Daniel: Alright, Sophia. Quick-fire. When I say the word 'resistance,' what's the first image that pops into your head? Sophia: Oh, easy. A protest sign, a megaphone, and probably a lot of shouting. Definitely not... a poem. Daniel: Exactly! And that's why the book we're talking about today is so fascinating. It argues the poem might be the most powerful form of resistance we have. Sophia: Okay, my interest is officially piqued. A poem as a weapon? That feels like bringing a feather to a sword fight. What book is this? Daniel: This is Living Resistance: An Indigenous Vision for Seeking Wholeness Every Day by Kaitlin B. Curtice. And what's incredible about Curtice is that she's an enrolled citizen of the Potawatomi nation, and she writes from this deeply personal space of reclaiming her Indigenous heritage and integrating it with spirituality. This isn't just theory for her; it's lived experience. The book has been widely acclaimed for precisely this reason—it feels authentic, earned. Sophia: That context is everything. It’s not an academic treatise; it's a vision born from a specific journey. Okay, so how does she get from that lived experience to this idea of a poem as resistance? Let's start there, because I'm still trying to wrap my head around it.

Daniel: She starts by completely reframing what resistance is. She organizes her vision into four interconnected realms, and the first one is the Personal Realm. She associates it with the color red, for our lifeblood, and the season of winter—a time for going inward, for rest, for processing. Sophia: Winter makes sense. A time when things appear dormant on the surface, but there's a lot happening underneath. But where does poetry fit in? Daniel: Well, she asks, "What is a poem?" And her answer is just stunning. She writes, "It is the quietest, softest part of you, held to an invisible microphone, held up to the light." It’s that vulnerable, honest part of ourselves that we usually keep hidden. Sophia: Huh. The quietest, softest part. That is the absolute opposite of the megaphone I was picturing. It sounds more like therapy than activism. Daniel: But that's the point! She continues, "A poem is the anger that releases itself in your time of greatest need, when you are ready to fracture before you believe again, ready to break open and receive yourself to yourself." Sophia: Wow. "Ready to break open and receive yourself to yourself." That hits hard. So the resistance isn't directed outward at an enemy, initially. It's an internal act of confronting your own pain and anger so you don't shatter? Daniel: Precisely. It’s the work you have to do before you can do any other work. Curtice argues that so much of what we call activism can become a fad, a performance. She says, "Activism and resistance are not fads; they are lifelong embodiments." And that lifelong journey has to start with being honest with yourself. If you're fighting for justice in the world but you're at war with yourself, you'll burn out. You'll become the very thing you're fighting against. Sophia: That’s a truth bomb right there. I think a lot of people who care deeply about social issues can relate to that feeling of burnout, of running on fumes because the problems feel so huge and the work feels so endless. Daniel: Right. And her perspective, rooted in Indigenous wisdom, is that you can't separate the health of the world from your own health. The book describes these moments of awakening—seeing a child bullied, leaving a toxic belief system, attending a protest and realizing the depth of the problem. These moments demand a response, but Curtice says the first response has to be internal. It's the processing, the grieving, the "poem." Sophia: Okay, I can see how that's a form of personal resilience. But I'm going to push back a little. How is sitting with my feelings, writing my 'poem,' an act of resistance against something tangible like, say, systemic racism or environmental destruction? It feels very… internal. Daniel: That’s a fair question. I think she would say that oppressive systems want you to be disembodied. They want you to be disconnected from your feelings, from your heart, from your own story. They thrive when you're just a cog in the machine, running on autopilot, too exhausted to feel anything. So the act of stopping, of tending to your inner world, is profoundly subversive. It's reclaiming your own humanity. Sophia: So you're saying the system profits from our burnout, and self-care, in this deep sense, is a way of cutting off that profit? It's like an emotional general strike. Daniel: That's a great way to put it! It's a strike against the demand for constant, unfeeling production and performance. She closes this idea with a powerful line: "The poem is you. It always was." It’s not about becoming a poet; it’s about recognizing that this deep, true, feeling part of you is your core, and living from that place is the ultimate act of living resistance. Sophia: I see it now. It’s the foundation. You can't build a strong house on a cracked foundation. If your inner world is in turmoil, your outer work will be unsustainable. It’s not an either/or; it’s a sequence. You start with the poem to build the strength for the protest. Daniel: Exactly. And that foundation is what allows us to move outward, into what she calls the 'Communal Realm.' And this is where the source of wisdom gets really surprising.

Sophia: Okay, so we've done our internal "poem" work. We're no longer on the verge of fracturing. Where do we go next? Daniel: We go outside. The Communal Realm is associated with the color brown, for the earth, and the season of spring. It's about planting seeds, honoring our connections to the land and to each other. Sophia: I like that. After the quiet of winter comes the new growth of spring. It feels like a natural progression. So what does this look like in practice? Daniel: This is my favorite part of the book. Instead of giving a five-point plan for community organizing, she points us to nature. She offers a series of beautiful, lyrical reflections. For instance, she writes, "Maybe you don’t know strength until you’ve rested beneath the branches of a magnolia tree, feeling the weight of her regal, waxed leaves." Sophia: That's lovely. Strength isn't about pushing, it's about being grounded. Like the tree. What else? Daniel: She continues, "Maybe you don’t know community until you’ve watched ants rebuild what was broken by a world much bigger than theirs." Sophia: Okay, the ants. I have to admit, I usually just see them as a nuisance. But that image of them rebuilding together, this tiny collective against a giant, chaotic world… that’s powerful. It’s about resilience and cooperation. Daniel: And it keeps going. She talks about fortitude, saying, "Maybe you don’t know fortitude until you’ve noticed geese fly to the furthest border of warmth to protect their children." And compassion: "Maybe you don’t know compassion until you place your hands in the dirt and feel the pulse of the earth." Sophia: It’s a complete shift in where we look for guidance. We're so used to looking to experts, to books, to leaders. She's telling us to look at a goose. To put our hands in the soil. Daniel: It's a decolonizing act in itself. It's moving away from a hierarchical, human-centric view of wisdom and embracing an ecological, interconnected one. The wisdom is already here, all around us, if we just pay attention. She even talks about time, suggesting you can't know it until you "run your fingers over a river rock, their skin softened by generations of magic." Sophia: That gives me chills. The idea that time is not just a clock ticking, but a physical process of smoothing and shaping. I love these images. They're so grounding. But let's be real, most of us live in cities. How do we connect with this 'pulse of the earth' when we're surrounded by concrete and noise? Daniel: I think that's the challenge she's implicitly posing. It’s not about needing to move to a cabin in the woods. It's about changing our perception. It's about noticing the single weed that has the strength to push through a crack in the pavement. It's about finding the "ants" in a neighborhood group cleaning up a local park. It's about recognizing the "magnolia tree" in a community elder who provides shade and rest for others. Sophia: So the natural world is a teacher, providing metaphors and models for how to live and build community, wherever we are. It’s a lens, not a location. Daniel: Exactly. The final reflection in that series is, "Maybe you don’t know yourself until the mirror of the water reminds you of your goodness and brings you home again." Nature isn't just a resource to be used; it's a mirror that reflects our own potential for strength, community, and goodness. Sophia: It's a beautiful and deeply hopeful vision. It makes the work of building a better world feel less like a grim, uphill battle and more like tending a garden. It requires patience, care, and a belief in the seeds you're planting. Daniel: And it connects back to the Personal Realm. Tending a garden requires you to be present, to be embodied, to have your hands in the dirt. You can't do it from a distance. The inner work and the outer work are part of the same cycle.

Sophia: So, it's a two-step dance, or maybe more of a spiral. First, you do the inner work—the poetry—to build a solid, honest foundation within yourself. You have to 'receive yourself to yourself' before you can give anything to the world. Daniel: Right. You start in the winter of the Personal Realm. Sophia: Then, you move into the spring of the Communal Realm. You look outward to the patterns of nature—the ants, the geese, the trees—to learn how to build, how to connect, how to endure. You learn the shape of strength and community from the world itself. Daniel: Exactly. It reframes resistance from a draining, endless battle into a life-giving, sustainable cycle of introspection and connection. It’s a process of seeking wholeness, not just winning fights. And that process is ongoing. Sophia: It feels so much more sustainable. The idea that you don't have to have all the answers or be a perfect activist is a huge relief. Daniel: It is. And that's maybe the most important message in the whole book. Curtice gives us this incredible gift of a quote, a mantra almost. She says, "You are a human being. You are always arriving." Sophia: Mmm. "Always arriving." Not "have arrived." That takes all the pressure off. The journey is the destination. Daniel: The journey is the resistance. The constant, humble, beautiful act of arriving, again and again, to yourself, to your community, and to the earth. Sophia: So maybe the resistance commitment for today, for anyone listening, is just to notice one thing. Don't try to fix the world in an afternoon. Just notice an internal feeling without judgment—that's your poem. Or notice one small, resilient piece of nature on your way home—a weed, a bird, the sky. That's your teacher. Daniel: I love that. That's the start. That's living resistance. It's small, it's quiet, and it might just change everything. Sophia: A powerful and necessary message. Thank you, Daniel. Daniel: This is Aibrary, signing off.