I spend most of my life protecting myself, securing resources, manipulating my environment to feel safe; we all do. Modern life has no tribe, no church, no piece of land: only the struggle for advancement. Economic power. I know this, I think I fight against it, but the answer is, I don’t, not really. Some mornings I wake up with overwhelmingly sad realization that I passively accept the conditions of my reality just like everyone else does; that as I’ve gotten older, I’ve grown less radical in my choices, the spirit in which I live. This feeling, this discomfort, is the feeling of a soul, my soul, struggling to keep its roots in my body, like a plant growing in arid soil; the feeling of those roots pushing their way through my brain, heart, and lungs. My more or less secular prayer is to be sensitive to life while I have it; while I am it.