Having just returned from a very worthwhile but tiring trip abroad, I’ve been noticing the need to pause and reflect on my own circumstances before moving too quickly into the next phase. Back at the croft, the primroses are flowering, daffodils are now fully open and Daisy, my nanny goat, is close to kidding. At this time of year in the northern hemisphere, attention naturally turns toward new life. It feels like an appropriate moment to slow down and consider intention: what we may be sowing, what we hope to grow, and how we’ll work with the resources we have available. With my elderly parents needing more care, I’ve decided I need to reduce the number of “legs” I have on the land. Many of the ducks, geese, and chickens will go to new homes; others will be processed for the table. I’ll keep a smaller group to meet our own needs for eggs, meat, and manure. This will be our fourth year with goats, and we’ve still never managed to milk. Each season something has interrupted the rhythm just as we were about to begin. I love goats’ cheese and yoghurt, but if we can’t establish a workable routine this year, I’ll likely reduce the herd or keep only a few wethers for conservation grazing. This is the reality of homesteading — and of life. Patterns shift. Rhythms change. Sometimes attention reveals that intentions also need adjusting. Reflection for this week: • What has been catching your attention recently? • What are your intentions for the coming season? • Is there anything you need to reduce, release, or re-shape in order to move forward with clarity? If you feel to share, I’d love to hear where you are noticing movement — inwardly or outwardly.

Back home now, I’ve been reflecting on how this year’s work in Jerash Camp continues to unfold beyond the classroom. The Community Health Scholarship recipient has returned to university and begun her new semester. Supporting her through this stage is the immediate priority, while we continue exploring longer-term pathways with our project partners so her training strengthens local capacity as it develops. As we move into March — Attention and Intention (beginning without pressure) — it feels like the right moment for steady, thoughtful work. I’ve been working quietly behind the scenes — developing field-ready learning resources for people working in challenging circumstances and adding new facilitator materials into the classroom here in Skool. These are practical, adaptable resources designed to support steady, context-led learning. If you’re facilitating, teaching, or working in complex environments, I hope they’ll be useful. As always, take what supports your own context and pace. There’s no expectation to keep up — just to keep learning. Cath 🤍

I am so pleased to see you here in this space. Fatima is from Jerash Camp and hopes one day to be an English translator so please do reach out to interact with her. Google translate is not perfect, but it is helpful! يسعدني وجودكم هنا. فاطمة من مخيم جرش، وتطمح لأن تصبح مترجمة إنجليزية، لذا لا تترددوا بالتواصل معها. ترجمة جوجل ليست مثالية، لكنها مفيدة! فاطمة، من فضلكِ انشري منشورًا لتعريف نفسكِ وإخبار المجموعة بسبب وجودكِ هنا

I’m back in Jordan. The sun is shining. The olive groves are lush. Road verges are scattered with spring flowers. It’s Ramadan, and the camp has been decorated with streamers made from recycled materials. Last year we spoke often about waste, about cycles, about stewardship. This year the women told me they’ve been more conscious of sustainability and waste management in daily life. Not because anyone instructed them to. But because attention shifted. The herbs we planted together are now being harvested for cooking. The passion fruit vine is high enough to cast shade. Design decisions made quietly, months ago, are now part of everyday life. This is permaculture in practice. Not just beds and borders — but awareness. Not just systems — but relationships. Not just productivity — but care. As we move deeper into social permaculture — into how we build resilient communities — I’m noticing how warmth shows up: • in shared meals during Ramadan • in reused materials turned into celebration • in tending plants together • in conversations that continue long after workshops end Care is rarely loud. It accumulates in small, repeated acts. This week, I invite you to notice: Where is care already present in your systems? Where has your own attention quietly shifted over time? Design is not only what we build. It is what we begin to see differently.

Greetings from Campoverde, our Living Lightly lab in the south of Spain. We’ve arrived to bright sunshine, daytime temperatures above 20°C, spring flowers already open, and lush growth fed by winter rains. There is warmth in the air and visible vitality everywhere. And. There is also evidence of winter wind: Plants knocked sideways. Stems broken. Support straps snapped. Warmth brings growth. Growth requires structure. One hedge between neighbouring properties has become so overgrown that it now needs cutting right back. There are old birds’ nests woven through it — not currently in use, but clearly a place that has been home for several seasons. We’ll only reduce half the hedge this time, leaving the rest intact so nesting can continue further along. This feels like a February lesson. Care does not mean control. But care also does not mean neglect. The elderly owners here have understandably wanted the garden to remain wild and natural for wildlife. The property is only occupied part of the year. Human presence is intermittent. And this highlights something important: Rewilding does not mean doing nothing. All systems need context. All systems need relationship. All systems need some degree of appropriate stewardship. Design must account for: • Who is available? • How often is the site observed? • What forces (wind, rain, growth) are acting in our absence? • What maintenance rhythms are realistic? In February, as we explore Care & Warmth, perhaps the invitation is this: Where in your life is growth happening because conditions are favourable? Where has something been left too long — not from neglect of intention, but from lack of availability? What would “half-cutting the hedge” look like for you — responsive, measured care rather than drastic reaction? Warmth without awareness can lead to overwhelm. Care without context can create future problems. Stewardship sits quietly between the two. I’d love to hear what you’re noticing this week — in land, home, work, or relationships. 🌱