Written on an airplane, somewhere between Florida and California:
You lock yourself inside this smallest of boxes, barely able to move, let alone see yourself, and yet here, still, you long somehow for freedom.
No one is there to free you from this place. Only you can be the savior of your soul. You have to choose yourself. Over and over again. You have to choose. By growing into your soul, you grow into yourself. By growing into yourself, you come to know your work. By coming to know your work, you help us all. You help us all. There is no greater work you can do in this moment than to free yourself. This is what the Magician Jesus meant, I think, when upon being challenged for seeming self-indulgence, he spoke these direly prophetic words: the poor will always be with us.
There is ever work that needs to be done. And we shall do it, you and I. We shall feed these ever present poor. We will speak with and for the voices of the dying turtles and decimated trees. We must also speak up for our lives, for they are as important now as all of these.
What rests inside your heart? What do you long for? What do you love? I need to know. Or your best friend needs to hear it. Or your beloved, who is worried and heart-sore. Or perhaps it is the dawn or dark of night that needs to hear your whispered secrets. I hope one day these murmured phrases turn into a raucous shout, proclaiming your worth, your fears, your dreams. You deserve no less than to be heard. When shall you listen to your own deep voice? Not the one of brittle ego – aggrandized or still shrinking – but the voice that speaks with resonance from the deep?
We need you now, we humans, we turtles, and we trees, we stars, we systems, we geometry. Take up the waiting space. Live. Breathe. Dream. Do.