I remember raking leaves in our backyard in Bellerose, a quiet neighborhood pressed against the city line. As a kid, that line felt far away—beyond the streets I walked, past the middle school, past Little Neck Parkway. Every fall, the leaves piled up, covering the small yard. One year, after we raked them into a massive heap, my dad spread a blanket over the top, turning it into a soft, crunching bed. We jumped into it, let ourselves fall, knowing we’d land safely. It was pure, exuberant joy—something weightless, something free.
Now, decades later, the world feels heavier. Instead of a steady cycle of growth and renewal, overgrowth has taken over—unchecked power, polarization, and the hijacking of what once held us together. Society isn’t being carefully pruned for better growth; it’s being hacked down, torn apart. The blanket of shared understanding that once softened our landings is fraying. If this continues, there won’t be any leaves left to pile up, no place to jump, no moment of weightless joy.
But what if that overgrowth could be composted into something fertile? What if, instead of being buried under the decay of division, we came together—like feet pressing grapes into wine, like children crushing leaves into the earth—breaking down what has hardened, making space for new growth? The ground can right itself again, but not without our effort. We must restore what’s been lost, not by erasing the past, but by returning to what made it whole in the first place. The joy is still there, beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered.
Spiritual Gravity 