47 years, 4.7 lessons

2025-07-21

Dear reader,

Tomorrow I turn 47. If I told you that I hadn't thought a lot about it, with putting on Loie's 1st birthday party over the weekend, would you believe me?

"Why do porcupines exist?" asked a friend at the party.

I felt a little affronted about my spirit animal needing a reason to be. Isn't their untroubled waddle of a run enough? "I'm in no hurry," the porcupine's slow-walk says.

But I often ask this about myself. Am I making the most of this gift of human existence? Is there any meaning to the phrase "a life well-lived"?

Life can feel hard. Or is it teaching me a lesson?

In celebration of life at 47, here are 4.7 lessons learned.

Lesson 1: Ask the weed what it can teach you

I used to wage war against the weeds in my garden, particularly galinsoga—that virulent invader that can choke out corn. I spent summers filling barrels with rotting weeds, determined to achieve total victory. Then my cousin Jenny taught me something profound: dried galinsoga leaves become guascas, a key ingredient in Colombian stew.

I'd been fighting a delicious plant that had been throwing itself at me.

Now when I see "problems" in my life, I ask: What if this isn't something to eliminate, but something to transform? The thing that frustrates you most might be exactly what you need to learn from.

Lesson 2: Your uselessness has a purpose

As a father with two perfectly non-functional nipples (I've nicknamed them Intelligent and Design), I used to feel like the consolation prize parent. Mama had The Boob; I had... what exactly?

It turns out the obstacle is the way. Without milk to offer, I had to get creative. I learned to read my baby's cries, to carry him through the forest while singing Bob Dylan, to be present in ways that had nothing to do with biology. Any caregiver who shows up empty-handed but open-hearted becomes a child's first teacher in unconditional love.

What if our weaknesses aren't flaws at all, but a constraint to navigate creatively?

Lesson 3: In appreciation of things that don't want something from you

The night a dusty book called out to me from near my rocking chair, I discovered something revolutionary: media that doesn't demand anything from you. No notifications. No passwords. No algorithm trying to keep you scrolling.

​The book just sat there, perfectly functional after years on the shelf, offering a "nudge"-free zone. No videos popping up, no verification that I'm human, no privacy policy to review. In our hyperconnected world, I found profound peace in something that simply waited.

Look for the potential in the space or the person that's not calling out to you.

Lesson 4: The power of seeing

Doug Root, my bus driver, was a man of few words and on most days, even fewer. "Welcome aboard, Tiger," he said to me as a scared kindergartner. Somehow, it was enough. My heart leapt when, now and then, he'd sprinkle in an "Afternoon, Tiger" in the busy bus on the way home.

Years later, I was momentarily shocked when watched him call another shy child "Tiger." Then it hit me how much Doug wasn't just driving a bus. He was noticing kids who needed noticing.

Thinking back on my term in the Legislature, and today as father of two, I try to remember Doug's lesson: sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is simply let someone know you see them, and do nothing more. Not fix them, not change them—just see them.

Lesson 4.7: The thunk is not the enemy

4.7 – because the half-baked-lesson might be the most important. When my 11-month-old falls forward over my knees and his head hits the wood floor with a "thunk" and he cries—that thunk isn't a parenting failure—it's a learning moment. Forget learning to walk; you can't even learn to crawl without thunking your skull countless times.

I've learned to distinguish the cry of pain (rare) from the cry of surprise and wanting comfort (almost always). Nature teaches us this everywhere: chicks that are helped out of their shells develop lifelong weaknesses, fledgling birds must crash-land repeatedly to learn to fly, trees grown in still greenhouses bow over in the first breeze.

Maybe by 48 I'll know how to learn the lesson without the "hard knock," but as far as I can tell now: growth requires a "thunk" now and then. There's a "helicopter parent" mentality wants to protect us from every thunk. I I don't think question isn't how to avoid them—it's how to create safe-enough spaces for the necessary falling, and getting up.

Are the deepest relationships those in which you've avoided conflict successfully, or experienced a rupture than you then cared to repair?

does an acorn need a manual for growing into a great oak tree, or does it just know?

—

Thanks for reading along on this journey. Here's to another year of learning, thunking, and finding the third way forward.

with love and appreciation,

Tristan Roberts
Quill Nook Farm
Halifax, Vermont

P.S. What are your lessons learned this year?