Avoid gurus. Follow plants.
The call is coming from beneath the forest floor.
Mystery is the first medicine.
Let yourself be confounded. Let the unnameable rewire your nervous system.
Poetry is the people’s pharmacy.
The right story, told at the right time, can reseed the soul.
We remember what was lost by using what’s obsolete.
Dialing a hotline is time travel. It’s a spell in mono. It’s a ritual in real time.
This is a cross-state transmission.
You don’t need a guru when you have a ham radio and a good antenna.
To receive is a radical act.
We do not scroll here. We sink. We let the moss have its way with us.
Your thoughts have roots. Let them decompose.
Field notes aren’t for publication. They’re for the compost pile. Let what you write become soil.
You are a natural disaster, not a branded asset.
Be incoherent. Be unsearchable. Be unreadable by the machine.
Place is the original practitioner.
Wellness lives in the wind that knows your name and the dirt that remembers your body.
This project is a spore.
Pass it along. Let it take root in unlikely places. Under a car windshield. Inside a group chat. Wheatpasted to a telephone pole. Spoken aloud in the bath. Offered back to the land that made you.

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