I did not take maximum advantage of my Sweat Day – and I’m bummed out about that.
I don’t know what got into me, but I could not sit down and concentrate on much of anything for longer than about five minutes straight. This is extremely uncharacteristic of me. And it was quite distracting and distressing, to be honest.
Unlike many of the breathless weather reports we get in the dead of winter warning of an impending Blizzard-cane (only to have it fizzle), I have to hand it to them: they nailed the call.
When I opened my kitchen door, particularly this afternoon (after the air had had enough time to bake), it was almost as if I’d walked into a room with a blast furnace. I stopped at the creek for a few moments (literally), and barely managed to score a few photos of the rainforest I feel our regular forests transition into when we aren’t looking.
Consequences
The furthest distance I’ve walked since Monday, July 15th, 2019 (five days ago) was on Wednesday July 17th, when I walked a whopping .59 miles – and that was simply incidental walking, such as up and down grocery store aisles.
I don’t think the consequences of my sluggishness this week could be more obvious. I was bouncing off the walls today! And yet it was too damn hot to walk. Ooooooh, how frustrating!
Making matters even worse was the fact that I didn’t seem able to concentrate on anything. So for all my wistful intentions yesterday, the fact is, I frittered my Sweat Day away.
Looking Away From the Heat – Photo: L. Weikel
There’s Always Tomorrow
Sad to say, I’ll get another crack at the apple tomorrow. I mean, I’m happy I have another day left of the weekend, but the thought of people having to endure another one of these utterly oppressive days of heat without any meaningful relief is simply awful.
I just ran up into our bedroom to turn the air conditioner on, since I plan to hit the sheets as soon as I publish this post. During the day we try to keep everything off except the one window unit in our living room. We don’t want to be energy hogs. But if we mostly stay in the living room, it’s easy to forget just how truly thick and hot things can get elsewhere. I was surprised at how hard it was to breathe (literally) when I just ran up to our bedroom.
So, again – I’m so grateful for our a/c units.
This is one spate of weather our whole house fan simply would not, could not make bearable.
It just occurred to me that it feels like tomorrow is going to herald a reverse snow day. Or I should say, the anticipation I feel this evening feels similar to how I often feel the night before the arrival of a blizzard. Perhaps we should call it a sweat day?
For instance, I know I won’t be mowing the lawn. And I know I probably won’t even take a ‘walk around.’ It’s just going to be too damn hot and m-u-g-g-y.
I’m a bit fascinated at the anticipation I feel. I definitely can tap into the little kid in me, who feels like tomorrow will be more special than a usual Saturday. And the specialness has everything to do with the weather – the weather and how unpleasant consequences as a result of it will make it extremely attractive and preferable to hunker down inside and ‘wait it out.’
Snow Day In Reverse
It’s that same sense of being a school kid and hearing the name of your school called out on the radio for a snow day. Again, I think this anticipatory attitude is tied to the prediction that the ‘heat index’ may reach as high as 113 degrees tomorrow – dangerous to pretty much anyone and everyone who does not have air conditioning, and even those who do have a/c could succumb to heat stroke or heat exhaustion if they venture out into the regular air or just even choose to stick it out.
This is a perfect excuse to go see a movie or spend the day at the library. (I’d say go to a pool, but no. Nope. Too hot.)
Bird Bath on a Snow Day – Photo: L. Weikel
All of this – the mindset, the excitement, the danger – they’re all wrapped up in having a day to ourselves. “It’s too hot to do anything but sit inside and {read, write, play cards, journey, meditate, drink gin & tonics, do a Motherpeace reading}…” Fill in your own favorite pastime or two.
Be Safe – Have Fun
You see? It’s the responsible thing to do, too. Running around grocery shopping, mowing lawn, jogging – or really doing anything, even walking, outside in this unbearable heat is as dumb as trying to go about your normal business when snow is falling at the rate of 3” an hour in the winter.
And just as on a snow day, I hope people who are less fortunate than I can find a safe place to ride this weather out. I realize my excitement is a function of my very good fortune to have a window air conditioner and the means to afford to run it. I wish it weren’t so dangerous for so many.
I have to admit, though, I’m excited to be ‘forced’ to spend the day inside doing all the things I’ve been yearning to do for weeks.
So treat yourself to a sweat day.
And don’t forget to make sure your bird feeders are filled and your bird baths have plenty of water.
Bird Feeders in a Cooler Season – Photo: L. Weikel
A Bright Spot Amongst the Gloom – Photo: L. Weikel
Listening (Retreat) Reminder
Sometimes being a one-woman-band has its downsides, and one of those is paving the road to hell on a regular basis with all my good intentions (and even better ideas).
I know I need to send out a Hoot Alert announcing my upcoming Listening Retreat at Amadell the weekend of August 9-11. I’ve become so used to ‘talking out loud’ to you, my faithful followers of my 1111 Devotion posts (have I mentioned lately how much I love and appreciate you guys?), that I tend to forget I have an entire other mailing list of people who’ve asked to be kept in the loop on my retreats and other offerings.
Need For Silence
The thing is, like pretty much everything else I do that involves writing, my Hoot Alerts require silence for me to create them. And sometimes silence is in short supply.
But lately, even if and when silence arrives on my doorstep, the hour may be so long in the tooth that I fall asleep within its embrace as soon as we connect.
I’ll blame the heat.
Lots of Heat This Coming Weekend
Speaking of the heat, it looks like we’re going to really need to take care not only of ourselves but each other over the next few days. Good grief! The heat index may potentially reach 100 to 105 tomorrow (Friday), 105 to 110 on Saturday, and 100 to 105 on Sunday.
That’s nuts. But it’s also a call to pay attention. If you know you have an elderly neighbor, especially one who lives alone, and they pop into your mind over the weekend – listen to your intuition. Check on them, even if you aren’t one to usually pay a visit.
Listen to the Call to Care
Even if they’re perfectly fine and have hunkered down in their living room with a bowl of popcorn and their tv’s remote in hand to ride out the heat wave, imagine what a ‘cool’ thought it would be to realize somebody cares enough to just check in.
I have a feeling that even the most reclusive among us yearn to know, deep down, that somebody else gives a hoot that we’re ok. That other people think about us occasionally. That people, even if they keep to themselves and don’t intrude on our daily lives beyond the occasional wave or neighborly nod, care that we’re alive and will help if we’re in need.
So yeah. I started this post out with the intention of reminding everyone of the upcoming Listening Retreat. I guess it only makes sense that I end it by suggesting that, if someone pops into your mind this weekend and you wonder if they’re doing ok or might need something, listen to yourself and your intuition. Honor it; and most importantly, act upon it.
I’m sad to report that walking was not on my agenda today. The intensity of the heat and humidity was overwhelming – to the point where I’m pretty sure the heat index reached 104 degrees this afternoon.
I’d like to write something intelligible this evening, but that’s rapidly becoming less and less likely.
To add insult to my difficulty keeping my eyes open, I was stung by what I believe was a yellow jacket or a wasp today. I was helping someone carry their stuff from the edge of the Tohickon back to the car, rushing, since we could see the billowing, slate gray clouds rapidly approaching from the west. My arms were full as we climbed the grassy hill, rutted from the downpours of a few days ago, when suddenly the skies opened. Fat, harsh globs of water seemed to slap down onto our heads as we broke into a run.
Sting in a Storm
All of a sudden in the midst of this chaos, a searing pain, feeling a bit like a huge splinter, pierced my calf. I tried to swipe at it, but my arms were full. I was running, but the pain was so intense, I just had to slow a bit to try to get a glimpse of what was hurting me so much. All I could see was something that looked about as big as a quarter latched onto the back of my leg.
I couldn’t get any better of a look than to quickly assess the monster’s size because the bags I was carrying were flailing around and the wind and raindrops were whipping through the trees and into my face. I nevertheless staggered to a stop and tried to knock from the back of my leg whatever it was that was stinging me relentlessly. But I failed – painfully.
I thought I knocked it hard enough to dislodge it the first time, but it was clearly hanging onto me for dear life – by its stinger. Indeed, it felt like it was pumping as much venom into me as possible to make me suffer for whatever transgression I’d inadvertently visited upon it.
After blindly slashing at it with one of the bags I was carrying, I could see nothing was attached to my leg any longer – but the pain; ah, that definitely persisted.
The Clorox Remedy
As soon as I got home, I addressed the sting with my mother’s old ‘remedy’ – Clorox. After patting the back of my calf, which was now swelling and looking as angry as that wasp must have felt, with a Clorox-soaked wadded-up paper towel, the swelling did diminish a bit. But wowza, I have to tell you – five hours later, that hot, searing pain is back.
I’m sure it’ll be fine by tomorrow. The worst part will probably be intense itching. I’m lucky, though, especially when it comes to my body – which I know and appreciate. As my rapid recovery from being hurled onto the macadam when Spartacus and I were accosted by the neighbor’s dogs evidenced, my body is amazingly resilient. Not only that, I guess I should be grateful that I didn’t have an allergic reaction to the sting.
All in all then, I guess, upon reflection and analysis, I had a most fortunate day. Just a bit of extra Zing! added to my step.
Well, it’s not as if she’s exactly ‘speaking’ for me in the above photo. Rather, the expression on her face captures my general energy level right about now.
I took this photo of Sheila yesterday. She was hanging out on the porch, and the day was becoming hotter and muggier by the minute. I snapped a shot of her ‘in that condition’ because I had the feeling that, one day, it might provide food for thought (or fodder for a post).
I did not think that day would arrive so quickly.
Nevertheless, thank goodness I took it.
I had an extremely long day today, and I’m decidedly running on one cylinder, if that. The good thing is that by working so long in a session, I didn’t spend any time thinking or fretting about the news or what new incendiary tactics might have been engaged today..
I imagine nothing much has changed. Same outrage, different day.
It’s just sad that we’ve all become so used to this as our new normal.
I woke up this morning and was feeling remarkably ‘down.’ This feeling was as pervasive as it was unexpected. There was no obvious reason for it, either – dietary or otherwise.
But then, the day unfolded, and I made the mistake of reading news headlines.
I have to admit it: My stomach has been hurting all day. I’ve felt a little short of breath all day.
Honestly, I feel as though there is nowhere to look anymore that is not shocking, awful, and hateful. The blatant racism, misogyny, corruption, and deliberate attack on the rule of law being spewed and inflicted on our country is beyond the pale.
My heart hurts for our country. My heart hurts for our integrity. My heart hurts for our children – yours, mine, and everyone else’s.
My heart hurts for the soul of us all – and by that, I mean everything we stand for, believe in, and hold sacred.
If we don’t take a stand now, when everywhere we look we’re slapped in the face with vile divisiveness, cruelty, and utter corruption and self-dealing, we never will.
So Many Secrets/So Many Compromised People in Power
It broke my heart to read that so-called leaders of the Republican party such as Lindsey Graham were actually condoning Trump’s hate-filled racist rants of yesterday and today. His comments do not reflect simple policy-related differences of opinion with my own views. His comments reflect a fundamental abrogation of everything I was taught our country stands for.
Yes, I’m calling Graham out. Why? Because Donald Trump may be the biggest liar to ever cross the doorstep of the White House (and yes, I am saying with absolute lack of equivocation that he is the single biggest serial liar to ever cross the threshold of the White House), but we knew he was an ignorant con-man for decades. We knew it when he declared he was running. We’ve known it all along. All we had to do was read the background. All we had to do was open our eyes and read.
But Lindsey Graham? I remember a time when he appeared to be a man of principle. A man who had courage and integrity. So I have to say…this behavior of his, including his kowtowing to Trump since the inauguration, tells me there’s something about Lindsey Graham we don’t know. I think we have yet another example of a puppet whose strings are being pulled by a power that has the dirt.
The case that’s unfolding with Jeffrey Epstein is horrific. But you know what? I read about it at the very beginning of Trump’s candidacy. I was aware of the young girl who dropped her case because of death threats. I was aware of Alex Acosta. This has all been readily available. It is not ‘fake’ news. It is entirely documented.
This Is All About Power OVER
And it is all related. The utterly malignant foundation of so much of what goes on in our country is tied to and inextricably bound up in rampant, unabashed, unchecked, abuse of power. Power over women, power over young girls, power over little boys, power over the homeless, power over the defenseless, power over the poor, power over the black and brown in our country (and outside – you know, entire ‘shithole’ countries).
This has gone on for so long, they laugh and clink their glasses behind their billion dollar enclaves and think they’ll rule the world forever. But they’ve become sloppy, which comes from feeling they can live their exploitive, debauched existences out in the open, simply because they hold so much power.
Well, we’re the ones who have the power. We’re the ones who must look each other and ourselves in the eyes and act in a way that serves something greater.
I believe in us. But really, we must, must, must look at the raw truth of what is unfolding before our very eyes. And we must do it NOW.
Let us stand together and say “ENOUGH.”
The sun is setting on all we hold dear – Photo: L. Weikel
Going on first impressions, just looking at him, you might think this cat is a total bad-ass, wouldn’t you? Just look at the attitude dripping from his glare at my iPhone. The closer I got, the more irritated his look, until I could sense ‘the claw’ was perilously within striking distance.
And he’s a talker. Sometimes I’ll be doing my own thing, putting groceries away or something similar, and he’ll be lounging on the rug in front of the cupboard. I’ll not be anywhere near him (or more importantly, his tail), yet he’ll mrrrrow menacingly just issuing a ‘fair warning,’ lest I get too close.
He’s a rescue, in a sense. My friend Andrea posted his photo on FB when she managed to rescue his screaming kitten-self from a thicket in the Philadelphia park she lives directly across a three or four lane highway from. She heard his wails from her house. Over the traffic. From the middle of a prickly bush.
When I saw his face on FB, something clicked inside. I knew him. And I knew he was meant to live with us.
About a year after we adopted him, I went away on a business trip. We’d tried to keep him indoors, but weren’t particularly successful. He would stalk our comings and goings, timing his strikes to the slightest opening and darting out – sometimes even feigning indifference or doing a deep fake now and again of heading toward the living room, when actually he was just waiting for the kitchen door to open wide enough for him to turn on a dime and launch himself through the slim escape hatch.
So when I was in Seattle and Karl admitted with a sigh, “Cletus got out,” I didn’t really worry. He’d won the skirmish, but I was certain we would win the war.
Walkabout
But he didn’t return home that day. Nor did he come when Karl called him (again and again) through the night.
Another day and night went by and Karl had to admit to me, over the phone, that Cletus was still on the prowl.
I hoped he would return when I got back. He did not.
I called and called to him, at all times of day and night. Karl and I called to him as we walked around our ‘usual’ two mile walk. Days soon turned into a week with absolutely no sign of him.
Every time Karl and I saw a couple vultures hanging out near our home, our hearts leapt into our throats. Were they feasting on Cletus?
I was a dutiful mother. I created “wanted” posters, papering the area and alerting the post office. A handful of people called at first. I checked out the sightings – most within a two mile radius of our house, a few even further away – to no avail. From everything they could tell me, they might’ve seen him, but when push came to shove, almost all the sightings disappeared before I got there.
I was morose. Karl was no better; he felt responsible, after all, since the cat had escaped during his ‘watch.’
Cletus – Fire Hog (He could be cute) – Photo: L. Weikel
A Month of Worry and Sadness
Finally, almost exactly one month to the day from when he’d made his Great Escape, I received a call from a person who thought she’d seen him hanging out near her barn. She lived about two miles from our house.
I hopped into the Grey Ghost and headed to the barn. Cruising back and forth a few times, I saw exactly the cat she’d spotted. Sadly, but easily to see for me, it wasn’t him.
As I drove home, dejected and on the verge of giving up, I came to a stop sign. This particular stop sign, I should note, is not even a quarter mile from my house. Looking both ways, I noticed a black animal trotting down the right side of the road (away from me) and in the opposite direction from our house. It was, as I say, trotting along on the side of the road. My first instinct was that it was a dog or a fox.
Then something said, ‘Clete.’
What the heck, I figured. I might as well check it out. The likelihood of this being Cletus? Nearly zero. After all, it was right around the corner from our house! Surely he would be heading home if it were him? (And surely he would’ve come home or found his way home by following our voices, since we called him every – single – day?!?!?)
Trotting Down the Road – A Fox? A Dog?
I pulled up to this animal trotting along the road and at first it didn’t notice me (Grey Ghost is a Prius, after all). But of course, as soon as it did, being a cat, it darted across the road in front of me, disappearing into a thicket of thorns on the left side of the road. I pulled over, put my four-ways on, and got out of the car.
As soon as I got out, I heard the growls. I knew those growls. I recognized that pissy attitude. I was stunned (but oh-so-excited!).
I immediately started saying his name and calling to him. He went deeper into the prickles. Finally, I made eye contact. Bingo. Crouching and calling his name, I apparently persuaded him that I was indeed his Food Provider. His ample tail went up. I was appalled. It was matted and burr-covered. But he came toward me, talking the whole way (but lost the growl).
He came right up to me and would not stop talking. Obviously, I knew it was him – in spite of how desperately skinny, matted, and pathetic he looked. I knew his eyes, most of all. His voice hadn’t changed much either.
Cletus – Shortly Upon His Return – Photo: L. Weikel
Smothered With Kisses
I got him into my car and we pulled off the road entirely. He proceeded to smother me with kisses and little nips on my nose, my chin, my arms, my ears, all the while keeping up an incessant chatter of meows, as if to say, “MOMMY, is it really YOU?!” I kept asking him the same thing. Could it really be my Cletus? Right down the road, not half a mile from our house? My mind boggled at the good fortune of seeing him trotting down the road. Clearly, he was so inept at tracking or finding his way out of a thicket to make it home that, had I not seen him, he may never have come home again.
And from the looks of him, he was not a survivalist by any stretch of the imagination.
He’d lost about half his body weight in the four weeks he was ‘on walkabout.’ Not a candidate for the Incredible Journey award. I have to say, it almost seems like he had to go out of his way to fail to find his way home. He may have been stubborn or he may have been clueless; he was sure glad to be home now.
Since our reunion, which has been years now, we only let him go outside at night (to protect our many bird friends). We also figure he won’t run away at night; not sure why, but it’s proven correct so far. (Let’s hope he doesn’t get distracted one night and lose track of our house.)
So when you look at his bad-ass expression, realize that he’s all talk. Aside from the occasional growl or snarl, and despite the irritable swipe of a razor-sharp claw, he’s not the tough guy he pretends to be. It’s all an illusion.
I didn’t mean to go off on a tangent about Nauset Light like I did last night. I guess it was a memory I wanted to savor again, as I haven’t thought about the “I – love – YOU” light and the delight it brought my mother for a long time.
Thank you for taking that little detour with me.
What I originally intended to write about was the delectable experience of having days upon days to read a stack of books.
It’s been a long time since I’ve honestly experienced that freedom.
And the freedom I’m talking about is, when it comes right down to it, internal freedom.
It’s not as if I have any outside authority forbidding me from reading or restricting access to books. It’s my own judgment on where my time would best be spent.
I’ve been reading the same book (Come of Ageby Stephen Jenkinson) for almost three months. That’s ridiculous, even for a slow reader like me. Granted, the prose is not light and breezy. It’s dense and ripe with perspectives that demand contemplation. It’s definitely not a summer ‘whodunnit.’ And I must admit, I’m enjoying the urge to ponder that this book engenders.
The truth is two-fold:
First, while I’m delighted that I’ve managed to write 244 consecutive daily blog posts, and I’m stoked that I’ve fallen into a reasonably predictable pattern of reliability, it’s also true that by the time I get everything written and ‘shared’ each evening, I only have the energy to read at most about two pages of my book before falling asleep mid-sentence. Given that the book is 388 pages, it’s no darn wonder I’ve been reading it for three months.
But the second truth is more damning. The second truth is that the apparent lack of time to read I now experience as a result of my writing is baloney. I’m simply expressing in quite an obvious manner my disdain for my own self. I am the warden of my own ‘no time for reading’ jail.
And the irony is that I aspire to write. Therefore, I know that one of the greatest assets to my career is allowing myself to read copiously. So my resistance to permitting myself to return to those languid days of endless reading is not even logical from a practical perspective.
It’s just mean. Mean to myself.
Quite obviously, I need to reprioritize my life. I need to put reading and writing at the very top of my list. For as much as I’m asking myself to be kind to myself, it’s not easy.
It’s almost the middle of July and we have no plans for a vacation in the foreseeable future. That fact, in and of itself, is not all that big of a deal for me. It’s not as if I’ve felt a sense of deprivation if we didn’t take a vacation every year – and there have been a decent number of years when we didn’t ‘go anywhere’ or ‘do anything’ of note.
No…
The dissatisfaction underlying my grousing is the distinct lack of an opportunity (either in the recent past or the foreseeable future) to languorously curl up with a good book and just read and read and read and read until I’m not quite sure who I am anymore. Then fall asleep. And then read and read and read some more upon waking.
My fondest memories of summer vacations were days on end spent reading book after book with no agenda but to move on to the next one.
Summers on Cape Cod
I was lucky enough, being the youngest of five kids, to have parents who, by the time they had me, were able to afford to take quite a lovely vacation. We rented a cottage from family friends near Nauset Light, in North Eastham, Massachusetts. We first started going to this cottage back in 1962 or 1963 – which would mean I was three or four years old – and I’m pretty sure we only stayed a long weekend. Or a week at the most.
It felt perfect to me, although I always, without fail, cried a bit when vacation would end (regardless of how long it had been), when I ‘had to say goodbye to the ocean.’
The Cliff
One of the most remarkable memories from those earliest of years is how the cottage was situated only yards from the edge of the sandy cliff that plunged – 80 feet? – down to the beach. Someone had affixed a rope to a spike at the top to help people climb up the cliff from the beach (a reality that would cause environmentalists nowadays to blanch).
Anyway, as a little kid, I remember easily scampering up the cliff without the aid of the knotted rope.
Another absolutely precious memory from those vacations (which extended right up to and beyond when I was 21 and went to that same cottage with Karl on our honeymoon), was Nauset Light. (Believe it or not, this is the very same light that is featured on all the bags of Cape Cod Potato Chips.)
Photo: Sandboard.com
Nauset Light
Back when we first started spending time at the Cape, every dusk, the light would come on. It would blink three times, then a ‘pause’ would occur as the lights rotated around, and then another three blinks…over and over again. The rhythm of the light was wonderfully reassuring, especially since my mother called it the “I – love – you” light.
I’m sure she started the tradition of watching those three strong beams of light gliding steadily and relentlessly out across the waves, one-two-three, then sweeping across the tops of the pine trees behind the cottage, and began the tradition of saying, “I…love…you!” while sitting with me. She soon extended that delightful while holding my nieces, as they gradually came upon the scene three and then four years later.
It became a maternal tradition within our family, whenever a baby or toddler would cry or become anxious in the middle of the night, to stand outside in the fragrant sea breeze, baby on hip, swaying in that way that just happens, listening to the waves of the Atlantic crashing on the shore. And we would wait for it, wait for it… then blink! Blink! Blink!
“I. Love. YOU!” Chortles of delight eventually gave way to murmured repeats of the affectionate declaration, then slowly, slowly eyelids would reluctantly close.
Reading
Finally. Before I took this meander down memory lane, I began this post thinking about the absolute indulgence of reading my fill of book after book while spending time at the Cape. Now I’m filled with memories of my mom. From my love of reading to the I Love You light, I miss her so much.
I can’t remember the last time I just had days stretched out before me when I could read to my heart’s content and not feel the pull to pay attention to anyone or anything other than what the next chapter might reveal. What a luxury. What an opportunity for indulgence in one of my favorite pastimes.
The weather today felt foreboding. Darkness infiltrated every nook and cranny and, disturbingly, that dramatic lack of light was not at all associated with the end of the day.
I took the photo, above, in a feeble attempt to capture the eerie way the clouds were moving well before today’s storm actually arrived. (Of course, video captured it much more effectively than did the still shots.) Nevertheless, the layers of clouds were obvious and pronounced, and even in the still photo, you can almost see how the middle layer of whitish clouds was moving in a completely opposite direction of the other two darker layers.
Layers of Cloudy Chaos
This contrary movement felt (and looked) ominous. Inside, it felt (and looked) as though all the curtains had been drawn and we were waiting for…something…to drop.
The quality of the thunder seemed different today as well. Instead of cracks of thunder, the evidence of lightning super-charging the air sounded more like what I might imagine bombs would sound like. Again, in spite of my fervent love of thunderstorms, I felt uneasy. And I was not alone.
The sun will come out tomorrow (to coin a phrase). I know that.
But I have to admit, witnessing the rapidity with which everything flooded today here in our neck of Pennsylvania, I feel a deep concern for New Orleans, as well as many other low-lying coastal areas. It’s not even the middle of July yet and New Orleans is staring down the arrival of its first hurricane of the season, which is expected to make landfall over the weekend. And we’re only at “B” in the season’s naming process.
Even the concept of climate change seems quaint at this point. We are in the midst of a full blown climate crisis. We need to stop pussy-footing around this truth and bring all of our formidable resources (both creative and economic) to bear on responding to the reality of this truth.
Within minutes of today’s deluge – Photo: L. Weikel
What I guess I don’t understand is why people feel a need to argue the origin of this crisis. Our climates are changing radically all over the Earth. Regardless of ‘who’ or ‘what’ started it, the ice at the poles and the permafrost as well are melting exponentially faster than had been predicted. Everything is changing – again, exponentially more rapidly – as a result. We cannot afford to continue this insane pattern of denial.
Yes, the darkness that overlay the area today was, arguably, a passing storm. But I can feel in the core of my being that we are whistling past the graveyard as we continue to pretend there’s “nothing to see here.” Darker days are ahead if we do not act now to demand better of our lawmakers. This provincial, head-in-the-sand, fingers-stuck-in-our-ears repeating “lalalalalala” approach to this climate crisis is the epitome of darkness.
We need to stop denying what’s right before our eyes. We must refuse the temptation to retreat and accept the darkness. Together we must shine our Light on this crisis – and demand immediate action and accountability.
