If you had a million dollars to give away what would you do with it?
If I had a million dollars,
I’d lay it down like seeds—
not gold, not greed,
but offerings to the roots beneath our feet.
I’d give to the rivers that remember our names,
to the drums that once echoed through these hills,
to the voices silenced,
yet still singing in the wind that bends the pines.
I’d find the keepers of story,
the weavers of sky and earth,
and I’d say, Here—let the world hear you again.
Let classrooms become circles,
and history books grow hearts.
Each dollar would shimmer like morning fog
over ancestral ground,
turning ignorance to listening,
turning sorrow to song.
And maybe then,
this small act of paper and promise
could ripple like a prayer—
a soft return
to what was never truly lost,
only waiting
to be remembered.

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