The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service proposed, two weeks ago, to remove 22 animals and a plant from the endangered species list.  Why?  BECAUSE THEY HAVE GONE EXTINCT.

“The Maui akepa was a small dusty green songbird whose call was a quivering whistle ending with a long trill.  The bird was last seen in 1988 and heard in 1995.”

Think about that.   THE LAST TIME THE SONG WAS HEARD was 1995.

Meanwhile, we march on with our collective homogenization of humanity, turning into automatons who believe we are required to respond one single way to a immune system threat, who are rapidly becoming a species devoted to staring at screens and consuming noise, who have measured “progress” by how many people can be introduced to “education standards” and diets based in white flour and sugar and golden arches.

Oh, yes, we are ONE, alright.  Except the “note” of the music we’re gradually conforming to is a chord that none of us, could we hear the full texture of the music, would want to hear for more than half a beat.

Think car horn.  Noisy, dissonant, and, if blaring on indefinitely, annoying to the point of madness.

And yes, we can practice equanimity and non-attachment and all the goodness of spiritual practice that can be at peace with blaring car horns in the midst of meditation.

BUT!   The point is this.   We are going extinct, ourselves.   Like the Maui akepa, our authentic music hasn’t been heard since… what, 1995?   When was the last time your authentic music – the note that your soul came to play – was heard?  

The tiny virus called corona has come to reveal the extent to which we are all one, alright.  AND the paradox is that now that we have seen our fragility in full color, revealed our fears in the form of fashion-statement masks (always an opportunity to produce more consumer goods, you know), and become ever more addicted to the illusion of connection via screens, the move that we are being invited to make, should we wake up enough to hear it, is to become more fully diverse, more melodious, more intensely ourselves than ever before.

The oneness needs each one of us to be the dusty green songbirds with quivering whistles and long trills, each in our own way.  Without your whistle, the music is flat.  Without your long trill, the symphony is reduced to white noise.  Without your dusty green feathers flitting through the fronds of the trees, the jungle becomes monochromatic.

Oh, the irony.  Everyone is hunkered down trying to come up with ridiculous and far-reaching ways to control people, er, I mean, control a virus so that we don’t go extinct.   But when the music of our souls has already been snuffed to extinction, our demise is inevitable.   

There’s a Wildlife Service deep inside you, trying to grab the microphone and scream for attention that your species – the Species of You – is on the verge of extinction.  Will you unleash your full Wild Life and let your whistle and trill be heard?