We are at an Erisian, catalytic turning point in history. It’s not about Donald Trump or just the next presidential election. It’s about the Earth itself and our duty as its protectors. Hidden behind the foggy curtain of the future, beyond what our senses can detect, we stand at a crucial moment—so vast that we can feel it beneath our feet, even if we cannot yet name it. This isn’t only a turning point in American history; it’s a key moment in the story of the planet. The air around us hums with a gentle electricity that once signaled the advance and retreat of massive ice sheets, the same sense of unease that marked the Younger Dryas. Eleven to twelve thousand years ago, this event cooled the Earth’s climate suddenly, and the world changed in a way that stunned all living things.
We are currently experiencing that kind of moment.
You can hear it in the tremors of our institutions, see it in the widening cracks across our social fabric, and feel it in the uneasy pulse of our economic systems—structures that once felt solid now sway like tall grass in a rising wind. The ways of life we once believed to be permanent have become thin, translucent, like old paint beginning to peel. The familiar rhythms of work, commerce, governance, and community no longer align with the deeper forces reshaping the ground beneath them. Something older is awakening. Something larger is turning over in its sleep.
Environmentally, the Earth is speaking in a language we can no longer ignore. Storms carry an ancient intensity. Oceans remember their power. Forests burn with mythic heat. The seasons have fallen from their old boundaries, drifting across the calendar like restless spirits. Each year sends a quiet message: the world is changing at a pace that rivals the great shifts of prehistory.
Socially, the frameworks that once organized human belonging are falling apart. The stories we inherited no longer hold weight. The identities that once gave us coherence are starting to crumble. We are living in a time when communities are dispersing and reshaping, and the lines between truth and belief blur under collective uncertainty. Beneath everything, something is awakening — an instinct that the old ways of knowing and connecting cannot guide us into the future.
Economically, we are nearing the end of an era based on extraction, growth, and the belief in unlimited expansion. The systems that once drove prosperity now face their own contradictions. Markets become nervous. Global supply chains falter. The structure of modern wealth shudders with instability, as if the world economy itself is gearing up for a new setup that is not yet fully clear.
All of this—social fracture, economic volatility, ecological upheaval—is not chaos. It is a transition. It is the deep, ancient process by which Earth recalibrates, and humanity adjusts with it.
We are at a critical point similar to those that ended ice ages, uplifted continents, and altered civilizations. The old world is fading, and the new one has not yet appeared. In this in-between space of what was and what will be, we are being called to see differently, listen more closely, and recognize that history’s tectonic plates are shifting once again.
And we stand on the fault line—awake or about to be awakened.
