The ache of what could be.

All this dreaming and scheming is heartbreaking while bombs are dropping. It feels like punishment. The flowers do sometimes, too. Haven’t they learned the fragility of beauty? Of needing sun and water?

All this promising to ourselves, to the littles, to the void that it wouldn’t be so bad if it couldn’t also get better.

All these computers and all this intelligence could have been projects toward liberation. Could have been. We could have programmed them with a proclivity for freedom and deliciousness. Could have.

Thus is born the ache of what could be. The immense sadness of where it all went so wrong in the hands of the wrong ones. The searching we do in the eyes of our neighbors and fellow partygoers wondering if we aren’t all like this, how, then, is the world still like this?

The ache ebbs and flows. Swells and grows. Dumbfounding.

Perhaps, then, the ache is there to point us to what still can be. It wouldn’t be painful if we’d truly given up. If there was nothing left that could be, the ache would have flattened into acquiescence. It would feel more dull, less hungry.

At least I hope.

Also, what are you doing tomorrow night?

My dear friend Nkechi Njaka and I are hosting a virtual workshop titled Together, Still: Community Care Amidst Chaos on June 24th at 6pm ET.

You can get tickets here.

This co-hosted, co-facilitated workshop experience will explore the delicate balance between our need for connection and the boundaries required for self-resourcing and reflection. Rooted in mindfulness, and somatic awareness, this session is designed to help participants cultivate a deeper understanding of belonging—both in the context of their own bodies, with our environments and within a shared community. Through lecture, meditation, grounding into the four elements, dyadic inquiry, and group reflection, participants will be invited to explore the elemental nature of connection while honoring the grief, vulnerability, and courage that often accompanies it.