No Choice Has to Be Eternal

When the Yanomami want to understand something, they dream. For them, dreaming is seeing—the invisible. Maybe I cling to dreams because facing pain—without the xapiris, spirits of the forest—feels unbearable. They carry our image skyward during dream flights.

Night after night, through that opening, my mind stretches. And I see—we’re more alike than we think. The other day, standing in line at the bakery, I did a quick count. In seven years, I’ve seen around 3,700 people. Every one of them learned this: even bad days end. So when I glimpse the hidden corners of my own pain in a dream, I glimpse the pain carried by those who’ve passed through my room, too.

And the message I always return with from Mari tehe—Yanomami dreamtime—is this: There are many paths. If impermanence is law, then change lives in me.
And if it does, the path must shift too. Before this text triggers the reflex to defend or deny—pause.

To change direction—whether by choice or rupture— you must know yourself enough to survive. That takes courage. And time. Some things can’t be planned.
And by “things,” I mean life. We don’t control the forces that shape our way.
If you need to choose again, raise your hand. Like someone asking for a truce.
Letting go. Loving themselves enough to keep going. Starting over hurts. Because feeling lost is part of beginning again.

No one is ready. You learn on the way. Starting over isn’t forgetting. It’s honoring what brought you here— and offering yourself another chance. That, too, is beauty.
Sometimes I wonder: Do I walk the path—or does it walk through me? When I get tangled in what others expect of me, I repeat one line: “What they expect is just that—what they expect.”

We don’t have to live up to stories that aren’t ours. Davi Kopenawa says white people don’t know how to dream. That’s why they don’t see clearly. Maybe if we learn how to truly dream, we’ll understand: no choice has to be eternal.

Desires change. Mine. Yours. The world’s. And maybe, with a bit more dreaming—
with help from the xapiris— I’ll accept that what I once longed for no longer fits who I’ve become. Often, that’s the hardest part: realizing we’re no longer who we were.

The end is a beginning, too.