This story or parable is from the first of eight sections of an inquiry I am running into Relational Disobedience.

The world today gives us plenty of reasons to resist. Wars rage, ecosystems collapse, politicians play games with truth and trust, and economic systems deepen inequality. Many feel the urge to fight back. Yet the dominant images of resistance remain loud, angry, and often violent; burning barricades, bitter slogans, pitched battles of us versus them.

But what if we want to resist without adding to the hatred in the world? What if we feel called to stand firm, but not in ways that perpetuate cycles of fear and blame? This is the way of Relational Disobedience.

Listen to the parable or read it. Let it sit with you.

* Have you struck a bargain with The Mirror King?

* Is it a bargain you can renounce?

* What other bargain might you make?

Long ago, in the land now known only as the Severed Thread, the people lived by attunement. Their days were woven from story and song, their nights from silence and stars. They listened to one another as they listened to the wind: with care. No need was too small, no joy too quiet to be shared.

But then came the Mirror King.

No one saw him arrive. One day, a strange pavilion appeared in the central square: tall, angular, and cold to the touch. Its walls shimmered like still water, reflecting the image of anyone who drew near. Above the door was inscribed:

“Come and see yourself… as you were meant to be.”

Curious and weary, the people entered one by one. Inside, they were shown visions: a life without struggle, without shame. Their homes, clean and efficient. Their jobs, tidy and optimised. Their children, high-achieving and well-behaved. They saw themselves smiling, surrounded by metrics that glowed like stars.

The Mirror King himself never spoke. His messengers, silver-masked and honey-tongued, made the offer clear:

“All this can be yours.

Simply pledge your alignment.

Let go of the burdens of care.

Trust the system.

Comply with the new design.”

Some hesitated. But most accepted. After all, it was only a form. Only a signature. Only a dashboard login. The difference seemed minor, at first.

They returned to their homes, which now echoed with automated voices and gentle reminders to optimise their schedules. They wore wristbands that congratulated them for efficiency. And when they began to feel restless, or melancholic, or strange, the Mirror King sent gifts:

- Clarity Coaching™,

- Emotional Resilience Packs™,

- Wellbeing Wednesdays™.

They stopped gathering in the village square. Stories felt indulgent. Silence was no longer valued, unless it was productive.

It was a child, born on a night of heavy rain and flickering power, who first began to notice.

She asked her mother, “Why doesn’t Nana visit anymore?”

“She lives further now,” her mother replied, though Nana’s house was five doors down.

“Why doesn’t the river sing?”

“It’s been paved over, love. For safety.”

“Why do people look at themselves so much, but never at each other?”

There was no answer.

The child began to wander the village, listening. She noticed things others ignored: the way laughter now ended too quickly. How people spoke without touching. How the elders, once revered, now sat alone, unmeasured and unproductive.

One evening, she returned to the pavilion. A silver-masked figure appeared at the threshold.

“You are not authorised,” he said gently. “You have not yet aligned.”

“But I don’t want to see myself,” said the child. “I want to see the world.”

The figure hesitated.

“No one has asked that before,” he said.

He led her past the mirrors into a dark room, and there, for a moment, the child glimpsed something terrible: a great ledger, stretching to the sky, where names flickered and vanished as compliance was recorded. And in the centre, bound in thread and gears, sat the Mirror King, eyeless, earless, endless, compiling performance reports.

The child stepped back, terrified.

“What is he doing?” she asked.

The silver figure whispered, “He is counting what cannot be counted.”

“And what does he offer in return?”

The figure removed his mask. He was weeping.

“He offers safety. And silence. And forgetting.”

The child returned to her home, where the stars no longer shone through the smart-glass roof. That night, she lit a candle. She whispered a story to the dark. She left her front door open.

And so it began, not a rebellion, but a remembering.

A tiny, flickering refusal to forget what had been traded away.

If you would like to join with a group of us exploring the topic of Relational Disobedience and how it might be helpful please get in touch…

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There are times when obedience is deadly, when following the rules, sticking to the plan or hiding behind the institution means ignoring the subtleties of life as it unfolds in front of us.

Relational disobedience is the choice to refuse that deadening obedience. It is the courage to respond as a living sensing creative human being. It means listening more deeply than the policy allows. Caring when the system tells you to move on. Staying open to complexity when the institution demands a simple tick box. Choosing presence over prediction, relationship over regulation, creativity over compliance.

Relational disobedience is not rebellion for its own sake. It is fidelity to something more alive and more real than the machine logic of our institutions. It is a refusal to betray our own humanity and a commitment to the subtle harmony of the world we share. This is the call the invitation. Step out of the dinosaur logic of control and step into the living weave of relationship, become disobedient so that life, creativity, and care may flow again.

Institutions by their very nature are blunt instruments. They simplify complexity, reduce variety, and attempt to control what cannot be controlled. They lumber like dinosaurs in a living world that is always more subtle and more varied than the plans they impose upon it. The result is predictable, side effects, unintended consequences, harm to the very people and places we claim to serve.

Science, technology, computer models and policy studies, valuable though they are, cannot match the nuance of human life and ecological systems.

And yet there is hope. Institutions are not machines. They're made up of people. People who think, feel, imagine, and care. People with brains and bodies attuned to complexity. People with the capacity and the souls for unlimited creativity.

The invitation then is simple but profound. Stop trying to master life with plans that can never be subtle enough. Start creating conditions where human creativity, values and feelings can shape responses as they unfold. Replace control with care, prediction with presence, and compliance with creativity.

This is not the abandonment of institutions. It is their renewal. It is the way they might evolve from dinosaurs of control into hosts of possibility, capable not of domination, but of participation in the living systems of which we are part.

Of becoming places fit to house the human spirit.

Relational disobedience is the seed of this transformation. It begins in the choices of individuals, but it holds out a vision of institutions that are no longer at war with the world, but in harmony with it.

Relational Disobedience: A Way Beyond the Dinosaurs of Control.

How can any plan or policy meet the challenges of a system that is more subtle and varied than the institution that seeks to control it? We know the answer... it can't. Interventions that rely on control, prediction and standardisation are doomed to failure.

Science, technology, computer models, policy studies, they all fall short of the task. What is needed is something at least as subtle, as alive and as sensitive as the world itself.

That something is us.

Not our institutions, which lumber like dinosaurs, clumsy in their attempts to dominate complexity, but our living, sensing, feeling, creating selves.

Each one of us carries within us the tools to navigate complexity. A human brain, body, heart, and soul, attuned to relationship, alive to nuance, capable of creativity.

Relational disobedience is the name we give to this way of being. It's the refusal to collapse into the dead weight of prescribed systems. It's the choice to honour creativity over compliance, care over control, presence over prediction.

It's the practice of saying "I will not reduce life to categories and metrics. I will not let the logic of the institution override the reality of the relationship. I will respond as a human being, alive, feeling and creative."

This is not disobedience for its own sake. It is disobedience in service of a deeper obedience to the subtleties and beauty of life, to the coherence of our planet, and to the call of our shared humanity.

Institutions may lumber on, but when we choose relational disobedience, we remind ourselves and each other that harmony is not imposed from above. It is born in the living weave of human creativity, values, thoughts, and feelings. Relational disobedience is not a doctrine. It cannot be prescribed. It is ever changing and ever new because it arises from one place institutions cannot touch: our capacity to care, to love, to imagine, and to create together.

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Nilo was born in the City of Angles, where towers touched clouds and everything had a number. Even the birds, what few remained, were tagged and tracked, their wings weighed against efficiency.

He lived on the thirty-second floor of a glass building that never opened its windows. Air came through vents. Food arrived in packages. His parents worked on screens that glowed day and night, solving problems that never quite stayed solved. Their eyes were always elsewhere.

No one spoke of the Thread. No one spoke of silence.

But Nilo felt something, in the spaces between sounds, in the ache behind people’s eyes, in the strange pull he felt whenever he walked past the last green patch in the city, now fenced and marked with a sign that read ‘Development Opportunity’.

He didn’t have words for it. Only restlessness.

Only questions he was told not to ask.

“Why can’t I hear the trees?”

“Why do I feel like I’m forgetting something I never knew?”

“What is the world not saying?”

At night he would lie awake, listening to the hum of machines, the endless scroll of adverts on the ceiling screen. But beneath it all, sometimes, just barely, he heard it: a low vibration, a hum like a thought the world had stopped thinking.

He didn’t tell anyone.

One day, without plan or permission, Nilo left. He packed no bag, took no screen. He simply walked. Past the high towers, past the security zones, past the numbered checkpoints.

Out.

He walked until the concrete gave way to soil, until the sky widened and the silence thickened, not the silence of absence, but of presence not yet spoken to.

He walked until he could no longer explain why he was walking.

And there, in the soft hills beyond the maps, he found her.

The Weaver was humming to her bees when he arrived. She did not look surprised.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said, without turning.

“You have?” Nilo asked.

“Something in the wind changed.”

She made him tea without asking, placed a thick woven blanket around his shoulders, and said nothing more for a long time.

They sat together for hours. No questions. No lessons. Only the crackle of the fire, the distant call of birds, the scent of thyme rising from the garden.

At last, Nilo spoke.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel… wrong. Like I can’t breathe right in the city. Like everyone’s running toward something that isn’t there.”

The Weaver looked at him carefully, not with pity but with welcome.

“You’re not wrong,” she said. “You’re tuning. It hurts, at first. Like a limb waking after sleep.”

“Tuning to what?”

“To the world beneath the world. To the Thread.”

He frowned. “I think I’ve heard it. At night. But only when everything else is quiet.”

She nodded. “That’s how it begins.”

Over the following days, Nilo stayed. He learned not by instruction, but by rhythm. He followed the Weaver through her tasks, feeding bees, mending fences, gathering wild mint. She taught him to walk with his ears, to see with his breath, to wait until the land was ready to speak.

He struggled, at first. The silence frightened him. So much of his life had been filled with noise, opinion, urgency. Now there was only space. And in that space, his grief began to surface, grief he hadn’t known he carried.

The Weaver did not try to fix it. She simply held it with him, as if grief were just another season.

One evening, as the sun slipped behind the western ridge, Nilo turned to her and said,

“I want to help others remember. I want to help them hear what we’ve forgotten.”

The Weaver placed her hand on his chest.

“Then first, you must become the kind of silence the Thread can speak through.”

“How?”

“By living as though the world were listening. Even when it seems deaf. Especially then.”

That night, Nilo dreamed of a vast loom stretched across the sky. Threads of light moved through it, some frayed, some knotted, some brilliant. And in the centre, hands wove gently, patiently, drawing each thread into coherence.

He woke not with answers, but with a stillness he had never known before.

The next morning, he wrapped the old woven cloak the Weaver had given him around his shoulders. He took the spindle she had pressed into his palm.

He turned to her.

“Where should I go?”

She smiled.

“Wherever the noise is loudest. But walk softly. You’re not going to teach. You’re going to listen.”

Far beyond the edge of the last map, past the iron fields, the gridstone towers, and the cities that spoke only in numbers, there was a small valley no one sought and few remembered.

The valley was not hidden, only ignored. Its roads were narrow, its trees unlabelled, its seasons irregular. It offered no riches, no strategic advantage, and no certainty. But those who lived there knew the signs of rain, the songs of bees, and the feel of soil when it was ready. They had no plans, only practices.

And among them lived an old woman with silver in her hair and silence in her step. They called her the Weaver.

Not because she spun cloth, though she did, but because something in her presence seemed to gather things. Threads of meaning, threads of memory. She would sit for hours beside a stream, or among the stones, her hands still, her eyes soft, as though waiting for something to arrive.

And often, it did.

⸻

The Weaver lived in a cottage half-sunk into the hillside, surrounded by tangled herbs, wind-chimes of bone and shell, and a garden that grew whatever it pleased. Bees drifted in and out of her eaves. Wild dogs came and went without fear. She never called them pets, only companions.

Each morning she lit a small fire, even in summer, and sat beside it to greet the day. She whispered to the flame in a language no one had taught her. She ground roots for tinctures she rarely used. She collected rainwater and gave thanks to it, not because it was scarce, but because it was.

Some in the village called her strange. Others said she was just old. But a few—usually the tired, the grieving, or the quietly curious—found themselves drawn to her door.

She never offered answers. Only tea, warmth, and listening.

One day, a child came, her eyes red with weeping. Her name was Tanna, and her mother had gone to the city and never returned.

The Weaver did not ask why. She simply opened the door, gestured to a cushion, and let the silence grow soft around them.

After a time, Tanna said, “Why did she go?”

The Weaver stirred the fire and said, “Some songs are drowned out by louder ones. But they are never lost.”

Tanna frowned. “What song?”

The Weaver placed her hand lightly on the child’s chest. “This one. The one that hums when you are quiet enough to notice.”

Tanna sat very still. And for the first time, she felt it—a faint pulse, like the warmth of a remembered lullaby. No melody. Just presence.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“The Thread,” the Weaver said, as if it were the simplest thing. “The rhythm that lives through all things. You don’t have to believe in it. You only have to listen.”

Later that evening, the Weaver sat alone on her porch, mending a torn cloak. She did not rush. Each stitch was a gesture of reverence. Her hands knew what to do. They had stitched wounds, buried friends, planted hopes. They had carried death and birth alike, always gently.

She hummed as she worked. Not a song from memory, but one that rose up through her, shaped by the wind, the day, and the silence of stars. It was not performance. It was conversation.

A fox passed, paused, and sat at the edge of the firelight. The Weaver nodded. “Yes,” she said. “The Thread still holds.”

She did not speak of coherence. She lived it.

She did not seek to change the world. But where she moved, the world changed its posture; just slightly. Stones sat easier. Dogs stopped growling. Children began to dream again.

Some said she had magic.

She would have laughed. “Not magic,” she might have said. “Just remembering.”

Story Two in The Thread and the Listening World; The Shattering of the Map.

There was once a boy born with stars in his eyes. While other children listened to the wind or followed the trails of beetles through leaf litter, this boy asked questions no one had thought to ask. Where does the sun go at night? Why does the river curve when it could run straight? How do I know that your blue is the same as mine?

His name was Lysar, which meant light between the trees, but he longed for a name that meant something, something exact. He didn't fear the world. He just longed to understand it. The Elders smiled at him [00:01:00] kindly. They answered when they could, but always with a pause, a gesture, a glance to the hills. The world is not a riddle to be solved child, one said it is a story to be heard. But Lysar wanted more than stories. He wanted truth and he believed that if he could only see the whole shape of things from high enough, from far enough with clear enough eyes, then all confusion would fall away. The world would open itself like a book and its meaning would be plain.

So one morning without fanfare or farewell, Lysar climbed the Ridge of Holding and looked down upon the valley of his people. He watched the rivers thread through forest and plain watched the clouds, pour shadows over the hills, watched the [00:02:00] fires flicker in homes far below. He felt a strange thrill, the thrill of distance.

Now he whispered I can begin. And Lysar began to draw first the river, then the paths, then the hills and their names. He drew the locations of blackberry, thickets and resting stones, old trees, and sacred springs. He marked the territory of deer and the nesting place of birds. He drew what had never been drawn before.

A map.

But it was not enough. The lines were too imprecise. The world kept shifting. Paths changed with rain. Animals wandered beyond their bounds. Trees died and were born again. The world refused to hold still, so Lysar began to simplify. He drew only what remained. He labeled, he [00:03:00] fixed borders where there have been soft thresholds.

He straightened the rivers and he erase the parts that he didn't understand. And slowly his map began to look less like the valley and more like a plan. The elders came to see what he'd made. They stood quietly. Their faces unreadable. Is it not beautiful? Lysar said, now we can know where everything is. We will not lose our way.

One elder bent low touched a mark on the parchment and said, gently, but this spring no longer flows. It dried after the earth shifted. Last moon. No matter Lysol replied, it flowed once. That's enough. The map was copied, carried, used. Others came to rely on it. People began to walk, not where The Thread called, but where the map directed.

They stopped listening to the wind before traveling. They no longer asked the bees about the [00:04:00] seasons. Why bother when the path was already drawn? And then came the fences to protect the mapped places and then the keys to guard them, and then the disputes, when two maps disagreed, each mapmaker claimed truth and none heard the silence growing around them, the world.

Once a companion became a problem to be managed, the music faded beneath the hum of tools and the clash of certainty. Lysar older now sat again upon the Ridge of Holding. He looked down at the same valley, but he didn't see the shifting play of light and life. He saw plots, quadrants, and plans. He saw productivity. He saw ownership. He didn't see the deer, and he did not hear the song.

He held the map in his hands, once his great labour of love, but now something felt [00:05:00] hollow. He noticed a line he'd drawn through a sacred grove long since cleared. He traced it with a finger for the first time in many years he listened.

He heard nothing. That night, for the first time since childhood, Lysar dreamed of The Thread, it came not as a line, but as a vibration through root and rain. It did not explain, it called, but when he reached to follow it, it slipped beneath his fingers like mist, like time. He woke with tears, the map torn across his knees.

He did not descend the mountain again.

But somewhere in the valley, a young girl who'd grown up walking paved roads and reading names from signs felt a strange pull toward a forgotten grove. [00:06:00] The path was not marked. The trees were not labeled, but there among the roots, she found something humming just beneath the silence.

“There is no finality, no finished state of being. There is only becoming, and becoming is a shared endeavour.”— paraphrasing Whitehead

In an age of polarisation, climate collapse, and political gridlock, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed. Many of us sense that our political systems, built on competition, control, and linear planning, are not only failing to address our crises but are actively deepening them. We talk about systemic change, but the systems themselves feel like cages, rigid, reactive, unresponsive to the living realities they claim to govern.

What if we’re thinking about politics in the wrong way? What if the real problem is not just who holds power, but how we understand power itself?

This essay explores a radical but essential shift: moving from politics as control to politics as co-creation. Rooted in process philosophy and the ethic of care, this approach invites us to see politics not as a series of solutions to static problems, but as an ongoing practice of participation, relationship, and shared becoming.

The Illusion of Control

One of the most pervasive illusions in modern politics is the idea that we can master complexity through systems thinking. We design models, metrics, frameworks imagining that, with enough data, we can fix the world from above. Yet, as the crises pile up, it becomes increasingly clear that our desire to control is itself part of the problem.

In governance, this illusion manifests as technocracy, the belief that smarter systems and better algorithms will manage human affairs more efficiently. In practice, this approach often leads to disconnection. Public policies are crafted in abstraction, without the nuance of lived experience. Metrics replace relationships. Efficiency replaces empathy.

On the other hand, in reaction to this control-based thinking, we see the rise of authoritarian nostalgia. The fantasy that a strong leader can cut through the mess with decisive action. Movements like MAGA, Brexit, and the far-right resurgence across Europe promise to “restore order” in a chaotic world. But these movements, too, are rooted in the same illusion: that clarity can be imposed by force.

Both technocracy and authoritarianism fail to address the fundamental truth that life itself is process, not product. As process philosopher Alfred North Whitehead taught us, the world is not a collection of fixed entities but an unfolding web of events in relation.

When we impose control, we end up breaking the web. When we embrace co-creation, we learn to weave it.

A Politics of Co-Creation

To think politically in a process-informed way is to ask: What are we becoming together? This shifts the focus from controlling outcomes to participating in emergence.

It means acknowledging that reality is dynamic, that change is relational, and that the purpose of politics is not to build static systems but to attend to life’s unfolding. This requires a different kind of leadership and governance, one that centres presence, attentiveness, and response.

A co-creative politics embraces:

* Deliberative democracy: Citizens' assemblies and participatory budgeting that invite people to shape their communities.

* Local stewardship: Empowering place-based initiatives that honour ecological and social interdependence.

* Shared rituals and public meaning-making: Creating communal practices for grief, celebration, and storytelling, recognising that politics is not just policy but meaning-making.

* Leadership as accompaniment: Leaders who foster spaces for conversation, not just command-and-control.

Co-creation is not soft or idealistic. It is a fierce commitment to relationship over control. It accepts that we cannot predefine the future but can shape it through mutual presence and shared action.

Green Politics as Co-Creation

Among mainstream political traditions, Green politics comes closest to embodying this approach. Greens are often accused of being impractical, but what they actually offer is a different political logic. They call for regenerative design, local autonomy, intersectional justice, and participatory governance, not just because these are moral goods, but because they reflect how life actually works.

In a process-oriented frame, the role of government is not to dominate but to accompany, to create conditions where local creativity, community wisdom, and ecological knowledge can thrive.

If you are seeking a political home that values emergence, care, and responsiveness, the Green movement may offer both refuge and challenge. It is not about enforcing a single vision, but about holding space for multiple futures to grow.

Inner Work and Outer Practice

If we are to engage with politics as co-creation, we must start by looking inward. It’s not just about shifting policies but about shifting how we think and act in relation to others.

Inner Work:

* Where do I cling to control in my political thinking or leadership?

* What would it mean to lead or serve without the need for certainty?

* Who do I need to listen to more openly, without filtering their words through my own agendas?

Outer Practice:

* Start a small circle of trust: three or four people meeting regularly to reflect on politics as process—sharing insights, challenges, and commitments.

* Advocate for participatory approaches where you live. Push for decision-making that involves those most affected.

* Challenge the logic of control in your organisation—whether it’s in project management, community work, or activism. Propose relational practices that make room for emergence.

Co-Creating a Future Worth Staying With

The challenges of our time are not just political. They are cosmological. They demand not just new policies but a new way of seeing ourselves as part of the world.

We don’t need leaders who claim to know the answer. We need leaders who can accompany us through uncertainty, leaders who know how to stay in conversation when the path is unclear, who understand that power is not something you hold, but something you share.

If we commit to politics as co-creation, we begin to repair the web of relations that makes life possible. We stop fighting over fixed positions and start listening for what is emerging. We let go of the fantasy of control and lean into the practice of careful presence.

This is not just the politics we need, it’s the politics we are called to create together.

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“The cosmos is not a place but a story. It is not a system but a communion.”

— Brian Swimme

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We are living through more than a political crisis. More than an economic crisis. Even more than an ecological crisis. We are living through a cosmological crisis, a collapse in the stories that once held meaning, coherence, and hope.

In modern political discourse, this deeper rupture often goes unnamed. Our debates obsess over growth, efficiency, freedom, security, sovereignty. But beneath all this is an unspoken void: we no longer know what we belong to. We no longer know what the world is.

This is not a crisis that can be solved with better messaging, faster technology, or a new voting system. It is a crisis of orientation. And it demands a new conversation, about the sacred, the soul, and the stories that can carry us through collapse without descending into denial or despair.

The Great Unravelling

For much of Western history, the cosmos was understood as layered and alive: body, soul, and spirit; visible and invisible; human and divine. To live politically was also to live within a moral and metaphysical order.

But the rise of mechanistic science and materialist metaphysics disenchanted the world. We became, in Thomas Berry’s words, “a collection of objects, not a communion of subjects.”

The Enlightenment brought many gifts, but also a reduction. Religion collapsed into dogma. Spirituality became private. Meaning was outsourced to markets, machines, and metrics.

Now, in the twenty-first century, we find ourselves floating in what many have called the meaning crisis. Institutions are hollowing. Traditions are fragmenting. Trust is eroding. We can no longer answer, with any shared clarity, the most basic political questions: What is the good? Who are we to one another? What is the world for?

The Politics of a Flattened World

Into this vacuum step the twin temptations of modern politics:

* On the one hand, technocracy; the promise that better data and smarter systems can compensate for the loss of moral orientation.

* On the other hand, authoritarian nostalgia; the call to return to a mythic past of order, hierarchy, and meaning, usually enforced through exclusion and control.

Both are reactions to cosmological disorientation. One denies the sacred by managing without it. The other weaponises the sacred by co-opting it.

Neither invites us to reimagine meaning relationally, humbly, or co-creatively.

Process Cosmology: The Sacred as Becoming

Process thought offers a radically different approach. In the work of Alfred North Whitehead, Charles Hartshorne, Catherine Keller, and Brian Swimme, we find a vision of the universe not as static or predetermined, but as an unfolding of creativity, relation, and value.

In this cosmology:

* The world is not finished. It is becoming.

* God is not an omnipotent puppet-master, but the lure toward deeper coherence, complexity, and compassion.

* The sacred is not somewhere else, but woven into every moment of encounter, emergence, and response.

Such a view resacralises the world, not by returning to old certainties, but by seeing relationality itself as holy. To participate in politics, then, is not to fight for control. It is to care for the unfolding of shared life.

This is not theology as escape. It is cosmology as civic responsibility.

The Ethic of Care as Spiritual Praxis

The ethic of care, as developed by thinkers like Carol Gilligan, Nel Noddings, and Joan Tronto, provides not only an ethical frame, but a spiritual practice in a processual world.

Care insists that attention is sacred. That responsibility is shared. That response-ability is cultivated, not claimed. It values presence over performance, connection over clarity, and commitment over control.

In a disenchanted political landscape, care may be our most immediate way of reweaving the sacred. It asks us to treat others not as instruments or obstacles, but as participants in the same unfolding cosmos.

Green Politics and the Sacred Thread

Among political movements, the Green tradition comes closest to integrating cosmology, ethics, and care.

* It acknowledges ecological interdependence; not as a technical problem, but as a moral and spiritual reality.

* It supports participatory democracy; not just as a governance tool, but as a ritual of co-creation.

* It resists the reduction of life to numbers, growth curves, and system logic.

To be Green, at its core, is to live and act as if the world is alive, interconnected, and worth caring for. It is to re-inhabit the cosmos not as a battlefield or a spreadsheet, but as a living field of relation.

This is political. And it is sacred.

Inner Work and Outer Practice

Inner Work:

* What is my cosmology? What kind of world do I believe I’m living in?

* When did I last experience a moment of sacred attention, where care and presence became one?

* What rituals, practices, or relationships help me stay attuned to a deeper order of meaning?

Outer Practice:

* Create or participate in a community ritual that honours life’s interconnectedness, seasonal, civic, or spiritual.

* Support Green policies and candidates that see ecology not just as science, but as the ethics of relationship.

* In every political conversation, ask not only “what works?” but “what honours life?”

Closing Invitation

We cannot build a sustainable future on a metaphysic of extraction and control. We cannot navigate collapse with a cosmology of disconnection.

But we can begin again.

We can root politics not in spectacle or statistics, but in relationship, rhythm, and reverence. We can remember that to care is to enact the sacred. That to participate in democracy is to join the dance of the world’s becoming.

Let us not retreat from the sacred. Let us reweave it, together, in process.

“Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.”

— C.G. Jung

Politics has always had its shadows. But in recent years, it has taken on an increasingly psychological tone, emotional, reactive, tribal. Our public discourse is saturated with outrage, scapegoating, and symbolic battles that seem to have little to do with the slow work of governance and everything to do with identity, fear, and belonging.

In this essay, I want to explore how fear and fragmentation in the self, both individually and collectively, are shaping political life. Drawing on insights from depth psychology, personal construct theory, and process philosophy, I’ll suggest that much of what we call polarisation is actually a failure of inner integration projected onto the political stage.

To restore our politics, we must first do the work of reclaiming our projections and restoring our capacity for relational becoming.

Projection as a Political Force

In Jungian terms, projection occurs when we unconsciously disown parts of ourselves and locate them in others. The qualities we find intolerable, our fears, our shame, our uncertainty, are exiled from our conscious self-image and made visible in some “other”: the elite, the immigrant, the woke mob, the alt-right, the unvaccinated.

This makes the other not just someone who disagrees, but someone who must be defeated for us to feel whole.

In a fragmented world, projection becomes a survival strategy. It simplifies the psyche. It reassures us that the chaos is “out there.”

But in doing so, it prevents dialogue, forecloses mutual recognition, and fuels a politics of dehumanisation.

Fear and the Need for Coherence

George Kelly’s personal construct psychology gives us further language here. Kelly proposed that people are “personal scientists,” trying to predict and control their world through a web of constructs, mental frameworks that help make meaning.

But when our constructs are threatened, when the world no longer fits our models, we experience anxiety or even existential threat.

In this light, political reaction, on both the left and the right, often arises from a desperate need for psychological coherence.

The populist right constructs narratives of purity, tradition, and moral certainty. The left may sometimes respond with equally rigid demands for ideological purity, symbolic justice, and public affirmation.

In both cases, complexity is collapsed into certainty. The psyche seeks safety, not truth.

Polarisation as a Failure of Process

From a process philosophy perspective, this dynamic can be seen as a refusal of relational becoming.

Life, in Whitehead’s terms, is a series of unfolding events, interconnected, co-constituted, unfinished. But when we are afraid, we resist that flow. We cling to fixed identities, fixed enemies, fixed stories.

Polarisation is not just political. It is metaphysical. It expresses a fear of loss, of ambiguity, of transformation.

We don’t just disagree with others, we need them to be wrong, so that we can remain whole.

The Daemonic and the Political

James Hillman, and the wider lineage of archetypal psychology, invites us to take this even deeper. For Hillman, the psyche is not a machine or a puzzle, but a mythopoetic field, filled with gods, archetypes, and daemons. When a culture denies its daemons, its drives, desires, instincts, and ambivalences, those energies don’t disappear. They surface in distorted forms.

In this sense, political life becomes a stage for the daemonic, for the unintegrated parts of our collective psyche to find expression. Trump, for example, may be understood not just as a person, but as a vessel for unacknowledged cultural energies, entitlement, aggression, insecurity, performative masculinity, wounded pride.

These energies aren’t exclusive to one man. They live in the culture. And unless they are acknowledged, they will continue to surface in figures and movements who offer them form.

A Process-Based Politics of Integration

So what would a politics of process and care offer in response?

First, it would acknowledge that we are all in process, unfinished, complex, contradictory. It would create space for inner work to complement outer change.

Second, it would design practices and institutions that allow difference to be held, rather than resolved or suppressed. This means dialogue, deep listening, participatory democracy, not as idealistic add-ons, but as necessary containers for the work of integration.

Third, it would challenge us to meet fear not with force, but with attention. To ask not “How do I win?” but “What am I projecting? What am I avoiding? What might I need to reclaim in myself to meet this other differently?”

This is the slow work of relational politics. It is not about avoiding conflict, but about meeting it with presence and humility.

The Green Thread: Containing, Not Controlling

The Green movement, at its best, understands that the world is too complex to be controlled, and too interconnected to be divided cleanly. It calls for a politics that is rooted in ecology, not just of ecosystems, but of emotions, communities, and meanings.

Greens know that polarisation cannot be solved through more policy alone. It requires new forms of relating: citizen assemblies, listening circles, deliberative forums. It requires an orientation to care, not only for the planet, but for the social and psychic ecologies that shape how we live together.

If we are to build a future worth inhabiting, we must learn how to stay in relationship—even with what we fear, dislike, or reject.

Inner Work and Outer Practice

Inner Work:

* What traits or beliefs in others provoke a strong emotional reaction in me? Could they be projections of something I disown?

* Where in my life am I clinging to fixed categories or identities to feel safe?

* What part of my own complexity have I yet to make peace with?

Outer Practice:

* Practice dialogue with someone you disagree with; listen for their story, not just their opinion.

* Support initiatives that create spaces for civic dialogue, deliberation, and repair.

* Resist the temptation to “call out” before you’ve “called in”, start with curiosity, not accusation.

Closing Invitation

Polarisation is not only a political crisis. It is a psychic one. It reveals the fractures in our collective ability to hold complexity, tolerate ambiguity, and relate across difference.

But if we see politics as a process, and not a war, we might just begin to re-humanise it. And in doing so, we might re-humanise ourselves.

Let’s turn toward our projections, not away from them. Let’s listen to the daemons, rather than banish them. Let’s practice a politics that begins not with certainty, but with the courage to stay in relation.

“The fallacy of misplaced concreteness consists in treating abstractions as though they were real.”

— Alfred North Whitehead

We live under the illusion of control. Our institutions are structured, our policies measured, our goals SMART. Governance is imagined as a machinery of systems, inputs, outputs, and efficiencies. Yet everywhere, the ground is shifting, ecologically, politically, spiritually. The tools of command-and-control governance seem ever more brittle in a world that is relational, interdependent, and unpredictable.

In this essay, we explore how systems thinking, once seen as a progressive tool for navigating complexity, now often serves to flatten human life into manageability. We contrast it with a relational, process-informed approach to governance: one that treats the world not as a system to be controlled, but as a web of living relationships to be tended. And we ask: what does it mean to govern in a way that aligns with how reality actually unfolds?

Systems Thinking: A Promise and a Trap

Systems thinking emerged as a response to linear, reductionist approaches to problem-solving. It offered tools for understanding feedback loops, delayed effects, unintended consequences. But over time, it too became abstracted, misplaced concreteness in Whitehead’s terms.

In practice, “systems” language often conceals a logic of top-down intervention: map the system, identify leverage points, optimise performance. Human experience becomes data. Relationships become pathways. Context becomes background.

This mode of governance assumes the system is:

- Knowable from above

- Changeable through rational planning

- Stable enough to manage once optimised

But in reality, especially in public services, communities, and care systems, the world resists this logic.

The Cracks in the Machinery: UK, US, and EU Examples

In the UK, repeated attempts to reform the NHS through “system integration” have led to spirals of bureaucracy, data obsession, and decision-making removed from those who live the reality of care. In trying to “simplify” complexity, policy-makers often compound it, replacing real relationships with abstract service models.

In the US, behavioural economics has rebranded human decision-making as something to be nudged and optimised. But nudging presumes a passive subject, not a participant in co-creation.

Across the EU, grand policy frameworks struggle to touch lived realities. The language of resilience and sustainability is everywhere, yet citizens feel unheard and underserved.

What’s missing in each case? Relation.

From Systems to Processes of Becoming

Process philosophy teaches us that reality is not made up of static entities but of events in relation. What we call a “system” is in fact an ongoing negotiation of values, needs, meanings, and power. To govern well in this world is not to control systems, but to participate in their unfolding.

This means:

- Knowledge is never complete; it is perspectival and participatory.

- Change cannot be engineered from outside; it emerges through relationship.

- Evaluation must attend to experience, not just metrics.

- Leadership is not control, but care for the conditions of emergence.

In this way, governance becomes not a mechanism, but a practice of co-creation.

The Ethic of Care in Governance

Here, the ethic of care becomes essential, not as a sentiment, but as a practice. A discipline.

Joan Tronto identifies four dimensions of care: attentiveness, responsibility, competence, and responsiveness. These are also, we might say, the core practices of relational governance:

- Attentiveness: Seeing the world not through abstract models but through the eyes of those who inhabit it.

- Responsibility: Not fixing people’s lives, but being accountable for how our actions affect their unfolding.

- Competence: Valuing the skills of listening, convening, and sensemaking—not just the tools of control.

- Responsiveness: Being open to change, to feedback, to not-knowing.

This is not efficient. It is not fast. But it is true to life.

The Green Party and Relational Governance

The Green tradition has long challenged the abstractions of system thinking. It asks us to start where we are, to prioritise subsidiarity, local knowledge, and participatory practice.

Instead of policy built for people, it advocates policy built with people.

Rather than extract data, it seeks to cultivate dialogue.

Rather than efficiency, it values resilience, relationship, and regenerative design.

If you long for a political home that sees governance not as engineering but as accompaniment, Green politics may offer both a refuge and a field of action.

Inner Work and Outer Practice

Inner Work:

- Reflect on where you seek control in your work or leadership. What do you fear will happen if you let go?

- Notice where systems language distances you from real relationships.

- Practise sitting with the discomfort of not-knowing in situations that call for action.

Outer Practice:

- Host a conversation in your organisation or community that starts with lived experience, not metrics.

- Advocate for participatory processes in decision-making—citizen assemblies, listening events, open forums.

- Join or support movements working to shift governance from hierarchy to relation—from systems to story.

Closing Invitation

We don’t live in systems. We live in webs of relationship, in communities of care, in shared vulnerability. The more we try to manage complexity from above, the more we cut ourselves off from the wisdom of those immersed in it.

A politics of process invites us to govern as if life matters. To hold space for emergence. To listen before acting. To accompany rather than impose.

Not because it’s fashionable. But because it’s true.

Let us govern not through control, but through care, not through mastery, but through presence.

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In an era of political fragmentation and cultural tension, it is tempting to seek stability. We long for certainty in our leaders, clarity in our values, and control over our communities. Figures like Donald Trump, movements like Brexit, and the rise of nationalist politics across Europe and the world all reflect a common impulse: to resist change, to hold the world still.

* But what if this impulse itself is a kind of illusion?

* What if the desire for fixity and control runs against the grain of reality itself?

In this essay, I will explore how our political instincts are often shaped by a material philosophy that sees the world as a collection of fixed things, identities, borders, ideas. I will contrast this with a process philosophy that understands reality as relational, unfolding, and co-created. Through this lens, we will examine Trumpism and Brexit as metaphysical attempts to solidify what is inherently fluid and explore how an ethic of care might offer a more grounded, hopeful way forward.

The Material View: Control and Certainty

Material philosophy sees the world as made of things. It views people, nations, and values as fixed entities that must be protected. In material politics, the goal is to maintain stability by defending what is known and certain. Political rhetoric often reflects this mindset: it speaks of borders to be defended, enemies to be defeated, and values to be preserved. Such a worldview thrives in times of uncertainty, offering the comforting illusion that some things never change.

This mindset is not limited to conservative movements; it permeates much of mainstream political thought, regardless of ideology. Whether on the left or right, the focus often remains on holding onto fixed identities and protecting established norms. In this sense, both progressive and conservative politics can fall into the trap of treating political life as a struggle to secure static truths.

The Process Alternative: Embracing Becoming

Process philosophy, rooted in thinkers like Alfred North Whitehead, challenges this view. It sees the world not as composed of static entities but as a dynamic interplay of events. From this perspective, reality is constantly in the process of becoming, and our task is not to hold it still but to engage with it creatively and relationally.

In politics, this means moving away from binary thinking, winners and losers, patriots and traitors, and toward dialogue, emergence, and co-creation. Process politics values responsiveness over rigidity, care over control. It asks us to consider politics not as a fight over fixed ideas but as an ongoing conversation, where our understandings and relationships are continuously evolving.

Trump, Brexit, and the Resistance to Change

Trumpism, Brexit, and similar movements are best understood not just as political phenomena but as ontological ones. They reflect a desire to resist the flow of change, to return to an imagined past when identities were more stable and social roles more clearly defined. Trump’s rhetoric is built on the promise of making America great “again”, restoring a past reality that, for many, never truly existed.

Likewise, Brexit’s slogan of "taking back control" was less about policy than about metaphysical security: the belief that Britain could somehow reclaim an identity that globalisation had disrupted. In both cases, the resistance to becoming is not merely nostalgic but deeply existential. It is a refusal to accept that the world, and our place within it, is always evolving.

Care as Political Practice

Joan Tronto’s ethic of care offers a counterpoint. To care is to be attentive, responsible, responsive. It is a practice grounded in relationality rather than control. In political life, care means creating spaces for dialogue rather than dominance, listening rather than asserting, and co-creating rather than dictating. It means understanding that political solutions emerge through collective effort rather than unilateral action.

When politics is approached as a process of becoming, the goal is not to restore a mythic past or dominate the present but to cultivate the conditions for creative and ethical emergence. This kind of politics requires humility and courage, especially when faced with the seductive simplicity of authoritarian rhetoric.

Conclusion: Finding a Political Home

If you feel politically homeless, torn between the rigidity of the left and the reactionary nature of the right, you might find a home in a process-oriented politics. The Green Party, with its commitment to subsidiarity, ecological justice, and participatory democracy, embodies this ethos. It seeks not to dominate but to engage, not to control but to care.

The work ahead is challenging, but it is also hopeful. Embracing a politics of becoming means letting go of certainty, opening up to relationship, and daring to co-create a future that honours complexity. It is not about holding the world still but participating in its unfolding.

If we can embrace that challenge, we might just discover that the politics of care is not only possible but necessary for our collective survival.