The day after the reactors in Japan started to melt down these lyrics sprang to mind. Not a day has gone by since when I haven’t found myself singing them, or sharing them with clients or friends.. They come from a poem by Deena Metzger and Charley Murphy put them to music in the 1980’s. It was a song that was sung at my first marriage, the two of us devoted at the time to not only each other, but anti-nuclear work.
The past two weeks the disaster in Japan has come in and out of my therapy room. The rain here in our city seems to be relentless, and it feels to many like we might live out our lives amidst a storm that will not cease.. Several clients have mentioned that they have been trying to put together an earthquake preparedness kit only to find out that first aid kits and whistles (which you blow if stuck in rubble) are sold out in this city. Along with, of course, potassium iodine.
So, I keep breathing into that song. I also keep flashing on a scene from my childhood. During the Cuban Missile Crisis, I lived outside of Detroit. We had a bomb shelter in our basement.. During that stand-off with Russia, when nuclear war seemed imminent, I was down in that grim little room, playing with Barbie, trying to get away from the fear of the grown ups and the television news.. My legs stuck to the green vinyl couch and squiggling away, I looked up at the big shelf of spam and deviled ham and had a moment of childhood clarity.
I had been told that it would be so bright (the bombing) that I’d have to put a pillow over my eyes to not be blinded. It hit me clearly that I would not go along with my parents plan. Spending the rest of my life with my family in that little room, eating spam while the earth above me was scorched, this was truly horrifying. I resolved to walk out into the light, Barbie in hand. Hopefully dressed in her pink satin evening dress with the white boa.
That childhood clarity still abides in me. I still retain that image of walking out into the light rather than hiding out in the dark. Which doesn’t mean I don’t believe in being prepared for an earthquake. Of course, my earthquake kit sure doesn't include spam. And, I truly think I would feel safer with a cyanide pill than with a whistle.
The wind is fierce and the rain heavy. The avocado tree lashes against the bedroom window. Who can sleep amidst this stormy change?
The tree threatens to break into my room And somewhere, there is war, hunger, sudden and slow death I pull the covers close.
All I can do is breathe and love, which dilutes the fear. Listening to the hard rain and the pounding of branches I lean into my heart and wait for shattered glass.
Have I told you how much I love this world?
I wrote that last night amidst the mighty storm here in San Francisco. Today is spring equinox in a world tipped mightily out of balance. I wait for the disaster(s) to come through my windows or doors.. to impact me as so many people around the world are impacted. And yet, my good life continues, and I do sleep through the night in a warm bed, well fed, content with my work, surrounded by beauty and love.
Last night I worried about the tree, and my window, and knew I would have to get this tree cut down as it is dangerous to the building. We'd talked about this before, as the tree also blocks so much light out of the garden and has grown in a way that is awkward and top heavy. This morning, I woke to the tree filling the backyard, having cracked and blown over in the night, miraculously not waking me. No need to cut it down now! And any damage done is to the arugula and maybe the rhubarb. We were going to work in the garden this weekend and put in new plants. The rain curtailed this.
My heart is aching from world events, but today, looking at the tree in the garden, I marveled at my luck and gave thanks. It is equinox. With every day, the light will increase in my garden. I will have the tree cut up and taken away, and I thank it for not hurting my home. I will grow more arugula and rhubarb and put in zucchini and other vegetables.
The wheel will turn. And I will keep loving this world.
"And I'll tell and think it and speak it and breathe it And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin' But I'll know my songs well before I start singin' And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall."
Last night, as I was driving from San Francisco north on 101 to Forestville, Dylan's Hard Rain came up on my iPod shuffle. A few lines into it, I was sobbing.
The night before the tsunami in Japan I had a nightmare that San Francisco was flooded and I couldn't find my son. I woke to a phone call from a friend back east, concerned that I was okay. She said she'd heard San Francisco was going to be hit by a tsunami. From that moment on, it's felt like I don't know the difference anymore between dreamtime and waking time.
Back in the last century, I spent a lot of time fighting nuclear power and nuclear weapons. My spiritual community was forged in this endeavor, many of us being arrested time and time again practicing civil disobedience to stop the proliferation of nuclear weapons and power. Tonight, so many decades later, there are nuclear reactors melting down in Japan. A hard rain is falling and will continue to fall.
I find myself crying easily and regularly. My altar has on it a globe on which I have circled Japan with a heart and many drawings and prayers. I feel a great tenderness towards everything and everyone, and a gratitude for every sign of spring that shows itself.
What else can we do? I am sure there is plenty. This year I plan to seriously tackle getting solar panels on my roof. I will continue to walk more, drive less. Money will be sent to those doing work to shut down reactors. Time will be spent and energy expended. But, for right now, I think crying and tuning into the beauty of the spring blossoms is about all I can manage. And praying.
