Have you noticed this time is ripe with creative expression?
That it’s a time rife with suffering too?
Our struggles seem to catapult us into transmutation, like soil composting rotten scraps.
It all has to go somewhere, these widespread atrocities, these mundane chronic aches and pains, the parts of ourselves most shameful.
We have to get it out of our bodies, expel it from our minds.
We have to put it into the earth and let the worms and bugs and dense wet mud mull it over, till it and turn it for our dark sides to churn and change.
We do this through stories.
Our stories are living, breathing, organic material.
We shape and reshape them as we evolve.
To tell our stories through the making of things, through art or generous acts of any kind, they are not just a static thing, they are alive.
