When I hear of the young shooter who claimed the lives of six muslims in a Quebec mosque, here in Canada some months back and now in court on the edge of conviction, and the websites he’d been studying in the months before his paranoid explosion, – the alt right ravers, the white supremacist racists, and the blame-the-other populists, from lowlife lunkheads issuing diatribes from mum’s basement to elected populists brandishing slogans from castles of purity,
I not only feel sadness at the tragedy of his merciless attack and sympathy for his helpless victims at prayer, but also a melancholy knowing that the proposed integration of the myriad races comprising the sentient expression known as humanity will take its time in achieving the goals of oneness and equality built into its conception and evolution as envisaged by the shepherding spirits overlighting the planet,
and that it is our special burden, as old souls spreading serene acceptance onto the fields of reactive anger we see all about us, to embrace the turmoil that would tear tribes apart, and with our reserves, transmute it into tender forgiveness, the energy that empowers the act if not the act itself,
and then wait patiently as this divine virus makes its way about the globe, through the decades and perhaps centuries, as we wind in and out of incarnation, attending to the details of our personal karma as other souls, trapped in form and belief, slowly release their fears and limitations, allowing themselves to blend with the strange and foreign until all are equal in potential and fulfilment.
When I read of the demagogues insisting on democracy, while pandering to the prejudices and paranoias underlying ancient blood loyalties and their memories of injustice, and lining the pockets of their family and friends at the expense of the proudly impoverished imbibing their untruths and gorging on the thinly veiled hate that hounds them into borders to stare outward suspicuously,
I feel the sadness at the poverty of spirit which binds such tribes into defensive postures when they could be embracing the sweet shock of the new and the joy of variety, but I know these knots will unravel as the tugging which creates them lets go its grip and younger generations take the road not traveled by dad and grandad to greet the exotic stranger in the light of wine and dance, entwining their limbs to bring forth a new breed who care not for the chains of history, prefering the prizes bestowed on brave pioneers pushing the envelopes that cultures create.
When I sit in cafes, such as the one in which I write, and watch as many faces, framed but not contained by the ethnic origins, share food and chatter in each other’s company, carelessly yet politely as our various languages careen about the room, making a dleighful music to accompany the nods and gestures, I see the future has birthed itself in locations where it has been welcomed, and I can feel the many cities which share such vivacity, venturing their example to light up the shadows which inevitably surrounded them. The future is here, even as the past clouds its radiance.