Every morning my father feeds the deer in his yard with barrels of dried corn. On the coldest days of the winter, when I am staying at my parents house in Woodstock, New York, I will open my blinds to find him spreading each barrel of corn, one-by-one in an accessible place, both for the deer to find, as well as to make sure they feel safe doing so. Not too close to where the humans reside, but close enough to acknowledge the gift that my father has provided them. This is his form of “practice”. While some people’s mediation is found on the cushion, his practice has always been with and among nature. This has been his way of being in a deeper relationship with the earth’s offerings, offerings in the form of friendships found among the other creatures that roam the planet we all call home. The more we take care of the earth and the creatures that exist on it, the more abundance and reciprocity we receive from the daily mundanity, which is in fact life’s riches pleasures. This is something my father has always seemed to understand.