Joanna Macy and her work have inspired me since I first met her, back in the early ‘80s when we were protesting nuclear weapons and she began her teachings about despair and empowerment. A committed Buddhist, Joanna believed above all in presence—the simple power of allowing ourselves to be present with our emotions, even the painful ones, the grief and despair we all felt when we imagined the destruction of the world by fire. She encouraged us not to flee from despair, but to embrace it in the faith that if we let ourselves sink down, we would rise again with more strength, determination and hope. Over time, she broadened what she called The Work That Reconnects, to include deep connection with nature and being present to the pain of witnessing the ravaging of the natural world, imagining ourselves into the consciousness of animals, plants and all beings, and so also opening to the incredible beauty and joy that are still with us.
Joanna inspired many thousands of people over her lifetime. Now she has gone to join the ancestors. She lived for 94 years, and died surrounded by friends and support. Her death is sad, but no tragedy—a fitting, natural part of the cycle of life she embraced.
I deeply regret, now, that I didn’t get to visit with her in these last months. One of my close friends went to see her weekly and has been inviting me for months—but there was always something, someplace to go, some work to be done. It’s a horrible cliché, but nonetheless true, that we always think there’s plenty of time for friendship, for connection, for relationship—until there isn’t. For me, personally, this is Joanna’s last teaching—to treasure and value relationships, and to take the time to nourish them.
My other regret is that Joanna always said she wanted to live to see what she called The Great Turning, the shift in consciousness we so desperately need to make to bring the world back into balance again, and to root our human relations in compassion and justice. She always believed we were on the verge of it. With all the work she did around grief and despair, she was deeply hopeful. I am sorry she didn’t get to see it—that indeed, we seem to be turning in the wrong direction now. Perhaps if we can learn her lessons, if we honor our anger, our hopelessness and our profound sadness at all the losses, we can yet succeed in turning this awful moment around.
May the wind carry her spirit gently, may the fire release her soul, may the water cleanse her, may the earth receive her, may she be wrapped in the arms of spirit and surrounded by the love and gratitude of the many lives she has touched, and in love may she return again.
What is remembered, lives.
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This post has been syndicated from Starhawk’s Substack, where it was published under this address.