On axolotls and war
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| Blueberry Pirate Axolotl. February 2026. |
On the morning of February 28, 2026, as a U.S. missile hit a school in Iran and killed at least 175 people, the majority of them children, my son stepped onto a classroom stage dressed as a blue pirate axolotl.
My child was not always going to be a blue pirate axolotl. In fact, for the preceding 12 weeks he was preparing to be an axolotl named Pinky, with a costume already created and assembled. But 48 hours before his performance, he looked at his existing mask and panicked: "It's too big! How will I wear it? It's blue, not pink!" The panic continued for 47 hours with little movement, until one hour before we had to leave when he finally decided he was ready to redo his creation. Within 30 minutes he had made an entirely new mask, this time on a smaller paper plate, with an eye patch added and an outfit selected in the corresponding color.
"What's your character's name now?" I asked.
"Blueberry Pirate Axolotl!" he proudly declared.
At this same moment my husband came into the room, phone in hand, and quietly said to me, "We bombed Iran."
Soon after, we left.
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The occasion for Blueberry Pirate Axolotl's creation was the 2026 Odyssey of the Mind (OM) tournament, the culmination of four months of tapping into collective imagination and creating within constraints. With teams ranging in grades from kindergarten to 12th, OM "teaches students how to develop and use their natural creativity to become problem-solvers." The directive this year for his age group was to teach two science lessons (with jokes!) to the audience, and he and his team—a mix of kindergartners, first graders, and second graders—chose to center the content on axolotls.
My focus as the team's head coach was to coordinate practices and help the kids work together to come up with an original solution. This mandate proved harder than I expected. Turns out that kids' natural creativity is vibrant and dynamic precisely because they don't care about constraints, so directing their energy within any parameter whatsoever was like steering bulls through the streets of Pamplona. But with much trial, error, improvisation, and grace, I and my co-coaches helped the kids arrive at the showcase with a script, set, and costumes entirely of their own design.
In the moments before the kids entered the classroom to present their skit to the judges, we all clustered in the staging area in the hallway. Each kid was a riot of sparkles, marker streaks, clothing layers, cardboard strips, and upcycled trash. Their little faces were open and expectant, looking up at me with naked trust as I unspooled my pep talk, "You can be so proud of yourselves! Look what you've created together. You're a great team. Have an awesome time bringing it to life."
When I sat in the audience and watched our once-nervous kids now take their places confidently and independently, I felt a deep release within my lower back, the welcome adrenaline of showtime helping me be present to the moment. Everyone made it onto the stage. They (mostly) said their lines. They giggled and smiled throughout. When the judges asked them questions at the end, they answered. Instead of seven little kids operating in their own bubbles, as had often felt the case during our practices, I saw before me a team—a group that had practiced forming and nurturing a little community. What was it all for if not this? I thought to myself, and I felt at peace.
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It wasn't until two days later, when the adrenaline has subsided and I was back in my normal flow of life, that I absorbed how the bombing of the girls' school in Iran had coincided with the OM tournament's start. As we were going about our normal Saturdays, the U.S. government was starting an unauthorized, unwarranted, unwanted war. As children throughout my town descended on the middle school to laugh and perform and share their creative gifts, my country was killing kids the same age in another country. As I was cheering on my child, other parents were losing theirs. I nearly choked on the horrible dissonance.
I don't consider myself an angry person. I get frustrated, sure, but I don't feel I live from a place of anger; it's too hot, too all-consuming, and cutting right to grief and sorrow feels more natural for my wiring. In the wake of this unconscionable military action, however—on top of all the other unconscionable government actions of the past year—my accumulated rage overflowed.
And I do mean rage—a wave of anger so extreme, intense, and furious that I was left breathless. I decry violence in all forms. I never want my country to be the aggressor. Cruelty and greed should not be our guides. Yet here we are, our national moral compass long cracked and discarded, and my heart is constantly screaming at the incessant actions I do not support or condone.
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I will admit, I was a reluctant OM coach. I stepped in at the 59th minute of the 11th hour because without a designated head coach, the interested kids (my son included) wouldn't have been able to have a team. So I was (and remain) on a huge learning curve on how to teach kids creative problem-solving.
And for good reason—it's really hard! Our entire society feels designed to quash our natural abilities in this regard. For I do believe, fervently, that we humans are inherently creative and inclined toward teamwork. I do not want the decisions of a powerful few to override what I believe is true and good about humanity overall.
Thus, what began as a logistical necessity has turned into a moral stand. I have zero direct influence over the U.S. military. I do have a modicum of influence, however, in helping young minds recognize and fulfill their creative potential.
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Did you know that axolotls can regenerate major parts of their bodies? Not only does the wound heal without a scar, but the body part or systems regrows to the correct size, structure, and purpose.
That said, axolotls regrow only was what already there. They don't iterate or innovate on forms or functions. Certainly it would be fabulous if we humans could achieve even this "minimum"—to regrow limbs, rebuild homes, resurrect every life disrupted, damaged, deleted. But short of miraculous resurrection, could we at least try to aim for imaginative regrowth? In the empty spaces where families, communities, and cultures once stood, what might we co-create that fulfills what we need, honors what we've lost, and envisions what we could have?
A problem of this magnitude is beyond the work of a grade-school team. Or ... maybe not. Maybe wide-eyed, unjaded kids in multicolored costumes and decorated cardboard boxes do hold the answer to building a more generative world. I'm willing to help them try—and willing to try it myself in the meantime.
Prayer #419: New Legs
Throughout
their lives,
axolotls
regenerate.
One blow
does not
mean death,
nor does two,
nor twelve.
Until
their dying
breath, then,
what is lost
is never
truly lost.
(And after that,
who knows?)
I wish
for humans
this molecular
reboot.
What might
we regrow
from the
inside out?
How might
we outrun
despair
on new legs?
Amen.
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Looking to expand your own spiritual imagination? Check out the chapter titled "What If?" in my book, Amen? Questions for a God I Hope Exists, for prayerful and poetic inspiration.