The sages seem to be departing. Elections enthrone Change, that’s all. The tribal lines deepen. And the weather, and the waters. The appearance of it all is this: We’d rather be defeated than persuaded. Perhaps we will be.
In a time like this, contemplation tethered to the troubled world is courageous. Contemplative sorrow: that’s the kind that is willing to learn the trouble of its time in a way that principled anxiety is not. Contemplation worthy of the troubled time: that is something to bequeath to the young among us. Unvanquished give-a-shit: that is something the old among us might be nourished to see.
Trade faith and hope for a stranger love of life, one that befriends the darkening sky by learning it. We might yet craft an eloquence that serves the terrible beauty we are about to bequeath to the young. Consequence, after all, is the true companion of grown ups.
This is a week at the foot of the withering World Tree, for young folk and old folk, for elders in training.
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