Tag Archives: Ron Dodson

What I Recently Discovered About Myself, and What I Am Going to Do About It

Wildlife & Plants, ,

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been spending time doing something I didn’t expect would matter all that much.

I’ve been going through old files.

Bankers boxes. Old notes. Articles I wrote years ago. Photos. Folders I hadn’t opened in decades.

At first, it was just an exercise in organization.

Clean things up. Throw some things away. Keep what matters.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted.

I started noticing a pattern.

Not in the files themselves…

…but in me.

The Discovery

What I realized is this:

I don’t just write.

I don’t just observe.

I don’t just work on projects.

I create structure.

Over and over again, throughout my life, I’ve taken things that felt scattered or disconnected and tried to make sense of them.

Operation Community Pride wasn’t just about litter.

The work with Audubon wasn’t just about conservation programs.

The Conservation Company isn’t just a business.

Each one was an attempt to connect dots and create a way of doing things that made sense—at least to me.

The interesting part is…

I’ve never really followed anyone else’s structure.

I’ve always ended up creating my own.

Not because I set out to do that…

…but because I couldn’t find a “recipe” that fit what I was trying to do.

The Tension

Lately, I’ve been telling myself:

“Just be a writer.”

Keep it simple. Observe. Reflect. Share.

But even as I’ve been doing that, I’ve felt this pull…

to organize things.

To connect them.

To give them a framework.

At times, I’ve wondered if that’s something I should resist.

Maybe it complicates things.

Maybe it turns writing into something heavier than it needs to be.

What I Realized

But going through those old files made something clear.

This isn’t something I need to fix.

It’s something I need to understand—and use.

Creating structure is not a distraction from my writing.

It is part of how I think.

It’s how I’ve always made sense of the world.

What I’m Going to Do About It

So instead of fighting that instinct…

I’m going to give it a place to live.

I’m calling it:

The Stewardship Way

Not as a program.

Not as something to launch.

But as a way to describe what I’ve been doing all along.

A way of connecting:

how we think,

what we value,

and how we act,

in the places where we live and work.

Moving Forward

Going forward, I’m going to let things happen a bit more naturally.

Field Notes will stay what they are—observations, reflections, things that catch my attention.

Some of those ideas will grow into something more structured.

And when they do, I’ll explore them more deeply through what I’m calling The Stewardship Way.

I’m not trying to build another program.

I’m trying to better understand—and share—the method behind what I’ve already been doing.

Final Thought

It’s interesting how sometimes you have to look backward…

to understand what you’ve been doing all along.

I guess that’s part of the process.

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Ego-System Management (Revisited)

Wildlife & Plants, ,
Which path are we managing?

While digging through an old bankers box the other day, I came across something that stopped me for a moment.

An article I wrote in 1995.

The title was:

“Ego-System Management.”

I had to smile a bit when I saw it.

Not because I remembered every word I wrote—but because I immediately remembered the idea.

And as I sit here today, nearly thirty years later, I realize something…

That idea may be more relevant now than it was then.

Back in 1995, I was trying to describe something I was seeing in organizations and in people.

A pattern.

A way of thinking.

A way of making decisions.

At the time, I called it ego-system management—a play on the word ecosystem.

The difference was simple.

An ecosystem is built on relationships, balance, and long-term sustainability.

An ego-system is built on self-interest.

The more I look around today, the more I see how often we operate from that ego-system mindset.

We respond to what’s in front of us.

We focus on immediate problems.

We make decisions based on what benefits us—or our organization—right now.

And to be fair, that’s human nature.

But when that way of thinking becomes the norm, something begins to happen.

We stop seeing the system.

Instead of asking:

  • How does this all fit together?

  • What are the long-term consequences?

We start asking:

  • What solves this today?

  • What works for me right now?

And over time, those small decisions add up.

I’ve seen this play out in organizations.

I’ve seen it in communities.

I’ve seen it in business decisions that made sense in the short term—but created bigger problems down the road.

And if I’m being honest, I’ve seen it in myself as well.

What struck me as I reread that old article wasn’t just the idea.

It was the realization that I’ve spent much of my life—often without fully realizing it—trying to move from ego-system thinking to ecosystem thinking.

What I now call my Stewardship Lens is really just another way of saying the same thing.

Ecosystem thinking requires us to slow down.

To step back.

To connect the dots.

To consider not just what works—but what lasts.

That’s not how most of the world operates.

We live in a time where quick answers are rewarded.

Short-term results are celebrated.

And long-term thinking often takes a back seat.

But maybe that’s exactly why this idea still matters.

Maybe even more so today.

So finding that article from 1995 wasn’t just a trip down memory lane.

It was a reminder.

That some ideas don’t go away.

They just wait for the right time to be seen again…with a little more clarity.

Field Note to Self

When making decisions…

Ask yourself:

Am I managing an ego-system…

Or contributing to an ecosystem?

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My Launching Pad

Wildlife & Plants, ,
Ron and Ben Dodson

There are moments in life that don’t feel important at the time.

They seem ordinary…routine…just part of growing up.

It is only later—sometimes decades later—that you begin to understand that those moments were not ordinary at all. They were the beginning of everything.

I recently came across an old photograph of my Grandpa Ben Dodson and me standing outside his house. I don’t know exactly what year it was taken, but I do know what it represents.

That small house, the front porch, and even the old wooden washboard table sitting nearby…that was my launching pad.

At the time, I had no idea.

My grandparents were both born in 1882. Even when I visited them in the 1950s and early 1960s, it felt like stepping back into the late 1800s.

There was no indoor plumbing.
The kitchen sink had a hand pump, drawing water from a well.
The house was heated by a potbelly coal stove.
The bathroom was an outhouse.

As a kid, I remember thinking…this is a lot of work.

And it was.

But what I didn’t understand then was that I wasn’t just visiting a place.

I was being introduced to a way of living…a way of thinking…a way of seeing the world.

Some of my clearest memories are not of big events, but of simple conversations.

Sitting on the front porch.

Or sitting beside Grandpa on that old washboard table.

That’s where I began asking questions.

Questions about the land…about how things used to be…about where we came from.

It was also where I first held an old stone axe head that Grandpa had found on the farm. He gave it to me, and without either of us knowing it, that simple act sparked a lifelong interest in rocks, fossils, and relics.

And it was where I first began asking about our family history.

Grandpa didn’t say much.

At the time, I didn’t think much about that either.

It was only years later that I came to understand why.

Today, that farm is gone.

Former Site of Grandpa and Grandma Dodson’s House

People drive by the site every day and have no idea what used to be there.

A four-lane highway now cuts across what was once a pasture where my dad and I hunted rabbits. Later, that same field became a place where he would hit golf balls and I would catch them with my baseball mitt—his way of practicing his golf game, and mine of practicing baseball.

The old lane that once came off Troy Road—where I first learned to drive a car with my dad sitting beside me—is now a paved entrance leading back to a commercial complex.

What was once open farmland is now a mix of gravel, dirt, and industrial activity.

The house is gone.
The barn is gone.
The pasture is gone.
And so are the people who gave those places meaning.

Site of the old gravel lane.

But the lessons are not.

Looking back, I now see that those visits were not just childhood memories.

They were the beginning of a way of life that I would carry forward without even realizing it.

That farm was where my curiosity began.

It was where I first learned to observe.

It was where I first started asking questions.

It was where I first connected people, place, and history.

In many ways, it was where I first began becoming what I now call a “steward.”

At the time, I thought I was just spending time with my grandparents.

I didn’t realize I was standing on the launching pad for the rest of my life.

As I continue going through old files, photographs, and memories, I find myself seeing things differently.

Moments that once seemed small now feel significant.

Lessons that once went unnoticed now stand out clearly.

And places that no longer exist physically still exist very much in the path they helped create.

Gravel Lane in Blue, House in Red and the old White Barn in White

It makes me wonder…

How many of us have places like that in our lives?

Places that quietly shaped who we became.

Places we didn’t fully understand until much later.

Places that, even though they may be gone, are still very much a part of who we are.

Maybe the real lesson is this:

Pay attention to the ordinary moments.

Because one day, you may look back and realize…

They were never ordinary at all.

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Rediscovering Old Memories

Communities, , , ,

A Field Note from the Archive

For the past few days I have been slowly working my way through a banker’s box full of old files, folders, envelopes, photographs, and newspaper clippings. In truth, it is only one box among several boxes and file drawers that contain pieces of my life from roughly 1970 to the present.

Opening the box felt a little like opening a time capsule.

Inside are decades of letters, articles, notes, photographs, and documents connected to projects, people, and places that shaped different chapters of my life. As I sort through the folders, I keep rediscovering things that I had completely forgotten about. Some of them bring back a flood of good memories. Others remind me of moments that were difficult at the time.

But what has struck me most is how differently many of those experiences look now.

Some things that once felt frustrating, disappointing, or even like failures eventually turned into something positive—sometimes years later. Other things that once seemed incredibly important now feel much smaller when viewed from a distance of decades.

Time has a way of reshaping our understanding.

Going through these files is not really about reminding myself of things I once did or said. Instead, it has become an opportunity to reflect on the past with a little more perspective and a little less emotion. It allows me to ask simple questions:

Was this really as important as I thought it was at the time?
Did it matter in the long run?
What did I learn from it?

In many ways, this process feels similar to walking through a familiar natural area in a different season. The landscape is the same, but your perspective changes depending on when you return.

What I once saw one way, I now see another.

So far, I must say that this little “file exploration” project has been a lot of fun. Each folder is like turning over a stone along a trail—you never quite know what you might find underneath.

Of course, it also raises another question.

What in the world am I going to do with all of this stuff?

For now, I’ll keep exploring.

After all, there are still a lot of folders left in that box.

But as I sit here looking at these old papers and photographs, another thought occurs to me.

Each piece of paper represents a moment when something seemed important enough to save. At the time, I probably had no idea how that moment would fit into the larger story of my life.

Now, decades later, I can begin to see the connections.

Projects that led to other projects.
People who opened doors at just the right moment.
Ideas that took years to grow into something meaningful.

In a strange way, this old banker’s box is not really a box of files at all.

It’s a map.

A map of the winding path that brought me from where I started to where I am today.

And judging by the number of folders still waiting to be explored, there are still plenty of dots left to connect.