Dawn's Early Message

Prior Life Learning

If my life were digested into one of those narrative songs, popular in the 70s, it would be sung by Cher, and might well have been: Gypsy's, Tramps and Thieves. Well, okay; Maybe, not quite that scurrilous. But, certainly, my life by the time I was 30 had a parlay of escapades, adventure, wild meanderings, alongside an equal measure of noteworthy accomplishment and moderate medleys of success. 

Above all, my greatest pride and joy was mothering a bright and talented boy. Although, his conception was less than idyllic. At the age of 16 going on 17, I became pregnant and despite being so young, I loved being a mom. Only in those years, being a single head of household was not what it is today. Those were the 60s, and that's when a lot of us girls, and us boys, started to learn to do things different . . . a lot differently, to hear the old folks tell.

The Uterine Sphere

There is a form of knowing that precedes language, a "womb knowing" where two dwell as one. A shared pulse of potential, no matter how ill conceived? 

David was born more a companion than a child. He was captive to an immature girl. From the start, a warrior with the heart of a poet, much more talented than I. He lived in the crossfire of my own demanding nature. I am a woman who has often needed the kind of control that creates others in my own image. I was a natural born "crusader," a broadcast journalist, a seeker-but underneath that radiating charisma, lurked insecurity and worse.

As a mom, I was among the lucky ones: David was bright and even-tempered. Since his dad and I were divorced early-on, I knew better than to raise no momma's boy. So, I made sure there was a solid system of consequence and reward. I was lucky, too. I had a keen ambition, a kind of hypo-manic personality that carried me well into sales, then into a job with a small town newspaper. At the same time, I worked nights as a barmaid . . . Harper Valley PTA had nothing on me: I was president of David's Parent Teacher's Association; Den Mother to his Cub Scouts; Score Keeper to his Little League Team.  Did I mention being somewhat of an overachiever?

One year marching down Main Street leading David's Scout Troop 301, decked out in our gold and blue uniforms, we passed by the Long Branch Saloon where I tended bar on Friday nights. One of the regulars called out for all to hear, "Hey, guys, Isn't that our barmaid?" And, in quick retort, one of my cubs responded, "No, Sir. She’s our Den Mom." And the troop carried on.

In fact, it was while tending bar that I learned how many of the contractors in the area needed part-time secretarial help. I didn't know how to type, but I had a girlfriend who did. On a rented IBM Selectric she taught me the basics, so I could hire myself out as a kind of communal secretary. Soon I was operating a thriving secretarial service while writing a monthly column for the newspaper and the future looked good. 

It wasn’t long before I made the leap from Girl Friday to community outreach and promotions, producing both print and broadcast content, including a weekly motivational slot prompted by the corporate ethos of the area’s major developer: 

The most precious asset any company, or community, or country has is its people. the good things happen only because someone cared enough to make them happen. Care enough. One person can make a difference. - 

Cornell C. Maier, Chair 

Kaiser Aluminum & Chemical Corporation.

The Difference Is You

I became one person making a difference and achieved a decade of dedicated community presence; enough so that I was scooped up to manage a county-wide supervisorial campaign. My candidate was the "front man" of hope: a man of the people according to the brochures that promoted the concept of the common good. Yet, seated at a back-booth at Denny’s, I encountered something not so good.

From the sidelines where I was perched taking notes, a group of very wealthy contributors—the "moneyed interests"—gathered to outline my candidate’s platform. They weren't discussing the needs of the constituents or the "just distribution of resources." They were mapping out guarantees aligned with their collective sense of entitlement, clearly rooted in profit and omnipotence. My candidate sat there, nodding, already bought and paid for.

And he was expected to win, if not for a weakness for booze and "indiscretion.” Thus, a keen political reporter caught him admitting to untoward behavior and small-pond corruption, and just like that, the moneyed interests withdrew and my candidate ended up in defeat.

I felt a devastating sense of loss. It wasn't just the job; it was the realization that politics wasn’t about good leaders looking out for their people. It was a system where elected officials followed the money, and the "trusting citizenry" was kept in a trance state under the notion of the American dream.

In that booth at Denny’s, I saw for myself that the democratic ideals I was raised on in middle class America, didn’t exist. Naturally, I faulted my own lack of "sophistication." Perhaps if I had a college degree, I would have seen the power structure sooner. And just as I managed a successful career in media, I managed to translate that decade of career excellence into a college degree via the University Without Walls, (based on the marvel of Prior Learning Assessment: but I digress.)

In hindsight, I wish David had chosen a similar direction, but after a back-to-back viewing of Rambo and An Officer and a Gentleman, upon his high school graduation in 1983, David opted for all that he could be; convinced Uncle Sam would show him the way.

I certainly wasn’t able, despite marrying above my station, to a man several years older. Not a father figure to me, but certainly one to David. Sadly, despite a storied career and his own semi-celebrity status, a lifelong struggle with depression caught up with him. He took his own life, abruptly ending our marriage of four years.

Despite his sudden and shocking suicide, I was named my community's Woman of the Year, but it would only take three years before I spiraled down to some kind of un-woman of the decade, barely able to fend for myself, let alone my child. 

So, I understood David’s rationale to enlist, while understanding the risks. Despite limited means, I managed a bus ticket to Fort Benning, where I stood in the morning mist and watched twenty young men scatter from the guts of a Black Hawk helicopter marking their graduation from basic training. They didn't walk; they surged in a synchronized rhythm that made the heart beat in time with their collective wave.

The symmetry was hypnotic; I felt a surge of pride that my son was a thread in this magnificent tapestry. I envied David his place in that living fabric-the seductive right-left, the orchestration of hundreds moving as one. Against the backdrop of simulated fire and the sharp report of rifles, it felt as though David had finally found the home ground I couldn't provide.

Home of the brave

Over the ensuing years, I completed my academic studies while living in the YWCA in San Diego, where I volunteered on behalf of the homeless. I chronicled my alignment with bag  ladies, (not far removed from that fate myself), in the prolific ease of my former career.

Two particular events stand up even now. The Y opened up its basement to a few dozen homeless women, each and every night. They were limited to one bag a piece, and could stay between the hours of 7 p.m. and 7 a.m., before heading back to the streets. 

As a resident of the Y's boarding facilities, I  volunteered as a counselor, watching over the women at night. One Sunday evening, as the women arrived, we were watching a 60 minute broadcast on a small portable set in the kitchen.

The program featured San Diego's care for the homeless as a sterling example for the nation to follow. We were a bit unimpressed faced  with whether to provide a handful of Oreo cookies to the women then as a snack, or ration them out for breakfast.

Knowing how limited the resources were for the women, I led the fifth floor residents to purchase and prepare a holiday meal to share with the women from the shelter on Christmas. Having never fed multiple meals before, we pulled off a marvelous hot breakfast with holiday regalia and cheer. 

It wasn't until well into the meal,  we noticed some new guests: the executive director and board members, who unannounced, had their photos taken with the women as if they had been involved. I suppose they had been, but in the PR copy that followed, none of the rest of us were mentioned.

As part of my extra-curricular activity,  I presented and published  a collection of journal entries for a workshop titled “Autobiography for Healing” during Women’s Opportunity Week in San Diego, October 1985. I sent a copy to David, which he would share with the men in his barracks. He told me that after a collective reading, they better understood the women in their lives. I wish I had better understood myself.

Mis & Mers

Given my work with the homeless, David dubbed me Missionary, while he pursued his Mercenary ideals: 

“One day we’ll share a hut in the jungle of El Salvador. There we can have matching towels, embroidered with Mis and Mers. Clearly, my being the Mis (Missionary) and David the Mers (Mercenary).

I would soon learn that the contrasting Missionary/Mercenary labels must transcend the dichotomy of either/or. In order to protect one’s sanity and stay centered in one’s perimeter, the two internal forces must meld. 

The *Missionary* and the *Mercenary* become the sovereign individual in connection with all.

*The Missionary:* It is the heart that seeks social justice." It is the part that still wants to believe in the best of human potential.

*The Mercenary:* This is the part that knows the "Betters" will not give up power voluntarily. It is the cold, sharp resolve required to secure the perimeter of the common ground and say, "No further." The part that sees when humanity has had enough.

Of course, we need both. A Missionary without a Mercenary is a victim.

A Mercenary without a Missionary is a tyrant.

But together, they are no longer divided and look toward a world order where the global citizenry takes the lead.

In concert, they know another world is possible.

The real question is whether another human is possible.

As Bill Plotkin observes: The industrial growth society is simply incompatible with collective human maturity. No true adult wants to be a consumer, worker bee, or tycoon, or a soldier in an imperial war, and none would go through these motions if there were other options at hand. 

Are There Other Options?

There are those who believe in the possibility of other options; in fact, a very different way of being human, where humans move from egocentric ways of being, to an expanded mode of consciousness where humans perceive themselves in alignment with the more than human world: a more holistic awareness where life is seen through a lens of interconnection. 

It is this shift in perspective that ushers in a leap in human consciousness from first tier thinking to second tier understanding of life. Known as spiral dynamics, this view of our species as second sapiens is an option rooted in science, spirituality, neuroscience and information theory that is very much at hand. 

But first. We must transit from the throes of mechanistic thinking and engage the world as essentially sacred, where humanity and the more than human world can co-exist, flourish and thrive.

Sadly, we are a long way from home.

During his initial four years, David earned every rank possible within the space and time allowed: Airborne, Special Forces, Ranger, Sergeant, yet, three months before he was to return home, he chose not to re-enlist. 

While sharing his decision, he spoke about a vague sense of impropriety. He didn't like being made a poster boy for recruitment purposes, paraded around from one high school campus to another, concerned that promises made during the initial pep talks didn't always make it to the dotted lines where boys and girls penned their names. 

He talked about excessive drinking; a sense of entitlement amongst the officers; how it was a joke, getting sucked in thinking you could be both an officer and a gentleman, especially when for Ten Bucks, you could buy a wife and bring her home from the Philippines.

Also, it was peace time, and he was trained for war: apparently that's hard on soldiers trained in 52 different ways to kill. 

He also spoke of his own failures as a young man, saying he had never given 100 percent of himself to any endeavor. Of course, I assured him that he always succeeded beyond expectations. And at the time, I did not appreciate the reference to 100 percent as part of the Ranger’s sacred creed.

Never shall I fail my comrades. I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong and morally straight and I will shoulder more than my share of the task whatever it may be, one-hundred-percent and then some. Gallantly will I show the world that I am a specially selected and well-trained Soldier.

Whatever the reason, David would not make it home for Christmas that year.

Double Exposure

Before my husband’s suicide upended our lives, I stood in a community park in 1980, Nikon in hand, capturing a moment of civic pride: Sam and David, pictured with shovels extended planting a tree. 

Because of a mechanical oversight, the camera failed to forward, stalling the film. We all laughed over the double exposure. The two men I loved, superimposed: their images  bleeding into one another against a translucent silver haze.

At the time, I didn't know it was a prophecy. I didn't know that within years, I would be a "widow" of suicide, and my fourteen-year-old son would be left to navigate a world where his paternal guide taught him how to plant trees; but  also how to leave the earth.

David, my boy, my talented companion, my Airborne Ranger did not find gallantry or honor as the Army promised. Instead, like me in that Denny's booth he came face-to-face with the reality of a system that extracts life while offering only symbols in return. 

He met a sense of betrayal replete with a depth of deception he could not and would not choose to negotiate. He was one of several Rangers stationed in Hawaii who left the island in coffins that year: I was told the suicide rate in their platoon was the highest across the service in 1986.

Gun Metal Gray wrapped in Red, White and Blue

I was wearing red shoes for David's graveside burial in the Riverside National Cemetery. Arriving there after an hour-long ride with David's coffin enshrined in the flag, the driver came around, opened the door for me and as I swung around to get out, one of my red shoes fell off. 

Without pause the driver knelt and put the shoe back on, even addressing me with, there you go Cinderella.

The red shoes were the one sign of courage I brandished that day 

When the officer handed me the ritual flag, a token remembrance for "service to his country," the weight of it was unbearable. It wasn't a memento; it was a receipt for a life conditioned on the American dream. The red, white, and blue flag that accompanied David’s final journey, represented a larger truth. There was something very, very wrong.

O Mother, who had borne me for the grave.

“David,” I wailed.  “Why are you in there?” On hands and knees, sobbing, I pounded my hands on the freshly dug earth announcing his grave. In sync, a precision fly-over of stealth bombers flew overhead from the nearby air base, as if in response.

He's there for the lure of battle and proving one's worth.

As for finding any worth in myself, I was a widow of circumstance and now a Gold Star mom. Given the circumstance of suicide, I was left behind to wonder if I had passed the curse of insanity on to my son. But the "insanity" wasn't just in my blood; it was in the air. It was part of a cultural ethos based on money is everything, growth is unlimited, humans are malleable (except for a chosen few), and enough is never enough.

As if that weren’t enough: in the eyes of a society tethered to rationale and consumption, a woman who loses loved ones to suicide alongside her stability to function becomes a write-off on more than financial sheets. 

And as if that weren’t enough: it wasn’t the first time, I had to reckon with death.

The Underworld demands the truth, 

not the mask.

My sister Linda and I were born eleven months apart. We shared the same age for ten days every year. We shared the diagnosis of manic depression. We shared the weight of teenage pregnancies. But when we hit twenty-five, the path diverged. Linda surrendered, on the white flag of an overdose.

I had toyed with a similar exit, but stayed on because of David. Hobbled completely upon his grave, the pain of leaving others behind, sealed my vow not to follow in the footsteps of my loved ones. Instead, I had to soldier on in their stead. 

Like the mythical goddess Inanna descending to meet her sister in the dark, I was stripped of every robe. Within eleven years, three suicides had claimed the perimeter of my life. I went from the heights of social recognition to the pits of despair.

It was in this nakedness, stripped of the "Journalist" and the "Leader," relieved of the labels sister, mother and wife that I found women's spirituality, learning to communicate with the silence of the grave, the ghosts on the film, and the divine pulse that remains despite all that’s taken in life.

Yes. I had spiraled down the American Dream, but buoyed by academic credence, I stopped blaming myself. I stopped faulting my lack of neural acumen or effort. I realized that what I thought Democracy looked like as a child was actually what *Pro-Humanity* looks like in practice. 

I was finally moving from a state of "Informed Disbelief" to a state of Active Understanding: the struggle was and has always been the rule of the few over the control of the many, and dividing people into boxes, First World/Third World, Movers and Shakers/Moochers and Slackers, Betters/Lessers, Whites/Colored, all serving to disrupt humanity’s essential wholeness by othering: Us versus Them.

So, how do we move beyond the culturally imposed boxes? How does a nation engage in its own prior life learning, its collective shadow work, and emerge understanding that societal constructs are just that: human constructions.

Sinead O’Connor sang: "Help me, help you to behold You." This mutual Beholding is the common ground where we develop communities of care, moving past the societal barriers that keep us in our place, into a place where we can finally see the other, no matter the guise. Where we finally behold others as they truly are.

But seeing others isn’t enough; Not unless it comes with a maturation of perspective, which is nigh impossible in America’s consumer culture with its algorithmic engagement and societal inequities. The requisite shift in thinking is a shift in perception towards a holistic appreciation for life. 

While I stumbled upon this realization, there are thought leaders, activists, academics, scientists, cosmologists and artists (and hopefully even AI) who have been heralding this shift in consciousness for decades. I first encountered this trove of new learning in the seminal book, The Aquarian Conspiracy, by Marilyn Ferguson and Fritz Capra, followed by Capra’s Tao of Physics and then Matthew Fox and his concept of Original Blessing and the Cosmic Christ. This study culminated in a presentation titled Ritual As A Communication Process in 1992, concluding two years of graduate work in human exchange. 

First World Entitlement 101

Soon, it would be time to leave the Ivy Tower and come down to earth.

It’s not surprising I found resonance with the *Jubilee 2000* movement. The mobilization is recognized as one of the most successful global grassroots campaigns of the late 20th century. Born from a coalition of faith groups, labor unions, and NGOs, it utilized the biblical concept of "Jubilee"—a year of rest where debts are forgiven and slaves are freed—to demand the cancellation of "unpayable" debt owed by the world's poorest nations.

The movement reached its zenith with a series of massive, high-profile protests designed to pressure world leaders at G7 and G8 summits between the years 1998-2000. I joined its ranks as one among thousands who formed a human chain around the U.S. Treasury Building. In concert, we formed a symbolic human chain around the Treasury and IMF buildings to represent the "chains of debt" binding developing nations.

From there, I began to see that I wasn’t the only discontent. A majority of Americans were facing levels of dysfunction rooted in society’s making. Anne Schaef captured it all “When Society Becomes an Addict,” whether substance abuse, sexual deviancy, violence or abuse, whatever the consumptive behavior, the root cause was linked to a poverty of spirit, a natural consequence given the mechanistic model of the world, an emphasis on rationale and logic, and systemic power structures ruled by hierarchy and control. 

The realization hit its peak during the anti-war demonstrations in Washington D.C. during the A19 protests. This event specifically bridged the gap between the labor movement and the anti-war movement, bringing together the AFL-CIO, Jubilee USA Network, and hundreds of grassroots groups to protest both "corporate greed" and the impending war in Iraq.

The march was recognized as a massive turning point. It was one of the largest pre-war protests in U.S. history, organized by International ANSWER. This was just days after Congress had passed the Iraq War Resolution.  

In 2002, the media often portrayed protesters as "anti-soldier." However, my presence as a mother of a Ranger suicide victim completely upended the experience for me. During those events, I adopted a new byline as a tribute to my son: Davidson, as my son would always be David. 

My report was featured on the IndyMedia D.C. website and reprinted by the press.

The IMC Legacy:* The Independent Media Centers were the first time "the people" controlled the narrative of a protest in real-time.

Titled Out of the Fog (and density of fear), I was writing as a mother of an Airborne Ranger, and seen the internal wreckage of military life, the systemic decline of the homeless, standing in the middle of a city gripped by the literal “fog” of the sniper attaches and the “density” of a country rushing toward a new conflict. 

I covered the event for IndyMedia, joining thousands of people who were being labeled "anti-American" by the legacy media. Nevertheless, I saw and reported on something else and proudly witnessed  a new breed of world leadership. 

I saw young people who were already so far ahead of me. They didn't need to be "Pro-American" because they were already *Global Citizens*. They understood the elitist arrogance that allows this country to use 80% of the world's resources. They weren't fighting for a flag; they were fighting for the *Shared Pulse*.

The helicopters were a constant whirling reminder of a state that felt it was losing control. I was there as a "Soldier’s Mother" in combat boots, finally finding the "military precision" I had envied in 1985, only here I would join the struggle for global justice and help "marshall" the event for the AFL-CIO, standing guard over a peace that felt as fragile as glass.

I loved the rule based order of the union's training. The title, the faux authority. Being out front, part of something larger than cowering at home, glued to legacy media and its constant CNN coverage of breaking news. Given my son's service and his apparent loss of faith, I wondered if he might have found purpose soldering on, becoming part of the action in the trenches of Desert Storm. 

Had he remained active duty, he likely would have been on the Front lines; instead, he surrendered to the lure of the underworld, eulogized as a soldier's soldier. and mourned by his chain of command as an enigma. 

In the DC Front Lines.

Beside me stood another woman, young and vibrant, her posture as rigid as mine. We didn't talk about the D.C. Sniper, who was at large at the time, or the terrifying certainty of the coming invasion. Instead, she recommended making good use of the time.

"You know," she said, eyes fixed straight ahead on the horizon of the Mall, "as long as we are standing here like statues, we might as well make our stance productive. It's a great time for Kegels."

Here we were trying to halt the machinery of global exploitation, and we were talking about pelvic floor exercises. At first, it seemed like the ultimate irreverence. But as I look back from the wide boundary of 2026, I realize it was the most "Pro-Humanity" moment of the day.

As women in the movement, the first perimeter is the body itself. By talking about Kegels, we weren't just passing time; we were checking our foundations. We were ensuring that the "birth canal" of this new movement—this "living fabric" of dissent—stayed tight and resilient.

Here was another instant of "womb knowing" when you realize that the neural strength of living awareness must be anchored in the physical self. If the core doesn't hold, the line doesn't hold. On that day, rooted to the possibility of a world where all might live in abundance and peace, the call to shared action was more than a concept—it was a practice.

When we laughed about those exercises, we were exorcising the fear. We were saying to the helicopters and the riot gear: “You can encircle us, but you cannot occupy the core.”

We were holding the perimeter from the inside out: a shared conversation about the most private, internal form of female strength.

The Ease of Extraction and Exploitation

Looking out at a 2026 landscape defined by meta-crisis and systemic collapse—whether it is the earth beneath our feet or the womb that carries the future—both have been violated. We see it in the rape of our planetary resources, and we know it in the silence that follows the exploitation of flesh. 

Thus, we turn to the pelvic floor once again, where the physical core of womanhood links to the perimeter of a political movement. Where, literally and metaphorically we are holding space for a new world to be born, even while standing on the asphalt of a protest line. just praying for change; she is physically bracing for the labor of it.

A Momentous Leap In Consciousness

When I speak of "keeping the birth canal tight"—of maintaining the neural strength of living awareness—I am talking about the Reclamation of the Core. Upholding each other, nested in the vibrancy of life. There have been more than a few times when I've experienced this joy. None more public or legendary than a Spiral Dance led by Starhawk at the Dupont Circle in our country’s capitol. 

It was a perfect example of the "Art and Revolution" wing of the movement: using ritual and pagan-inspired non-violent direct action to create a sense of community and "magical resistance" right in the middle of the city's power centers.

After 9/11, the "Global Justice" movement (which focused on the IMF/World Bank and third-world debt) largely folded into the *Peace Movement*. Code Pink was founded in late 2002 to oppose the Iraq War. Many of the same women who organized the Jubilee teach-ins and the GWU workshops found a new home there. The "fasts" and vigils at the White House maintained the moral gravity of the Jubilee movement as did the Spiral Dance, held beneath a Pink Full Moon, with hints of witchcraft (which I chronicled as well, using Frank Sinatra's lyrics to anchor the theme.)

Of course there were drums and chanting but what stayed thru the years was the actual weaving of the spiral - which almost seemed silly without having experienced the actual

steps, so that I worried getting tangled up. But what unfolded was the way we ended up so as to physically exchange direct eye contact with each and every other woman. 

Many my age or older amid a full range of years. I don't recall what we were wearing. It was cold so it wouldn't have been the typical wiccan style of swirling skirts, scarves and jewelried attire. What I recall is those instants of vibratory and energetic exchange, even as we were entangled as one. 

The drums weren't just a sound; they were a vibration in the pavement, traveling up through the chakras of the spine. As the line doubled back on itself, I found myself face-to-face with the "other." I wasn't just walking past people; I was being funneled into their gaze. I looked into the eyes of a woman who could have been my sister, then a girl who could have been my daughter, and then an elder whose face was a map of decades of struggle. 

In those flickering instants of eye contact, there was no fog. There was only a high, ringing clarity. I saw their exhaustion, their hope, and a shared, silent recognition: We are here. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. We were entangled, yes. But for the first time in my life, I realized that entanglement isn’t the same as being trapped.

Still I had much to learn.

And was still too naive and trusting to fully understand.

I graduated alongside icons of the movement from the Z Media Institute in 2004. Among the featured speakers were Noam Chomsky and Amy Goodman as the United States entered the first summer of the Iraq war.

But even then, as Z Media founder Michael Albert instructed, I could not fathom the depth of training being offered there. I could not believe that there was a cabal of political leadership who believed that capitalism and democracy were no longer compatible.

Boy was I naive, even as the philosophy for Project 2025 was then being birthed within the halls of the Heritage Foundation and the minds of so many more.

Thankfully, we as a culture or waking up. And, thankfully, we are coming to understand the difference between awakened and woke.

As Pierre Teilhard de Chardin envisioned, we have moved beyond inanimate matter and biological survival into a layer of collective thought. Through this "Shared Exchange"—aided by the very technology that once sought to manufacture our consent—we are building the Regenerative Web.

I am no longer mourning a son borne for the grave; or the girl or woman who might have been. I am fighting for a planet borne for a future. 

In this, I hope to bring increased awareness to the Jubilee Movement in 2026.  The agenda has shifted from simple debt cancellation to a more systemic fight against global wealth inequality with the 2026 Agenda: "Building a World Where We All Have Enough".

The movement is deeply rooted in the biblical "50th Year" (Leviticus 25), which mandates a reset of the economy. As of 2026, global wealth has reached nearly $600 trillion, yet the gap between the top 1% and the bottom 50% is at historic highs.

The current campaign has moved beyond "dropping the debt" to addressing the "Financial Architecture" of the world.  Since the U.S. is hosting the G20 in 2026, Jubilee USA is mobilizing to push world leaders on debt relief, economic stability, and job creation. As well as linking debt to the environment. 

While we face immense challenges, the very design of our neural biology contains the potential and perhaps even the inherent drive to overcome these obstacles. As Thomas Berry writes "We must invent, or reinvent, a sustainable human culture by a descent into our pre-rational, our instinctive resources . . . What is needed is not transcendence but "inscendence."

Let the Jubilee begin.