollution in their city. They build a quad-story bus and drive it toward the magical land of Balanka. Along the way, the animal friends see the northern lights, cross vast tundra and dark plains. The bus itself is a mechanical, transforming, magical masterpiece. It is a catalyst for the imagination, and the vessel through which the reader learns that the journey matters more than the destination. When they arrive, their friend heals. And the animal friends use sound and music to spread life and hope over what pollution destroyed. Imagination, creativity, art, nature, and music are the fuel we need to reboot the world.

I think about my cousins in the willow thicket, about every worthwhile thing I started without knowing where it would lead. More often than I expected, the unmapped route turned out to be worth following. This newsletter was one of them.

Field-Tested: 6 lessons from the Unmapped Route

We have, dear readers, been on a journey together. Over the past year of publishing 🌐 Work That Lasts your comments, your insights, and the questions you bring shape each issue. Thank you for being here.

Along the way, I collected what I've learned about starting something new when the route ahead is uncharted. These six lessons have held up across the year, and I offer them to anyone building something that doesn't have a template yet.

1. Start before you think you are ready. Take the first step, no matter how small.

2. Trust the unmapped route. The stops, twists, and turns are all part of the process and likely matter more than where you end up.

3. Build a routine around the work. Consistency creates a container that ideas learn to show up inside of.

4. Let community shape the direction. Engaged readers, the comments and replies surface new ideas and paths to follow.

5. Notice what is happening around you. Pay attention on your daily walk, through your window, in a conversation you didn't expect. The material is everywhere once you start looking.

6. Honor rest as part of the rhythm. Rest is how we refocus and explore. I plan for two rest weeks a year, built into the publishing calendar.

Some routes open up as you go. Others ask you to arrive with your bearings. For those of you whose climate work takes your North, I am building something with that second kind in mind.

The Arctic Work Readiness Assessment is a paid resource for organizations new to Arctic work: public sector teams, contractors, consultants, researchers, and funders. It covers the key players and governance structures, the regional diversity of the U.S. Arctic, and the mistakes outside organizations commonly make when they arrive without that foundation. Some of those mistakes you only learn by living through them. A few you can sidestep entirely if someone draws your attention to them first.

Signals & Shifts

The Artemis II mission flew four astronauts around the Moon in April. The Earthset photograph from the Orion spacecraft is one of my favorite views of the blue-marbled Earth beyond the cratered lunar surface. The full photo gallery is worth a slow scroll.

Seeking an adventure closer to the home planet, research on the neuroscience of exploring says that new experiences and curiosity releases dopamine that helps us stay motivated and engaged. That alone is reason to follow whatever tunnel of branches catches your attention next.

Question for reflection: Where in your climate work do imagination, creativity, or art show up as fuel? And where do you wish they had more room? I would love to hear what comes up for you.

Take good care of yourself and the work that's yours to do. Both matter more than you know.

Nikoosh

Work That Lasts arrives every other Wednesday. Forward to a colleague who might need these tools, or reply and let me know what's working in your own practice.

Follow me on LinkedIn • Read past issues​

Was this forwarded to you? Subscribe here​