Plumbing the crevice

At some point in Life each housekeeper must apply the crevice tool. Today was the day. I had learned from a very reliable source  the team on "Hoarders" tv show) that much of the stink in grody old carpet is concentrated in the schmutz at the edge of carpets.  I was vacuuming today and realized it was time.
 I put on the Tool and started. Yep. Overdue. I also remembered that our cat had a spot she liked to sleep under the bed, right up against the wall.  Great Caesar's ghost. there was so much hair there I though for a moment that we had another cat.  Thank goodness the carpet kept the whole thing from moving, or I'd have perished from fright right then and there. Or beat it to death with the crevice tool. 

Everyone has a crevice full of stinky, yucky stuff, whether we admit it or not. It doesn't get any better if you leave it sit. Might as well take care of it now.

Do you have the courage to do it? 

Dig out the Tool you need and get it over with.  You'll feel better. Trust me.

To Keep Us Free

To Keep Us Free

March, 2003 - It was the day of the Ultimatum. President Bush had announced to Saddam Hussein, “Get out or we’ll take you out.” The world collectively held its breath. History balanced on a cusp of what was and what could be.

I needed to grocery shop. Seems mundane in the face of such world-changing events, but the small things in life are often unaware of history-in-the-making. I headed to the store, a bit uneasy about being out in a suddenly unfamiliar universe.

The grocery store was oddly quiet. I expected the typical “pre-storm” crowd we get here in the north whenever there is an Event, people “stocking up” on chips and soda and other essentials they might need in the few extra hours it would take to get the snowplows out on the roads. The store, though, was nearly empty, and those who were there were not laughing and talking. I guess I was not the only one who felt strange.

Outside again, I wheeled my loaded cart out to the car. It was a soft night; soft breeze, soft sounds of cars in distance, the soft wail of a train crossing a road somewhere. I popped the trunk, and as the trunk lid raised I lifted my eyes. I saw the sky above; dark blue sky pierced by bright stars, wispy clouds lower to the horizon. Then I noticed what was not there. There were no warplanes screaming through the sky. There were no bombs whistling death as they plummeted toward houses and farms. There were no ambulances flying toward someone’s death.

I saw the woman first. From the sky she looked down. It was a Vietnam nurse, her eyes were deep and shaded with pain and exhaustion. Her stethoscope was draped around her neck, her scrubs wet and filthy with sweat and who knows what else. Next to her stood a World War 1 soldier, weary and grimy. Rank upon rank they appeared, Korean War vets, Gulf war soldiers in sand-colored gear, World War 2 in olive drab, Civil War blue and gray standing arm in arm. It was the Revolutionary soldier who spoke.

“Look around.” was all he said. I looked around, at the clear, quiet skies, down then at my full grocery cart. I had all the food I needed, all I wanted. I realized, except for the soldiers in the sky, that I was alone. I, a small woman, was totally alone in a dark parking lot, and I was safe. All the freedoms I ever needed or wanted surrounded me. Freedom from fear, from want, from pain, from cruel dictators who would steal my soul. It was all mine, and I had never acknowledged it.

I looked up again. The rough frontiersman-soldier smiled. “This it why we did it”, he said, “for you, and your children.” I looked down again at all I had. When I looked back they were all gone. But, I could feel them there, the years of bravery and sacrifice surrounding and protecting me.

“Thank you.” I whispered, then drove home, aware, at least for now, of all I’d been given.

Swedish Goodbye

In Minnesota, saying goodbye is a complicated thing. You do not simply rise from your chair, say that it is time to leave, put on your coat and go. There are steps to follow, multiple steps. They are not written down in an etiquette manual somewhere, they are imprinted in our DNA. First you must make stirring gestures, indicating that it is getting late; that you have farm chores to finish, a dog to let out, kids to pick up, something to that effect. You talk a bit more about some inconsequential topic, the weather, the Twins or the Vikings. That may lead to crop assessment for the coming year, then gardening plans. The woman of the house may remember she planned to give you some of her preserves or pickles.

She goes into the kitchen to retrieve those items. In the meanwhile it's been established that, indeed, you are planning on leaving. The men continue to talk of men-things, and as a woman, if you are lucky, and interested, you stay and contribute. The conversation invariably turns to hunting. Someone has seen an enormous buck on someone's back pasture. They hope Johnson doesn't post his land again, because his dad always let folks hunt his property. It's just been since he moved to the Cities that he feels like he can have it all to himself.

The wife is now rummaging through drawers of dozens of saved margarine tubs and disposable deli containers for a matching lid, so that she can give you some hot dish to take home. She and hubby will never eat all that, she explains, now that the kids are gone. Once the hot dish is packed into the container, no, you don't need to return the dish, I have plenty, and tucked into a grocery bag and folded up tight, you are ushered back in to the living room where you sit down again. Again, you talk about the reasons you need to go. Again, you thank them for supper. Not dinner. Supper. You make plans to have them over. Not firm plans, on a calendar, of course, just 'sometime'. Everyone is satisfied.

Palms are placed on knees, bodies hoisted to the accompaniment of the groans and creaks of full tummies and used joints, and all shuffle toward the front closet where coats, mittens, scarves and hats are retrieved and wrapped. Hot dish, and if you are lucky and remember, pickles and jam and handed over. Everyone, including the host and hostess, head out to the car. Once there, you start the car, to 'let it warm up', roll down the window, and further conversation ensues. You discuss where you'll see each other again. Church perhaps? Sale at Fleet Farm? Got to get over to Petersons and help take down that old white pine that blew down in the last storm and took out half his old silo. Told him he should have dealt with that right away, but he wouldn't hear of it. It got that blister rust back when it was going through here back in the 70s, and rotted in the middle. Now he knows better. You can tell a Swede, but you can't tell him much! All laugh. Okay, we'd better get back in the house, it's getting cold out here. You take care, you kids. Thanks for coming over. You too. Thanks for supper. Bye. Bye now!

Life in the 10X Mirror

Men don't use magnifying mirrors. They don't really care. They'll let their nose hair get long enough to braid until a significant other tells them to do something about it. Women have magnifiers. We have valid reasons.  I got one of these super-duper magnifying mirrors that your can stick on your other mirror with suction cups.It was so I could look at my eyelashes. Oh, come on now, I am not THAT vain. It's because some of my chromosomes are just as directionally  challenged as the whole rest of me, and some of my eyelashes grow curving downward. Not a big deal in the whole scheme of human experience, but it can be annoying. It can also be painful and dangerous.

Once one of these little stinkers rubbed across my cornea, scratching it and causing an infection. It was painful and infected enough that I went to urgent care. I don't mess around with eye stuff. The doctor put in the numbing drops. Blessed relief. He put in the weird fluorescent dye. Yep, nice scratch right in the corner of my eye, and one little dinky invisible blonde eyelash turned inside out and grinding away in there.  He dug for awhile, apologized, and said he couldn't get it. He suggested that when the swelling went down I have a try at it with my magnifying mirror and tiny tweezers. I was able to do that.

I still have my 10X mirror. I look at my aging face, which looks like a lunar landscape. Chin whiskers like tree stumps. Skin like the surface of Mars. Broken capillaries snaking everywhere like fire hoses left lay after some huge house fire.   Why do I do that!?

Why do I do that about everything? If I step back and brush may hair, I don't look bad, for 52. If I look around, life is really good, I've got great friends. A wonderful husband, a son to be proud of who is talented and handsome and cracks me up. I have fun hobbies and interests.

Step away from the mirror. Yank out the eyelashes when they are problematic, and put it away.

Do you have a 10X mirror? What are you doing with it?

Migraine Wish List

A wish list for my doctors.

I wish for you the following things. This is not for ill will, but for understanding. First, I wish for you an an aura. Perhaps flashing lights, getting lost in your own hometown on the way to the grocery store, You know, the “you'd better get the shopping done before it hits” kind. You rush through the list, and dump everything on the counter, when you get home so you can crash in bed kind of aura.

For perhaps the headache itself. I could wish that for you. Kind of pain that makes you wish you could find a knitting needle and dig your own eye out of its socket so you can find the place in your brain that hurts so bad and dig it out too.

Maybe I should wish you the migraine hangover. When your scalp hurts when you comb your hair. When your skin feels bruised. When you feel foggy unbalanced and don't remember what you did the day before. Would you like that?

I think what you need is just living with the day-to-day idea of chronic pain. Of never being able to plan a life of knowing what you will do the next day. Never knowing if a date outside will end up being a day inside. Will you be out in the weather, for under the covers? Will your loved see you in nice clothes, or your pajamas? What would your medical records say for diagnosis? Annual check up? Or possible narcotic dependence? Do they really think we like taking drugs?

I don't really wish you ill. I just want you to know what it's like to be me. Perhaps then you will understand. I'm not here to get more medicine. I'm here to be understood. I'm here for you to help me. I'm not here to take up your time. I'm here to get better. I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I can do that myself. And I do. Just do what you've been trained to do. Use your brain. Search for answers to problems. The problem isn't something on paper, the problem is life, my life, and I can't live it right now, without your help, so don't send me off with more drugs and hope I will go away. Use your brain, and help my brain.

Thank you,

Your migraine patient.

Mine to Claim

African-American! ?, My European Butt

Warning this post is going to be a rant, it is guaranteed to offend just about everyone, just like those films that say this is formatted to fit your screen.  This is guaranteed to offend blacks, whites, Asian, wait, can we say Asians, or is it Orientals?  I'm not sure of the politically correct choice here.
 Are African-Americans able to tell where you  are from in Africa, a tribe, the place,  maybe the country they're from?  (insert the slavery argument. Yeah, yeah, I've heard it. See rebuttal below with Native American issue.)

 I'm Swedish, and one-half at that.  I know which place, city, which port my ancestors came from.  I have a picture of one of my ancestors standing next to the sign in the town that my forefathers left to come here to America.   I've seen my Great Grandfather's naturalization papers. Do I go around calling myself a Swedish American?  Did you know that about Africa?

A couple of years ago, Bob had a friend from school that was from West Africa.  We had him over for dinner.  We pulled out the atlas, and had him show us where he was from.  He showed us where his town was, where he went to school, where his parents lived, places he visited and other points of interest.  He was a African American.

I can say that I am Native American.  I have Cherokee blood.  I can trace it to different lines of my family history.  There is verification way back, and lots of documentation.  I even have physical characteristics that distinguish me as Native American, although I am as white as skim milk. My mouth turns down at the corners.  An Apache Indian man once asked me if I was native because I had very tiny feet, which is considered beautiful in the native culture.  I laughed, and said yes, just a little bit of Cherokee, and thanked him.

I cannot, however, claim my heritage legally because the natives in my family never "signed up" and therefore are not in any major rolls.  Many were lost on the Cherokee "trail of tears" when they were forcibly  removed from their homes and marched for miles and died along the way.

There are lots of benefits afforded to me, if I were able to prove my heritage.  But I am content to realize that yes I do have native blood.  I do not claim what is not mine to claim.

So, for those of you that go and demonstrate, or worse yet, riot in the streets, act like animals, or waste your lives, and the opportunities afforded to here because you have brown skin, you are not African Americans.  You are immature children.  Grow up.  Do not claim what is not yours to claim.

How do you spell ADD?

It's 11:00. I suppose I had better put some clothes on, although I am expecting no one, and I am perfectly comfortable in my pajamas. I know I have no clean jeans or bras, so I look for something suitable. I gather up the jeans and take them downstairs and throw them in the washing machine. So far so, good.
Upstairs again, still need something to wear. I dig in a basket in the bedroom; things to be mended. Aha! a pair of jeans with the butt blown out. Again, no one is expected, so a cheek peeking out cheekily is no problem. but, wait! what is this? A black wool skirt in the sewing pile. It doesn't need hemming, the zipper's fine, the waist isn't too big. Hmm. all it needs is a good brushing and a once over with the steamer and back to the closet. See, it pays to procrastinate! In the other bedroom to find the steamer. It's too dark in here. Out to the  dining room where there is more light. there. Done. 

Now I realize that the other half of the patio drapes never got finished steaming. Well, as long as I have the steamer out and I'm here, finish those. I should put the steamer away, but it's too hot. I'm still in my p.j. top. What can I wear that doesn't require a bra? I thought there was something in the spare bedroom closet that  caught my eye. Open closet. There's the wool skirt I just steamed. Good heavens, not THAT!  Ah, there it is, a fleece pullover. 

How did this all start? oh, yeah. I was going to get dressed. Now, where are my car keys?

Who am I?

That I should be born here, in a place where freedom exists, where I am warm and dry and have enough to eat? Am I some special creation that God should place me here in a Caucasian body in a middle class family and an intelligent and fairly sane extended tree? Why have I been placed in a land of cold and snow and green trees, ice and wind and blizzards, but exquisite summer beauty? I have gifts. So many gifts. I can write, sing, dance and move to music. I can draw, paint, sew, create. I teach. I lead. Others ask me for advice. I comfort those who hurt. Animals trust me. Yet I complain. My head hurts. I can't sing as well as I want. My soil is sandy and yields nothing. My piano sits silently and mocks me. All the drawings I could do are locked in their blank pages, my words still in my head and not in letters. I am afraid. Of not being worthy of my gifts, and not living up the their promise. I am afraid, also, of not living up to my own sense of self. What, if, after all, I really am, just very, very ordinary.

It's time to revive The blog entries. Is been spending a lot of time on Facebook. I've been enjoying some conversations on a forum. Actually, they've been more like arguments. I like to start discussions sometimes controversial things. The trouble is, most people don't like to disagree. Most people don't have true debating skills is the problem really. When they don't have good come back to your discussion, but just attack you. Typical ad hominem. I really do like to write. But unfortunately the general public, is the sort of audience that my writing skills are appreciated by. That was very horrid grammar. I apologize. I'm trying right now to use dictation with my Dragon software. Bob got it for me for birthdays, Christmas, I'm not sure what long time ago. It's very awkward right now because I'm not used to it. I think if I use it and notify will become quite fluent, but it's very awkward right now. Ethical make blog writing much easier for me, if I practice enough to make it easy so you put up with my blog right now in my very awkward wink. The awkward treaty awkward sentences. Significant? Paragraph back as you can see, I don't know all that use all the commands just yet. Can you just know what I'm saying that either, but just for fun and believe it as it is and I can see what progress I made as I go along. So, just for fun, you have to deal with it as I saw Mica brand-new person that's learning the language for the first time. Until later

Volleyball and the art of worrying

Last night I crawled into bed with heaviness on my heart and mind. A friend was going through something hard, and didn't seem to be handling it well. I had given her some advice, which she promptly discarded, as being useless to her circumstances, since I apparently didn't understand it. I had even prayed about what to say, and had asked others to do so on my behalf, How dare she!! Anyway, I went to bed wondering if I would be up all night trying to figure out how to fix her. (Are you grinning now?) I decided, after weighing many options, that my last resort would be to pray about it. (Who would like to thump me on the forehead? Line up nicely. Don't push.) As I'm praying and worrying simultaneously, and yes, it can be done, a picture came into my head. It was the sand volleyball court at my church, Becker Baptist. I had been asked to play on a league one summer. I was never asked for another summer, so I'm saving that for another angst-filled day of insecurity when I need something to boo-hoo about. However, I wildly digress. As I picture that volleyball court, I see myself standing there in the sand. As I am 5'2, most people there are taller than me. It is important that I play my position, so that I don't get squashed by others, or that someone doesn't break their leg falling over me. I Hear/sense the presence of the Trinity. I never know Who it is so I say my usual. Hi, there. It's me. I'm stuck again. He chuckles. I'm usually stuck on something. In a small, quiet voice He says, "Play your position. If the ball comes your way, play it. I'll handle the rest." Hmm. I thought about it. So, Do what is clearly obvious to do, and leave the rest. I can do that. Good night.

Climbing Back Down

This morning, as I drank my coffee and tried to wake up, I heard one of my cats crying piteously. Where was it coming from? I looked up, and there he was, way up on top of the wall that separates our kitchen and living room. He's done that before; counter, to fridge top to cabinet top to wall, though he knows he's not supposed to. However, this time, something on the counter top had been moved, into the spot where he would climb down. He looked so remorseful that I decided to help him. I moved the offending toaster, patted the places where he could reach, and watched him jump down, very relieved. That triggered a memory of mine. I loved to climb, too, as a kid. Trees, gravel pits, barn rafters, and cliffs. If it was warm enough, I loved to climb barefoot. God gave me long monkey toes for a reason! I also seemed to be missing a healthy fear of heights. I was with a friend in Taylor's Falls, a wonderfully rocky canyon that holds the St. Croix River, between Minnesota and Wisconsin. There were amazing cliffs to climb, so off came the shoes and socks, and up I went! I climbed until I ran out of cliff, then decided to go back and find another place. To my surprise and dismay, I could not see my hand and toeholds from the top, the perspective was totally different from up there. I studied the rocks. It became clear that the only reasonable way down was on the other side of a wide cleft, and the only way to get there would be to jump. There wasn't enough room on that little plateau to land on my feet; I had to dive across the space and land on my stomach. I launched and landed. Oof. When I had recovered my oxygen, I started back down. Surprise! There was that healthy fear that I had been lacking. In the years since, I still climb on things. I like to believe though, that I am wiser in my choices. This has given me some insight into raising and interacting with my young adult son, and my friends and family. We all sometimes get into places where we get stuck, often of our own doing. Sometimes I need to be patient and call out encouragement; sometimes I need to point out the steps to climb back down. All of us are climbing something. Offer a way to climb back down. You may need one yourself.

The last time I posted was last year at this time. So much has changed. At that time I started on a wild roller coaster ride of thyroid issues. I was sick, depressed, weak and dizzy. I could hardly walk, let alone blog, garden or any of the fun things that go with summer. On top of that, life was changing drastically. My son was getting older, starting college, spending more time on his own, pulling away from Mom and Dad, needed more help adjusting to life but at the same time not letting us into his life. I felt totally at the mercy of the current. Today is so totally different. Just as the irises and lilacs are blooming, the grass in knee-high, and the birds are nesting outside the window; life has circled around to a new beginning. My son is finishing his homeschool high school work. He has finished his college degree. My hubby is back to work full time after 5 years of work comp battles, college for him, followed by unemployment. I am medically stable, both thyroid-wise and seizure-wise. I am emotionally and psychologically stable again. What have I learned? Once again, that I am not the General Manager of the Universe. I keep applying, but they send my resume back. Most of the stuff I worry about doesn't ever happen. I will never get to know in advance what will happen and how it will turn out. My son is his own person and will learn best if I get of his way and let him thrash his way through, unless he wants help. My hubby needs appreciation and affection as much as I do. No one cares if I'm not perfect. Whew. Lots to process, but I'm in a good place. I hope to enjoy what I missed last summer.

Do Pharisees use CFLs?

We went to the recycling center the other day to pick up some finished compost. We had finally moved into place some retaining wall bricks around a shrub, and needed some back fill. We reclaimed the bricks from a neighbor who didn't want the flower beds the previous owners had built and offered them to us. Good recyclers that we are, we hauled them over. They made a nice border around the shrubs we dug up from an old farmstead that was being turned into a new development, the iris bulbs I got on Freecycle, and the lilacs a friend dug up for us on his farm. At the base of the shrubs I laid the branches I had trimmed from the red cedar, another rescue from a construction site. No sense in wasting good biomass, and a good drainage additive as well!

We loaded shovels and tarp into the Subaru (that's what we earth-friendly greenies drive, not because it's less carbon emissions, just 'cause it makes us look cool.) We brought home several loads of finished compost - rich earthy soil made from other peoples grass clippings and weeds. The county does a lot of work chipping it up finely, and turning it over so that it composts quickly. I'm not sure how they do that. Maybe a gas powered grinder? I bet they have a bobcat or even a backhoe to do the big piles.

It was hot and sweaty work getting it unloaded and into the bed. We took a break, headed inside where it was air conditioned, and cracked ourselves a couple of ice cold sodas and drank them straight from the aluminum cans.

It sure feels good using your muscles, "living off the land", and saving the planet. All that recycling and reusing we did today sure goes a long way toward keeping the earth safe.

Presenting the Bride

I watched the royal wedding yesterday, as did most of the world.
The most poignant scene for me, however was Kate being helped into 
the car by her father. He gently and carefully folded her gown's
train, and handed it in, to be placed on the seat beside her. 
He gingerly slide in next to her and smiled at his beautiful
daughter.

She sat enthroned in the yards of satin and lace, a jewel in a
setting of cream and ivory, waiting to be presented to a delighted
prince.

Her father gently lifted and smoothed the fabrics, so that none of
it would be creased or dirtied. He beamed at her, obviously proud and
pleased.



It suddenly occurred to me that is exactly how our Heavenly Father
feels. He protects and surrounds us, the Bride of Christ, keeping us
from soil and damage, so we can be presented as a perfect gift for
His son, the Prince of Peace. All we go through, our trials and
pains, are preparation for the that glorious presentation.
I am awed and humbled, once again, but the love the Father and Son
have for us, the Beloved.

Right brain, left brain, can't decide

As I continue to heal from my stroke and subsequent seizures I am constantly being forced to find new ways to do old things. I've had to learn to dress myself and not leave the house unbuttoned. I've had to learn to turn on a timer so I don't walk away from the stove and forget about it entirely. I've had to relearn driving routes I've know for 11 years, by re-driving and re-memorizing landmarks and street signs.

Now I've had to relearn how to learn. Before I was a "give me a fork and let me dig in" kind of learner. I set up a systematic approach; a step by step plan to tackle a new skill or realm of information. I can't do that now. The stroke has damaged the part of my brain that deals with sequential processing; step 1, step 2, etc. I also have a limited "working memory", the number of things I can hang onto in short term at one time.  This makes learning anything new difficult.

My hubby bought me a wonderful electronic keyboard a Christmas ago, thinking it would be good physical and intellectual therapy. It would be, if I could figure out what to do with it. I diligently look at the little black notes, count out "every good boy does fine", line up my fingers on the keys and then try to play. Some place between the treble clef and the keyboard all the notes and thoughts tilt off the page and out of my brain and nothing connects. I tried to play a little song I once learned as a child, and couldn't do it. I burst into tears and sat with my head in my hands and wept.

After I'd boohooed for awhile I mopped myself up and tried again. I would not let that black and white "thing" in the other room beat me. If I couldn't learn it by studying it, I'd learn it by sidling up close enough to spy on it and learn its musical secrets.  I put on one of the pre-programmed lessons, slowed it way down, and listened, plunking along when I thought I could guess which note was next. I actually hit a few. The computer told me I did "OK". Well, that's good enough for me. For now.

I've had to do that with other things. Just do one little bit. Let it sinter in my brain. Try it again later. Lather, rinse, repeat.

For someone who has always been very literal, mathematical, systematic, this is weird. What's weirder yet is that I have to let my "right brain" do all the work. Yes, it's my right side that's damaged. Maybe it's rejoicing over its chance to do some of the work. Jumping up and down shouting "pick me, pick me!"

So, I toddle along, dabbling, playing. Someday I will play a whole song. Which side of my brain gets to do it? We shall see.

A call to arms

Find something true. Find that truth and taste it. Roll it around in your mouth, feel it with your tongue, your teeth, the sides of your cheeks, then swallow it whole. Feel it there in your heart, warming and warning. Then, when you hear the lies you will know the truth; its flavor and texture and smell. When that knowledge is firmly in place, find another truth as well. Taste that truth and another and another. Fill yourself with truths to defend and protect yourself from the anorexia of lies.

Lessons from Loon Loop: Green Movement as Religion

Lessons from Loon Loop: Green Movement as Religion

I wrote this originally in April of 2009. I'm certain I had not read Boris Johnson's essay in the Sunday Times from London, but it seems as if we were both thinking the same thing. Read his article and see if you agree.

Climate Change as a religion?

Posted by Boris Office

on February 2, 2006 | 100 comments

the fear of climate change is like a religion in this vital sense, that it is veiled in mystery

We’ve lost our fear of hellfire, but put climate change in its place

I used to have a mother-in-law called Gaia, so any book called The Revenge of Gaia is likely to cause a flutter of panic in my breast; and by the time I had finished the new best-seller by green prophet James Lovelock, I am afraid I was in a state of brow-drenched hysteria.

The good news is that the Gaia in question is not my ex-mother-in-law. The bad news is that she represents a chthonic deity even more capable of vengeance upon errant mankind. Gaia is the Earth herself; she is Mother Nature; she taps her foot in ever-growing impatience at the antics of our species; and, according to Professor Lovelock, she is about to exact the most terrifying punishment for our excesses. She is about to get carboniferous on our ass.

Lovelock has been studying climate change since the 1960s. He has been described by the New Scientist as one of the great thinkers of our age, and he was made a Companion of Honour in 2003. He knows his onions, and, indeed, how much moisture they require.

He has been around the world looking at the rising tidelines, sniffing the smoke from the burning rainforest, listening to the roar of the ice-melt from the glaciers, and he has come to the conclusion that the climate change lobby has got it hopelessly wrong.

We delude ourselves, says Lovelock, if we think that the global temperature is going to rise in small increments over the next century. We are like the blindfolded crew of a boat approaching Niagara Falls, and there will come a moment when the temperature will rise with all the equivalent vertical horror. Some time in the next hundred years, he says, it is suddenly going to get hotter and hotter and hotter.

“Billions will die,” says Lovelock, who tells us that he is not normally a gloomy type. Human civilisation will be reduced to a “broken rabble ruled by brutal warlords”, and the plague-ridden remainder of the species will flee the cracked and broken earth to the Arctic, the last temperate spot, where a few breeding couples will survive.

It is going to be a “hell of a climate”, he says, with Europe 8C warmer than it is today; and the real killer, says Lovelock, is that there is not a damn thing we can do about it. We are already pumping out so much carbon dioxide, with no prospect of abatement from the growing economies of China and India, that our fate is sealed.

We in Britain produce only two per cent of the world’s carbon output and, even if we closed down British industry overnight; even if we abolished the winter fuel allowance and ordered the pensioners to wear more sweaters; even if we forested the entire country with windfarms, it would make not a bean of difference.

It would be like trying to cool a volcano with an ice cube. The Kyoto protocol; the climate change levy; the windows and doors regulation – they are all as pointless as telling a patient with terminal lung cancer that he should give up smoking.

And when the Great Heat has destroyed our industry, and wrecked civilisation, it will get worse, says Lovelock. Because then we will lose the aerosol of dust and smog that has kept out some of the sun’s rays; and it will get hotter still.

There is nothing for it, he says, but to forget the piffling Kyoto-led regulation, and build nuclear power plants, so as not to be dependent on Russian gas, and send bodies of fit young men and women to East Anglia, there to build levees against the coming inundations. An international solution is now beyond our reach, he says, and we must look to Britain first.

Phew-ee. Is Lovelock right? I haven’t the faintest; but as I listen to his Mad Max-style vision of the coming century, I find my mind bubbling with blasphemous thoughts.

Wasn’t it pretty hot in the 10th century? Didn’t the Romans have vineyards in Northumberland? And is it really so exceptionally hot in modern Europe? According to yesterday’s paper, Lisbon has just had its first heavy snowfall for 52 years. What’s that about?

I feel I cannot possibly disagree with Lovelock, or with the overwhelming body of scientists who attest to the reality of climate change. I am sure that they are, in some sense, right; and it feels instinctively true that we are a nasty, over-polluting species; and there is something horrifying, when you look at those pictures of the world at night, to see the phosphorescent sprawl of humanity.

But the more one listens to sacerdotal figures such as Lovelock, and the more one studies public reactions to his prophecies, the clearer it is that we are not just dealing with science (though science is a large part of it); this is partly a religious phenomenon.

Humanity has largely lost its fear of hellfire, and yet we still hunger for a structure, a point, an eschatology, a moral counterbalance to our growing prosperity. All that is brilliantly supplied by climate change. Like all the best religions, fear of climate change satisfies our need for guilt, and self-disgust, and that eternal human sense that technological progress must be punished by the gods.

And the fear of climate change is like a religion in this vital sense, that it is veiled in mystery, and you can never tell whether your acts of propitiation or atonement have been in any way successful. One sect says we must build more windfarms, and these high priests will be displeased with what Lovelock has to say. Another priestly caste curses the Government’s obsession with nuclear power – a programme Lovelock has had the courage to support.

Some scientific hierophants now tell us that trees – trees, the good guys – are the source of too much methane, and are contributing to global warming. Huh? We in the poor muddled laity scratch our heads and pray. Who is right? Who is wrong?

If Lovelock is only half-right, then we must have an immediate programme to pastoralise the global economy and reduce emissions. The paradox is that, if he is completely right, there is not a lot we can do, and we might as well enjoy our beautiful planet while we can.

Or is he completely wrong? To say that would be an offence not just against science, but against a growing world religion.

Range hood as a metaphor for life

Woke up in a cleaning mood today. Not having that happen very often motivates me to "use it or lose it." Tackled the stove first. Ran the burners and drip pans through the dishwasher,  wiped down the top and back. Turned my attention to the underside of the range hood. EE-yuck.
 Now I do not claim to be a good cook. I am proud, however, to call myself a messy one. I figure that what I lack in creativity and taste can be compensated for with volume and distance traveled. When I cook something, you  KNOW I've been there.

So it came as no surprise to find enough raw materials under the range hood to reconstitute into a passable campfire meal.  I sprayed everything down, and left it to soak.  There is something in cleaning supplies that triggers introspection in me.

I thought about why it is that I don't clean under there more often. I realized that it really is a metaphor for life. The places I am busiest, messiest, are those places I don't often contemplate. Most of living goes on in my mind and soul, but the externals, the burners and dials, get the most attention.  The filter for yuck, the fan filter, in this case, catches all the crud and keeps it there.

Do I spend more time on my body, my outward activities and belongings than I do to the filters in my mind and soul? Do they need cleaning?

Hmm.. Something to ponder.

Everyone's shedding!

My friends have been talking about "shedding" ie. decluttering and simplifying their lives. That's all well and good, but why does my family think they need to join in. It's not the same thing, anyway. Their "shedding" involves their stuff, draped over chairs, spread across the carpet, dragged in from the yard and left on the kitchen counter.

I vacuum; ds comes in and kicks off his shoes in the hallway, spreading sand across the newly vacuumed and mopped floor. Hubby hangs hats, coats and shirts on any available post, usually the kitchen chairs or the newel on the stairs. An attractive look, really. The dishes get done, and as soon as the sink is empty someone dumps more dirty dishes in. Do they not see the empty sink and think'Hmm, maybe I can just put this in the dishwasher?' No! Of course not!

I wash clothes; leave the clean ones folded nicely in the basket, ready to be put away. do they get put away?No, just more dirty clothes get piled on.

Then the cats. Puffs of hair everywhere.

I give up. Does nobody notice what I do around here?

Global warming...

We could use some. It's been the coldest, snowiest winter we've had since I was a kid. Out heat bill is astronomical. I can't see out one window due to drifted snow.

Greenhouse gas? I'll give you greenhouse gas. I had to make a pot of chili with red pepper just to warm us up. There's your greenhouse gas! Feeling better already?