The Signal - The Beginning

So what do we do? Not what should governments do, not what should the institutions do, not what should some new leader do. What do we do, you and me, the ordinary decent majority who never asked for any of this and don't know how to fix it. Every revolution in history has eventually become the thing it replaced. Every leader has eventually been corrupted or killed. So if not them, then who? The answer is smaller and stranger and quieter than you might expect. It starts with one person, and then one more, and then it becomes unstoppable. 

Transcript

SPEAKER_01 0:00

The signal. So where does this leave us? If you've read this far, you might be feeling one of two things, either a quiet fury at the scale of what's been described, or a kind of exhaustion, a sense that the problem is so vast, so embedded, so old that nothing can be done about it. I understand both. I felt both, sometimes in the same afternoon. I didn't write this book to leave you there. I didn't spend 17 years pulling at this thread just to show you the mess and walk away. There are things that work, things that have been proven, and most of them are simpler than you'd expect. There's a video that went viral a few years back, I think about it a lot. It's a man who is standing on a hillside at a music festival. Maybe 200 people are sitting on the grass around him. He starts dancing. Not performing, not showing off, just dancing. The way you might in your bedroom when nobody's watching. A few people film him, you can hear giggles. He does look ridiculous, but he doesn't care. Most people who've shared this video say he's the hero, the leader who started a movement. I don't think that's right. After a couple of minutes of dancing on his own, another young man gets up, walks over, and joins him. They dance together, everyone else is still sitting, still watching, still safe on the grass. Then the second guy waves to a friend, come on, the friend after the signal heads over. That for me is the moment. I know what that hesitation feels like. I've seen people dancing on their own and desperately wanting to join them. And every time that inner voice says no, you'll look stupid. People will laugh, sit down, stay where you are, that voice isn't yours. It was put there by every institution, every classroom, every system that ever told you to sit still, be quiet, stay in line, and don't make a scene. So the second guy, the first follower, hears that voice too. He sees 200 people sitting on the grass, conforming to absolutely nothing, just sitting, because sitting is what everyone else is doing, and he sees one person on his feet, free, alive, having the time of his life. He makes a choice. Not a grand choice, not a political choice, just a human one. That looks better than this. I'm going. When he signals his friend, that's a big moment because his friend has been invited now, and he trusts the judgment of the person inviting him. He can still see that nobody else is joining. But his friend is there, so he joins too. Then a small group arrive. And that small group is the switch. Because now it's not one lunatic and a couple of others, it's a crowd. And the two hundred people on the grass suddenly realize they're the ones missing out. Within seconds it's an avalanche. Everyone is on their feet, everyone is dancing. The hillside transforms in under three minutes from a field of passive spectators into something joyful and alive and free. You might think I'm taking this too far. It's not exactly a revolution, a bunch of people dancing at a festival, but it is, it's a revolution of suppressed feelings and desires, a revolution of breaking free from invisible barriers, a revolution of human spirit filmed in under three minutes, and nobody knows that first dancer's name. He wasn't trying to start anything, he was just being himself. The entire argument of this book is that every institution, every messenger, every buried text, every 3,000-year-old principle comes down to that hillside. The move is simple. Get up and dance. The noise is the voice that tells you to stay sitting. The first follower is the person who sees the truth, feels the pull, hesitates, and goes anyway. That's all it takes. One person who gets up, one person who joins them. The first thing is that the solution is not revolution in the traditional sense. Every violent revolution in history has followed the same pattern this book has described. Genuine grievance leads to a broad coalition. A charismatic leader emerges, then the power consolidates. The revolution becomes the thing it replaced. France, Russia, Iran, Cuba, over and over. The decent people who risk everything to make the change are the first to be discarded once the new regime is in place. Revolution doesn't break the cycle, it just restarts it with different faces at the top. The second thing to understand is that the solution is not a leader. Every time we put our faith in a single person to fix the system, we hand them the power to become what we're fighting. The qualities that make someone good enough to deserve that trust are the same qualities that would prevent them from wanting it. Roughly 1-4% of the population are psychopathic or sociopathic. Those exact traits, ruthlessness, manipulation, charm without empathy, are advantages in climbing power structures. Decent people don't want those roles because the process requires becoming something they're not. The system doesn't attract the wrong people by accident, it's built to reward them. But here's what does work it has worked, it's been proven. Every time it has, the institution has had to give ground. In 1903, Emiline Pankhurst founded the Women's Social and Political Union because decades of polite campaigning for women's suffrage had achieved nothing. The suffragettes chained themselves to railings, smashed windows, set fire to post boxes, went on hunger strikes, and were force fed in prison. Emily Davison stepped in front of the King's Horse at the Epsom Derby and died. They were ridiculed, imprisoned, beaten, and dismissed as hysterical. It took over two decades, but in 1918 women over 30 got the vote, and in 1928 it was extended to all women over 21. The institution didn't grant equality because it had a change of heart. It granted it because the cost of refusing became higher than the cost of conceding. In 1930, Gandhi walked 240 miles to the sea and picked up a handful of salt. The British had made it illegal for Indians to collect their own salt, a substance that falls from the sky and washes up on the shore so that they could tax it. Gandhi's act was so simple it was absurd, and that was the point. 60,000 people were arrested. The violence was entirely on one side and the whole world could see it. Within 17 years, British rule in India was over. In 1955, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on a bus in Montgomery, Alabama. She wasn't the first black person to do so, but her act and the 381-day bus boycott that followed hit the transport system where it hurt in the wallet. The buses ran empty, the city lost revenue, the institution caved because the numbers didn't work anymore. In 1989, the Berlin Wall fell, not because of military force, not because of sanctions, because ordinary people walked up to a wall that had divided a city for 28 years and said no more. The guards didn't shoot because they were outnumbered and because they were, in the end, the same people standing on the other side. Václav Havel, who had spent years in prison for refusing to pretend the system was working, became president of Czechoslovakia weeks later. The entire Soviet bloc collapsed, not because it was defeated, but because enough people simply stopped believing in it. Here's the one I love the most. 1994 the Zapatistas in Mexico rose up on the day NAFTA came into force and could have tried to seize national power. Instead, they said we don't want to run Mexico, we just want to govern ourselves. They built autonomous communities from scratch, their own schools, clinics, justice system, and democratic governance, and maintained them for 30 years. Their principle was lead by obeying, meaning the leaders serve the community, not the reverse. Leadership rotates so nobody holds power long enough to be corrupted. They proved that ordinary people with nothing can build a functioning society without any institution telling them how. These examples have something in common. They didn't ask for permission. They didn't wait for an institution to reform itself. Not one of them put their faith in a politician or a party or a program. They saw what was wrong and they acted, and the institution had to respond, because the alternative was to stand exposed in front of the whole world as exactly what it was. But here's the thing that keeps nagging at me. Every one of those examples, as powerful as they were, was eventually absorbed. Women got the vote, but the political system that excluded them for centuries is still run by the same types of people. India gained independence, but the caste system persists, and the country is now one of the most unequal on earth. The Berlin Wall fell, but the wealth gap in former East Germany is still enormous. So I'm going to be honest about what I think. And trust me, when I say I have spent over seven years thinking what's the solution to all these issues, going over and over potential outcomes again and again. So please stick with me. You got this far, it would be a shame to not see the ending, or as I like to think of it, the beginning. You may notice I haven't talked about politics, I haven't talked about many of the wars, the atrocities, the so-called leaders. This is intentional. We could discuss for years and years which system would be best and who would lead it. And ultimately, at this point, I think we are beyond that. I think the system we have now is so deeply and completely corrupted that reform isn't enough. An amputation is required. Not ten years from now, not when the next election gives us someone slightly less bad. Now, the first step is the simplest and the hardest, acceptance. Accepting that what we have doesn't work, has never really worked, and isn't going to fix itself. Not because the people in it are all bad, most of them aren't, but because the structures themselves are designed to extract, to control, to reward the wrong behaviour and punish the right kind. Every chapter of this book has shown the same pattern across thousands of years. It doesn't change because it isn't supposed to change. It works exactly as intended, just not for you. Once you accept that, something shifts. You stop waiting, you stop hoping the next job, the next holiday, the next election, the next policy, the next leader or guru will be the thing that helps. You stop putting your energy into propping up something you know is broken, and you start asking a much simpler question. What do I actually need and how do I get it without them? The answer, it turns out, is not that complicated. You need food, you need energy, you need shelter, you need community, you need your kids to learn things that actually matter. You need to know that when you're old or ill, someone will be there. That's it, that's the list. And not one of those things requires a corporation, a government department, or a billionaire to provide it. Every single one of them can be built locally, between people, from the ground up. Humans managed it for thousands of years before anyone told them they couldn't. The next step is learning. Not in a classroom, not from a curriculum designed by the same system you're walking away from, but from each other. How do you grow food? How do you generate your own energy? How do you look after your neighbours? How do you raise children who can think for themselves? How do you build something that doesn't need permission from above to exist? None of this is hidden knowledge, it's just knowledge that nobody taught you, because teaching you to be self-sufficient doesn't generate profit for anyone. Then it's simply a quiet withdrawal from the system, becoming non-reliant on the institutions and not participating in something that leaves you at the mercy of the nut jobs in control. What do I mean by withdrawal? I mean total coordinated withdrawal. I mean ensuring you are able to eat, have a roof over your head, and have access and energy and community. I mean you stop participating, that means not going to work. It means you stop spending rent, mortgage, credit, loans, tax, bills, consuming. You turn off the news, you close your social media, you go outside and you sit and you look inwards and find that person you once were, the one you're supposed to be. You pick up a book, you study a subject, you connect with others who share your philosophy, you talk to others who are curious, you reach out for help, you offer help, you come up with solutions, you ask questions, you spend time with your family doing things you enjoy. You prepare, but not just for you, for others too. Even for your neighbours you can't stand, for best friends who think you have gone mad. When asked who's in charge, you tell them that you are. What happens when your house gets taken? What happens when the courts want their tax? We do this together. Once we have learnt, discussed, coordinated, and prepared. We stop participating together when we are ready, when we have prepared, and we're in a situation when we can help others. We do it on our terms, not the terms of a foreign tyrannical government. If you're someone who reads this and thinks he'll get myself okay, then do it. You may want to read the last few chapters again. Self-sufficient doesn't mean self-centered, it means you are not reliant on industries. It only works when we come together. Some may want to start tomorrow, and that's fine. That's their choice, we must be there to help everyone. If one person falls, we all do. Reaching out is not to start a movement, not to recruit followers, not to build another institution with another hierarchy and another set of rules, just to find the other people who feel the same way. Because they're out there, millions of them, sitting on the grass watching, wanting to get up but thinking they're the only one. Society wants you to believe that. It wants you isolated, it wants you to think that questioning any of this makes you the problem, makes you odd. It will be called a cult, it will be ridiculed and attacked, but when people come together, anything is possible. You cannot break someone who wants nothing from the system. Currently, when people congregate, it's on the system's terms, at its venues, spending its money, preferably with enough alcohol that the conversation stays shallow and the questions stay unasked. The isolation that many of us feel isn't an accident. We live in an age where technology has become so advanced that we are on the brink of seeing entire industries automated out of existence. We are sitting and watching as jobs that humans have done for centuries are about to be replaced by an AI update. Lorry drivers, factory workers, call center staff, accountants, paralegals, radiologists, even doctors and software engineers, all of it is heading the same way. And we have two options about how this plays out. Option one, we let it happen. We carry on as we are, with the same economic system that hands the profits of automation to a small number of shareholders, while the people whose jobs disappear are told to retrain, to be more flexible, to find something else, to compete with each other for the scraps that are left. The gap between rich and poor reaches levels that have never been seen in the history of the world. A handful of people own the machines that do all the work, and everyone else fights over what's left of the human-only jobs until those go too. That's the path we're currently walking down. Option two, we stop engaging, we prepare for it. We use this technology for what it was always supposed to be for, making life simpler for humans so they can concentrate on the things that actually matter. Caring for each other, sharing what we have, raising children properly, looking after the elderly, growing food, making things by hand for the joy of making them, sitting in silence and finding inner peace, reading, learning, creating, talking to each other. The things humans were doing before, someone decided we all needed to spend 40 hours a week doing something we hate so we could afford to live in a house we're never in. We leave a handful of people with all the money in the world, they can have it, money becomes worthless when no one wants it. There's a blueprint already. Someone saw what was coming decades ago and spent his entire life designing a system for it. His name was Jacques Fresco. Born in Brooklyn in 1916 to immigrant parents, he grew up during the Great Depression and watched it shape him. He saw factories full of food and clothing and goods of every kind, all sitting there ready to be used, while people starved and slept on the streets outside. He couldn't make sense of it. The resources existed, the need existed. The thing in the middle stopping them from meeting was the money system. He was almost entirely self-taught. He never finished high school, he worked as an aircraft designer, an industrial engineer, an inventor, an architectural designer, a research engineer. He held patents, he designed prefabricated houses, medical instruments, structural systems, and three-dimensional projection systems. He served in the US Army Air Force during the Second World War. He was by any measure a genuinely gifted technical mind operating across a dozen different fields at once. But the thing he kept coming back to was the bigger question. Why, with all the technology humans had developed, were we still living in a system that produced poverty, war, scarcity, and suffering on a massive scale when there was no real reason for any of it? In 1980, he founded a research center on a 21-acre site in a small Florida town called Venus. Together with his partner Roxanne Meadows, he designed and built 10 buildings on that site over the following decades, models and prototypes of a different way of organizing civilization. He called it the Venus Project. His core idea was something he named a resource-based economy. The principle is simple. The Earth has more than enough resources to provide every single human being with food, shelter, healthcare, education, energy, clean water, and a high standard of living if those resources were managed intelligently and shared equitably instead of being rationed through money. Money, Fresco argued, was an artificial scarcity mechanism. It was invented at a time when resources genuinely were limited and humans needed a way to allocate them. We're not in that world anymore. We have the technology, the energy, the materials and the knowledge to provide abundance. What we don't have is a system designed to deliver it. The system we have was designed to deliver profit to whoever owns the means of production, and abundance is actually bad for that system because abundance crashes prices. His proposal was to redesign cities from the ground up around sustainability and automation, renewable energy, efficient transportation, food grown locally, housing built by automated systems, healthcare and education available to everyone as a right, not a transaction. Machines doing the work that machines are good at, so humans could spend their time on the things only humans can do creativity, relationships, learning, art, science, care. He wasn't proposing communism, he wasn't proposing socialism, he wasn't proposing any of the existing political labels. He was proposing that we step outside the entire framework of money and ownership and start asking what we actually want civilization to look like when the technology to feed and house everyone already exists. The criticism levelled at Fresco was always the same. It's utopian, it's unrealistic. People are too selfish for it to work. There would be no incentive to do anything. Who would take out the bins? The criticisms are almost always made by people who haven't actually engaged with what he was proposing. But more importantly, every single one of those criticisms assumes that humans are the way the current system has shaped them to be, and that they can't be any other way. Fresco's whole argument was that human behavior is largely a product of the environment humans grow up in. Put a child in a system that rewards competition, hoarding and selfishness, and you'll get an adult who competes, hoards, and is selfish. Put that same child in a system that rewards cooperation, sharing and contribution, and you'll get a different adult. The cycle this book has described, the institution shaping the people who then perpetuate the institution, runs in both directions. We can choose what we put into it. I'm not saying Fresco had every answer, nobody does. There are plenty of practical questions about how a transition would work and what it would actually look like. But what Fresco gave us was a starting point, a serious, thoughtful, technically grounded vision of what civilization could be if we used our technology in service of human well-being, instead of in service of accumulating wealth for a tiny minority. He spent his entire life on it. He built models, he drew blueprints, he left behind books, films, lectures, and a research center that still operates today. The work is there, anyone can read it. The Venus Project website is free. The reason I'm including Fresco here is that the choice in front of us is the same choice that every chapter of this book has described. The signal has been delivered. Someone saw what was coming, told the truth about it, designed an alternative, and spent their life trying to share it. The question isn't whether the blueprint exists, it exists. The question is whether enough of us pay attention to it before the institution makes it irrelevant. Automation is coming whether we like it or not. The only question is whether we let it concentrate wealth and power into fewer hands than ever before in human history, or whether we use it to free ourselves to live the kind of lives the messengers have been telling us about for 3,000 years. Good thoughts, good words, good deeds. With the time and space to actually think those thoughts, speak those words, and do those deeds instead of being too exhausted from work that a machine could do better. www.plezejudge mefairly.world is completely free and it always will be. It's not a political party, it's not an organization with a membership fee and a leadership structure. It's a place to find each other, to talk honestly, to share what you know, to help each other become self sufficient, to withdraw quietly and peacefully, to organize around the simplest idea in the world. I want a better life, I want others to have a better life, and I'm willing to do something about it. That's it. No ulterior motive, no hidden agenda, no leader telling you what to think. Just people helping people, because that's what we've always done when the institutions weren't standing in the way. It spreads the way every signal in this book has always travelled, person to person, not through social media campaigns or viral videos. One friend tells another, some will laugh, but others will listen. One conversation becomes two, becomes ten, becomes a street, becomes a community, and at some point, quietly, without anyone quite being able to say when it happened, a small minority becomes a large minority, and a large minority can't be stopped. We're not asking for anything, in fact it's the opposite. We just want to be left alone by a system that doesn't work. We don't want to overthrow it, we don't want to run it, we don't want to reform it, we just want to stop participating in it, and we want something honest in its place. The system only has power because we keep showing up. The moment enough people stop showing up, the whole thing has to recalculate. And every calculation it runs comes back to the same answer. The maths don't work anymore. You might ask why I wrote this anonymously. The answer is because I haven't done anything, I've simply laid out just some of the work that others have done. Thousands of people have done their bit and it's cost them everything. My name doesn't matter, it's what you choose to do next that does. Do I have all the answers? No, of course not. But that's what communities do, they discuss and create solutions. There will be people out there who are highly skilled in a variety of important things, while others might feel they have nothing to contribute. I disagree. Everyone has something to offer, no matter how big or small the input, and once we understand the core principle of treating everyone as equals, those skills and abilities are given room to shine. I didn't intend to write a book, it just happened. The best explanation I can give is I can no longer have mundane conversations about sport, about weather, and where am I going on holiday? I can't do it when the world around me is falling apart. I can't explain to someone in ten minutes all the things in this book that have been playing on my mind for over 15 years. What I do know is that everything in my life now makes sense. I had to be brought up in a religion, my parents' house had to be repossessed, I had to break the law, I had to party and take drugs. I had to meet my wife, who at 21 was politically savvy and explained politics to me. I had to think I knew everything to understand I knew nothing. I had to start a business to feel the complete and utter exhaustion mentally and physically, and to finally realise that everything is wrong. I'm not saying I'm a messenger. I have had no divine revelation, I've just spent over 40 years being given lesson after lesson, and one day decided to start writing it down. The message is so ridiculously simple, but most of us still can't see it. I also know that if a million people read this, or just one person does, whoever was meant to read it will. It might be next week, it might be ten years from now, but you'll know, because it will make complete sense, just as it has with me. On the edge of the Sahara, in a place most people will never see, a sandstone cliff stretches for 150 kilometres across the dry plains of central Mali. At its base, clustered in nooks and crannies carved by centuries of wind and patience, are the villages of the Dogon people. They went to the cliffs to survive. For almost 1000 years they had been hunted, raided, and pressured to abandon their beliefs. Jihads swept through West Africa demanding conversion. The slave trade consumed millions from the surrounding lowlands. The Dogon climbed higher, built their homes in places nobody else could reach, and kept their traditions alive in the one place the institutions couldn't follow them. What they preserved there is remarkable. A belief in one God called Amma, who is neither male nor female, but both, who holds the world together not through force but through balance, divine beings called the Nomo who periodically taught humanity the principles of civilization, ethics built on harmony, on the sacred power of words, on the principle that false accusation is the worst sin and forgiveness the highest act. No heaven or hell to threaten or bribe with, no institutional hierarchy demanding obedience, just a community preserving ancient knowledge passed from elder to child, generation after generation, on a cliff face beyond the reach of anyone who might destroy it. In 2020, geneticists at the University of California analyzed the DNA of West African populations, including the Mende of Sierra Leone, the Yoruba and Assan of Nigeria, and the Gambian people. They found something that rewrote the human story. Hidden in the genes of these living people was the genetic fingerprint of an unknown human species, a ghost population that split from the human family tree up to a million years ago, and then, at some point in the deep past, interbred with the ancestors of modern West Africans. Up to 19% of their DNA comes from a species that has never been found in the fossil record. No bones, no tools, no trace except the code written inside living people, carried silently for hundreds of thousands of years. The ethical signal preserved on the Dogon Cliffs and the genetic signal preserved in West African DNA, both ancient beyond measuring, both survived despite every attempt to erase them, both invisible to anyone who wasn't looking. The people of the lowlands were not as fortunate as the Dogon. Between the 16th and 19th centuries, roughly twelve point five million West Africans were captured and shipped across the Atlantic. Nearly half came from the coastal regions between Senegal and Nigeria, the Mende, the Yoruba, the Igbo, the Asan. Roughly two million died during the crossing. Those who survived were stripped of their names, their languages, their religions, their family structures, their identities. But something survived the crossing that the slavers couldn't take. The genetic signal went with them, written into their bodies and fragments of the cultural signal went too, hidden in the memories of enslaved people adapted and disguised to survive, emerging in new forms. Vodu in Haiti, Candomble in Brazil, gospel music in the American South, the blues, jazz, and eventually a sound that would carry a message of love and resistance to every corner of the world, through a speaker in Kingston, Jamaica. The institution tried to sever the signal through the most sustained and brutal system of oppression in human history. It still came back. On April 27, 1927, a girl was born in Marion, Alabama. Her father owned his own land, which was rare for a black family in the Deep South. His first cotton gin was mysteriously burned down. He built another one. That was the family she came from, people who refused to be defeated. The girl was gifted. Music ran through her, voice and violin, and by fifteen she was directing her church choir. She grew up walking to school while white children rode in buses paid for by her parents' taxes, sitting in the balcony at the cinema, while white children sat below, absorbing the daily message that she was worth less than they were. She didn't believe it, something in her wouldn't accept it. She studied at Antioch College in Ohio, one of six black students, and immediately joined the NAACP, the Race Relations Committee, the Civil Liberties Committee. She wasn't waiting for someone to show her the path. She was already walking it. She won a scholarship to the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston, studying concert singing. She was brilliant, driven, and deeply skeptical of organized religion. The last thing she was looking for was a preacher. A friend introduced her to a young doctoral student from Atlanta, a Baptist minister's son studying theology at Boston University. She wasn't impressed. He was short, he was a reverend at a time when she doubted her own religious beliefs. On their first date, he proposed. She said no. He asked for a second date. She said maybe. She had seen something in him, not his title or his religion, his mind and his commitment to justice. They married in 1953 at her family's home in Alabama and moved to Montgomery, where he took a position as pastor of Dexter Avenue Baptist Church. What followed changed the world. She marched beside him, organized with him, raised four children while their home was bombed by white supremacists, performed freedom concerts to raise money for the movement, and pushed her husband further than he could ever have gone alone. She was against the Vietnam War before he was. She saw the connections between racism, poverty, and militarism before the movement had language for it. When the movement's most important moment came, the March on Washington in 1963, she was told she couldn't walk beside her husband. No wives could march, no woman could make a major speech. The institution, even the civil rights movement itself, sidelined the woman who was instrumental in building it. She stayed, she continued, she never stopped. On April 4, 1968, her husband was shot and killed in Memphis, Tennessee. Five years earlier he had given one of the most important speeches in American history, a speech about a dream, a dream that people would be judged not by the colour of their skin, but by the content of their character. The night before he was killed, he gave his last speech, standing before a crowd in Memphis and telling them he had been to the mountaintop, that he had seen the promised land, that he might not get there with them, but that it didn't matter now. Four days later, she led the march he was supposed to lead. She didn't collapse, she didn't retreat, she founded the King Center. She campaigned for 15 years to establish a national holiday in his honour. She succeeded. She spoke out for LGBTQ plus rights against apartheid in South Africa, against poverty, against war. She expanded the message to everyone, every community, every struggle. Her name was Coretta Scott King. She spent nearly 40 years carrying the signal forward after the messenger she helped create was killed. In 2011, ancestry testing through her son Martin Luther King III's mitochondrial DNA, which passes unchanged from mother to child, confirmed that Coretta Scott King shared maternal ancestry with the Mend people of Sierra Leone, the same Mender people who were among the most heavily targeted by the transatlantic slave trade. A lineage running from an unknown ancient species through West Africa across the Atlantic in a slave ship, through generations of oppression, produced a woman who carried a core message further than almost anyone in modern history. A woman whose ancestry connects to the deepest roots of the human family tree, who spent her life saying the simplest thing there is to say. Treat every person as your equal, fight injustice, don't grovel, don't hate, just love. She didn't know the Dogon existed. She probably had never heard of Zoroasta. She couldn't have told you about the Gathers, or the Nag Hammadi Library, or the teacher of righteousness. But she lived by the same principle that every tradition, every messenger, every suppressed voice in three thousand years of human history has been trying to tell us. Good thoughts, good words, good deeds.

SPEAKER_00 33:37

When lights around are dimming and the path to you was lost, I trod that path before you in sun and rain and frost. One more step, I beg you. Your power has been seen. You're closer than you realize, though it seems impossible to see. I'll be there waiting for you, with others, not just me.