The fear is real. Been here all along now so deep in ourselves we don’t even know it’s there

speaking an ancient tongue we don’t have a vocabulary for, so when we hear the voice, we just get scared.

The monster is the hero;

mad scientists build bombs and pills that create more problems than they solve.

The loathing, so palpable now, we taste it on our tongues, smell it on the wind, and feel it underneath our skin. We drink it in our water and eat it in our food, stream it on Netflix and read it to our kids as we tuck them in at night. Bowing and worshiping at its altar when we pray. 

We are at war with ourselves. The invader is within. Limb by limb mangled mouthpieces severing sense. 

The call, the call, I fear the call—

children suffering—guns in schools, 

for supper, lunch, dinner, and brunch.

We call it inevitable, plan for it, and spoon-feed it to our kids in active shooter drills so that practice can make perfect for when the bullets fly—accepting what can’t be accepted. Expecting it. We’ve got to stop. 

William Faulkner said, “Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: ‘When will I be blown up?’”

We’ve got some work to do.

Tomorrow isn’t a promise. So, if this is the end of it, I sure as hell don’t want to go down listening to politicians or pundits telling me how crappy my life is. I want beauty, joy, compassion, the ups and downs, twists and turns, and the dignity and grace of this life, the bounty of this prairie Earth I walk and breathe. Sunshine that is free. Moonlight that flows. A starry glow, e pluribus unum, me and you, this world we’ve created where we can dance and sing and watch our boys play baseball and hear the ecstasy when our daughter laughs and where a smile, or a subtle touch of hand to hand, or lips to lips is the universe.

Progress. Destruction. Beginnings are ends. The circle turns, the wheel spins in the murmur of prayers humming the OM of creation. If you are quiet you can hear it. The realm where knowing, being, and acting are the same. Listen. Lean in and listen. Listen. Listen to your heart’s song pulsing morning to night, a spinning helix of ones and twos, vibrations,

OM OM OM.

We close two eyes so the ONE can open and see the world as infinite and free and try to forget the life that buries us alive in coffins of cancer, of choice sold to us in algorithms listening into our minds bitcoining us to death. We will not be deceived by the lies of false prophets. We will not be blown up by the politics of mutually assured destruction.

“We will not go gently [or] quietly into the night. [We’re gonna] rage against the dying of the light” (Thomas). We will recognize the lateness of the hour and the moment’s dawn. We will lift the veil and bear witness and see and feel and experience and know that inside the fear and loathing of childless cat-women, animal-eating immigrants, and a fascist—that the meanness and the lack and the sadness and uncertainty of it all can be transformed into abundance and joy and wisdom and grace and that all we have to do is blink and open our eyes and a brave new world of love and light and purpose and meaning will appear.

If we ask, it is given, I can hear Abraham whispering. Or maybe it’s Leonard Cohen singing,  

“Ring the bells that can still ring,

Forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack, a crack in everything.

That’s how the light gets in.”

I fear I’ll never get the words right, but maybe somehow this is where the light is. In getting it wrong. In forgiveness. In grace. We’ll have to feel our way to a new path forward. Feel it to find it. Love it to live it. Breathe it and believe it. Choose it. Be IT. 

What else is there? How are we supposed to be yogis in the modern world? Stop paying attention to the news flashes, let go, retreat with our rishis into our caves? Or dive in, engage, immerse in the struggles and strife, and advocate, teach, resist, and serve? Joan Diddion said, “I’m not telling you to make the world better because I don’t think that progress is necessarily part of the package. I’m just telling you to live in it. Not just to endure it, not just to suffer it, not just to pass through it, but to live in it. To look at it. To try to get the picture. To live recklessly. To take chances. To make your own work and take pride in it. To seize the moment.” Carpe diem. I hear you, Joan.

Maybe it’s a balance I seek. We can’t die on every hill. But there are a few desks worth standing up on and shouting, “O Captain! My Captain!” from because some things do matter: our kids, our families, our friends, our health, our happiness, our healing. 

So, I guess this is what we can do. This is how we can live. As yogis, breath by breath, moment by moment, movement by movement, prayer by prayer, meditation by meditation, hope to intention, manifestation to dream. 

There’s nothing to loathe but fear itself. Knowing the questions, we now have a choice. There may be no one out there to save us, so we must save ourselves. 

That’s my choice. To Drink the World. To Live and Give. Nothing is promised. The only time is now. 

This is a way. Choose yours. 

Namaste.

By Ryan Allen & Meghan Nelson