Commentary
This morning, I was listening to an old episode of The Life Stylist podcast with Luke Storey, featuring guest Dr. Zach Bush. In their conversation, Dr. Bush described humanity as the keystone species of this planet. That phrase struck something deep in me.
In ecology, a keystone species is one whose presence shapes the entire ecosystem. Remove it, and the system unravels. Bring it back, and the land begins to heal. It’s the beaver, slowing water and reviving wetlands. It’s the wolf, reshaping herd behavior and causing rivers to run again. It’s the elephant, restoring grasslands through movement and pressure. Often, when ecosystems fall apart, it’s because the keystone species has gone extinct.
But we—humans—are not extinct. We’re still here. We’ve just forgotten who we are. We’ve abandoned our role, disconnected from the land, and instead of reintegrating, we’ve tried to remove ourselves even further. Some now suggest we move into “15-minute cities” and leave nature alone—as if disappearing from the landscape is the solution. But I don’t believe that’s what we’re being called to do.
As I sit here on my porch in Texas, I hear the frogs and crickets in the dark. A shooting star passes overhead. The horizon begins to glow with morning light. This peace I feel—it’s real. It’s ancient. But for many, that connection is long forgotten. We’ve buried it beneath concrete and code. And I wonder: Will we remember our place? Will we reclaim our role—not to dominate, but to tend, to belong?
The beaver was nearly trapped to extinction, but when reintroduced, it transformed landscapes. Its dams slow water, create wetlands, and bring back frogs, fish, and birds.
In Yellowstone, the return of gray wolves didn’t just control elk populations—it changed their behavior. Elk stopped overgrazing riverbanks, allowing trees and plants to return. Birds came back. Beavers followed. Soil improved. And rivers that had stopped flowing began to run again.
Ecologist Allan Savory once believed elephants were overgrazing Africa’s grasslands. Tens of thousands were culled under that assumption. But the land didn’t heal.
Later, Savory realized that lack of movement, not too many animals, was the problem. His discovery led to holistic grazing methods now restoring millions of acres around the world. Nature doesn’t need to be abandoned. It needs to be engaged—by the right species, in the right rhythm.
Humans are the only species that builds both bridges and bombs. We invent symphonies and pesticides, orchards and strip mines. We hold the power to shape the Earth—beautifully or destructively.
We are the keystone species. But we’ve gone missing from our role. Instead of living in relationship with the land, we’ve tried to rule over it—or retreat from it entirely. We’ve been conditioned to think we’re the problem, when in truth, we’re simply out of alignment.
The biblical idea of dominion, found in Genesis 1:26, has been misunderstood. It never meant domination. It meant responsibility. Care. The capacity to nurture life and order in partnership with creation. We were placed in the garden to participate, not escape. To cultivate, not to control.
But in today’s world, we’ve accepted a hollow substitute. A life inside screens, surrounded by concrete, eating food wrapped in plastic, never touching soil or hearing the songs of frogs in the night. We’ve lost more than land—we’ve lost our memory of belonging.
And yet, here on the porch, I remember. The stars still shine. The frogs still sing. The sunrise still returns, day after day. The land hasn’t forgotten us. It’s still waiting. Calling. It’s not calling us to vanish into climate-controlled pods. It’s calling us to return. To build homes where gardens grow. To raise children who know the names of birds. To cultivate food and connection and place. We’re not meant to be absent from nature. We’re meant to be woven into it. To be part of the pattern. To be healers, protectors, planters, and keepers.
We’re still here. We’re not extinct. But the longer we stay disconnected, the easier it is to forget who we are. And so I ask again: Will we remember our place?
