Our indigenous hearts seek to gather around the Original Fire. We seek to remember ways of being and knowing that center a collective enterprise of turning on the inward lights, yet one that does not take place simply on weekends, simply in ceremony, retreat, meditation, or on zoom–but one that rather weaves the rhythm of our days through the experience of kinship; of relatedness. We want to sing all my relations to the wind, the trees, the stars, and to our brothers and sisters, and then to share in the activities of daily living accompanying their stories. We yearn to live in a village. Not merely a sudden, a temporary, or a conditional village. But an ancestral village: the real thing.

Do we dare to dream of such beauty here in the endtimes, in a civilization intent on collapse, busy treating us as machines and the world as a mine to be extracted?

I propose to you that it is, in fact, not only the joyously, but the most soberly responsible thing to do. The cauldron of the real is showing us, fervently, that we cannot survive what is coming alone. Be it catastrophe or celebration, the human unit of proper flourishing is the village. This is not a class, but the womb of villages. Be therefore appropriately noticed.