The last three lines from a poem by Emily Dickinson are the epigraph of Not Even Light. Like you, I feel the winds rising. Our benighted species is drifting away from the shores of rationality and into a storm surge of madness. I don’t know exactly what to do anymore other than to take what measures I can to live on Earth in a responsible way and to keep my mind, body, and spirit in good working order for the times to come.
I’m not going to fume about the causes of our collective inability to govern ourselves sensibly and responsibly and the likely effects of that failure. I’m not going to repeat what we all already know we need to do to minimize the effects of our destructiveness upon our home. There’s little point. Everybody’s already heard the bell clanging in the steeple. I choose to take comfort in knowing that our mother the Earth will abide regardless of our deafness to its wild ringing.
There came a wind like a bugle;
It quivered through the grass,
And a green chill upon the heat
So ominous did pass
We barred the windows and the doors
As from an emerald ghost;
The doom’s electric moccasin
That very instant passed.
On a strange mob of panting trees,
And fences fled away,
And rivers where the houses ran
Those looked that lived—that Day—
The bell within the steeple wild
The flying tidings whirled.
How much can come
And much can go,
And yet abide the world!