A cherry blossom drifts in the air, delicate, unnoticed—until it touches the nose. A sneeze follows, sudden and unstoppable, a reflex before the mind even registers the cause. This is how awareness works. Something subtle shifts in the environment, but we dismiss it until the reaction is unavoidable.
Power functions in the same way. A slow erosion of democratic norms, the tightening grip of an authoritarian hand—these changes start subtly, like petals falling one by one. A restriction here, a dismissal of judicial oversight there, a normalization of once-outrageous behavior. People adjust, rationalize, adapt. The discomfort is small, and no single moment demands action.
Until the sneeze. Until power oversteps so clearly that the body politic can no longer ignore it. By then, the structures meant to prevent collapse may already be too weak. The question is: must we wait for that involuntary jolt to respond? Or can we recognize the first signs—the first cherry blossom touching our skin—and act before the sneeze is forced upon us?
A pinch of pepper, a breath of cherry blossoms—one irritates, the other enchants. But both awaken the senses. Democracy requires that kind of attention, a presence sharp enough to detect the smallest shifts before they build into crises. The moment to act is when the petals first fall, not when the storm has already stripped the tree bare.
Spiritual Gravity 