Dear Earth, I sobbed as they arrested me.

I wasn’t upset about my criminal record, the blank hours ahead of me in a cell, court, the fine.

I didn’t feel unsafe. As the police carried me away, they checked four times if they were hurting me, if I was okay.

I wasn’t ashamed, after a lifetime of being a good girl, of not inconveniencing anyone, of doing as I’m told.

I sobbed, beloved Earth, because the grief I felt for you suddenly rose up and crushed me.

I knew that 600 of us had already been through these cells, and we were hardly appearing on our national television.

I saw the whisper of my voice up against the airplane roar of those who have unimaginable power.

I recognised the system’s denial about the gravity of your prognosis, as I have lived under a thick protective crust for decades.

The grief pushed its way through me, and it left me clean.

I am lucky to be here, dear Earth, as I write with the red biro a smiling officer brought me.

Later they’ll bring me food, and I’ll go home to my extravagent privelige.

Others are failing to coax crops from impoverished soil. Others have had their homes violently flattened. Others are watching the ice caps melt, drip by deathly drip, and they don’t know what to do.

I know what to do.

I vow to witness your vast suffering, darling Earth, and pray for your coast dwellers, intricate coral reefs and nightingales.

I vow to meet the razor-sharp protection of others with peace in my heart.

I vow to do what you call me to do.

I am so inadequate, dear Earth, and I contain the same greed, hate and delusion that is strangling you.

I am asking for your forgiveness, with my sobs, and with this red pen.