On waking, I read of Hurricane Dorian. These extreme weather furies have always happened on your body, Dear Earth, and crushed us like ants under an elephant’s foot. The scientists tell us that we have already made the weather gods more capricious, and that in the coming years more and more of us will be
Before my first cup of tea, I sat in the temple garden and looked out across the mist-pooled valley. The sun was bright and there was an autumnal freshness in the air. As often happens, our little dog Aiko climbed onto my lap and observed the morning with me. Laps are good places to be.
The lights are on and I’m sitting up in bed with my laptop. There are three cats on the bed, one of them purring. The temple is quiet. Earlier this evening twenty of us sat in a circle and explored the facts of the current state of your health, beloved Earth. We were asked how
I want to enjoy you while I still can. That can be difficult when my head fills up with a tangle of plotting and self-recrimination and hopelessness and oughts. I forget to gather flowers from the garden and make posies for my little vases. I forget to pluck a sweet blueberry or two on the
We were watching men and women run alongside the lake. They were two thirds into their 10 kilometres. You were too hot, Earth, as if you had a fever. People were struggling – pouring sweat, beetroot coloured, their bodies moving in tortured caricatures. He was standing next to us. He was calling out encouragement as
I’m just back from a holiday in Shropshire with Little Dog and my husband. As I walked along Ellesmere lake eating ice-cream, dear Earth, I knew that your lungs were burning. How can I sit in cafés or visit castles or read trashy detective novels when I could be doing something to help you, Earth?
I really want to be a good guy. I buy ethical toilet paper. I just signed the petition to stop the burning rainforest. I run a temple and I work as a psychotherapist and I try really really hard to be good. Just look at me meditating in front of the Buddha! I would at
Earth, whenever I do the washing up, I betray you. I have a natural sponge, which would at least dissolve back into your lap when I’m done with it. Instead I choose the bright plastic sponge, because I prefer the way it hugs the contours of the plates. I choose the sponge that will spoil
My name is Satya and I’m one of the teensy-weensy creatures living on your back. I’m told there are 8.7 million species of us here. I’m one of the 7.53 billion humans. Hello. I’m writing to you because I want to say three things: thank you, sorry, and please. I want to thank you for