If the old world no longer works, where does that leave you?

This episode is my version of a hug to those who think too much, feel too much, and still somehow choose to believe in magic.

I woke up at 5 a.m., staring blankly at the window where the old oak tree in my yard stands, bare-limbed and resolute as always. I find her so utterly beautiful.

Its branches, stripped of leaves, look like veins against the colorless cold sky. Sprawling, tangled, alive in it’s own emptiness.

And a voice inside my head (that sounds much older) croaks back at me:

“You’re not okay. And okay, all at the same time.”

The voice is hoarse, like it’s been inflamed from years of suppression. It does not sound like my mother’s, though for years it did. No, this one is older. Much older.

It carries the weight of something ancient and immovable, something that has witnessed countless revolutions, countless endings, countless misguided attempts to outpace the inevitable cycles of life.

And when I close my eyes, I feel it.

The voice is coming from the oak tree itself.

Channeling My Yard’s Oak Tree

I see you, Michelle.

Every morning, you stare at me. Watching the planets shift between the death of Pisces and the restless birth of Aries. You call yourself a tragic optimist, and you call this era a Tower moment.

But you already know…this didn’t happen overnight.

You humans. We. are watching a world reset. This is not a glitch in the matrix. This is a collapse and a restructuring so profound that even the air carries the charge of it.

The unease. The inhalations that are shallower, the collective nervous system bracing for impact.

I feel it through the exhales of the humans around me.

Humans. They are funny in a way that they always think they are separate from history. Until they are not. I have stood here for 250 years, long before you c alled this land The United States of America.

Long before the land beneath you had borders, long before men drew lines in the soil and called them nations. I have seen people rise and fall, fight and love, build and burn.

Human history has shown this.

From the Holocaust.From Pol Pot’s regime.From Gaza.From Ukraine.From Tiananmen Square.

You may not remember. But your past lives remember. Your ancestors remember.

Genocide is not new. Greed is not new. I have seen people slaughtered for this land long before your modern wars, before your digital battles of ideology. I have seen the human heart stretch itself to impossible capacities of both violence and love. I have witnessed your kind at your highest and your lowest frequencies, spiraling, playing them out like a song stuck on repeat.

And now? You feel it in your bones. The unraveling.

You don’t need me to tell you that a shift is happening. You don’t need another headline to remind you. Institutions that once seemed unshakable are buckling under their own weight. The systems built on control and punishment are rotting from the inside out. You call it the economy, politics, power. But I call it the weather of the universe.

Storms come. Structures fall. Life will always continue.

And yet, you wait. humans wait. Holding your breath. Hoping for the world to course-correct, for something external to signal that it’s safe to move forward.

But here’s the truth you already know: the world is not going to get better anytime soon. At least not in the way you’ve been conditioned to expect. Not in the way that restores a false sense of certainty. Know that destruction always com