It is just four days from the Turning. The season of abundance is supposed to be upon us as the goddess turns the wheel towards the dark of the year. We have already lost a half an hour of light. The leaves of fruit trees are yellow, many drifting like butterflies to the ground, prematurely. The ground is sodden, like walking on sponge. Cicadas coax down the sun on the few days we have seen it since the beginning of June. A few crickets have joined the chorus. In the fields the goldenrod is painting a golden haze over emerald and lime. The quality of that green belies the changing season. No wheat- colored grasses. Flowers bloom on with a determination that reveals nature’s intention to survive. Torrential rains pour down silver sheets from the sky obliterating the possibility of peering out to see the hummingbirds dip and soar, sip bee balm nectar. Fog is a constant companion on my pre-dawn walks – the only time I can listen to birds when the air quality is clean. That three – mile walk is my sanity and sometimes my only exercise. By 8 AM some mornings the air is already reaching the poisoning stage. Most days the windows stay shut. ‘Moderate’ is wishful thinking. If a morning sun burns through the clouds the invisible killer starts burning my eyes if I step out the door to sit on the porch. Inside, the humidity is so high that I am chilled; never below 75.
I haven’t had a pair of dry shoes since the beginning of June. This has become my new summer reality. Elsewhere the wild – fires burn on shattering the shreds of the forests that could help us breathe again, and temperatures are frying both humans and non – humans alike. The desert heat is intolerable. Drought shrivels the human soul. A sense of claustrophobia overwhelms me. Trapped in a nightmare. All I can think of is escape. But there is no place to go. I am caught in the global catastrophe that is overtaking us all.
My cellar is underwater – has been for two months, rotting the timbers. The water table so high water just stays where it falls; daily flood warnings are commonplace. Damaging winds and tornado warnings are up this afternoon, and my windows are so fogged up from the outside that I can barely see through them. Overflowing brooks and rivers are no longer soothing.
When I engage with the culture at large “The Great Silence” dominates conversation. Not a word about what’s happening. I write to a couple of friends who can tolerate staring into truth. One sends me the following piece of free writing; I copy it anonymously.
“These are days of rain and flood and so much humidity I can’t sleep in my bedroom even with the dehumidifier on all day and the toilet won’t flush even though I just paid some guy $260 to suck it out. Everything out there feels ominous: the clapping thunderstorms in the city on Thursday the pall that’s settled over us here. These are days when the only thing I can do with total presence is try and set things right, restore order, I have hung out my shirts and robes on the rain gutter to dry and I am making an inventory of all the repairs we need and I do feel incredibly blessed now to have another cabin where we can poop in the morning and where we just spent 10 minutes watching TV on the large screen. Reports on the flood.
What lies beneath the surface where we make order make things right call in repairmen guys who know how to fix things to make things right what lies beneath the surface is … deep worry but worry doesn’t say it is it fear? dread? We have no idea no one alive on earth has any idea what we are moving into. This heatwave in Europe 60 degrees C in Sicily records falling everywhere and the floods here and it’s only going to get worse they say and “democracy is in peril in the US” says a random star when I went over there to catch the news today a singer talking about the US the guns the violence it’s just everywhere you look she says and yes a new thing can be born of this what we spoke of in our council a tender new thing like a baby and I would love to be taking care of a baby now, to be taking care of someone who needs my care instead the creature I’ve been taking care of has run away has gotten lost and now there is this pain on top of everything else but what is everything else? Oh the clearcut across the way and the divisions between us here and the saturated soil the toilet that won’t flush the pipes that keep gurgling the rain gutter that pours down rain the rotten floorboards and the slow drip of losing students and at the heart of it all it is me feeling lost as I’ve been feeling lost for weeks now because I can’t seem to get into my writing and without the writing I have no center and how could I have been so excited about it before and now so full of doubt? Is it because of how extreme the conditions have become the turbulence the drama my inability to convince myself under the circumstances that what I have to say matters. That my life matters…. when the only material I have is my life.”
When I read words like these. I give thanks. I am not alone in my misgivings, my fears, the sense that nothing I say or write will make a difference, the slender hope that something will shift…
But I have nightmares.
Summers in Maine used to offer us golden days when sunrises caught fire and sunsets had clouds of pink and gold sliding through the sky. The sweet scent of the brook wafted through open windows, accompanied us to bed, and we slept, the dogs and I in blessed dry night air.
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“When I engage with the culture at large “The Great Silence” dominates conversation. . . I write to a couple of friends who can tolerate staring into truth.” May we continue to hear and to support one another, here on FAR, and may y/our message reach the hearts of others.
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We’ve had another day of floods here in New England, with the water pouring down our street like a river. As you say, the flowers are using the water to grow in an abundance I’ve never seen before. Flowers are re-appearing in my garden that I haven’t seen for a couple of years. It’s almost as if Nature is saying — see what a beautiful paradise we can create without you — because I haven’t been able to intervene in my garden for three months so it is just as it would be if I were not here. But it is indeed terrifying – will every summer be worse and worse? Will we look back on the summer of 2023 as an easy summer? I think your last paragraph, when you remember what summers used to be like is important. We need to remind ourselves of what we are losing, or, rather remind each other and as many people as possible because we really need everyone to be involved if we are to have a chance of turning our world around.
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As terrifying as the events of this summer are, equally as terrifying is what you wrote – “When I engage with the culture at large “The Great Silence” dominates conversation. . .” I find the same thing. I think I have 2 people in my life with whom I can talk about these things without getting a response like – “yeah we’re screwed but let’s not talk about it as it’s too depressing.” or “We’ll adapt to the rising temps.” or “it’s always been hot in the summer.” or “don’t be such a downer” and on and on. How can we ever change things if folks won’t face the reality of the need to drastically change the whole system? And then how do we do that when the power elites are determined to ring every last cent out of their current economy.
Here in ABQ it’s been hot, hot, hot and super dry. Now today we’re getting torrential rain which will probably cause some severe flooding in the areas that got burned out last year. Like your friend, many days I also find it hard to paint and write. But that together with the beauty of nature is the only thing that keeps me going, so ultimately I persevere.
I love your line – “In the fields the goldenrod is painting a golden haze over emerald and lime. ”
I can only take solace in what Judith M said – ” May we continue to hear and to support one another, here on FAR, and may y/our messages reach the hearts of others.” I’d add to the end of that – “far and wide.” There is no place to run. This is our only planet.
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