The bitter-cold air batters my face as I cycle to work under the elm trees. December two and the yellow-orange-pink foliage are still giant brush strokes against the blue sky. Full of leaves. Such beauty!
And such horror, as we clock up yet another “warmest year on record.”
We are riding the wave of the Anthropocene – the Age of Humans. The 6th planetary spree of species extinction – the first of human doing – spurred by the lure of cheap energy, greed, freedom, and immortality.
We are the last surfers
too far from shore
as the sun sets –
and the waves are getting bigger.
Such beauty. Such sorrow. We do our best to hold them both.
Grief and love.
We grieve for the beloved things we’ve lost.
Our first love.
The Tasmanian Tiger.
Youth.
The Passenger Pigeon.
Idealism.
Sea mink.
And we fear for all we may yet lose.
So much unknown. And so much mystery.
How do we find footholds in the molten reality?
The wise men and women say start with gratitude. So there let us start.
Look up into the sky and say thank you to the sun, whose sunlight showers down upon us. Sunlight. The closest material proof of the love of God that exists.
Say thank you for the sunrise.
Thank you to your first breath of the morning.
Say thank you for the chance – even if it feels tenuous and small – to use this consciousness for something unique, something great.
Thank you for the other souls – rock, flower, bird and human – we get to explore life with.
Say thank you to life. To life itself. A gift from a loving God who is love.
Say thank you for the challenge we have.
To reflect that love back. In repayment for that life-giving sunlight.
Into our own heart,
on those around us who we love,
and even to those we find hardest to love.
Each thank you is a foothold.
Say thank you.
Keep moving.
Lovely, Andrew. All this is true, and more! I’m grateful that people think and write and feel reverence still.