The last dawn of the calendar year, and another storm approaching. If the forecast holds, the new year will be born beneath gray skies in a rush of heavy snow.
Today will be a busy day, made all the more hectic by early closures and the need to beat the weather. The light is short enough already; such added pressures telescope the day inward upon itself, leaving scarcely a moment for a single spare stray thought.
It’s certainly not a day conducive to contemplation, to reflection upon the nature of the year departing and the possibility of the one to come.
And yet, both aging spectre and spirit still unborn hang heavy over the day; there may be no time to think, but it’s impossible not to feel the melancholy that attends their exchange of power and presence.
So much undone; so much left to do. So many mistakes, obstacles, detours and hijackings, roadblocks and sheer drop-offs of trial and error, and just plain error all on its own. Such is the human condition, but the constant unrelenting thrum of aspiration that vibrates through these late and early days threatens to paralyze and then bury us all.
Resolution. Revolution. Evolution. It all comes to the same thing: a desire for change for the better thwarted by the overwhelming pressure of societal demand for the same, impossibly regimented and controlled by the bleak conformity of colonial respectability that is woven into the whole word now, a thread of blood still dripping, but also dried and faded bleaker than any winter’s snowscape.
The dominant culture is essentially one of public display, a performative world of enforced spectacle, and spectatorship too. This inherent identity is a large part of how we got here, to this deadly pass.
Wings and I knew, more than two years ago, that performance would save no one. Indeed, we’ve always known that; our peoples have had to internalize this lesson well to survive. But more, it’s a cultural difference, one that knows the value of words and so treats them carefully, whether speaking or hearing, instead of indulging in the wasteful profligacy that permeates the language of the world outside. Such verbally spendthrift behavior is useless at best; more often, it’s actively harmful under the guise of saving souls. The latter applies as much to contexts outside of colonial religion as those within it; these days, often more so.
And now, the light rises; no sun apparent, only the lightening glow of a cold pewter sky. Around the horizon to north and west, violet clouds amass, making ready for their advance upon us at midday. The earth is robed in a heavy white blanket, several inches thick, air still too cold to melt any of the ice. As the storm approaches, we will be busy, hurrying to get everything necessary done before the weather halts our efforts involuntarily.
And as the light fades, and with it the old year of the colonial calendar, the one the whole world uses now, we shall all be on our own, walking into the new world of the coming year — a new world that is unlikely be brave at all, although bravery will certainly be required of us in the process. We shall be permitted no tangible ability to look back, only that rapidly-misty view bestowed by memory. Soon, all that will be left of this year is a shadow, a stain upon the world like the imprint of melted water on rock, not yet evaporated but fading fast.
We must choose wisely, this imprint upon which we focus, this image to carry with us into the new world of the new year.
Perhaps a heart. Not quite symmetrical, edges blurred and imperfect, but a heart nonetheless: one filled with courage and generosity of spirit, with a commitment to honor and truth. A heart filled with love to ease the old world’s passing; love, to bring a new world into being.
~ Aji
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