Overlapping catastrophes like to flirt with your apathy, whispering into your ear with empty promises about the safety of solitude. The safety of silence. The safety of avoidance. The empty promises are dark and cavernous, without light and without ground. The darkness wouldn’t be so bad if I could at least smell soil — some possibility of change, emergence, growth. But that’s the thing about this empty promise — the option we have in the West to look away — we cut ourselves off from the generativity of letting grief and rage transform us. Inside collective grief, rage and study the walls are pulsing with life, the green electricity charges our movements and this dewy microclimate allows us to drink from the air; hydrating our hope for one more minute, one more hour, one more day. There is nothing but the smell of soil here. Plenty of ground to root inside of, eager for the seeds of our collective imagination and all the empty promises powered by fear — the whispering status quo — is drowned out by all the life buzzing around us.

See this week's newsletter for more links and footnotes: https://seedaschool.substack.com/p/our-job-is-to-make-revolution-irresistible

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