Thomas Klaffke is a foresight researcher in Berlin, and the author of Creative Destruction, a weekly newsletter exploring thought-provoking reframings to help build regenerative systems. Previously Head of Research at TrendWatching, he led trend analysis for clients including Adidas, Porsche, and Lufthansa.
So I start all my conversations with the same question, which I borrowed from a neighbor of mine. She helps people tell their story. It's a big question—that's why I love it—but because it's big, I tend to over-explain it, like I’m doing right now. Before I ask it, I want you to know that you're in total control. You can answer or not answer however you like. It's impossible to make a mistake.
The question is: Where do you come from? And again, you're in total control.
Okay, where do I come from? Well, location-wise, I come from the south of Germany, from a small village near the Alps, close to Switzerland and Austria, but still in Germany. Actually, it's near Lake Constance, the biggest lake in Germany.
It’s a small village—very residential, with some farms, a small school, and so on. I guess it was a kind of typical German middle-class background. I lived there for the first 18 years of my life. It was a very safe environment. My dad was a policeman, so maybe even safer with a dad like that. Just a very typical German middle-class upbringing, I’d say.
But I was always interested in leaving that safety behind—going out into the world, experiencing other cultures, places, and regions. So after high school, I moved to Chicago in the United States to work in a soup kitchen for homeless people. I was there for a year as a full-time volunteer. One big reason was, of course, to learn or improve my English.
After that, I went to Bavaria to study. During my studies, I spent a year in Indonesia, lived there, did internships, worked. Then I moved back to Germany, spent some time in Cologne, and eventually settled in Berlin, where I’ve been for about 12 or 13 years now. I also had a short stint in Cape Town, South Africa, for about a year.
So, from a very small village in southern Germany, I’ve been fortunate to live and work across different continents and cultures. That’s really shaped how I look at the world and the kinds of tools and methods I use in my work. And now I’m here in Berlin.
Do you remember, as a boy, what you wanted to be when you grew up?
Well, I remember at first I just wanted to surf. I was really drawn to Hawaii and the idea of studying there. My family and I went to Indonesia once too, and I got to surf there—that experience really stuck with me. I wanted to do something more sporty. That was probably in my early teens. Later on, I got more and more into computers, the internet, and design.
So I wanted to become more of a kind of graphic designer, product designer, something like that. And then, however, I went into business and culture studies in the end—that’s what I did as a bachelor’s degree. And then later on, which is what I’m doing right now, I did a master’s in future studies and then kind of moved into this foresight field.
Yeah. I’m curious about growing up in the village that you grew up in. It’s not an environment that I have a very clear sense of—I think I have a very romantic and likely naive idea of what that was like. But what was it like growing up in that village? You mentioned a giant lake. How do you describe your childhood there?
Yeah, it was a really nice childhood. I’d say in general it was very—well, that’s why I described it as safe. I mean, kind of, you know, everything was working. When I look back and try to remember things, there’s always something nice happening. Lots of kids just playing freely on the streets, or in some fields, or at the nearby farmers’, things like that.
I mean, yeah, several friends of mine had either parents or their uncle or so having like a farm, so we kind of hung out there because there was always so much space and so much, you know, stuff you could do. So doing a lot of that. And yeah, in the summer, enjoying the lake. In the winter, enjoying the Alps—snowboarding, skiing, things like that.
Yeah. And what was the attraction to surfing? What was that like—discovering surfing?
I was always into snowboarding. And I remember that I was a very avid reader of snowboarding magazines back then. And yeah, I think I even once won a little contest they had—a sketching contest or something—and I won a snowboarding jacket and so on. So yeah.
And then, of course, those magazines were always talking also about surfing and other kinds of adventure sports. And I always kind of watched the world championships in surfing. And I always liked the lifestyle, I guess.
Yeah. And your move to Chicago—how did that come about?
Yeah. So back in the day in Germany, we still had this thing where, as a boy, you had to go to the military after high school. Or as an alternative, you could do some kind of social service. And I didn’t want to go to the military, so I tried to do a social service thing.
And then I found out that you could also do it abroad, and that there were certain organizations where you could still get kind of the accreditation or the certificate for doing that. And I found, yeah, this organization—it was kind of a Franciscan organization in Chicago. They had one of the biggest soup kitchens there for the homeless, and one of the biggest shelters as well.
And yeah, I applied there, and they took me. I was there with around eight or nine other Germans who did the same, and also a couple of Americans who were working there too.
What was that experience like?
It was crazy. It was really kind of the big—you know, up until that stage, I think I was very much in my own little, you know, village bubble or so. And then moving there was really—yeah, it completely changed me. It had a big impact on me, because my English back then—I mean, it's gotten worse now actually—but back then, it was really bad, and I struggled a lot in the beginning.
And yeah, just dealing with lots of homeless people and people that were also on drugs and stuff, right from the beginning basically, was a little bit tricky. But it was also really—I mean, looking back, it was one of the best years I've had so far in my life, I would say. Because, you know, I was living together with all of these other volunteers, these other Germans, but also Americans. We had our own little kind of apartment above the soup kitchen.
And it was such a nice and fulfilling kind of work as well. I mean, sometimes it was quite stressful, and there were some—you know, we had to call the police a lot and that kind of thing—but in general, it was just very fulfilling.
And it was also, I mean, for us, kind of experiencing this new world of the USA and America and this big city. For most of us, especially the Germans, it was the biggest city we’d ever been to. And on top of that, really doing work that felt very rewarding, because it had this immediate impact—immediate feedback. Lots of people would come to you each evening and thank you for the meal you gave them, and those kinds of things. So yeah, it was a really, really nice time.
Yeah. So catch us up—tell us where you are now and what you're doing for work, and what you're focused on mostly these days.
Yes. So right now, as I said, I’m based in Berlin. I’ve been here quite a long time. I moved here for my master’s degree in future studies and then stayed—working at agencies or consultancies in the marketing, innovation, and foresight fields.
And since around two years ago, I’ve been working freelance or doing my own thing. In particular, I have a Substack called Creative Destruction, where I share what I call “framings” and “reframings.”
Basically, it all started with me just wanting some kind of vehicle or space where I could share ideas or interesting finds—articles, concepts, things I come across while doing research. And it then became something that I now call framings or reframings, as I’ve tried to add a little more structure to it.
In essence, what I’m trying to share with people are interesting concepts that help them understand the chaotic world we’re living in—and also ways of building better systems. And “better,” for me, means more regenerative or sustainable systems, but also just better-designed and more beautiful things.
So yeah, that’s what I’m mainly doing right now. The newsletter is something I publish every week. And on top of that, I’m also doing freelance work.
And how did you—well, I love the Substack. I’ve been following it for quite a while. I love what you put out on a weekly basis.
I'm curious about the future studies. How did you come to discover that as a program? I've heard you mention it—you said culture studies and then future studies. When did you first discover that this was something you could do for work? I mean, that you could study culture, or study the future, or prepare for the future? When did you first sort of decide or realize that you could do this for a living?
Yeah. So during my first studies—which was international business and cultural studies—I spent a year in Indonesia, in Jakarta. And there, I worked for a German political foundation. My job was basically to read the English-speaking newspapers and then summarize what was happening in the country for the German foundation’s head office, and so on.
And that was already kind of looking at trends and developments within the region—Southeast Asia in general, but also Indonesia specifically. And yeah, because the region was already quite emerging back then, it was interesting to see how things were changing. That made me more aware of this idea of looking into the future and seeing how trends are emerging.
Back then, I was also really into technology. The concept of transhumanism was a big thing for me. I’m actually kind of anti-transhuman now, but at the time, I was really into the idea of how technology could help us augment human capabilities and all that. I read Ray Kurzweil—a futurist from San Francisco, or I think he's working at Google now—and I was fascinated by all of that.
That kind of led me to start thinking more seriously about future studies and foresight. And then I found this study program here in Berlin, applied, and got in.
And that was like the singularity, right?
Exactly. Yeah, the singularity. I was really into that back in the day. It was quite an interesting concept, and the way Ray Kurzweil and others presented it was really compelling.
Back then I was also reading a lot about longevity stuff—those big ideas and the prominent figures in that space—and all of that made me very excited about the future. That’s how I got into it.
Since then, like I said, my views have changed quite a lot. But that was what brought me into the field.
Because I’m not sure I totally understand the singularity and transhumanism—so as best you can, what was exciting to you about it? What was the attraction? I feel like we all kind of bumped into it around that time. I remember seeing it out there and thinking, oh wow, this seems like a beautiful, shiny way of looking at the future. But I never really looked deep enough to get a full understanding of it. So for you—what was exciting about it?
Yeah, I mean—it’s a good question. I think what fascinated me back then was this idea of, I don’t know, like expanding what it means to be human. You know, using technology to overcome some of our limitations, whether that's biological or cognitive or whatever.
And I think also this promise of kind of infinite growth, or infinite improvement, was something that really drew me in at the time. There was this idea of, like, we’re just at the beginning of something. We can become so much more—live longer, become smarter, be more connected, things like that. That felt very exciting.
And also, I think there was a bit of a kind of spiritual angle to it. It’s not presented that way necessarily, but it felt a bit like this belief in something bigger, or something kind of transcendent, but grounded in science and tech. So for me it was also a kind of worldview, or a kind of hope for the future.
But yeah, now I see it all a bit more critically. I think back then I didn’t think so much about what gets lost when you try to optimize everything, or what it actually means to be human in the first place. So yeah, now I’m more skeptical, but that was the initial excitement for me.
So when you say now you’re more skeptical, what shifted for you? Was there a moment where something changed?
I think it wasn’t one moment. It was more a gradual process. The more I worked in the field, the more I got exposed to different perspectives, different critiques. And I think I also just got older, you know? I became a bit more grounded, maybe a bit more humble about what we can really do with technology.
And I started to see that a lot of the problems we face—climate, inequality, mental health—these aren’t things we can just tech our way out of. They need deeper changes. So now I’m more focused on the social side of things, on systems thinking, on how we can build better structures that support life—not just optimize it.
Also, a lot of the transhumanist stuff just started to feel a bit... I don’t know, disconnected. Like, who is this actually for? Who benefits? It often felt very centered on a narrow idea of progress that didn’t include most people.
So yeah, I guess it was a slow shift, but I think now I’m more interested in regeneration than optimization. In making things more livable, not just more efficient.
I'm not quite sure. I guess maybe it was this kind of superhuman appeal—the idea of being able to rapidly enhance your capabilities or something like that. Maybe that was one of the appeals. Also, this idea of a future event that would change everything very disruptively—there was something compelling about that kind of transformation of the world.
Yeah, something like that.
And how would you say your feelings have changed? I mean, the world has changed quite a bit, obviously. But I'm wondering—how do you think about it or feel about it now?
Yeah, I mean, in general, I've become a bit more skeptical about technology, and also this idea of technological solutionism. I guess what I bought into back then was more of the Silicon Valley narrative—that technology and computing could rapidly change all sorts of things. Not just solving certain diseases, but also transforming society in a big, spectacular way.
What’s changed is just the experience of the last, say, 10 or 15 years, and how technology has actually impacted societies and systems. And also my own experience working in business consulting—getting a more inside look at how large corporations operate, what tactics they use, how the business world is structured, and so on.
Throughout my career, I’ve gone deeper into certain rabbit holes that revealed system dynamics I now feel quite skeptical or concerned about—things I used to feel more excited by.
So, you have the Substack and the consulting work. Is there overlap between the two? Or what's the relationship?
Yeah. I mean, my freelance or consulting work is still mostly focused on foresight in general. So doing things like scenario workshops or scenario development for companies.
Right now, I’m working on a report about climate adaptation for a startup accelerator here in Berlin. So it's more about looking into trends, developments, scenario thinking—the usual foresight stuff. I do try to bring in my ideas around reframing and narrative, which I focus on more in the newsletter. But I haven’t yet had a project that’s been specifically centered on that.
Can you tell me—how do you talk about your foresight work to someone who hasn’t encountered foresight or doesn’t know why it’s important? What is foresight, and how do you work?
Yeah, I mean, foresight is, I would say, basically just thinking about the future—thinking about the views of the future that already exist in our present. Just analyzing how I could do it in an organizational setting—how an organization thinks about its future and the external future. And then, through that process, maybe gaining a better understanding of oneself as an organization, but also of the external world. And from there, being able to refine certain strategies or use it in innovation work.
Yeah. So, I mean, what we usually do within foresight work is look at different types of futures or different future scenarios—the more plausible futures, the probable ones, the preferred ones—the whole future cone. And then, through workshops or research, we try to get a better picture of these different futures and see how that can help align with strategies, innovation, and things like that.
Yeah. And what do you love about foresight work? Where’s the joy in it for you?
Yeah, I think that’s changed a little bit over time. I mean, the answer links back a bit to when I was more into the transhumanism approach in the beginning. So at first, it was really about the excitement of “What will the future hold?”—what life could be like in 10, 20, or 50 years. Just diving deep into that question.
And I still find that very interesting—looking at the implications of certain technologies, not just for next year, but 50 years from now. That kind of long-term thinking is still really compelling.
But what I also really like now about futures work is that the process itself gives us more agency. I call it "imagination agency." It helps us see that the way things are—or the way we perceive reality and the future—is just one way of looking at it. There are other possibilities. So it unlocks a kind of reimagining ability, and I find that really exciting.
I'm also trying to dive more deeply into that imagination element within foresight right now.
Yeah. Can you tell me more about that? I mean, imagination—how do you think about it? What excites you about it? And what are you hoping to do with it or how are you hoping to work with it?
Yeah. So I believe we’re in a bit of a crisis of imagination. Certain systems and their narratives have narrowed down the possible future paths. There are elements that diminish our ability to imagine alternatives—other futures.
At the same time, older narratives or ideologies are breaking down. So I think it's really important to strengthen our capacity to think differently and imagine otherwise. That’s why I think this element—imagination—is so important right now.
A lot of the people reading my work come from the systems change sector or the sustainability consulting world. And many people in those movements say we’re missing a coherent narrative of a sustainable future. You know—how will it really look? Given the technologies we already have and the systems already in place, how do we get from here to there? What would that actually look like?
Answering that question—solving that challenge—requires imagination. And that’s why I think future studies and foresight can be really helpful.
Yeah. Are there—or in what ways do you—work with imagination? Are there particular tools or methods or processes that you use? I think you used the phrase... was it “imagination agency”? I’m curious how that actually looks in practice. How do you work with clients or others to, yeah, bring imagination into the process?
Yeah. I mean, there’s kind of a basic foundational approach to that. For example, in keynotes or presentations for people who maybe don’t have any background in foresight or futures thinking, I’ll often start by showing a little bit of the history of future thinking—like how people imagined today’s world 50 years ago. How certain technologies were talked about in the news at the time, and so on.
Those little stories give people perspective—how some things were super exciting at one point, and then, over time, kind of leveled off because there wasn’t that much substance there. That already gives people a kind of permission to look at today’s dominant narratives about the future in a more critical way.
That’s something I think most foresight people do—sharing a brief history of predictions or imagined futures, and then comparing that to how things actually turned out.
Another thing I use a lot—and probably the tool I rely on most—is this idea of reframing or framing, which is based on a tool called the iceberg model. It comes from systems thinking and futures studies. There’s also something called causal layered analysis by a guy named Sohail Inayatullah. That tool really helps you dig deeper into the ideologies, metaphors, and myths behind systems or topics.
It’s something I use all the time, both in my research and in client projects. I use it to explore the underlying worldviews behind a particular system—understanding the power dynamics, how those systems came into being, what their history is, and which actors were involved. That’s kind of the deconstructive part of the work.
And then from there, you can think about new myths or new worldviews. You can reframe things using creative tools—like putting yourself in someone else’s shoes, exploring different perspectives, that kind of thing. It helps surface new ideologies that completely shift how we look at certain topics. And that’s what opens up new ideas—new imaginations. So yeah, those are the tools I use.
Is there a story you can tell—like a project or a client example—where this has worked in practice? And if not, no pressure, I don’t mean to put you on the spot...
Yeah, not really a clear one, I think. But one thing I’m working on right now is a Climate Adaptation and Resilience project. The scope of the project is to look at developments and trends within climate adaptation and resilience—and also to explore what startup opportunities or investment opportunities exist within that space.
What I did at the beginning was look at how we’ve built human systems—how we structure them, how they function—and then I tried to unpack the narratives within that. And I compared those to how nature builds systems or processes. Because nature seems to have figured out a lot about adaptation and resilience.
There are some great examples in ecosystems or animal behavior where adaptation and resilience are deeply embedded—and I tried to use that comparison as a kind of framing tool for the project.
And then we compared that with human systems, and you come to this conclusion that we’re now living in a world where nature is changing, but human systems were built for a world that was very stable, very certain, very rigid.
So within this project—we're still working on it—we’re trying to combine this nature-based approach with the human system perspective and find ways to merge the two. Yeah, that’s maybe one example.
But yeah, in my newsletter, I go down these rabbit holes around certain topics and try to uncover alternative narratives all the time.
Yeah, I mean, that’s what I find—it’s the reason I invited you. I find the newsletter a source of real inspiration, because it’s so obviously imaginative and optimistic in a way. And I guess it kind of operates from—well, it’s right there in the title, Creative Destruction—that we’re in a moment where real transformation is necessary and possible, if you’re willing to embrace it. That’s how I take it, anyway.
And that framing is such a powerful, necessary tool for any kind of change, right? So I’m curious—yeah, talk to me about framing and reframing. You’ve really organized your work around that, and the role of narrative in this process. I’d love to hear you talk about what a frame is for you, and what it means to frame something.
I always like going back to fundamentals—like a kind of “Framing 101.” How do you think about what it means to frame something, and why is it important at all?
Yeah. So, I have to say—there’s a kind of theoretical basis to all of this that started for me already during my master’s program. I was looking at this idea of structural determinism from two biologists and philosophers, Maturana and Varela, from Chile. It’s a really interesting idea that’s rooted in constructivist philosophy.
It’s been a long time since I went deep into that theory, but the basic idea is that we’re always constructing the world as we look at it. That our perception is always influenced—by the experiences we’ve had, by our internal biases, and also by external stimuli that reach us.
So whenever we look at the world, we’re not seeing it directly—we’re seeing it through a frame, through a structure or lens that’s shaped by all of that.
And that theory—that way of thinking—really stuck with me. Especially as it relates to sense-making. I think foresight is really about sense-making, or at least it shares that goal: trying to figure things out.
That approach—this idea of framing as a way of understanding the world—I’ve always found it really interesting and useful.
So that’s the theoretical foundation of how I got into it. And then, like I described earlier, the iceberg model or causal layered analysis is a specific tool that also helps you explore that framing more deeply.
But then, on the other hand, with the newsletter and the things I’ve been sharing there—I didn’t start with the idea of “I’m going to explore frames” or “I’m going to do research about reframing.” It actually started more with just finding interesting concepts—ideas that help describe certain developments in the world, or capture something about the current zeitgeist.
But through doing that—publishing almost weekly for a couple of years now—I started to realize that if I structured it more, if I gave it a bit more form, it naturally lent itself to the idea of framing and reframing. And that’s when I started bringing it all together for myself.
My main definition of framing—or reframing—is that it's the process or act of giving some aspect of perceived reality more prominence. It helps people understand that aspect more clearly, and ideally, it also encourages reflection.
The “better understanding” part of my work is where I try to identify the zeitgeist—what feels like the spirit or texture of our time—and then find concepts or ideas that describe it well. A lot of readers tell me that I’ve helped them name or define a feeling they’ve had for a while but couldn’t quite put into words. That’s what I’m always trying to do: find the language or framework that helps clarify something already felt.
And this kind of deeper understanding, I think, is really important. It offers a different kind of access to knowledge than just the rational, analytical approach—the kind that focuses only on data or surface-level facts.
The reflection part is also essential. A frame doesn’t just show you something out in the world; it also shows you your own perspective. It can act like a mirror, helping you become aware of how you’re seeing things—and that awareness can open the door to shifting your perspective or imagining differently. That’s where this idea of “imagination agency” comes in.
So again, for me, it’s a combination of theoretical grounding and the practice of just doing the work—collecting interesting things and then trying to trace a thread through them, to see what connects them.
Recently, I shared a deeper dive into what I think of as reframing—a kind of methodology I’ve started calling the craft of reframing. I use the word craft because it really came together through doing—through making and experimenting. It’s not just an intellectual activity. It’s also a hands-on process.
Somewhere in there, you described reframing as a different way of accessing knowledge. Do you remember what you meant?
Yeah, I was referring to that deeper understanding. I’ve written about this in my newsletter and in a couple of articles, or shared work from others who touch on similar ideas.
In the Western world—or the Global North—there’s a dominant approach to knowledge that’s very rational and often focused on control: controlling systems, optimizing outcomes. But there’s also another way of engaging with knowledge that’s more relational. It creates a deeper connection with a system or an environment. It’s less about control and more about resonance.
There’s a concept called resonance I find really interesting—it's from the German sociologist Hartmut Rosa. He talks about resonance as a mode of relating to the world that’s defined by strong, meaningful connections—ones that can actually transform you internally.
It’s quite abstract, but for me, it describes this more intuitive, felt kind of knowledge. And I think that’s often missing—especially in the consulting world.
Are there other ideas you’re wrestling with right now—things you’re trying to name or label? What are you noticing?
Just in general, you mean?
Yeah.
Yeah, one thing I’m thinking about quite a lot right now—I want to do a deep dive on it, but I think I need a little more time to think and research—is this idea I came across in an article about communal dreaming. It connects back to the crisis of imagination: how can we unlock our ability to imagine new ways of doing things, new ways of building systems?
In general, I have this feeling that innovation has become much more shallow. So I’m asking: how can we innovate more deeply, more disruptively, more creatively? I’ve been exploring a few different elements of that challenge, and communal dreaming struck me as a really interesting one.
The article talked about how, in some ancestral or Indigenous cultures, it’s common to share dreams communally and interpret them together—make sense of them collectively. And sometimes those cultures treat dreams as a kind of alternate access to reality, as a subconscious form of knowledge.
I just found that a really compelling idea, especially in relation to how we think about the future. There’s so much future-phobia right now, and it makes me wonder: have we stopped dreaming? Are we even capable of dreaming anymore? And if not, how can we start again? How can we share our dreams—not necessarily literal ones, but in a more metaphorical, imaginative sense?
That’s beautiful. You mentioned future phobia—I think I get what you mean, but can you say more about that?
Yeah. Future phobia is kind of this idea that we’re locked into a certain kind of future—a trajectory that’s already headed somewhere, and not somewhere good. I mean, of course, this is just my view—maybe a view shaped by living in Berlin, in Europe, in the Global North—but still.
It’s this sense that we’re headed toward worsening climate crisis, automation that could massively disrupt jobs and the economy, financial instability, rising living costs, unaffordable housing. And then also this growing sense that technology—especially digital technology—is delivering more negative outcomes than benefits.
There’s a feeling that the story of progress has kind of broken down. And that collapse in belief, I think, contributes to future phobia.
One way people seem to respond to that, consciously or not, is through nostalgia. You see it in conservative political movements, but also in culture—people turning to old music, old movies, old aesthetics. Clinging to cultural artifacts from the past.
It’s funny—you’re reminding me of this line I always quote from my first job, which was at a consultancy. One of the principals there was this really sharp, intellectually seductive guy. He had a kind of guru energy—one of those people where you’re not always sure if what he’s saying is real or not, but it still lands somehow.
And he had this line I always think about. He said, “We consume what we are afraid we are losing.” It’s such a strange but striking way of articulating something.
Yeah, that’s interesting. I don’t know if it connects exactly, but I’ve written about a related idea. In German, we have this word: Weltschmerz. It’s kind of translated as “world pain”—that you’re feeling the suffering of the world, basically. I once wrote a piece about how we should go deeper into that feeling, instead of trying to solve it through what I called “supplements”—or through quantity.
The idea was: we’re feeling this loss of beauty in the world, and there’s this deep world depression, this Weltschmerz. But it doesn’t really change us. It doesn’t make us act differently, because we’re quenching it with a kind of supplement. That could be doomscrolling, entertainment, escapism, new technologies, new stories of promise—all kinds of things.
So that’s how I looked at it.
In that piece, I included a quote from Daniel Schmachtenberger, who talks a lot about the Metacrisis. He was once asked on stage—after giving a really bleak assessment of the state of the world—"Doesn’t this make you super depressed?" And he basically said, “Yes. And I want people to be even more depressed. Because if they aren’t, I genuinely think we’ve lost some part of our humanity.”
Like, you’re not fully human if the larger crises we’re facing don’t make you at least somewhat depressed. And then he reframed it: that kind of depression is actually a love for life. It’s a longing for beauty, for something good.
And I thought—yeah, going deeper into this Weltschmerz, this world pain, might actually help us see how much beauty we still have in the world. And maybe, from that recognition, we’d be more likely to act—more likely to change things.
That’s beautiful. What would that look like? Do you have a sense of what it would mean to really lean into that longing—into that loneliness that’s actually a longing for beauty?
Yeah, it’s a big question.
Well….I’m just following your lead!
I think, in general, a very simple—but difficult—thing that I always come back to is: slowing down. I really feel like everything is moving too fast. And just a bit of slowing down might help us pause and think more carefully before we act.
And within that slowing down, maybe we’d also find a greater appreciation for beauty—staying with that concept. A deeper appreciation for art, for quality, for craftsmanship, for those kinds of things. I think that alone could move us a little in the right direction.
And then, in terms of bigger systems change—of course there are many things that could be done. But what excites me most right now is this idea of community-powered systems.
This idea of co-ops, of building things together in a more people-based, democratic way. That’s what I find really interesting at the moment.
Beautiful. Thomas, we’ve come to the end of the hour. I want to thank you so much. I’ve really enjoyed the conversation. I love the newsletter—I’ll add links for everyone to sign up. I really appreciate your time. Thank you.Yeah, thank you as well. I really enjoyed this. Thanks.
