The Murmuration A Myth for Our Moment

We are a species with blood that remembers war, hands that learned to hold before they learned to reach, nervous systems braided with the hunger of ages.

We are the ones who built cities on bones, and carved gods in our own image — not just tall, armored, unyielding, but tender, forgiving, radiant with promise.

We shaped gods who would cradle us in our fear, who would offer love, safety, redemption — because we so desperately needed them.

Our bodies — soft, sensing, vulnerable — arrived in this world without armor. And so we reached beyond ourselves — for meaning, for comfort — because within us lived the ache of separation, of arriving in a place we did not understand, in bodies that could bleed, and minds that could fracture just to protect them.

We created myths because we needed something larger than our trauma-braced systems could hold. But the institutions built around those gods were shaped by the very fear they sought to soothe. And so they cracked — under the weight of unmet longing.

We are not weak for needing. We are not broken for seeking comfort.

We are mammals. We are memory. We are children of starlight and soil, carrying the weight of ancestors who never got to rest.

No wonder we hardened. No wonder we braced. No wonder we clung to anything resembling a collective — even when it harmed us.

But beneath the rigidity, beneath the performance of control, there is something else.

A murmur. Not loud. Not commanding. But constant. A pulse in the chest. A tone the body recognizes — not as threat, but as home.

It is the essence. The tenderness. The original thread. The part of us that never stopped listening for the flock — for the others who could feel the wind with us.

It’s the part that longs to move together, to belong again, to stop bracing and start responding.

We are not ascending. We are not failing. We are softening. Together.

We are not dying. We are dissolving.

This chrysalis — this collapse — is not the end. It is a suspended becoming.

We can tighten the shell. Or we can trust the unraveling.

We can die inside the myths that caged us. Or we can follow the murmur — toward a new shape, a new flight, a new way of moving together — without hierarchy, without command, but with instinct. With rhythm. With attunement.

This is the murmuration. Not a theory. A calling. And it’s already begun.