In your hands sit the loving embers of a fire for justice of which my life and the lives of so many have been a part, are a part. No wonder you move those hands so swiftly and incessantly.
I speak to you slowly, deliberately, teaching you that speed is not the only approach to urgency. There is something about the ocean in you, regular, expansive, open, rhythmic, deep. Remember that there is something so ancient in you and you will not feel compelled to rush.
When I was able to realize (while I feared my life was ending) that my work had neither started nor would it end with my own life, I was able to breathe, not a release from accountability, but a release from my own ego.
This is a gift I want to offer you, earlier than I was able to hold it. I have spoken to you through the minds and mouths of your sisters “climbing poetree“: “raindrop let go. become the ocean.”
I know your small and surrounding confrontations with death and disease over these few years and these recent days frighten you. And your choice to be at once private and public about your fears threatens you further, but remember that these are crucial lessons, introducing you to the shoreline of your own becoming, the connection between your individual life and the life of the community and the universe. Remember that your life matters because we all live through you.
In your hands,