This morning I woke to the sound of rain thrumming on the roof. I got up, put on rain gear, and ventured outside. The rain was cold and heavy (45°F). It was the sort of rain that weighs one down. There was no jumping for joy, which is what I do on bright and sunny days. I did what needed to be done and retreated back inside. No sense attempting to commune with crabby horses, goats, or chickens.

I had big plans. I was going to work outside today. I was going to weed, turn the lower compost station, work on fencing, clean the goat pen, and ride horses. My day’s plans changed with the onset of rain. The old plans thumbed their nose at me and the new plans looked at me expectantly.

The view from Grizzly Camp during a sunny summer

Today I’ll (instead) continue to work on putting next week’s ride kit together (kit, this is a British term referring to trip/adventure/outdoor necessities). I’ll also help Pete clean the house. (The whole world does not need to know that that our bathtub is skanky.) If the sun comes out, I’ll shift gears, and resume working on my original agenda. I’ll of course go for a ride.

Rode yesterday, first got Signy out. She moved out fast and happily. I next got Raudi out. She moved out slowly and unhappily. She needs what she’s getting, a break. All afternoon, it threatened to rain. Looking at the overcast sky, the cow parsnip, the fading wild roses and geraniums, I was reminded of Gabriel Garcia’s Macondo, the central place in One Hundred Years of Solitude. There were a few scattered showers, but the sky didn’t open up until early this morning.

I noted before that it’s been very, very hot in the lower portion of the Lower 48 – too hot for comfort. So, in comparison, this rain isn’t so bad. It’s dry inside, and if we get chilled we can fire up the woodstove. But the rain does have its drawbacks. An equal amount of sun and water are needed for hay production. We now have enough space on hand for a year’s supply.

What most worries me, as it does many others is that the overall odd weather is a harbinger of climate change. A few years back the term that was used to describe fluctuating temperatures was global warming. This term proved to be a misnomer. Many places that were cold in the winter got even colder. So climate change it is. For a while both terms were also dismissed by many. But it’s now happening so rapidly that even the naysayers are getting nervous.

All organic matter lives and dies. And our planet is composed of organic material. The syllogism is, therefore, our planet will die. The planet is not a rock upon which matter grows, but rather is comprised of matter. All things are connected.

It is patently obvious that we are hastening the demise of the planet by continuing to breed like flies. Many are having children thinking that their children are going to be good land stewards. I have come to believe that this is no longer going to be the case. All children must be fed, and presumably, small scale agriculture isn’t going to produce enough food for them all.

In terms of our numbers, we have reached the point of no return. Folks, hold your noses when you jump off the pier because the metaphorical water is really deep. There isn’t going to be any resurfacing.

Some might say that if I look at my day in relation to what I’ve just said, my plans seem inconsequential, adding that the day’s plans can be no more than just that, plans. I disagree. There’s still time to turn things around, but this is going to take a concerted effort on the part of each and every one of us. There are small things – like gardening, recycling, eschewing excessive gas use – and there are big things, like speaking out against corporate greed – particularly those companies that promote large scale resource extraction. This all takes time and effort, but its time well spent. Seems to me that it now gives life as we know it meaning.

Where do I go from here? I’ve said what needs to be said, so for today I’m going to call it good.

Rain

The dog beds down
in woodshed duff,
watching me work,
a bemused expression on her canine face.

Someday dog will die
and we’ll put her restless spirit to rest
up on the hill behind the cabin.
We’ll pile dirt and rocks on top of her,
and then tamp the dirt with the shovel blade.

After, time will take several steps backwards
and we will reminisce
for this is what people do when a dog dies.

But not today, any of this.

A voice from downstairs announces that the sun is coming out.
I listen, as the dog who is outside and wants in,
scratches at the wooden door.

Next: 220. 07/16/12: More on Big Horses and Little Horses