"The water that flows in the river is the blood of the Earth. You cannot own the blood that keeps everyone alive; you can only ensure it reaches the next person."
— Paraphrased from Akimel O'odham Water Ethics
Growing up in Tucson, Arizona, the lessons of the Sonoran Desert were as much a part of my upbringing as what I learned in school and from my parents. Among the most essential of those lessons: resources are sacred and life requires their absolute redistribution. Healthy ecosystems rely on a rigorous exchange – you cannot have interdependence without impermanence. Yet, too few in our sector think this way. We are holding onto too much for too long.
At this year’s Confluence Practitioners Gathering, we leaned into the theme of flow, the understanding that our work must function like a river confluence, carving a path from purpose toward its destination. To follow the river's lead is to recognize that vitality is found in movement, not accumulation; yet, we cannot only celebrate this theme—we must submit to its truth.
Humans have become wired for short-term self-preservation. It’s an understandable instinct, reinforced by societal values focused on accumulation. This failure of long-term vision has led to record dollars resting in endowments and DAFs, while our communities face increasingly depleted resources and tumult. In January 2020, foundation endowments sat at $1 trillion. That number, even through the pandemic, has continued to swell to $1.8 trillion today.
Throughout the conference, which was profoundly set against the backdrop of Asheville’s 2024 historic flood, conversations continually returned to FLOW and the reality that resources must be reorganized to support a greater multitude of life forms. Water is only healthy when it flows. Economies are only healthy when capital moves. By convincing ourselves we are separate from these natural and economic laws, we risk creating a profound stagnation.
In drought, it is tempting to hoard. The saguaro of my beloved Sonoran Desert stores water for self-preservation, yes, but that storage ultimately serves as a vessel for the entire ecosystem during nature’s cycle of decay and release. The saguaro doesn’t seek immortality, but structural relevance within a cycle.
This is the imperative for modern philanthropy. We must hold a mirror to ourselves and ask the provocative, necessary question: Are we regenerative, impermanent participants in a broader ecosystem? Or have we convinced ourselves that we are immortals among the very people we seek to serve? To truly fund a thriving future, we must embrace the courage to let go and trust the flow.
I am deeply grateful to the Confluence Philanthropy team for curating a container strong enough to hold these uncomfortable, necessary tensions. This community is a true confluence, a gathering of rivers where we can challenge our own definitions of power and learn, together, how to finally let the water return from where it came. To learn more about the possibility of impermanence in philanthropy, please read The Case For Giving Urgently.