What if what we needed in a movement was silence, whispered meetings by candlelight, and a pulsing radiance of reflecting into life that brought us together in mirror realities, not simply shattered shards?
Not the loud clamoring klaxonic announcements, embittered messages, and indictments targeted at 'enemies' or 'villains'. Not the patterned enterprise of economic trauma where people 'deserve' certain consequences, but where people are seen acting out their needs tragically. Not knowing all the support that is possible and not tapping into how our systems are doors in which we restrict many from entering—so far misaligned with the unconditional openness and abundance of life.
Could we imagine in which justice is opened and restored in a spaciousness? Not shut down, closed, and fought for? Could we imagine where we treat others from the perspective of 'inner-childs', respecting our needs of being heard, understood, and our spilled milk to be mourned, not blamed and coerced into change? Could we imagine a movement where we did not simply just move, but found ground in simply staying in the stillness of our hearts, not in the projections of our voice? Could we honor our gut bodies, liver, stomach, eyes, legs, torsos, and tinglings of our humaned bodies even in the coarseness of a system of collapse? Could we attune to breathing, knowing that it affirms our connection not only to all of life AND an act of interdependence?
As I contemplate the Loud, as I contemplate that thread of life, I see threads and loose ends and the songs of Genocide. I see further misunderstanding. Further conflict because of the dual-separateness it reinforces. I see hurt people hurting poeple, not understanding that our woundedness connects us to all of life's love. All of life's circles, not just party lines, cultural affiliations or national, location determinations. Though, I also see how those threads and loose ends could sew us together all the more deeply connected, as we come to know how we are most torn, only to come back together. To come back to life more alive. Away from genocide, I see people killed by love, only to be reborn with the nourishment of the death of the Separate—the 'Individual' to the invisibly visible Indivisible.
What I see, if we are to live in accordance of life, is a return to Earth. One hand down and grounded in the heavns of the dirt—this dirtied anguish and pain—and one hand outstretched towards all of life interdependent with this nutritious dirt. Yet to realize we do not even need hands as we are supported by our feet. What if the antidote to our pains is not medication but presence, being fully intimate to our wounds and that all healing is meeting.
Could we come as wholeness, knowing that without this, we will always be fragmeneted, separated, and isolated.
For hate can never bring rise to change, only love can bring us into evolution. MLK said it this way: “Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” So can we dive into the transformation of our second-nature? To light the next flame of generations meeting love, not trauma? To drive out darkness by embracing darkness, knowing that the dark only infuses the light with brighter burning. A distinctness of solaric eclipsing that shows how light is mutually interposed by light. Two lovers of shade?
For most of the intensity of my dreams and self-love comes from those intense moments of solitude, paradoxically allowing me to remember the umbilical cord that connects to all of life. All circles of belonging, and all orbits of understanding.
What if a movement was not measured in where we go, but in where we stay? In those hardened places, where we—the creatures embodied water of soft and suppleness—are reminded of our strength for the seas of change always follow the tides of splashing affection. What if a movement was not led, but carefully in a deep love with life? What if a movement was actually a still-ment. An act of distillation where our purity is paired with our Earthy pains and afflictions? Not some Holy Whiteness or a heaven-not-here-but-there, as someone once said:
"Water which is too pure bears no fish."
So we can be both the water, fish, and the beauty of our impure purity? Our imperfect perfection? The kintsugi of how our cracked, blemished selves can be lit with the Gold of healing?
As a teacher, who I am dearestly in touch with one spoke: "No Mud, No Lotus"
We only act out separateness if we believe the myth to be true. Yet my self is so colored by you.
What if all change came from the primacy of our heart... I wonder what could circulated taking the way our marrow flow and the ways our blood beats, tending to innumerable cells.
There is something divne in the dirt. Divine in the staying, the leaning with, and the bearing witness. There is something divine about abandoning our previous ideas of what it means move in moments of challenge.
What if we took our selfs off the proverbially dusted shelves of past division to integrate from dewey decimals to librarical deep collection—an ecology of papered clouds that encompass an honoring of the tree, water, and atmosphere in every book and every story.