This morning, before the world fully woke, two messages found their way to me. Two visions of this moment we’re living through, as different as darkness and dawn.
The first spoke of monsters emerging from decay, of systems crumbling, of shadows lengthening. A familiar narrative, heavy with fear.
But then came another voice, singing of sprawling in autumn leaves, of feeling Earth alive beneath us, of returning to that five-year-old’s sense of wonder. Of being ‘gobsmacked by the ocean’ and listening to trees whisper their ancient wisdom.
And in that contrast, I found a truth about populism – about people-power – that we too often forget:
Every moment of transition offers us a choice. We can focus on the monsters or embrace the magic. We can surrender to fear or dance with possibility. The power of people coming together isn’t inherently dark or light – it’s a force waiting for our intention, our direction, our collective choice.
I’ve seen this in communities worldwide, where people are choosing the path of wonder. In urban gardens sprouting from concrete cracks, where neighbors gather to grow food and hope in equal measure. In indigenous wisdom keepers teaching us to listen again to Earth’s whispered guidance. In young people gathering in circles, not to lament the world they’ve inherited, but to imagine the one they’ll create.
This too is populism. This too is people-power. But instead of wielding fear as a weapon, it brandishes hope as an invitation. Instead of building walls, it grows gardens. Instead of shouting down, it listens up – to the wisdom of trees, to the songs of children, to the quiet knowing that lives in each of us when we remember to be still.
I know both ways of moving. In my military service, I learned the power of marching – of unity, discipline, and directed force. But I’ve also discovered the transformative freedom of dance – of joy unleashed, of bodies and spirits moving in organic harmony.
Both have their wisdom. Both can move people forward. But after years of marching, I’ve learned that lasting change often flows more like a dance than a parade. When we’re dancing, we can’t help but respond to each other, to the music, to the moment. We naturally create space for each other’s unique expressions while staying in rhythm with the whole.
Some movements demand marching. Others invite dancing. And there’s a profound difference between the two. When we march, we move in rigid lines, against something. When we dance, we move in spirals and swirls, toward joy. Both have their place in transformation, but too often we forget the power of the dance.
This is the kind of community I’m working to build. One that remembers how to be five years old and wise as ancient trees, all at once. One that knows that in times of great change, we need not only strategies and systems, but also sage and slug and star. One that understands that the path forward isn’t just about fighting against what’s dying, but dancing toward what’s being born.
So when people speak of monsters rising from the ashes of old systems, I want to remind them: we get to choose our movements. Both the way we move our bodies and the way we move our world forward.
Some will keep marching – and there are times when that’s needed. But I’m choosing to dance. To move like those five-year-olds in piles of leaves. To spin with the joy of being alive in this remarkable moment of possibility. To sway with trees and skip along shores and invite others into this different kind of revolution.
Because what if the greatest threat to fear isn’t force, but joy? What if the most powerful response to chaos isn’t control, but creative movement? What if the strongest communities aren’t built by marching in formation, but by dancing in celebration?
Now is not just the time of monsters or magic – it’s the time of choosing which way we want to move together. And I’m choosing dance. I’m choosing wonder. I’m choosing to believe that the most revolutionary act might just be remembering how to play.
Will you join this dance?
