I worry about my son Sean and his family in Acton, Massachusetts; I worry about my sisters and brothers and dear friends up and down the east and west coasts. As the nation withdraws its blood from the extremities in response to gradual or onrushing calamity, can this interior heartland beat strongly enough to receive all the refugees?
And who is not a refugee on this planet Earth, where our sense of “place” has been as seriously distorted/disturbed/disrupted as has our instinctive connection to our own bodies?
In “the end,” none of this matters. And all of it matters. We live here, planted or hovering, on a dense, material planet whose waters attune to the evolving laws of her nature.
Let us bow down and kiss Earth’s holy ground.
