Many of you know that I have been holding the space for the geo-political awakening in the US. It is spiritual work that I never thought I would be doing, but there it is, we never know what we will be called to do by the Universe.
I have been led to support the vast progressive up-welling that appears to be a bridge between where we are now and where we will be. This movement has attracted many millions of beings from all walks of life who envision a more supportive, compassionate and united country.
In every instance that I experience, I always look for the gifts that are given to me, and I always find something wonderful. Lily Starling is one of those gifts that have been given to the movement and to me personally.
Lily Starling is a writer, healer, farmer, and 3rd generation activist from Northern California. You can read more of her work at Lily Starling or follow her on Facebook. A conscious witness to the cultural and political revolution in America, she believes it is the right and duty of every person to act compassionately, righteously, and awakened as global citizens for change.
The following are her musings on participating in the events surrounding the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia this past week. She worked as a peacekeeper during that time, and was dismayed that many in the wider world were unaware of what actually occurred during the events.
I was strongly moved by her account, and the deep desire to find heart centered peace in the face of the false narrative. I felt it appropriate to share with you all, so you may understand more deeply the dedication of this progressive groundswell and the daunting obstacles that they faced during their time of standing as one.
When I was very young I had a story book about a young girl who was taken by her mother into the woods to escape a war. Although only a few days passed for the child, when she returned from the woods her mother was a blind crone. After a joyous reunion, they fell asleep in each others arms and together died.
I meant to spend a month on the East Coast. The week in Philadelphia at the Democratic National Convention and related demonstrations, was meant to be the first chapter of a summer journey to places I’ve missed visiting.
But at the end of it, I feel such a compression of time and such unreasonable aging that I am frantically compelled to return home to California and touch the things that were young when I left. My plants, my barely opened books, the new litter of puppies. After this week and the brutal and unimaginable breadth of what passed, I am afraid of staying in the strong and sweeping current of it for too long.
I am afraid that like the little girl, time has changed around me and passed me by, and that I have fallen into a slipstream.
I am not alone in this feeling. Those of us who came to Philadelphia, whether we made it inside the walls of the convention center or not, have a shell-shocked quality that supersedes the heartbreak felt by millions around the planet. There is a touching of walls and a poring over of each others memories. Did that really happen? Could that really happen?
There are photos. There are first degree accounts from people we know and trust. There are the texts and messages we sent, the record of flash adjustments we had to make, the streets we turned on, the locked fences, the barred doors.
But there is a silence that is thick between the stories, an inability to make contact continually through the dense, tropical thunder and the third world streets. I know now why these events are held in the third world cities of America- the cushioning complacency of timeless poverty dampens the outrage and prevents spillover. Yes, nothing changes. What did you expect?
On the third day of the convention, a lightning storm turned the sky jade green and flooded the streets. Inside, the speeches continued amid dark movements in the hallways. A gash on his cheek (did that happen?) The disappearing credentials (did that happen?) The seats filled by actors (did that happen?) The lackluster, robotic words.
In the streets, the marchers in tens of thousands were ignored by the press outside of a cast aside mention, an obvious carving out of bare minimal due diligence.
What happened? Even though we all saw it…what happened?
I was there and even so I doubt the evidence of my senses, because outside of the circle of delegates and volunteers and journalists who fill my news feeds, the week was profoundly un-illumined.
I look obsessively through the posts of those who were there and my notes to back up what was so surreal, such a juggernaut of democratic negation, because I cannot reconcile what I have experienced with the padded muteness around it.
But despite this vast quiet, I feel the potential of what is coming, the dark surge of revelation that will continue to slip through the walls erected to keep the tides of change at bay.
Like the child from my book, I see us pushing through a forest at night, touching moss enshrouded walls, calling out over and over trying to catch glimpses of each other, trying to believe that there are still so many of us moving in the same direction though the way is shrouded and every step a question.
Tomorrow I will be back in California, in the hot light of the burning state where the roads stretch open for miles and sound carries through the dry air. I will be home on the farm where I can touch the leaves and earth that persists outside the machinations of a flawed species evolved beyond its biological imperative.
And stepping back into the sunlight, blinking, I will see that we have come through the darkness together, and joining hands we will walk forward on a lighted path.
Originally posted by Lily Starling on Facebook.