29. the earth cries with us

in the cry of the earth, the question of our becoming

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I began writing this from bed at 4 a.m. last Thursday, my entire body pounding with fear.

I had returned to Spain to pack up the small apartment I rented this year near my mother in the south. While there, La Dana—a weather phenomenon caused by a pocket of cold air trapped in the atmosphere, often bringing torrential rain, storms, and flooding to Mediterranean regions—woke me with its fury. Thunder crashed in relentless waves, shaking the walls, and lightning streaked across the sky so brightly it pierced even the covers I had pulled over my head. Sheets of rain lashed against the windows, and when I dared to look outside, the street below had transformed into a rushing river, water rising fast and carrying debris in its wake. Though I was safe on the 5th floor, being alone in this chaos sharpened the edges of my fears. Watching a tree float down the street, I felt impossibly small—like a fragile thread in a vast, unravelling web.

When the storm passed, a wave of relief washed over me. The damage where I was, though noticeable, wasn’t as severe as I had feared. But further along the coast, others weren’t as fortunate. That night’s fear and powerlessness still linger—a heaviness in the air and in my chest. No longer a warning of what’s to come; we are already living it. Once rare, these storms are a recurring reality, growing more robust and unforgiving. They are stark reminders of our fragility in the face of nature’s power and how much we’ve taken for granted. 

The Earth is crying—our Great Mother is crying—and how can we not cry with her?

This pervasive powerlessness has led me to question what power truly means—not just the kind that dominates but the kind that endures. So often, what we call “power” in this world—economic systems that hoard wealth, policies that oppress, and hierarchies that enforce inequality—isn’t power. It’s abuse and exploitation. It’s control wielded at the expense of others, twisting the concept of power into something harmful and disconnected. But the word power comes from the Latin potere, meaning potential—a reminder that true power isn’t about control. It’s an inner resource, already within us, waiting to be realised. Real power doesn’t coerce; it connects. It’s quieter, intrinsic, and supportive. It links us to one another, the Earth, and something far greater than ourselves. True power grows not in isolation but when it is shared.

In moments like these, when the weight of all our colliding crises feels unbearable, it’s easy to feel so unmoored and lost, as though caught in a storm with no way to steady ourselves. But perhaps this darkness is also an invitation to remember our capacity to care, create, and connect. This isn’t about heroics or trying to shoulder the world’s burdens alone; it’s about realising that our strength is most significant when shared. True power isn’t loud or boastful—it moves through quiet actions that ripple outward, through the small but meaningful ways we show up for each other and the Earth.

This reckoning continually forces me to face my own search for belonging. After so much constant moving, insecurity, and change, I’m still finding my footing, wondering how and with whom to build a life aligned with who I am becoming. At the same time, I recognise that survival—ours and the planet’s—depends on finding one another and creating local, tenacious communities rooted in mutual care. In a time when powerlessness feels overwhelming, community becomes a source of strength—a way to anchor ourselves when the storms of the world continue to rage.

As Pluto transitions into Aquarius this week, marking its stay until 2043, its themes of interconnectedness, community and social awareness feel especially relevant. Aquarius shifts our attention from “me” to “we,” emphasising collective well-being over individual ambition.

Stan Rushworth, a Cherokee author and educator, expressed it so simply and powerfully: that in many Indigenous traditions, life is guided by two primary obligations:

• Serving the planet

• Serving future generations of all species

These traditions recognise that healthy individuals are the result of healthy communities—a truth often ignored in Western settler-colonial culture, which elevates individual rights over collective responsibility. This destructive mindset is glaringly visible in Israel’s ongoing assault on Palestine and Lebanon, where land is pursued at all costs, with complete disregard for the land itself, its people, and their future, compounded by the use of toxic weaponry.

Indigenous wisdom offers a critical alternative rooted in the understanding that everything is interconnected. It prioritises responsibility over entitlement to the Earth, each other, and future generations. Both the Indigenous worldview and the Aquarian age call on us to embrace collective care and mutual accountability. They remind us that survival is not an individual endeavour; it’s a shared responsibility. The mountain, they say, is not for one to conquer alone—it’s for all of us to climb together.

How far we’ve strayed from this wisdom, living as though we are separate from nature, imagining we can use her, abuse her, control her. The truth is humbling: nature doesn’t need us to survive, but we cannot survive without her. Every breath we take, every sip of water, every seed that nourishes us depends on the delicate balance she sustains. And yet, we’ve forgotten. We point to the tap and forget the rain and rivers. We breathe without thinking of the trees. We eat without acknowledging the soil, sun, or pollinators. We live as though this connection is optional, as though we can thrive while dismantling the systems that support us.

Not only do the ‘powers that be’ not care, but they are to blame. But this indifference cannot deter us from our obligations. No matter what destruction is wrought around us or how overwhelming the apathy is, these obligations help us remain steady. Giving up is not an option, and hope alone is not a plan.

True decolonisation begins with rediscovering the humility of living in alignment with the Earth. The great laws of life are already in place; our task isn’t to create relationships with the planet but to remember the existing ones. We cannot undo the devastation in our lifetimes. That truth feels both gutting and liberating. It reminds us to do the best we can with what we have, to respect the work of those who came before us, and to lay the groundwork for those who will come after us. The sweetness of life cannot be manufactured; it is already here, waiting to be recognised and protected.

The work ahead asks us to stop, look, and listen—to set aside power and profit as priorities and instead rebuild community and protect the Earth’s systems that care for us all. There is plenty of work to do, and our shared obligation is to begin.

There’s no tidy way to frame the enormity of what we’re facing. Things are messy and will likely grow messier—more violent, painful, and uncertain. But perhaps in the cracks of despair, there is room for something else to take root: a new way of being, living, and caring for each other and the Earth.

As we move deeper into the Age of Aquarius, the time of the individual is passing. Water, grief, and the Earth’s tears are ours to hold and share. May the storms of our time remind us that we are tethered to the land and each other, inseparably and beautifully so.

May we return to safety and solidarity through community, even amidst destruction. May those who are vulnerable be met with compassion and care. May those with the strength to act step forward with humility and courage, with open hands and hearts.

Blessed be, my friends. Let’s hold each other tightly through this storm.