As the rapidly increasing sunlight is accompanied by global warming’s unnaturally increasing warmth, the soil of the Earth has warmed more than previous winters. Daffodils, normally flowering in mid or late March, are, one-by-one, blooming in response. I tell our granddaughter that the Daffodils are part of the Earth waking up early.

“Silly Daffodils!” she exclaims, “What do they think they are doing?”

Accompanying the early Daffodils are bright yellow Crocuses and a purple Miniature Iris, all weeks ahead of their normal time. For our friend who harvests Maple Syrup, the unseasonably warmth causes the sap to be ruined by the trees budding, and for local orchards that risk loss of early flowering crops like peaches when the temperatures suddenly decline, these changes to our climate are risks to their livelihoods.

Though in most years we sow peas in early or mid-March, in a few years of warmer temperatures we sow our first peas on Valentine’s Day, a tradition from Northern Kentucky that a friend told us about. Since we babysat our granddaughter on the 14th, we invited her to join us in the planting, which she always wants to do.

“The Earth adjusts,” I say as she, my wife, and I sow the peas, “So we need to be smart and adjust to the weather.”

At four, my words pass through her like cottonwood floating on a light breeze, only faintly recognized as she focuses on poking the wrinkled, green peas into the soft, warm Earth. In her innocence, she has no knowledge of the challenges she will face or the seeds I hope to plant in her mind early in her life in preparation for them.

In our home, we continue to have seasonal meals, including a cream of sunchoke-potato winter warmer that I made during one of our brief downturns of cold temperatures, and a curried cabbage tofu stir-fry made almost entirely from stored items. We also continue to renew our practice of home brewing. The day after Valentine’s Day we bottled our Honey Golden ale in preparation for opening on May Day. Meanwhile, the Rye Stout we brewed a few days before bubbles and gurgles as it ferments in the ale pales.

As our granddaughter’s understanding of the world around her has grown, she has begun to be conscious of death, which is common for four-year-olds like herself. She stumbles onto the realization bit by bit, not yet realizing in what will be a traumatic moment, that her deeply beloved and desperately needed parents will someday die. In preparation for this growing understanding that she lives in a mortal world, her parents and we tell her that everything returns to the Earth, to become the soil from which we came. I also tell her, as part of the stories about the seasons, that the leaves fall and become soil, from which new leaves form and trees turn the soil into life, then fall and rot to become the ground that will feed new trees.

“So, that’s forever, in a way,” I add.

I also talk to her about dreams, which she hadn’t heard of before, so I explain they are stories she sees while she sleeps and when she wakes up she finds out they haven’t happened. I tell her about dreams coming true, like when her Grandmother dreamed she found a missing earring under my couch and walked into my apartment and immediately spotted the earring where she had dreamed it was. Slowly, as much as her young mind can understand, I hope to strengthen her perception of intuition and other aspects of the Spirit in Daily Life, which people can witness first-hand if they watch coincidences, intuitive events, and other mystical aspects of everyday life.

But what follows after we pass back to the soil? I know that no one can answer this fully and I try not to answer it at all—I have witnessed the Spirit in Daily Life firsthand for decades, but I only know brief reports from people who have died and returned, and I am content to recognize the mystery at the edge of my knowledge.

However, death for our four-year-old granddaughter is a still emerging and far distant part of life. For me, as an elder, I am hopeful that I will pass long before my stepchildren and step-granddaughter. But, as an elder, my role is to think into the future far past my own meaningless death and into anticipating the needs of my granddaughter, her family, and the community and Earth around them.

In our self-centered modern culture, the elder phase of life has been mistaken for a time of growing infirmity and irrelevance for the younger people. Yet, we are the creators of the world that future generations will be born into.

While most of the larger human world’s future is out of my control, I can still aid my granddaughter’s community by devoting these years to fostering more resiliency, more sustainability, and a stronger, more mutually supportive community for her and the other children in our community.

Money-chasers think of leaving legacies of wealth for their children, which is a virtuous act as long as the wealth does not come from harming the Earth or other people, or results in imbalances of power-over. Violent men think of expanding their nation’s power-over, often resulting in endless wars and traditional hatreds. Sensitive people offer works of art that they hope to be remembered for. To guide action as an elder for what I hope to provide past my death, I turn to the Essential:

The children must be cared for.
The community must help the parents in their work.
The community must live in lasting harmony with other communities.
The communities must live in sustainable harmony with the natural communities around them.

This journey into the future past my own death can be joyous and filled with heavenly moments by taking part in the Earthly River of Life that flows from Essential practices. Like sharing the sowing of peas into the rich Earth with my loved ones, living in harmony with the Essential gives strength in the face of our mortal world and helps provide gifts for an uncertain future.