Today I had the whole morning free to work on my new e-course. I began by setting up the mechanics of the automated emails. I encountered a technical problem, and then another, and then another. Over the course of an hour, a tangled knot formed in my stomach and tightened and tightened. Eventually it exploded
I’m not a natural walker. As a child I couldn’t see the point of walking unless there was something good at the end of it – a park, or maybe a sweet shop. I hoped that getting a dog would encourage me out of your buildings, Earth, and under the high ceilings of your skies.
Us humans are experts at using objects as extensions of our delicate selves. I look in my wallet and think, ‘new gloves for me’. I look at my cat and think, ‘purr for me’. I glance at your autumn colours, a procession of fiery finery, and think, ‘cold out, a cosy evening inside for me’.
I’m not usually an angry person. I can live and let live. And, when people tell me that the facts of global heating or the dying coral are confected conspiracy, darling Earth, I get so angry that I don’t know what to do about it. I’m wondering what’s going on for me. I get that,
After months of procrastinating I finally ordered the sacks of seed, moved the bird feeder from where weeds were strangling it, and filled the tubes with fat balls, sunflower hearts, niger. This morning the word is starting to get out and birds are coming for their breakfast. On a scale of efficiency, dear Earth, I
Sometimes I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Sometimes I despair at the size of your wound and the insufficiency of the bandages and balm, dear Earth. I see myself as a speck of dust in an ocean. Sometimes I want to shove other people off your lap and into oxygen-less space, dear Earth,
Much of you is poisoned, dear Earth. Your forests are thinning like hair. Many of your glorious species are fading into history. Your cloak of weather is whipping more and more crazily around you. When we take the science into our hearts and see what we have done, when we begin to grieve, how can
Maybe our grandfather was shamed when his pudgy two year old arms reached out, and he learnt to spit hate at his own need. Maybe our great grandmother was shut in the cupboard for hours at a time, and monsters grew in the dark. Further back: oppression breeding oppression, the horror of war, silent sexual
When I was a child my mum would make pancakes as a special treat. One for me, one for my little brother. One for me, one for my little brother. I hated the time it took for the pale creamy batter to take on golden patterns, be flipped, and appear on my plate with sharp
This is the grief I found like an underwater lake, vast and luminous. This is the grief that wakes me at 4 a.m. to stare at the ceiling, my heart trembling. This is the grief that follows me with a shadow of guilt. It has a bright lining of anger, and every so often it