Celebration For a Small But Important Planet

Celebration For a Small But Important Planet

by Harold Gilliam 

We celebrate the earth.

We celebrate the seas that give birth to life.

We celebrate the green plants that give us breath.

We celebrate the waters that flow upon the land,
and the air that envelopes the planet.

We celebrate the ocean, fount of all life.

We celebrate the microscopic diatoms that float in  the green waters, and create life-giving oxygen.

We celebrate the whales as they rise and sound in their hemispheric migrations, and shoals of salmon as they cruise the far seas and come home again for the act of procreation in the streams of their birth.

We celebrate the ground swells that rise into ridges, curve concavely into white churning thunder, bursting on the headlands, spreading on the beaches.

We celebrate the bays and estuaries and marshes where the waters of the land meet those of the sea, where life emerged into sun and made its first halting advance on the shore.

We celebrate the great storms born of the impact of warm and cool air masses far out on the moving ocean, lashing the coasts with rain, washing the cities, making fertile the valleys, whitening the mountain slopes and the high granite ridges.

We celebrate the seasons. We shall observe the vernal and autumnal equinoxes. We shall hold high festival of the winter solstice when the sun begins its long return northward, at the summer solstice when the sun is at its climax, the days are long and bright and the currents of life are at the flood.

We celebrate the sunrise and the dew of morning on the grass.

We celebrate the coming of night and the rising of the constellations.

We celebrate the grassy prairies and the dry plains and deserts where life is thin and the ribs of the earth show through.

We celebrate the migrations of the flocks and the rhythms that send them down the semispheres from the arctic to the tropics and back again with the sun.

We celebrate the trees, each wind sculpted cypress of the ocean shore, each redwood of the ferny coastal canyons, each maple and aspen and high pointed fir.

We celebrate the rich valleys where grapevines grow in furrowed fields and peaches ripen to sweetness in the summer sun.

We celebrate the bending grasses and the grains, the chaparral on the hillsides, the acrid odors of sage and manzanita, the ferns of damp canyons, and the mesquite of inland deserts.

We celebrate the poetry of the earth.

We see perfection in the parabolic flight of a single white egret, in the flock of a million shearwaters skimming the offshore waves, in the trajectory of a mountain waterfall. in the symmetry of an oak leaf.

We celebrate the soil, its millions of living organisms, its fungi, worms and bacteria that nourish the living plants, providing food for animals and men.

We pledge ourselves to the defense of the earth, of its air and waters, of the life that moves upon it. We shall defend it from the assaults of machinery, from the noxious gasses, the toxic wastes, the subtle poisons . . . from ourselves.

We shall come to the earth not with devices of destruction but with respect and humility, to guide our machines reverently upon the land.

We pledge ourselves to preserve, from encroaching pavement and omnivorous bulldozers, the soil of which our food has grown, the wild beaches of the ocean shore and of rivers and lakes, some forests where the whine of the chainsaw will never be heard, some valleys where animals graze undisturbed in the sun.

We shall respect the processes of the earth, the long cyclic chemistry that restores the soil and renews the waters and replenishes the ambient air.

We shall abet the forces of renewal. We shall conserve the precious materials of the planet.

We shall waste nothing.

We shall return organic materials to the soil, recycle the metals and the paper and the water.

We shall preserve ample areas of our land, not for development or exploitation, but for the replenishment of the species, that we may learn from nature its rich complexity and diversity, its checks and balances its perennial search for new possibilities, that we may perceive supernal beauty, feel a sense of community with all living things, and create a society in harmony with the earth.

We shall take from frenetic urban pursuits to contemplate a cloud, a tree, or leaves of grass, to behold creation as it takes place before us each day, that we may know wonder and exaltation, and join with all men our brothers, in celebration of the fellow creatures with whom we share this planet.

We cherish the hope that men will lay down their arms, and join in reverence for the earth to build anew the habitations of the human spirit.

We invoke the prayer of the Navajo;
"that we may walk fittingly where birds sing, where the grass is green, our mother the earth -- our father the sky."

We join with the Taoist poet;
"I shall dwell among the green mountains . . . my soul is serene."

We sing with the Psalmist;
"the heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament showeth His handiwork."

For all these we give thanks--
for the turning planet,
for the flowing waters, for the moving air,
for all plants and trees,
for all creatures that move upon the land,
through the waters and the air.

We celebrate the nourishing earth-- our home and the abode of our children forever.

My submission for the Archdruid's Anthology:

That ‘new car smell’ of a pristine soul

By Sidd Rudge

From a universe that doesn’t need it -- to a star that burns its secrets while a planet dances around it-- with a human species that can’t handle it – to this unlikely man who is now drunk with it. Purpose and Meaning. Yes, Purpose and Meaning—those elusive pieces to the human puzzle; missing since the dawn of the Age of Consumption, are now being offered in their original form; raw, uncut and in stunning high-definition reality. And it’s only being offered for a limited time, so get it while supplies last!

*Disclaimer:  Available only to individual humans in possession of an open mind and a pure heart. Subject to interpretation. Non-transferrable. Not redeemable for any other offer. Not available to groups, organizations or governments. No refunds or exchanges. Your indifferent (when not malevolent) universe holds no responsibility for the misuse of this information.

*****

Even with a miserable toothache the man was able to find some humor in his situation. He was lying on his back, on a thick sheet of ice at the top of a very steep road named after the hill it climbed – Hubbert’s Hill. He was glad no one was around to watch as he repeatedly slipped on the ice, landing flat on his derriere like some zany slapstick comedy routine. He laughed to himself as he sat up to catch his breath and collect his thoughts. He rubbed his lower back. He wasn’t hurt. But those hard slams to the ground delivered stabbing tremors that resonated straight up to that aching molar. He grabbed a small chunk of ice from the road with his mittened hand and gently rubbed his jaw all around the tender area where his tooth ached. He grabbed another small chunk and ever so delicately placed it inside his mouth next to the sore tooth. Maybe it would numb it. His eyes were beginning to tear from the cold and the pain.

On top of this hill he had a clear view of the snowy hills and farms of Northview, a small picturesque village in southern New England. It was early-morning and a few snow flurries floated down from a cold grey sky that was just beginning to brighten. There had been snow and frozen rainstorms the past few days making this steep hill treacherous for foot travel. Of course the hill was a legendary nuisance even back when it was pampered by the towns impressive fleet of plows and sanding trucks. In severe winter weather people would usually take an alternate route rather than be bullied by that god-awful hill. But there hasn’t been a car or truck on this road for at least fifteen years now. 

So here he is, a man near sixty years old plopped down in the middle of an icy road that once hosted a daily parade of cars and trucks. He noticed the road signs; graphic ghosts of some long abandoned authority, urging “CAUTION- DANGEROUS INTERSECTION,” and “15 MPH – STRICTLY ENFORCED.” He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he saw anything moving 15 miles an hour. But he wasn’t complaining. No sir, this suits him just fine.

*****

He was made for hard times. He knew that the miserable toothache, the ice and the cold would pass. In this harsh new world that most people would consider hell, he has discovered a patch of happiness reacquainting himself with his humanity.  And for a man who once secretly desired to end his own life back when the world was giddy with progress; when work and food were plentiful; when his children attended private schools, did the obligatory pilgrimage to Disneyland; sported shiny silver braces on their teeth; when his wife could stay at home, go shopping in brand-new cars and dress to the nines – that sad irony never left him.

He hated middle class values and their rigid moral straightjackets. He couldn’t tolerate the cardboard clergymen with their dull platitudes who came across to him as ambitious life insurance salesmen. And he detested his boring jobs almost as much as he detested his goofy bosses who would attempt to act human once a year by donning a ridiculous Santa Claus hat at the office Christmas parties, and then shamelessly layoff half the employees the very next day. And he hated Christmas too – not for any religious convictions (he certainly didn’t have a dog in that fight.) No, he hated it for what it did to people, especially the people closest to him.

And he loathed himself as well. He was as skillful as the next guy in disguising his desperation by presenting a convincing façade that hid his resentment for the compromises he had to make. But he secretly felt as though he were forced onto some demonic high-speed treadmill that he couldn’t stop; while stirring deep within his essence an agitated compass frantically pointed elsewhere.

*****

It seemed almost providential that a few years before it all collapsed, he was made aware of the peak oil movement and would soon develop a strong interest in organic gardening, self-sufficiency and the need to conserve energy. This soon evolved into a real passion. Before long he began planning for what he realized would be very lean times by storing bins with grains and other provisions to see his family through a prolonged period of scarcity. He learned how to can vegetables from his garden, mend clothing and how to preserve foods using ancient drying methods and fermentation. He enjoyed making himself useful.

He secretly began stuffing a backpack and a huge duffle bag with expensive camping gear and provisions and was fairly confident that he could survive for a few weeks when the day came for him to leave the suburbs. He instinctively understood that he would be making that trip alone.  

His two children married and followed spouses and opportunity to different parts of the country. But the empty nest was especially hard for the man to come home to after he was unexpectedly laid-off from his job of eighteen years. Like so many other victims of the economic depression, their comfortable lifestyles changed abruptly and severely. His wife of thirty years couldn’t adjust to a lower standard of living and eventually ran off with a newfound “soul-mate.” For the first time in his adult life the man had no burden of responsibility for another person.

*****

The man figured there would be no gracious way to make it to the bottom of that icy hill. He could turn back. His house was barely a hundred yards away. And the woodstove would still be keeping it warm. No. He couldn’t bare the thought of having to endure another night of throbbing pain and no sleep. He was desperate and determined to get something or someone to treat his tooth. If he could just get to the bottom of the hill, the village would be just a mile further. Surely there would be someone there to help.

The ice storm transformed the barren trees on both sides of the road into a wide corridor of sparkling crystal. Way off in the distance the man noticed Betsy Collins place. It was a bright yellow cottage nestled into a thick grove of evergreens and pines. The man recalled how he teased her the last time they were together. He would tell you she’s the local Pollyanna. “Insufferable optimist” he called her. But he knew the village needed people such as her in times like these. People trusted her with their kids, and the kids loved her. She’s the first one that comes to mind when someone needs a babysitter. The man figured if he had no luck getting help down in the village, he’d make a go for Betsy’s place. He could certainly use a dose of genuine kindness.

Now he’d about had all he could take of the biting cold and the throbbing toothache and decided that the only way—the safest way– down that bitch of a hill was to slide down.  He figured it would be fast and painful or just fast. So using both arms he pushed himself into motion and began his speedy decent. He hadn’t done anything like this since he was a kid when he and his friends would dare each other to sled down “Suicide Hill.”  But that was just a mere bump compared to Hubbert’s.

Now he was tearing down that hill so fast and smooth it would almost be fun if he wasn’t so cold and he didn’t have a miserable toothache.  He whipped right through the stop signs at the first intersection but he didn’t see the icy broken branch stuck in the road which ripped right through one of the legs of his pants, gashing his skin and spinning him right around so that he was now sliding downhill backwards-- and fast. With his heart racing, he quickly and reflexively grabbed his head with his mittened hands as a way of protecting himself from whatever this bitch hill planned to do with him now.

*****

[to be continued]