This morning began with a steady cracking on. Not a blaze of glory or a divine download—just the slow, quiet forge of commitment. I’m doing what I can with what I have, preparing the ground so the structure of this work can hold me, can hold others. The New Earth is not some glittering idea anymore—it’s the roof I live under, the rice in my bowl, the space I must protect to keep creating.
A friend challenged me yesterday, in love. He said: “Everyone’s talking about duality on Instagram. What makes your view different? What’s your unique frequency?” And I heard it. He’s right. What is mine? Where is the edge that cuts through the noise?
I was shown to love war — because when we cling to peace, we reject half of the whole. In seeking only the light, we resist the dark, and in doing so, we perpetuate duality. The more we chase peace as an ideal, the more life brings us war to break the infatuation. The only true transcendence comes through embracing both, without judgment. When we stop labelling the outer world as right or wrong, we stop projecting those judgments inward. That is where truth begins. I remembered that moment in the ceremony, when Ayahuasca led me into the heart of war, not to fight it, but to love it — and in doing so, dissolve the charge that kept me trying to “stop” what simply is.
That wasn’t regurgitation. That was truth unearthed through the body, through grief. That is the tone of The New Earth. It isn’t motivational—it’s ancestral. It’s not polished—it’s prayer.
I’m not on speaking terms with most of my family. That used to sting. Now it just… is. I speak to those building this with me—Mel, Penn, Daniel, Shade. My circle is small, but it’s real. Even here in Sri Lanka, it’s lonesome, but I feel the silence is medicine. No distractions while I create. My life will expand again once the roots are deep.
Because this isn’t waiting. It’s tending.
We plant in silence.
We harvest in song.
