We Are Prayed For
Remembering Joanna Macy and the 14 generations who pray for us
I was recently honored to participate in an online panel discussion celebrating our recent ancestor, Joanna Macy. The event, organized by the Work That Reconnects (WTR) Network along with three of the publishers through whom Joanna shared her work - including Parallax, with whom I also write - honored her literary legacy. The panel brought together authors from each publisher who had co-written with her, edited her books, or are now helping to release the audio version of her memoir, Widening Circles.
While my relationship with Joanna was not as deep as that of some of the other panelists, I first met her back in 2009 during a weeklong WTR retreat. I had just become certified as a trainer in Kingian Nonviolence, and Joanna graciously invited my friend Arthur Romano and me to lead a three-hour mini-workshop as part of her retreat. It was the first time I had ever facilitated a Kingian training—a philosophy that would go on to change my life.
That retreat was also the first time I ever cried in a public workshop.
As I’ve written before, at that time I wasn’t someone who was comfortable with my own vulnerability. I understood violence as something “out there,” not something that lived within me. I hadn’t yet recognized how much pain and fracture my own body carried.
The Work That Reconnects creates space for grief, pain, and difficult emotions to be witnessed and honored. At first, as I watched people around me weep openly, I found myself judging them. I thought those expressions of grief—so easily accessed—must be performative, even fake.
But midway through the retreat, Joanna led an activity called “The Seventh Generation.”
In pairs, one of us embodied someone living seven generations in the future (I took that role), while the other remained rooted in the present. After a short meditation, we were invited to speak with one another across time.
My partner, speaking from 2009, asked what the world looked like where I came from. Without thinking, I answered from somewhere deep within: “It’s beautiful.” And to my surprise, I began to cry.
I cried because the world I described was so beautiful—and because I knew the sacrifices it had taken to make it possible. They were tears of both inspiration and grief. The beauty of that imagined world was made more sacred by the suffering and courage of those who built it.
And what I realize now is that the gratitude I felt in that moment — as a descendant from 200 years in the future — was actually gratitude for us, here and now. For the courage, heartbreak, and resilience it takes to stay in the work in these times of collapse. Feeling that gratitude through the voice of an “ancestor” made it more real to me. It wasn’t an abstract appreciation for future generations; it was a living recognition that the choices we make today are worthy of reverence.
During the recent memorial event, the moderator asked us, “If you imagine yourself as a writer 200 years from now, how has Joanna’s legacy impacted you?” And again, I felt that same gratitude—for Joanna, and for all those of this era who contributed to the Great Turning, guiding us toward a life-affirming society.
I was reminded, too, of another moment—this one from 2011, inside a sweat lodge in Los Angeles led by the poet and elder activist Luis Rodriguez. In that dark, steamy space, I could feel the presence of the prayers our ancestors had laid down for us, seven generations before. I had always prayed for future generations and offered thanks for past ancestors - but I had never before felt their prayers reaching back to us, touching us in real time. Perhaps, I thought, they had prayed in that very same place 200 years prior - for me. Prayers for safety so that I could be there.
And I was filled again with gratitude—for them and for their sacrifices. And for Joanna, a more recent ancestor, for the threads that connect us all across time.
This last week has been hard. As many of you know, I live in Oakland, California, on Lisjan Ohlone land. We learned last week that the Trump administration had sent 100 federal agents to our region to prepare for “mass enforcement” actions targeting migrant communities. For days, we were on high alert – thousands of Signal messages, helicopters overhead, tension tight in our bodies.
There were mobilizations across the city. Ministers were pepper-sprayed. A protester was shot after another tried to back up a U-Haul truck toward a police blockade. We were all doing double-duty at our various Adopt-A-Corner locations. It was chaos, and it was painful.
I was grateful that the Adopt-A-Corner work had already been happening in Oakland for some time. The networks, the systems, the relationships, the trust—all of it allowed us to absorb the surge of energy from those newly stepping in to respond to the crisis. Groups like the Interfaith Movement for Human Dignity and Street Level Health Project helped hold our center.
Still, it was hard. There was fear. There was grief. There was exhaustion.
But as I sat in Joanna’s memorial, I remembered the prayers—from our ancestors seven generations back, and our descendants seven generations forward. That’s14-generations of prayers. Remembering that they are with us—that they are praying for us—eases the tightness in my chest. Knowing that they are watching, visioning, and remembering makes the suffering a little easier to hold.
Joanna often reminded us that we belong to a great web of life that stretches across time. Her work helps us remember that we are not alone in this turning. We are prayed for, dreamed of, and loved across generations. And if we can listen closely enough, we may just hear them whispering back: It’s beautiful. Keep going.
Beautiful! Thank you for this.