What beauty are you called to birth?

You may not yet know the name Maria Rosario Jackson—but her work offers a profound invitation to those of us who care deeply about healing, community, and justice. Jackson understands something that many systems overlook: that art is not a luxury—it’s a lifeline.

In communities that have been marginalized, colonized, or displaced, the wounds run deeper than policy. They’re embedded in memory, language, and spirit. When the songs of a people are silenced, when their dances are mocked or forbidden, when their stories are erased from the landscape—it’s not just culture that suffers, it’s the soul of the people.

Jackson helps us remember that art is a form of return. A return to voice. A return to dignity. A return to belonging.

In the contemplative life, we often speak of returning to the breath, returning to the body, returning to presence. But what if part of that return also means coming home to the stories, songs, and symbols that shape our communities? What if justice is not only about reforming laws, but also restoring memory?

It’s tempting, especially in times of crisis, to focus only on the “practical”—to think that budgets and legislation are the only meaningful work. And yes, we need those things. We need fair housing, healthcare, education, immigration policy rooted in compassion. But we also need color, movement, melody, and metaphor. We need sacred symbols and shared space. We need beauty—not as escape, but as resistance.

As Thich Nhat Hanh reminds us:

“The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.”
And it is artists—musicians, dancers, poets, painters, photographers—who help us become attentive to what is already here. They awaken us to what is most human. They remind us of what still pulses beneath the noise.

And in doing so, they challenge the systems that would reduce people to data points or dismiss their cultural expressions as trivial. Art is not extra. Art is essential.

Art slows us down. It makes space for grief. It makes room for joy. It asks us to listen, not just fix. And it teaches us how to see with the heart, which is what contemplative practice is all about.

Dipa Ma once said:

“If you cannot find the truth right where you are, where else do you expect to find it?”
Art does exactly that—it reveals truth, right where we are. It gives shape to our joys and our sorrows, and it does so in ways that words alone often cannot.

In this moment in history, we need more than protest and policy. We need rhythm. We need ritual. We need to pick up brushes and drums and cameras and write the world anew.

We are the artists.
We are the breath-makers and bridge-builders.
We are the ones shaping the story.

So I ask you—not just as an artist, but as a contemplative, as a human being—
What beauty are you called to birth?
What truth are you ready to reveal?
How do you want your art to help mend the world?

Let that be your practice.
Let that be your revolution.