Dan Duckworth Editor

THE EYES IN THE ROOM

It was one of those meetings.

A few voices at the head of the table doing all the talking. Everyone else nodding like they were under a spell. No pulse. No movement. Just hierarchy on full display.

I couldn't take it any longer.

I swallowed hard—and decided to break the pattern.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just persistently. It took a few tries to cut through the resistance—but something shifted. People began talking, finally—turning toward the new voice, as they did. Responding. Referencing. Taking shelter within it.

It looked like participation. It felt like movement. But I saw more than that.

The eyes in the room told a different story.

The room wasn’t free.

Heads were now bouncing—snapping back and forth. First, to the sanctioned voice—then, to the subversive one. From the one who held authority to the one who had just earned it.

Though I scarcely spoke again, a power struggle played out like a tennis match. You could see the center of gravity criss-crossing the net merely by watching the movement of the eyes in the room.

"Who will win?" they wondered.

Their gaze, even, was governed.

If you want to know where the power is, follow the eyes. They’ll point straight at it.

There were more voices now. But still just two poles. The room was still oriented. Still governed.

Until the gaze is freed—not fixed, not bouncing, but distributed—the system remains hierarchical, even in disguise.

After the meeting, something rare happened.

Six people lingered. In the hallway, there were no roles. No script. No one in charge. And I noticed—

The eyes were no longer bouncing.

They scanned. Met. Returned. They looked not just at, but to—each other. For clarity. For courage. For what comes next.

Not as spectators, but as players. Contributors. Creators.

Yes, in the hallway—unlike in the meeting—finally, we were naming the pain and creating the vision—together.

That’s the first sign of an exalted community. Not a new leader. Not better participation. Just people looking to one another—literally, looking with their eyes—as the source of movement and ideas.

That’s freedom.

The arc doesn’t bend because time passes. It bends when people lean against it. When they resist the current. Disrupt the silence. Refuse to wait for history to self-correct.

Justice isn’t gravity. It’s struggle. And the longer the arc, the more it demands.

It bends only when someone breaks rank, pays the price, and moves the weight of the world—a little closer to what is right. Whether that world is a courtroom or a boardroom, a pulpit or a dinner table.

The arc will bend. But not without you.

Will it bend toward justice—or convenience, or comfort, or power—on your watch?

I promised three issues of The Front Line, this magazine-style newsletter, as an experiment. This is the third installment in that series. Over the past three weeks, much has changed in my vision for what we're building and how to build it. But I want to pause here, and get your feedback on this experiment—honest and raw.

What do you think?
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Different is most likely coming. You can shape what comes next with your real feedback. No pandering, no pretense. Just honest reflection.

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