For You Now

Preparing for the inevitable

For Us Now

Each day, the buried seed under the snow and frozen dirt

rests and prepares itself for the inevitable.

Some may be broken and stuck under a rock

Who’s to say which ones will grow?

(Who can say?)

They shimmer in February to push through into spring

to the waiting light

No one told me or warned us enough

that things could be so dark, so cold

Or that one seed from a pumpkin could take over an entire garden

For us now

We must shimmer in the cold and dark

Then push through

Through the dark, cold dirt to the light

To later walk through the garden of trichomes—that sting a little on purpose

The promise of fruit and flowers is here

But not yet arrived.

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We are all feeling the darkness around us.

It’s in our bodies before it’s in our thoughts—the way we wake with a low hum of unease, the way we scan the day ahead for what might go wrong, the way safety feels suddenly provisional. What I want from you—and for you—is not false optimism, and not turning away. I don’t want us to rush toward reassurances that bypass what is actually happening.

What I want is for us to listen for the shimmering—
in me, and in our communities.

Because what we are witnessing right now—seeing abusive people and bullies in power getting away with it—feels achingly familiar to many of us. It doesn’t just feel political or abstract. It feels intimate.

It echoes the experience of being told, If you tell, I’ll kill you. It brings back the memory—and the lived reality—of no one listening, of there being no adults in the room, no one with power willing to step in and protect you. That particular terror—the combination of danger and abandonment—has a way of lodging itself in the nervous system.

We are watching versions of that dynamic play out again: in families, in institutions, in communities. We see what happens when others align themselves with the abuser, excuse the harm, minimize it, or decide it’s safer not to see. Silence masquerades as neutrality. And those being harmed are left to absorb not only the abuse, but the knowledge that it will not be met proportionately.

For people of color, for those who are marginalized, for those of Asian descent, for our transgender friends, for those labeled trespassers—this is not new. They have always known they could be targeted, and that others might not step up when the violence is done to them. They have lived inside this imbalance for generations, carrying both the harm itself and the knowledge of how unevenly it is held by the world.

Now, many white folks are beginning to feel this in our bodies in the same way. There is a deregulation happening—we wake with an unease we can’t quite name. There is a constant background scan for safety, stress, and uncertainty about what’s to come. This isn’t imagination. It’s information.

This is real.
And it matters that we name it.

Still, this is not a call to collapse inward or turn away. It is not an invitation to numb ourselves or pretend we can’t feel what we clearly feel. Instead, it’s a way of turning inward and outward—grounded in yourself, rooted in your body, connected to others.

Not pushed, but called.

Called to take care.
Called to action.

Called to create.
Called to find your people—your friends, your tribe, your circles of integrity and courage.

For me, walking outside is my first go-to. It always improves things. It doesn’t distract me from what’s real; it gives my body something honest and rhythmic to engage in. Movement reminds me that I am still here, still able to respond, still connected to the ground beneath my feet.

Alongside that, I practice finding the good, the simple, the beautiful—wherever I can, every day. Not as denial, but as nourishment. Beauty doesn’t erase what’s happening, but it strengthens our capacity to meet it.

This is how we shimmer in the cold.
This is how we prepare for what is inevitable. (the danger and sunlight)

The light is not here yet.
But the seeds know what to do.

And so do we.

Writing Prompt

Listening for the Shimmer

Write about a moment—past or present—when you sensed something before you could explain it. A bodily knowing. A subtle readiness. A quiet “not yet, but soon.”

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Active Contemplation

Turning Inward and Outward

Sit with this sentence:

“Not pushed, but called.”

Notice what arises in your body when you read it.
Where do you feel resonance? Where do you feel resistance?

Without forcing an answer, let the question live with you for a few minutes:

What am I being called toward right now—not by fear, but by intention?

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Contemplative Action

Shimmer Practice

Once today, take a walk—short or long, slow and steady.
As you walk, look intentionally for three small signs of life or beauty:
something in winter rest, something enduring, something waiting.

What are they turning toward?