From Hieroglyphic Stairway, by Drew Dillinger:

“it’s 3:23 in the morning

and I’m awake

because my great great grandchildren

won’t let me sleep

my great great grandchildren

ask me in dreams 

What did you do while the planet was plundered?

What did you do when the earth was unraveling?

surely you did something

when the seasons started failing?

as the mammals, reptiles, birds were all dying?

did you fill the streets with protest

when democracy was stolen?

What did you do

once 

you

knew?”

These lines feel like something pulled out of my own dreams or nightmares. It’s as if Dr. Dillinger has taken my thoughts from the swamp of my subconscious and crystallized them in a way I never could.

Today I sat with my husband on the back porch, sipping home made black currant wine, listening.

I heard wind rustling in the bamboo and flapping a neighbor’s flag…and nothing else. The scrub jay was quiet and the hummingbirds sheltered in bushes and trees. The swallows have moved on. There are few birds these days, perhaps because all the insect eating birds have nothing to eat. This is not to say that we have no insects at all; we have thriving bumblebee, wasp,  and mason bee populations, and plenty of cabbage moths. I’ve seen one swallowtail butterfly. But these are not food taken on the wing in summer by swifts, swallows,  martins, or nightjars.

There are no more mosquitoes.

The grass farmers and hazelnut growers across the road adhere to a strict schedule of spraying, using pesticides for the hazelnuts, herbicides to keep paths clear for tractors between rows of trees, and broadleaf herbicides on the grass crops, keeping the grass weed free so that the seed can be sold for planting golf courses and tiny lawns in front of new suburban homes. They also apply chemical fertilizers regularly. What chance do insects have in those fields? And what chance do the frogs in the creek between the grass field and the hazelnut field have? This year there were fewer of them, if the volume of their croaking is any indication of population size. We used to see bats from our front porch, swirling crazily around a street lamp as they snapped up the bugs that seemed to glow in the glare of the lamp. I’ve seen one bat in the last five years.

Every year we take stock, comparing our observations from day to day.

Paul has seen quite a few honeybees, I saw the swallowtail. The swifts, who used to occasionally get trapped in our fire box (yes, we rescued them) have completely disappeared, I say. I point out the number of bumblebees, we count the hummingbirds. In this way, we keep track of the creatures who have lived with us. And we grieve those who have vanished, either having died, failed to reproduce, or moved to a wilder place with more insects.

Bill Mollison tells us that we must find evidence for the need to act, and it seems to me that there is plenty of such evidence.

Mollison says, “There is one, and only one solution, and we have almost no time to try it. We must turn all our resources to repairing the natural world, and train all our young people to help. They want to; we need to give them this last chance to create forests, soils, clean waters, clean energies, secure communities, stable regions, and to know how to do it from hands-on experience”.

So let us plant trees, teach our children how to garden, and work with our community to repair the damaged and pillaged land that surrounds us. We can’t afford to shrink from this challenge. We owe our great great grandchildren at least that much.

Huge pink lilies