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when borders are closed, become a frontier

The dictates of recent days are in fact the frayed hem of our prayer rug. 
They are our holy hills, our Gethsemane, our Mount Kailash. 
There’s simply nowhere else to be.

This is an excerpt from an essay by Martin Shaw.

A frontier is a richer, more dynamic proposition than a border. A border lacks eros; usually just the thin, officious mark between two areas of geography. A frontier ... is not a bored official flicking a passport, more a tavern filled with interesting strangers - the fire is lit, conversations spark stories spark music spark conviviality spark an educated heart.

So, could we not ourselves be a tavern filled with interesting strangers?

Let’s gather friends and play music from across the waves, tell stories from far off lands, give generously with our money and our time, speak in languages other than English - especially in front of our children. It’s a radical act.

Let’s become apprentices to the intricate metalwork of Scythian art, or decide our hips are an altar to some barely named old North African Goddess and take up belly dancing, or run three week courses from our porch on the relationship between Aztec temples and Gypsy gambling games from Medieval wales.

I promise you, the moment is now. This isn’t an indulgence, this is activism.

- read the rest of it here.

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