I wish I were writing this as an effigy to a dead empire. In its stead, I write it as an invocation amid the smoke; part elegy, part ember, whispered into the chasm of what refuses to die, but is dying nonetheless.

The old patriarchal order is not simply declining, it is thrashing in its death throes. What we are witnessing is not strength, but the spasms of a dying beast, desperate to maintain its illusion of dominion.

Like cornered predators, these systems lunge wildly, tearing at anything that dares to awaken, anything that dares to remember wholeness. They are throwing everything at it, sorcery, surveillance, sabotage. Their actions, like rabid animals, are dangerous, poisonous, feral in their desperation.

This is the entropy of empire, and what comes after is us.

It helps me to understand the underlying principles beneath the chaos, to feel the shifting ground below the surface spectacle.

When I sense into it, I feel the earth beneath all this turbulence whispering: Do not be fooled by the frenzy of the dying.

To see that we are not simply living through crisis, we are living through initiation. The world-as-it-has-been is collapsing under its own weight, its architecture no longer able to contain the wild, rising truth of interbeing.

What we are seeing is the final spellwork of a paradigm built on separation. A separation from body, from land, from lineage, from the sacred, that seeks to devour even more, because that’s all it knows: extraction, dominance, erasure.

Power is flailing, not ascending. What we are witnessing is the death rattle of a system built on severance: from land, from lineage, from the feminine, from the more-than-human world.

This is the entropy of empire: Not a sudden fall, but a long disintegration, noisy and cruel. The old spells of domination are breaking apart and with them, the illusion of control.

As these old man made gods fall, something ancient stirs. Beneath the fray, something else is rooting. Something slower. Something sacred.

To understand the chaos is to track the tectonic beneath the tremors. We are crossing thresholds, initiatory waters, and these dissonant seas carry both grief and promise.

The world as it has been is colliding with the world becoming, and our task is not to cling to stability, but to deepen our belonging to mystery.

We are not here to patch the sails of the colonial ship as it sinks.

We are here to remember how to walk the earth barefooted, rooted in kinship and reciprocity. We are here to midwife the wild return.

The return of kinship is not a trend, but a remembering.

A remembering of how to walk in reciprocity.

Of how to pray with our hands in the soil.

Of how to speak across the species, across the veil.

Of how to be human in a web, not a throne.

I hope for a day when I write about the peace that came after. When these words no longer rise from the ashes of collapse, but from the fertile ground of what we have tended together.

Until then, I write with dirt under my fingernails and grief in my chest.

I write as a witness.
I write as a weaver.
I write as one who remembers the future
and is learning how to midwife it
through the howl of the dying and the hum of the soil.

So let the dying scream. Let the poisons show themselves. And let us keep weaving quietly, fiercely, the new-old ways that were never truly lost.