Cindy Milstein (they) on Nostr: It’s been “unseasonably” beautiful outside the past several days—both autumn, ...
It’s been “unseasonably” beautiful outside the past several days—both autumn, spring, and summer all at once, with a nip of winter crispness one morning.
Maybe seasons, in some recognizably comforting way, are a thing of the past—a yearning for something that never was, yet felt closer to what could be, as in knowing our humble place in the interrelationality of many beings. And we need to know that to avoid the hubris that catalyzes metaphoric—and lately literal—hurricanes of utter devastation.
Colonialism has stolen the cycles, rhythms, and interdependence of time. Capitalism has messed up time by capturing, counting, and commodifying it. And fascism is driving a linear dagger through it, killing off any time outside of itself.
It’s a wonder that sometimes our animal bodies react in the best of ways to weather, overpowering our pragmatic mind, and the tasks that this social order imposes on us; overpowering the very structures intent on murdering off what’s left of our ability to dream beyond the “what is,” toward horizons that look as gorgeous—even for fleeting moments—as the flaming red-orange-yellow trees this fall against brilliant blue skies and still-green plant life. The trees know nothing of “red” and “blue” states; they only know the tender whisper of the breeze, gossiping between branches, singing of the birds, humming of insects, and playful scampering of squirrels. Life.
So despite work and worry, despite doom and despair, I’ve found myself outside for hours—“doing nothing.” Letting my body wander where the spectacle of autumn takes my feet. Letting my nerves calm and heart open. Letting in the fecundity of nonhuman nature as the ground for my imagination to unfold abundantly. Feeling my way toward strivings for liberation and freedom that stretch back millennia, and are the stuff of “unseasonably” beautiful resistance, uprisings, and self-governance when least anticipated on a Gregorian calendar that tries to regiment time.
It struck me that my body is replenishing my reserves for this coming week, when fascism vs. fascism means we all lose, but all must also keep fighting for “the beautiful idea.”
(cardboard sign, Montreal, August 2024)
Maybe seasons, in some recognizably comforting way, are a thing of the past—a yearning for something that never was, yet felt closer to what could be, as in knowing our humble place in the interrelationality of many beings. And we need to know that to avoid the hubris that catalyzes metaphoric—and lately literal—hurricanes of utter devastation.
Colonialism has stolen the cycles, rhythms, and interdependence of time. Capitalism has messed up time by capturing, counting, and commodifying it. And fascism is driving a linear dagger through it, killing off any time outside of itself.
It’s a wonder that sometimes our animal bodies react in the best of ways to weather, overpowering our pragmatic mind, and the tasks that this social order imposes on us; overpowering the very structures intent on murdering off what’s left of our ability to dream beyond the “what is,” toward horizons that look as gorgeous—even for fleeting moments—as the flaming red-orange-yellow trees this fall against brilliant blue skies and still-green plant life. The trees know nothing of “red” and “blue” states; they only know the tender whisper of the breeze, gossiping between branches, singing of the birds, humming of insects, and playful scampering of squirrels. Life.
So despite work and worry, despite doom and despair, I’ve found myself outside for hours—“doing nothing.” Letting my body wander where the spectacle of autumn takes my feet. Letting my nerves calm and heart open. Letting in the fecundity of nonhuman nature as the ground for my imagination to unfold abundantly. Feeling my way toward strivings for liberation and freedom that stretch back millennia, and are the stuff of “unseasonably” beautiful resistance, uprisings, and self-governance when least anticipated on a Gregorian calendar that tries to regiment time.
It struck me that my body is replenishing my reserves for this coming week, when fascism vs. fascism means we all lose, but all must also keep fighting for “the beautiful idea.”
(cardboard sign, Montreal, August 2024)