Is 2020 a bellweather year? Yes. We’ll know a whole lot more about the future of human and planetary life by year’s end…but to be fully empowered during this year will take an act of acrobatics we may never previously have seen! Give yourself over to giggles if you have a chance: joy in a moment may be what we recall later.
So I wrote a happy year’s end poem to capture a bit of the glory of emerald green grasses, songbirds and frogs and heavenly mist capping the view of Sonoma Mountain out my bedroom window, but I also wrote this:
We all know it’s coming
Death and taxes unless you owe so little
You don’t count.
It’s like that for a lot of folks
Who are retired or poor or just not in the game.
Your number is not called; you don’t count.
The machine could just roll over you;
Your robot could forget you.
But the game doesn’t matter anymore when we’re
Losing big time; you
Have to hide somewhere,
Maybe on your couch.
“I’m not here anymore,” said Minnie Driver
In The Big Night,
Climbing out of the ocean in her soaked slip
After her lover was seen kissing Isabella Rossallini.
She didn’t care anymore.
Just getting by in life; being a wage slave
You don’t get the high of being unique.
You don’t get to save yourself with goods
And services or even
With good works
Not if you know the world
Is sinking/burning up/dying/shifting
Faster than any of us can grasp
And you have not a clue
What to hold on to.
Your passport, I guess, but
What if you never leave again?
Your cat, your partner/lover/mate/child,
photographs of days gone by.
There may come that time when
We hold hands in a circle,
Hoping the sandstorm, shit storm, nuclear winter,
but here it is so hold on tight to
Some have known since
1989, The End of Nature,
that we’ve created a monster world,
In which we can no longer live
Unless we become oh so clever
And kind and avoid mass murder
And perhaps be happy again someday,
Having achieved deep adaptation.
Yet all around us are
Christmas stores full of ornaments,
Pizza shops full of cheese and tomato sauce,
Beer joints full of chattering drunks
And the old dress shops
Full of clothes we don’t need but
Yes, it’s all craven.
The whole lot of it.
What we watch; what we say instead
Of I love you;
Who we really are.
Stuck in endless low level anxiety
Because we’ve been too greedy,
Too kept busy to see
We’ve squeezed the planet till it
Wants to throw us off.
Pachamama is talking to us if we listen,
About redemption, about renewal
Of the balance
Gaia, Mother Earth
Kept in place for us for millienia
And now we’re too busy to see we’re
And after saying all that: keep joy somewhere nearby; enjoy comedies, the tragedies will envelope us soon enough. Today is foggy with a chance of war – but I don’t think its coming.