In the blackened soil of a wildfire, quickened seeds stir. Some trees need fire to open their cones, to release the next generation into the ash-covered earth.
They are the indigenous, the sensitive empathic misfits, and the exiles. The poor, the forgotten grandmothers, the mothers and the midwives. The gentle-men who know how be strong in service to life. The artists, the singers, the dancers and the community builders.
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It is a transformation. Remember?
Fire is always transformation. As it has been since the beginning of time.
Maybe humans are just that kind of tree?
I look at my children and wonder about world have they chose to be born into.
Who will survive and live to tell the tale after this global rampage cools and stills?
The ones this unbalanced patriarchal system has tried to erase, silence, exploit, disenfranchise and discard.