Welcome to Year One

The ground is cleared. Today, we plant the first seed.

Dear friends

If you are entering this new year feeling worn out, this is for you.

Life feels unbearably heavy right now. To love a country that seems intent on breaking itself is a specific and exhausting kind of heartbreak. I know that you are tired, and I know that the horizon looks dark.

It is natural to fear that this darkness is the end of the story. But if we look at the natural world, darkness is almost never a finale; it is a vessel, an incubation. It is the condition necessary for seeds to split open and for deep roots to take hold.

Darkness is not a void where nothing exists. It is not where things go to die, but where they go to change form.

This darkness is the quiet place where the future is waiting to be born.

There is a rhythm to these things, if we know where to look. According to the ancient art of numerology, we have just come to the end of a long, nine-year cycle.

The year we have just left, 2025, was a Universal Nine Year. In this tradition, the work of a Nine Year is the work of completion and dismantling. It is a time when old structures and old certainties are taken apart to make way for what comes next.

Living through a time of dismantling is exhausting. It feels like the world is coming undone. When the things we rely on are being pulled apart, it is very hard to find hope when all we can see is rubble. But it is also true that we cannot build something new until the ground has been cleared. That clearing away, as painful as it has been, is necessary to make space.

Now, we have crossed the threshold into 2026. This represents a Universal One Year. It is the very beginning of a new cycle.

If the last year was defined by the painful dismantling of the world as we know it, this year must be about the slow, steady work of beginning again. The heavy lifting of the past year was to survive the wreckage; now, we turn to the task of creating the world in which we want to live.

We do this not because we expect a harvest tomorrow — good things take time to grow — but because the act of planting is, in itself, a declaration of faith.

But first we must learn how to take root ourselves in a landscape that has been decimated. We cannot be delicate things that need protection. To survive here, we need to become the kind of plant that flourishes in the rubble.

We need to become like the dandelion.

In a system that demands uniformity and compliance — like a manicured lawn, or an autocratic goverment — the dandelion is technically a defect. It is a “weed”, but that is exactly why it matters.

The dandelion is a master of survival in a hostile environment.

It is the first to arrive when the ground has been scorched or trampled hard, and does not wait for an invitation. It drives a taproot into the most compacted, inhospitable earth — the very soil where nothing else can survive — and it breaks it open. It creates space in the hardpan for air and water to return. And so, we must learn to do the same. In a time when our society feels equally hardened — compacted by fear and isolation— we cannot wait for conditions to be perfect. We must grow right where we are, however inhospitable the ground. By remaining kind and keeping our hearts open, we create small cracks in the hardness where connection becomes possible again.

But when our communities are stretched to breaking point, we cannot survive only by drawing from each other. We are all too tired. Instead, we must drive our taproots past the exhaustion of the human layer, deep into something greater. We must anchor ourselves in the all-present knowledge, power, and love which underpins all things. Whether you think of that as nature, Spirit, or the creative force of the universe, it is a source that cannot be depleted. When we are fed by that deep connection, we bring a strength into the world that originates beyond the struggle — that’s what gives us the power to break the earth open.

Crucially, the dandelion bypasses the surface. While the lawn depends on the gardener or volatile weather to survive, the dandelion draws from a stable source. We must make this same shift. Much of the "surface" of our world — the relentless news cycle and political noise — has become toxic, steadily poisoning us. To thrive, we must stop drinking from it. When we are connected to Infinite Intelligence, we no longer need to be plugged in 24/7 — we can trust Spirit to guide us. We will be gently prompted when we actually need to turn to the news, freeing us to give our attention to things the system cannot reach: our local communities, our families, and the skills of our own hands.

And consider how the dandelion faces the storm. The fierce winds that snap the branches of the strongest oak or topple the tallest pine pass right over the dandelion. It lies low, bending flat against the earth, waiting for the gale to pass. It survives not by fighting the wind, but by refusing to be brittle. There is a vital lesson here. When the winds of authoritarianism blow, we must not mistake rigidity for strength. If we try to stand stiff against every outrage, we will snap. To survive, we must learn to conserve our energy and keep our heads down, knowing that flexibility is not cowardice. It is the strategy that ensures we are still standing when the storm passes.

But the dandelion does more than just survive the gale; it uses it. When the dandelion transforms into a collective — that fragile globe of seeds — the wind becomes its ally. The same storm that breaks the tree is the force that carries the dandelion’s seeds to new ground. We must build our lives like this. We must stop relying on single structures or leaders that can be easily uprooted. Instead, we must decentralise our care and our resources, building networks of care that cannot be stopped. If a community hub is closed, or a specific group is dispersed, the work does not end. Because we are not dependent on a single location, the shared purpose simply travels with us, taking root in new forms and in new places that are impossible to police.

Whether it is the boot that kicks it or the storm that blows it, these attempts to destroy the dandelion only serve to distribute it. It settles in the cracks of the wreckage, insisting on life where there should be none.

The dandelion is the most stubborn, resilient, and life-affirming thing I know. That’s why I’ve made it the new logo of this newsletter — as a reminder, each time you visit of the quiet, unbreakable power each of us holds.

It is this spirit we must bring to the work of 2026. We are done with the dismantling of the Nine Year; the ground is cleared. Now, in this Universal One Year, we turn to the task of creation. We need not just to survive the rubble; we need to use it. With the tenacity of the dandelion, we are ready to plant the seeds of the future.

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Wayfinding for 2026

For the year ahead, I offer you this intention. May it serve as a lantern when the path disappears, and a sturdy wall to lean against when you feel you can no longer stand.

May you protect the softest parts of your heart. Authoritarianism demands hardness. It wants you cynical, numb, and reactive. Do not give it that victory. May you guard your capacity for joy, for art, and for kindness as if they were strategic reserves.

To remain human in an inhumane time is not just self-care; it is a radical act of defiance. May you refuse to let the noise of the world steal the quiet of your soul.

May you find peace in the planting, not the harvest. We are conditioned to look for immediate results, but history is long, and the arc of justice moves slowly. May you release the burden of needing to “win” today. Instead, may you find deep satisfaction in simply being the person who planted the seed of truth, even if you do not live to see the tree. May you trust that no act of integrity is ever wasted, even when it is unseen.

May you understand that rest is not surrender. The machine of oppression relies on your exhaustion. It wants to grind you down until you look away. Therefore, resting is not quitting — it is sharpening your blade. May you sleep deeply and without guilt. May you step away from the news when you must, knowing that the fight will still be there when you return, and you will be better equipped to face it.

May you remember that you are part of a hidden geography. When you feel small and isolated, may you sense the invisible threads connecting you to millions of others who are also awake, also watching, and also refusing to comply. You are not a solitary candle in a gale; you are part of a vast, quiet wildfire of decency. May you feel the presence of those standing beside you in spirit, even when the room is empty.

May you possess the discipline of hope. Not the flimsy hope that expects magic, but the gritty, muscular hope that looks a hard reality in the eye and says, “I will still work for a better future.” May your hope be a practice, not a feeling, the sturdy boots you put on every morning, to help you stand regardless of the weather.

May you stand tall in your own truth. When the world tries to bend reality, may your mind remain a sanctuary of clarity. May you trust your eyes and your gut. May you be the rock that the tide breaks against — worn smooth perhaps, but never moved.

Go boldly into this year, my friends.

We are stronger than the things intended to scare us, and we are not alone.

In solidarity, as ever

— Lori

© Lori Corbet Mann, 2025

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