This morning I stepped out to the cold gentleness just before dawn. A filament of moon hung above the distant pines. Stars freckled the dark like promises drawn out of the sea and left up there to inspire us, sea-children that we are, sky-dreamers that we are. I found myself wishing the world could always be cold, gentle, starlit. Maybe not the world around me, for then how would gardens thrive? But the world inside my heart.
We are coming into difficult days. I have thought a lot about what I can contribute towards the effort for peace, especially as I believe it will now take an extraordinary shift to dislodge the awfulness that has clamped on to certain places in the West, and that is even now encircling other places with intent. I am not a person to sit quietly, I am a talker, an educator. But I also have a deep sense that we're standing on a precipice, and that whatever I offer at this moment will also be a gift to me, a reflection of my better self.
And so, although I refuse to carry on writing ordinary loveliness as if everything is normal and fine, I would like to provide whatever gentle, strengthening beauty I can. Like a star in the cold morning. Like birdsong in the Dark Swamp we are right now travelling through.
I steadfastedly believe that we need a sword-bearer to protect us, and a tracker to show us wise ways, and a herbwife to find us nourishment in the bog ... but we need too reminders of why we are making this journey.
For listen, the Swamp is full of song. And it is strung with a thousand undiminishing stars. They were hung there by the Swamp monsters. We are not fighting the Swamp monsters. We are fighting those who would drain rich brown waters, pull out mangroves, and make a desert so they can sell the dirt to each other as gold.
The beautiful, tender-hearted art is by Alla Tsank