The Transition
Today I used a vacation day to get a colonoscopy. That is what it takes for me to carve out the space to begin writing this blog.
I work a corporate job, eight to five, at a desk. Twenty-five days of PTO a year — more than many Americans, and still not nearly enough. Even with this privilege of paid time off, it never feels like enough to explore the life I feel tugging at me.
The American Dream promised that if we gathered enough while we were young, we could enjoy a few years of hobbies and leisure before fading into old age. But most of us are realizing that this story no longer serves us, if it ever did. I always thought of this as normal but today, I no longer do.
I believe we are in a transition. Many call it a crumbling or the fall of our Nation. There are fears that we are loosing our democracy, and a fair amount of certainty that we lost our way a long time ago. I have found myself referring to this time as our “transition” because crumbling or fall suggests we will be left with a pile of ruins. Transition holds space for what follows. Of course there is discomfort, even grief, in watching the old ways of doing things break down. But I believe this is also a moment to reflect — deeply — on what hasn’t worked, so we don’t repeat those mistakes. I believe what comes next will look very different, and I am eager to help build it.
The Place, The Dream
I dream of a place and a time where the biggest question of the day is “Who will tend the fire?”
In this place, we are not in competition for resources because we know they come from God / Sprit / Source and are abundant. We are here to live, to steward, and to share them for the benefit of the community — not to hoard more than our neighbor. Knowledge is shared not just through words, but through action. Here we gather to play at the things we once thought of as work. We retreat into our homes and quiet places when needed, yet our hearts remain so open that we are naturally drawn back to one another when the moment calls.
In this place, a person is valued for what brings them joy — their passions, not their productivity. Our differences are not obstacles but strengths, the unique fibers that make the whole more resilient. Together, we dream. Together, we create a true village.
Here, the Earth is not a resource to subdue, but a partner we live gently with. Human beings, wildlife, and the planet are treated with love and care. We expect kindness from one another, and we give it freely, assuming it will return.
We center children, always, and we honor our elders and ancestors, recognizing how much has been forgotten and how much needs to be remembered. The joy of our children at play heals us and the wisdom of our elders grounds us. Their play, joy, and stories shape the future we are building.
In this place, strangers are welcomed as potential friends, and surrounding communities are seen as extensions of our own. We do not seek to be an island, and we do not shut anyone out for their beliefs.
We grow, make, and build as much of what we need as possible, to tread lightly on the planet. When we must look outside ourselves, we seek local first, used when possible, and thoughtful always.
It is a place with a gigantic greenhouse at the center, food and medicine growing in abundance. A kitchen and shared table is busy with people from the community. This is a space for art, for workshops, for eating and laughing together. We have a free store where resources circulate rather than stagnate. It is both practical and sacred.
It is, simply, The Place.
Who Are the Caretakers?
If we are to rebuild wisely, the caretakers must guide us.
Not the loudest voices or those scrambling for power. But the ones who center others before themselves. The ones who steward, who listen, who nurture. The ones who know that tending the fire — literal or metaphorical — is an act of care, not of ownership.
They are the decision-makers we need. Not rulers, but caretakers.
