· 4 min read
The old ways carry scars. They carry wisdom. They are a quiet song sung by the wind through the trees, a story whispered by rivers that remember. Colonial hands tried to silence them, to carve borders on the earth and names on the people. But the old ways remain. They stand like stone, worn but unbroken, rooted in the land they belong to. They are not relics. They are resistant.
The land is not a thing to be owned. It is not lines drawn on a map or words in a ledger. It is rivers that run like veins through the earth, mountains that rise like the bones of old gods, skies that stretch like an endless breath. The people who belong to it were forced away—pushed into poverty, tied to fields that were no longer theirs. But the old ways do not forget. They dream of freedom. Not the freedom of fences and flags, but the freedom of balance, of living in harmony with the earth that gives life.
The old ways that still endure
They speak of circularity now, as if it is something new. But the old ways have always known it. Circularity is not an idea; it is a rhythm, like the seasons turning or the tides rising and falling. The land is given because it is cared for. The water flows clean because it is honored.
The world of profit and graphs sees life as a straight line, always climbing. But the truth is simple. Life moves in circles. You take only what you need, and you leave enough for the others. You plant seeds not just for yourself, but for the ones who will come long after you are gone.
Reciprocity is not a word. It is the soil that feeds you because you fed it first. It is the forest that grows because you left it to heal. It is a quiet promise between the people and the land, a vow whispered in every footstep: “I will care for you, and you will care for me.”
Governance rooted in the earth
To belong is to care. The old ways do not conquer. They do not build empires or carve monuments. They build trust, they plant respect, they nurture restraint.
The soil is healed by the trees that grow among the crops. The fish are taken only when there are many. The forest is thinned only when it can spare its limbs. These ways are simple, but they are not easy. They take patience. They take humility.
The world outside does not have patience. It builds highways where rivers once ran. It plows the land until it turns to dust. It is called progress. But the old ways call it ruin.
A new kind of strength
The world believes in the survival of the fittest, a lie told by men who think strength is the same as power. But the old ways know better. The strong survive because they care for the weak. The trees grow tall because their roots share water. The forest thrives because it is connected.
Survival is not about domination. It is about connection. It is about remembering that nothing stands alone—not the hunter, not the farmer, not the tree.
Walking in balance
The old ways carry a vision, a way to walk in balance. They are a bridge between what is and what could be, where the past and the future meet.
The world must stop taking more than it gives. It must stop planting for profit and start planting for life. The answer is not hidden; it is here, in the cycles of the seasons, in the quiet wisdom of the land.
“It’s not just about moving forward. It’s about walking in balance.”
This is the old ways’ challenge: to remember, to care, to leave the world better than it was. It is not an easy path, but it is the only one worth walking. Let us carry this wisdom with us as we step into 2025, a year that demands not just change, but a return to balance, to care, and to the quiet strength of the old ways. Love—for each other, for the planet, for future generations—is the foundation of resilience. Love isn’t just a feeling; it’s a choice. It’s the courage to care deeply and act boldly.
illuminem Voices is a democratic space presenting the thoughts and opinions of leading Sustainability & Energy writers, their opinions do not necessarily represent those of illuminem.
