How do we become complicit in each others liberation? As we collectively bear witness to the calculated violence of imperialism, six months into a genocide, and decades, centuries and generations into cycles of oppression, the rendering of some life as less worthy than others, Ruth Wilson Gilmore’s words fill the charged air in my lungs: where life is precious, life is precious. Abolition radically transforms our relationship to violence and to liberation, where freedom is no longer the abnegation or total absence of violence, but rather the possibility of its transformation. To water, and to growing, digging and stirring soils till our fingers smell of earth, of life. No longer the magical thinking of the prison walls or the rituals of punishment of people or populations, but space for holding, and holding, and holding. What forms of tending do our imaginations require to water the worlds we are attempting to grow? What monsters have made homes in us in our search for safety? And how do we make room for these monsters to be tended to as well? How do we make and hold community with and across these divides? How do we make space for all these worlds in motion, tending ever to their churning? Where in our bodies do we locate these residues, and what fine substance do we want to mold them into from the moisture of our hands?