Every autumn I am reminded of this poem by lucille clifton:

This year the language of letting go is much more fraught. Accepting the toll of this disaster (and others across the globe) feels impossible. My soul screams in resistance to this reality. 

Yet this poem, which I have loved deeply for decades, has wisdom that comforts me. There is also always sacred beauty everywhere in each ephemeral moment. 

In the aftermath of the hurricane, we saw letting go that is love. Many quickly let go of socialized patterns of individualism, selfishness, and segregation. Many let go of reliance on institutions and built responsive community-led systems. It fed my faith. 

The leaves that are falling onto the forest floor right now will compost themselves into fuel for future fecundity. I dare to dream of the possibilities that lie in letting go. 

Can we let go of the belief that we have no power to change the trajectory of our local economy and ecosystem? (Or, first let go of the belief that the way we were operating before was ok?)

There is so much happening right now that crushes me. 

Yet the leaves are teaching me to let go of despair. 

Consistent collective care can be what grows out of the compost created by crisis. 

I love us. 

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action

This week I’d like to draw attention to the need for significant direct financial assistance for individuals who lost homes and work due to the hurricane. This must happen at a scale larger than the GoFundMes we are all contributing to. Beth Trigg has been part of impressive mutual aid organizing in Swannanoa, and regularly posts on her FB page about what’s needed to protect our neighbors and keep them in the community. Related, please follow Just Economics and the WNC Tenants Network for organizing to protect renters and prevent eviction. I’m also excited about any and all momentum to turn Airbnbs back into housing.

Onward.

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yellow trees

Re-sharing our seasonal song, “Yellow Trees” (written and recorded in 2008, video from 2019). Please be advised the song is about death and has images of the French Broad River. “We’re holding on by a tiny thread, and in this mystery our souls are fed…”

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