High Summer

High summer holds the earth. 
Hearts all whole.
Sure on this shining night I weep for wonder wand'ring far
alone
Of shadows on the stars.

                               

     --James Agee, Sure On This Shining Night

It was warm today, warm, not hot. I got up early, not meaning to, but the sunlight would not let me sleep further. I had some plans for the day, a couple of readings and a rare trip shopping. Before then, however, I had to verify some software changes really worked.

It was too early for the software changes. My part of the working weekend was small and I was glad for that. As soon as they called me, I could make sure they worked, make sure the data looked good, make sure the changes didn’t break something else.

I checked up on Alice, a little close inspection just to be sure she was doing better. She is doing much better and seems better than she has in a long time. I think now that the antibiotics she took for her kitty-cat pancreatitis had an overall “sunshine” effect of clearing up just about anything that was ailing her. Further, I think she may have had some kind of low-grade infection for a while. I posted something funny on Facebook because people had been asking how she was doing, imagining that she, like some famous-for-being-famous-for-five-minutes person in too deep and too much in the public eye, woke up from anesthesia certain that she was drugged and given a Brazilian wax. Horrors by light of day!

The Sun in the Tarot is sometimes thought to be good no matter what. Even reversed, for those who read with reversals, the Sun’s positive light shines through just about everything. There’s no dark side of the Sun. Or is there?

The Sun is not welcomed by everyone. One of my classmates in high school had a skin condition that gave her an allergic hives-like reaction when exposed to the sun. That was a tough problem to manage in New Mexico, where sunlight was obscured more often by dust storms than rain storms. If the Sun came up in a reading for her, would it be good? Would it mean hide? Cover up? Set her life by the opposite of most of society and become safely nocturnal?

The Sun is good news and bad news for amateur photographers too. When the Sun is high in the sky, the breath-taking views of the Grand Canyon from the South Rim are washed out glare, dust and rocks and a reminder to stay at least your own height in distance from the edge of the cliff. White clouds sail across a light blue sky with little definition. It is hot in the summer there. There are stories of the numbers of people who go over the edge. The dry trees, some dead, some alive gnarl towards the edge of the irregular canyon, and provide one of my favorite experiences, the smell of pinon pine sap.

As the Sun falls low in the sky toward the end of the day, no longer glaring down on all it rules, the canyon’s colors come alive in reds, purples, oranges, blues and yellows with a last hurrah of the coraling curtains of clouds before it rests, and lets all others rest, for another cooling evening. Colors and creatures come out then. Do they flee the Sun, the Sun that brings life and cooks it to dust and ashes?

That evening at the Grand Canyon, the angle of light at Monterey Bay, California, the brilliant sunsets in New Mexico are all made possible by the Sun, the Sun in the right position.

The Sun can expose the truth, bring realization. It can also dazzle and blind, create mirages in the desert or a lonely stretch of blacktop road. It can warm; it can burn. A happy day can turn into a sleepless night of pain.

Is the Sun always good?

A reading like this, the 10 of Swords, The Sun, the 9 of Swords seldom makes a “sunny” message. A betrayal has come to light and is exposed, known, perhaps known to all, and the realization that all illusions are gone, dreams are over and nothing but the real world faces the person betrayed. It’s hard to call this a positive reading. The shadows on the Sun may be the darkest of all.

In a larger sense, though, while a betrayal never feels good, perhaps it may be best to know, to know for certain finally and to wake to a new day even in sorrow so that the Soul may progress on its journey. It may seem like the longest day, but we and the Sun rest and begin again tomorrow.

Happy Summer Solstice!

A Rat Lay Dead--A Love Story

I was all set for a quiet weekend and unaccountably I woke up earlier than I expected. A member of the British Royal Family said something about never passing up the opportunity to go to the loo. This applies to young dogs too, so I got Louie up and we walked outside.

It wasn’t really that early. It was just earlier than I meant to get up. But the 3-footed squirrel who resides in my yard was making a real racket. She’s usually pretty quiet and actually rather friendly, considering somewhere along the way she suffered a terrible accident and lost her right front paw. In spite of this injury, she gets around well, leaps from the oak tree to the fence and back, follows the circuit of squirrel path from the oak tree to the magnolia, to the roof, to the magnolia on the side yard to the crepe myrtle, to the side fencing, to the Fuji apple, to the plum tree and back to home base, the oak. The apples, plums and acorns keep her well fed and the birdfeeders invite the Little Creatures of the Yard also.

So that was actually what the racket was about. She pointed out to me and then also to Louie that there was, alas, an issue that I needed to deal with. First, was the matter of Alice the cat who apparently had made a break for it sometime during the nightly trips to the backyard that The Hubs makes with both dogs. He carries the elder statesman Quincy down the stairs since he’s not much on stairs nowadays in either direction. Nobody is as sharp as they might wish at 2:30 or 3:00 am except of course Alice who takes advantage of the boys on their wobbly pegs and inattention, and she easily slipped out the door.

I used to be utterly horrified when Alice would slip out. I’ve had cats killed in the streets because my parents would not allow indoor cats. I’m a staunch indoor cat person. Over time I realize that at least Alice has no intention of leaving the yard and, much better than either of the dogs, comes when she is called.

Alice sat on the low brick wall, the remains of an old summerhouse, under the plum tree. She was entirely too close to Mother Squirrel. And I was instructed to do something about this. Now. 

Neighborhood outdoor cats are much more inclined to climb trees than Alice. Alice prefers her prey to come to her and enjoy taking her heart’s ease in the morning air, with an occasional glance at the squirrel. But she had no intention of climbing a tree.

Second, and as it turned out more inspiring, on Mother Squirrel’s list was, and she did in fact point it out to me, the small dead rat near the patio of the former summerhouse.

“Oh,” sharp as ever in the morning, I mutter, “a rat. Dead, huh?”

Louie nosed the rat and, since I was interested in it, picked it up in his mouth and took a few gamboling dance steps sideways, offering a rousing game of Get the Dead Rat.

“Louie!” I tried to use my Stern Voice. I’m told I’m spectacularly unsuccessful at sounding stern. “Drop it right now!”

Unaccountably, he did.  Without a second thought, I stepped over, picked the unfortunate up by the end of his now cool tail and set him out of doggy range.  This started a chain of creative events that lasted the weekend.

In the quiet of the morning, I began the story with the obituary of one Rat, struck down mysteriously in the prime of rodent life and shared it on Facebook.

It wasn’t clear that Alice was the culprit although she was seen near the deceased when he was found. The Hubs, in defense of Alice, made a good case that it could not have been her since Rat was found in his entirety with just a bit of saliva at his neck and shoulders. After all, Louie had moved the body, and if you’ve ever watched a whodunit you’ll know that will always get suspicions aimed at That Guy.

Fictional CROX NEWS, a station known for making a mountain out of a molehill with the neighborhood fauna, got the exclusive with shots of the major characters in the dramatic investigation. My Facebook friends joined in the investigation with many theories of the crime.

Who killed Rat? His wife, always treated like a princess, or so she claims? As it unfolded, PerpPetual Life, the animal life insurance company wouldn’t confirm that there was a life insurance policy on Rat, but moved quickly to make an appearance at the scene. Was there a drug connection with the New York Sewer Rats who were fast to send their “condolences” on the loss, although Rat himself had made every effort to distinguish himself as a backyard resident of honest, if modest, means. Were Alice and Louie in on it together or was Louie an unwitting dupe? And finally, before charges were filed, Judge Quincy came out of retirement to oversee the moving of the body to the morgue. And what about Baby, a kitten of uncertain loyalties who spoke up early as a character reference, but apparently a reference for the highest bidder?

Alice and Louie were held on suspicion of murder and interrogated relentlessly by cynical local police. A team of special investigators from PerpLife was called in and by the next day the yard was crawling with S. Nail and his teammates. Mr. Nail, who declined to give any particulars about their investigation, gave a brief interview with CROX NEWS but spoke only about his company’s procedures and the Serious Undertaking and Crime Control Specialists (SUCCS) team searching for the facts on behalf of PerpLife. The District Attorney, a shady politician if I ever saw one (thanks to artist Debra Klopp Kersey) came out in support of law and order and justice for Rat and his family.

There was even a break in the broadcast for an ad from the local undertaker, Kelly’s Happy Endings.

In the end, the Coroner, another seeming member of the Good Old Cats Club (thanks to ceramics artist Sharon Boom) pronounced the death a “raticide by person or persons unknown”. The suspects were released and no charges were filed because of insufficient evidence.

Alice was seen reading the tabloids in disgust and is rumored to be considering a cosmetics modeling offer or two. When asked if she is opposed to animal testing, she replied she was not if free samples were available.

Louie was seen with a blunt object that turned out to be a paper towel roll. While it’s unclear whether this is the actual murder weapon, one of the many unknowns in the case, Louie looked very worried when his photo was snapped.

And the investigation continues. But, I have to say, sad as it is that somehow in my very own backyard a small furry creature met his 10 of Swords end, this has to be the most fun I’ve ever had with a dead rat.

Best wishes!

When the Worst Happens

I saw an article in the news. I won’t say what news or what article or when or who because, well, because like my other readings, I protect the confidentiality of my clients. But just to give the circumstances, the story was about a death, one that so far seems a little mysterious. It’s being investigated by the right people, apparently. And there’s also something about not interfering with an ongoing investigation. I won't.

Still, I had questions. I didn’t know the person and as far as I know I don’t have any connection to the person other than noting the story and the pang of sorrow I felt at hearing news of someone dying under a cloud, even a little cloud, of mystery.

There’s a lot of discussion in the tarot readers community about the ethics of doing a reading for a third party. You can imagine the kinds of questions that are common among the very young, the very heartbroken.

“What does X think of me?” “What did X mean when they said that?” “What will X do?” “Will X ever leave Y and be with me?”

These are common questions, like I said. And they have the characteristic of being, well, at best, snoopy. Generally, if you want to know what X thinks, ask X yourself. Of course, it isn’t that easy. But at least it is fair to you and it’s fair to X, whoever they are.

My ethics for privacy don’t just extend to my client. Hunting down Ms. or Mr. X, recording their thoughts with a tape-recorder or their actions with a video recorder or just spying on them with a home-made periscope is a violation of X’s privacy too. And if it’s important to you as my client to have privacy, think how important privacy is to your buddy X. After all, you came to me and asked for information in a reading; X didn’t.

I usually try to rephrase the question, occasionally to the disappointment of a client who really does want me to snoop on X’s most intimate thoughts or feelings. After all, if you really knew what people thought and felt, you might change your actions. Since you’re the client, I reframe the question to something like: How will things work out for you or will you be happy if X takes a certain course of action versus another? It’s pointing the focus of the question back on you without spying on the third party.

And really, it’s your reading, so it makes sense that the reading should be about you, not about anyone else. After all, what is the best thing for you to do in case of one action or another? What if the worst thing should happen, whatever scenario that is?

It’s my own belief that you can’t make anyone think or feel anything unless they decide to do it. Some belief systems augment that with a warning message, “…at least, not without some pretty severe consequences.” So, that old R&B song that goes, “I’m gonna make you love me, yes, I will! Yes, I will!” is at worst unrealistic fantasy and at best, well, the wrong response. If you have to make someone love instead of their choosing to do it themselves, is that really love? There’s a point where your fondest wish could be the other person’s feeling of oppression and worse. So, that’s not love.

Garth Brooks’ country song that says, “Some of God’s greatest gifts are unanswered prayers,” goes a long way. That’s probably the nicest way of putting the warning to be careful what you wish for. I usually say at the very least, next time I’m going to be more specific. Often what we want is our fantasy, and not the reality of the situation for any of the people involved. Fantasies are fantasies for a reason. They are often unrealistic, unsustainable, short-lived. They often serve their purpose and dissolve, the parts rearranging themselves into a new fantasy.

Fantasies serve a wonderful “what-if” scenario purpose for us to imagine outcomes. But you wouldn’t want someone else barging in on your fantasy to take photographs, at least most of the time. Fantasies are different from having a goal and a purpose for yourself. Fantasies are like reading the funnies in the newspaper. Visualizing yourself as achieving your own goal is much more like pre-planning, like figuring out your next steps towards your own changes.

Just in case the client’s question is about another person and that situation dissolves into something less meaningful than it might have been had things turned out a different way, well, it’s just plain rude to snoop. I have to respect their privacy as much as I respect my client’s privacy.

But when an event is reported publicly as part of the news and, filtering out speculation from facts, you might ask yourself why? There is no way to know first hand what that stranger in the news story was thinking or feeling that led to what appears to be a tragic end. At least, not for me.

I was still moved to wonder what happened though. Since I read tarot, I shuffled my deck and drew three cards. And my first reaction to them was, “Ah.” Ah, I see the sadness and heartache, the realization of truth that was so difficult but taken to heart.

I drew the 9 of Swords, a realization, a wake-up, a truth revealed that dispels all illusions, both good and bad. I drew the 10 of Swords reversed, an inability to end a train of thought or to bring a situation to its logical conclusion, and often with a sense that the truth has somehow betrayed rather than released. I drew the 3 of Swords, three swords of truth piercing a heart in the rain, sadness, sorrow, the need for comfort and succor in difficulties.

Taken all together, I hear the cry of the unhappy person who realizes that in fact this sorrow was not going to end, which renewed the sorrow all the more.

I don’t know if this person’s life ended by their own choice, by accident or at the hands of others. For one thing, that’s what other people are paid to find out and are much better at doing than I am. But in my reading, I read for myself in the end. I wanted to know what happened here and got an answer that was, for a tarot reading, the equivalent of the 2x4 between the eyes.

They’re gone, is the answer. They’re gone. And I’m sorry about that, for a stranger I never knew.

Best wishes.

In 10’s

I don’t pretend to be able to write in “text message” speak but from what I can gather it’s a lot like an entire book condensed to the size of a license plate. My best guess is that the severe abbreviations were born out of necessity as text messages have a maximum length much shorter than a graphic novel and suit the nano-minded young ‘un’s level of patience and concentration. Most texters seem to be those whom we slower, older folk diagnose, rightly or wrongly, as the ADHD crowd. We oldsters, so many of us having fallen prey to the idealist Liberal Arts educational opportunities of our time, may also take a moment to despair of the deterioration of the English language in general and spelling in the specific. The root of the difference is at least accurate: the whippersnappers go faster than we ageless beauties and revived virtuosos do.



Art Postcard Tarot
(c) copyright 2010 Marcia McCord



My last couple of weeks, especially the weekends, have been really action packed and intense. In text lingo I think that would translate to “in 10’s” and perhaps stereotypically and a bit behind the times would be expressed as “in 10’s, dude.” This time, though, there is recognizable connection between my intense last few days and the 10’s in the tarot. My tens in tarot are the Wheel of Fortune and the Tens of Cups, Wands, Pentacles and Swords.

The Wheel of Fortune makes me aware of the passage of time and its effects, for good or ill. Some days you’re the windshield; some days you’re the bug. The passage of time can be all too fast. I was just getting used to thinking of my friend Sandy as a mother of three and just this week her third grandchild was born. It’s a girl! (Toss the flower petals now.) Some things just seem to sneak up on you. When the wheel spins, you can land up or down and it’s so lovely to have some happy news to celebrate. Welcome, little Sophia!

That wheel can spin a little too slowly, too, as in: When am I ever going to get rid of this cold? I mean I’m grateful -- grateful, truly-- that my symptoms are nothing like last month’s torture on the rack with the flu. This cold, though, is like static cling, the cat urine of viruses that will not wash out no matter what remedy is applied. It’s evil, I tell you. Just when I think I’m feeling better, a whole new wave of congestion and explosive expletive/cough/sneeze/choke combinations come at the most inopportune time.



Art Postcard Tarot
(c) copyright 2010 Marcia McCord



“How are you feeling?” asks my Nordic goddess chiropractor. “Oh, fine,” I lie and barely spit out the words before I’m red-faced and purple eyed with a new seizure of viral noises that would scare dragons away from their caves. “Fine,” I gasp, finally able to get my breath again. Really? Really?

I may have spent the afternoon at work with relative ease of airways but the moment I step into a social situation where I least want to share my most intimate Velcro of a virus, there I go, sneep, snort, hork, choke, gargle, honk and finally, with a swipe of the ever-present tissue, sniff. Yep, I’m ready to put the ol’ 10 of Swords in this baby, cut this microbe off at the knees. OK, cut it off at the molecule. Whatever. I’m done. Quick, Henry, the Flu Flit or whatever viral insecticide will pounce on this thing like the Glee Lady’s limo cat’s story about the cat crushing the mouse. I want to sleep through the night, breathe through my nose and have an adult conversation about any topic other than over-the-counter cures.



Art Postcard Tarot
(c) copyright 2010 Marcia McCord



So in spite of this liar, this cheat of a germ, which fools me into thinking I’m “better today” and thus leads me to make commitments for evenings and weekends only to break them or (is it worse yet?) to keep them, I drag my aching ribs and flame-red nose to share.

The unreliability of my breathing and sudden onset of symptoms with little or no warning, however, has made me appreciate at least one thing so much more. My husband’s sister loves to watch American Idol, so when she visits we revel in the contestants, an affliction my husband does not share. One of this year’s stand-outs is a young man from nearby Santa Cruz, James Durbin, who has Tourette’s Syndrome. I am encouraged that if he is able to sing so well when his body may have other ideas, surely I should be able to overcome a cold. Right? He made it to the Top 10, surely a 10 of Cups dream for him and his happy family and friends. Now if only I can start breathing without my nose running.



Art Postcard Tarot
(c) copyright 2010 Marcia McCord



Tens are about endings and beginnings, so I’ve got the 10 of Pentacles going too. We’re putting the finishing touches on some financial items especially the annoying paperwork all too common in tax season. We’re working on planning my husband’s family reunion this summer and I feel the details of the preparation for that starting to sneak up on me like hungry ghosts. I wonder if my friend Erica could do crowd shots during the event and, hey, maybe set up a little booth and make a little extra. Add to that the screech of a few unfinished projects lying around that I really do want to complete, plus a quick deep (we’re talking ‘way deep here) dive into numerology using The Connolly Book of Numbers, volumes I and II. These are likely beyond my tolerance for the esoteric (can I be a tarot reader and say that??) but I identified the insufficiency in my own understanding to the point where I could not ignore it. So in I dove. I have a lot of 3’s (off topic, I know) and I like that. 3’s are creative and friendly. And apparently easily distracted. Hmm, maybe I used to be one of those nano-children. Or that’s contagious, too. Back to that pile of unfinished projects.

To top it all off, I’ve been busy at both the Day Job and tarot reading. With the Day Job, if it’s not one thing, it’s about 10. That fits, right? Where are all these people and their projects coming from? My status report is starting to look like the 10 of Wands, not that I want to complain that I’m overloaded. Nope, I’m bearing up bravely. Watch me grit my teeth. Oh, right, the dentist says I’m not supposed to grit my teeth any more. Sure, I’ll take care of that just as soon as I’m done with my cold!

Art Postcard Tarot
(c) copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

And happily, along with the bundle of too much going on, is a sudden uptick in my tarot reading, both at the shops I haunt and elsewhere. I’m teaching classes, I volunteered for the 3rd Annual Witches Ball in Benicia dressed in fun costume no less and I’m making after hours appointments all over. I’m also looking forward to my big spring treat, going to the Readers’ Studio 2011 in New York next month. I made my reservations, got my flight figured out, remembered that the Cobb Salad was the best thing on the menu for the Aeclectic Tarot dinner that’s being organized and have a couple of fun new t-shirts to wear at the conference. I have to figure out how to pack my costume for the dress-up dinner without crushing the, well, it’s a surprise so I’m not telling. And just to make things even more fun, I’ve booked the Himalayan Festival in Berkeley and another peaceful walk among the songbirds with my bird-buddy Ronda in a class put on by the Pt. Reyes National Seashore Association.

OK, seriously, I am so done with this cold. Di, ynke grm!!!

Best wishes.

Love in the Time of Influenza

I had the flu. Then the hubs had the flu. This wasn’t the “search the cabinets for anything to help you breathe again” flu. This was that other flu. The flu we don’t talk about. You know what I mean. I don’t mean to paint too graphic a picture here but there are some tarot cards that can tell the story.



It seems like it should have been a short story. Its suddenness was like a lightning strike, a Tower fallen, the rug ripped out from under me. Luckily, I was within range of familiar conveniences. In times of stress, they were never more convenient. Dark moments like these are times when we examine our souls. I really hadn’t wanted to examine my soul from the inside out, though.

But after the initial assault, the siege went on. And on. It was 8 of Wands, the rain of fire, the sudden swiftness of burning, even the up-in-the-air feeling of having been launched, wanting to land but afraid to do so from such a height. The fever raged. The battle continued. The topsy-turvy world of war was upon me. Even water would not put out this flame, would not seek its own level but beat its retreat.

I sought comfort in the dark and quiet, hoping the sweet little songbirds would cease their concerts, the dog would not snore, the cats would not breathe so loudly. Light and air and logic and imagination were enemies. I waved a sheet in surrender and prayed for an end, however it may come. As a soldier crawling from the blast, the 4 of Swords, I sought oblivion even if from cold stone or smooth tiles.

I fought despair of the 5 of Cups. This was still Day 1. And yet I continued to work, to answer emails and telephone calls, to offer guidance on complex computer projects. And sprint. And despair some more. No, I said. This was not flu. This was food poisoning, a poorly prepared potato past its prime in search of revenge for its neglect. It would not be flu.

After the long siege of day and night, I rallied at dawn, sure the worst was over. After all, my husband’s birthday weekend was almost upon us and I would not, would not give in and cancel it. I tenderly tried to regain the balance of my strength, to sip both eagerly and cautiously to win back some of what I had lost. Sweet Temperance led me to sip and sip and sip again.

Ah, but cruel warning came! Peace is not merely the lack of open warfare. Dissembling stillness led me astray and I called out for sustenance. My husband responded in his usual generosity and brought me what would ordinarily be healing itself, Sizzling Rice Soup, and perhaps, if I were daring, a little vegetable fried rice. What harm could a little soothing soup do? Yet, like a thief, like the 7 of Swords, in a flash from full bowl to empty was all the time it took for me to find that the battle was not yet won. Even the sight of the veggie rice was too much to be gazed upon. I lost ground and I retreated once more.

Flu, like Death, be not proud. It takes us all, the willing and the unwilling, from time to time. Flu rode in with my husband on a portion of spicy eggplant from that same nearby Chinese restaurant. He felt fine while I turned green over my bland soup. Yet scant hours later, he was struck, with all the force of all the same symptoms, all the same remorse. And we fought fire with water once again, rallied and sank, retreated and wandered restlessly. All the while our dog and cats watched over us in dismay, concern and perhaps portion calculation should the worst occur.

And in our lowest moment, we knew we were defeated. The birthday weekend was off. The trip to the redwoods was postponed. The prime rib and chocolate cake were not to be. We were betrayed by a microbe, stabbed in the back like the 10 of Swords for providing too friendly an environment for its welfare. We made phone calls. We choked out our apologies and gave our best intentions to our comrades to save themselves, to run.

I determined the only cure for the worst of it was never to eat again. Like the 2 of Swords, I drew a thin treaty with the beastly bug, denying defeat as well as victory. My resolve lasted only into the evening of Day 3 and I rummaged for something, anything like real food. I found a bagel and toasted it, throwing caution to the wind. I returned to fuss and coo over my ailing sweetie whose head was bursting in between other bursts. We slept again.

Day 4. The fire retreats and leaves the charred remains, soothed, finally, by the cooling waters. We rise, having let go of earthly cares and woes, mostly woes. My husband has ventured as far as the kitchen and made chicken noodle soup. While this balm may not last for long, it is a breakthrough. Even the thought of food was torture a couple of days ago. We’ve dared to watch a little television, its trumpet blare and fireworks now not too painful to take. There are so many food commercials on television and not a lot of them are appetizing.

I even watched Julie & Julia, a movie about the love of food. It reminded me of the joy our cousin Patti has in her cooking, her love of France, her annual Thanksgiving “Babette’s” Feast where all is made from loving scratch. It also reminded me that love goes through things together, weathers indignities, unpleasantness, inconveniences, disappointments, defeats as well as joys and celebrations. We drink from the same cup and get the same reward, whether it’s the sweetness of the wine or the wretched influenza, in sickness and in health. We share the same cup.

But it will still be a while before that boned duck thing from J&J starts to look tasty. And I’d better go wash that cup again.

**

All images in this posting are from my Art Postcard Tarot, still available.  See my page called Tarot Decks on this blog for more information. 

Best wishes.

What Have We Got to Lose?

I was chatting with a co-worker at the day job this afternoon and the subject of the Gulf Oil Spill came up. I’d like to say right up front that if I had the answer to how to fix that, I would have spoken up by now. And, because so much of my Day Job is fixing things that inadvertently broke, I really wish I did have a fix for that one. The Gulf of Mexico and its wildlife are some of my very favorite things in my whole existence. The fact that greed, mistakes, thoughtlessness, and even the sheer need for a job may have done much to ruin those things is heartbreaking to me. And people died there too.

What a shame if my memories of the beauty of that part of the earth became just memories. How would you explain them to someone who might never experience them? How do you explain that life is more important than beauty and the fact that this is deadly, not just nasty is the real horror? How would you explain how it happened that we were given custody of an ecosystem, a region, a segment of the life of the world and, well, oops, ya’ know?

It’s not like your teenager just totaled your Mercedes or your Toyota or your Ford. “What were you thinking??” you could erupt in astonishment. “You’re grounded.” “You’ll work off every penny.” “Good grief, are you hurt?” “Please don’t tell me there was anyone else involved.” “Did you say anything to the other driver?”

No the “wreck” is still happening. There’s goo and ooze in Lake Ponchatrain. It’s washing up on beaches and in the swamps. It’s on the shrimp, the birds, the fish. There are frantic emails about burning turtles. And there are articles that say, well, that’s nothing new, and, hey, it could happen again. Just about everyone thinks it’s not OK, except that guy who thinks his life should be getting back to normal soon. We don’t feel sorry for him. Or at least I don’t.

There’s a really good reason for figuring this is BP’s problem to solve. They agreed to take the risk and responsibility to drill for oil on government land. And the bad thing happened. I get the impression that all of a sudden there’s the thought that it was an acceptable risk if BP didn’t find oil. But the fact that the accident on BP’s watch affects the lives of the families of those who were killed, the lives of the people whose livelihoods depend on there not being globs of goo all over, the towns whose livelihoods may never be the same because of the cascading effect of inaccessibility to the Gulf beaches and waters, the critters who will be choked and affected for generations or perhaps even eliminated and even that poor bastard who bemoaned the annoyance of this emergency interrupting his personal life aloud and in front of people who get the difference between his inconvenience and an ecological disaster, well, shouldn’t the government do something about it?

Actually the government does do something about it. It’s called OPA ’90, the Oil Pollution Act of 1990. It’s there because a little thing called the Exxon Valdez and the misery that caused. It’s there so businesses that experience tangible, accountable loss as a result of oil spilled in navigable waters can put in a claim for redress for business interruption and other business losses. They shouldn’t have to wait while the lawyers duke it out for years to come to come down to manufacturing standards or quality control for a gasket or whatever. But generally, people make the claims for things like that if they know about them and when they have an idea of what the claim would be. The problem is, of course, the hole isn’t plugged. How do we know what the extent of this is going to be? And all the while we scratch our heads over that one, we can watch live underwater cameras as more oil flushes into the Gulf from the hole drilled there.

And what if BP loses its corporate shirt here? It’s too bad. Of course there will be more working folks who will be out of a job and the rest of the working folks will end up paying higher prices at the pump for real, perceived or anticipated expenses, whether the oil was BP’s or not. There’s that cascading economic effect too. That’s the thing about capitalism. Everybody loves it when we’re “winning.” Everybody hates it when something goes wrong, and they want someone some higher power to get them out of the hole, literally and figuratively.

Worst of all, there are people out there saying that this is God’s will because … and filling in the blank with every far-fetched thing from believing in the “wrong” religion to being the “wrong” orientation, sexual or anything else. I have to say that God’s will or not, there’s no one out there with a telephone connection so clear to God that they know why this happened. But I have a pretty good idea it isn’t punishment for anything other than stupidity and foolishness. And now we all get to pay in so many ways.  Can you hear me now?

All the while we argue here, that hole is still pumping oil into the once-beautiful blue water that teemed with life and is part of the “engine” of currents that keep the world’s weather … well, shoot, that’s getting messed up too.

Did we just break the best toy we were ever given? Did we just burn down the house? Did we just win our own Darwin Award in the un-funniest joke ever? Are we still waiting for Bruce Willis to sail in on a cable with high-powered ammo and save us all within the span of two hours? Bruce, my movie love, my hero, can’t you fix us and save the world just this one more time? Or call Spiderman? Or maybe in this case Aquaman? Or have we finally found the Truth Out There, Scully and Mulder, that the oil monster got us before the cloned corn and killer bees?

And all the while that hole is still pumping oil. So I did something a little crazy last weekend. I handed out a seashell to the people I spoke to.

“This,” I said, “this is what we’re losing. This, and so much more.” Sometimes people don’t believe in something until they can touch it, so I want them to touch seashells. They are the beautiful dead remains of life that had a chance to live a normal lifespan for its species. Who knows how long we will have them?

If you pray, please pray. If you don’t pray, please do what you do. And please do more than that. Support cleanup, make the problem tangible, send money, understand the impacts, and support innovation and efforts that will at least plug the hole, before we all go down the drain. What have we got to lose, except everything?

Best fishes.