weekly challenge: FINDING HOPE

By Sherry Marr

Seed Mother Rahibai Soma Papere (India)


Do not lose hope – we were made for these times. Look out over the prow; there are millions of righteous souls in the water with you. We have been training for a dark time such as this since the day we assented to come to earth.

When a great ship is moored and in the harbor, it is safe, there can be no doubt. But that is not what great ships are built for.

Ours is not the task of fixing the entire world all at once, but of stretching out to mend the part of the world that is within our reach. It is not given to us to know which acts…will cause the critical mass to tip toward an enduring good.

— Clarissa Pinkola Estes

I am glad to note that this sage still believes in the transformation of consciousness on the planet. Whether before or after cataclysm, I suppose mankind will be forced to re-learn the Old Ways of being with the natural world.

Pam Houston, in her book Deep Creek, ponders: “How to be with the incandescent beauty of the iceberg without grieving the loss of polar bear habitat? How to hang on to that full-body joy and still understand it as elegy?”

That is the dilemma I find myself in. Exactly. Beauty / Elegy.

Pam says it is the best time to write odes to nature, when she is critically wounded at our hands. “I wait to feel a glimmer, a vibration, that says, ‘Hey writer, look over here.’ [It is the way] I have written every single thing I have written. It is also the primary way I worship, the way I kneel down and kiss the earth.”

Me, too. I was happy to read both of these quotes this past week and, especially, Pam Houston’s book.

Clarissa and Pam have put it into words far better than I ever could. These days I feel I am living with the two sides of my heart – joy and gratitude at the incredible beauty of the landscape around me, at the same time feeling such grief and guilt at what our species is doing to Mother Earth in this Age of Extraction.

How do we stay hopeful, yet not in denial, fully here in the present moment?

I have been in love with the natural world all my life, walking with head tipped back, and grinning at the sky. It is a hard thing to see her suffering. A friend, a lifelong environmentalist, told me once, “Mother Earth feels your pain. Let her feel your joy too.” I have always remembered that.

I marvel at how faithfully Mother Earth moves through her cycles, no matter what imbalances are happening. There is so much life everywhere! Everything in the natural world is trying so hard to live. Everywhere there is a wound, I watch little green tendrils begin to grow, to repair and heal the area. One of the lushest places on earth is Chernobyl, which began to thrive once all the humans were gone.

Indigenous people live with strict protocols for how they live upon the land. If they strip bark from a tree for basket making, they leave that tree alone for 150 years to heal. If they take one tree for building a canoe, they leave the entire forest alone for 250 years – they view clearcutting with horror. There is a great learning curve for us in their teachings.

Each walk on the beach fills me with awe. From the tiniest velellas to the wildest winter tides, Mother Earth is alive, constantly in a state of growth, renewal and healing. She needs us to give her some help. And many are doing so, all over the world.

Joanna Macy says “You are alive now for a reason. Because the truth is speaking in the work, it unlocks the heart.”

An open heart means pain. But a closed heart that turns away doesn’t get anything done. Those of us who are strong enough are called to the work: of bearing witness, of sharing information, of protecting trees, of making conscious choices that help the earth. (In Tofino, we are boycotting buying the CoOp’s avocadoes, since they come from Mexico. Environmental activist Homero Gomez Gonzalez, who opposed destruction of habitat of the endangered Monarch butterfly for growing the green fruit, recently died, likely murdered, as have been 19 other environmental activists, killed by local cartels fighting over the avocado trade.)

One person can do a lot, as we see with Jadav Payeng of India, a poor farmer from a marginalized tribe, who spent thirty years planting trees, turning a barren area into a thriving forest, when he noted snakes were suffering and dying.  Or Seed Mother Rahibai Soma Papere of India, who protects and preserves India’s indigenous seeds, and encourages farmers to switch to local varieties.

Then, of course, there is Greta Thunberg, one small, humble girl, a clear-eyed truth-teller.

Each of these people gives me hope, showing how much one person, one voice, can do. I see our poems as part of that work – to celebrate and love the natural world, and, sometimes, to write poems that help others see what we see and begin to care, too. Our love of Mother Earth motivates us to do what we can to try to save her.

Perhaps the most hopeful thing of all is looking to the more spiritual side of life. Life is not just physical; when we remember we are Soul and Spirit, and that there has always been a spiritual dimension in all cultures since time began, perhaps therein lies our greatest hope. There is an energy at work in the world that we can align with and tap into. Through Spirit-Eyes, we can envision a more viable world: a world of sustainable practices, of social justice, of clean energy, of rebalancing the earth so all may live. This is how we were meant to live, in harmony with the natural world and other creatures. One way or the other, I believe we will re-learn how to do this. (The indigenous peoples of the world can teach us how.)  The transformation of consciousness is happening. The fact we are discussing this now, in a poetry forum, when five years ago this conversation would not be happening, tells me we are waking up. We are waking to difficult times, but we can clearly see what needs changing.

Today we’ll sing a hopeful song. Tomorrow maybe we will plant a tree! Or a garden that invites bees and butterflies to our yards. We might turn our front yard into a veggie garden, so we can eat local, without pesticides – and in case the system breaks down, as Tofino’s did the other week when the only road in through the mountains collapsed. (I plan to grow kale and scarlet runner beans on my tiny balcony this spring.)

The vastness and power of the sea, the cathedral of the old-growth forest, sunrises and sunsets beautiful enough to break your heart – so much to love! Let’s send our poems out like love songs. Love heals. And hope gives us strength for the days ahead.

How and where do you find hope? Write big picture, if you wish. Or find that tiny miracle that makes you catch your breath in awe. Let’s add our small push to the transformation of consciousness that is trying so hard to happen across the globe. I look forward to reading how you hold onto hope, and we invite you to join in the discussion in the comments section.

— Sherry


In earthweal weekly challenges, poets are asked to submit their perspective on global events in verse. Local flavor is especially welcome—include your state or country with your name in the link. The challenge launches first thing Monday (EST) and remains open until Friday afternoon. Feel free to contribute multiple times if it magnifies the theme.

Friday afternoons at 4 PM EST we launch an open link weekend where poets are invited to contribute more widely

weekly challenge: SOLASTALGIA – Vanishing Homelands

Welcome to earthweal’s weekly poetry challenge.

This forum is dedicated to the varied responses to the climate emergency we are all now a part of. The root “-weal” in the title has three central meanings — “welt,” a land scarred by human intervention; “wealth,” the hope of a healed whole-earth community (like the word commonwealth, only critters and trees and rocks partake, too ); and “wale,” a binding element similar to the strip of metal used to bind a barrel or the gunwale of a ship, here as something to hold everything together. Earthweal is a place to both mourn and love a changing Earth. (For more, see the about earthweal page.)

In these weekly challenges, poets are asked to submit their perspective on global events in verse. Local flavor is especially welcome—include your state or country with your name in the link. The challenge launches first thing Monday (EST) and remains open until Friday afternoon. Feel free to contribute multiple times if it magnifies the theme.

Friday night we launch an open link weekend where poets are invited to contribute more widely.

If SOLASTALGIA is all you need to start working on your poem, Mr Linky follows. A write on the theme follows.


After the fire on Kangaroo Island, Australia


Homesick For a Vanishing World

As one who moved around a lot in his earlier years, the eventual finding and making and sustaining of a place I call home has resulted in the most productive and happy chapters of my life.

The longing of my wandering years—a sea-like yearning that one day I might find lasting harbor—was a form of homesickness, much like that of an orphan hoping to one day to reconnect with a lost mother or father.

And now, having formed a deep sense of place over two decades of living at the same place in Central Florida, homecomings are always dear, whether it’s from coming back from a trip (as I did many times visiting my old father in Pennsylvania) or driving back home after another day working in an office at the far end of a commute. Weirdly, now that both father and job are gone, there is a strange homesickness for those places I was present in, too.

I’m very aware how fortunate I am and give thanks for it daily; it is a privilege I do not greatly deserve, and I understand how readily, randomly and viciously the Wheel can turn round the other way. But not today.

More than 65 million people world-wide are refugees, displaced from home and homeland due to political instability, much of that resulting from the disruptions of climate change. Very few—less than a hundred thousand—return to their homes every year, while an equal minute fraction find new homes in next countries. The rest remain in limbo, with no welcome behind or ahead of them. Pity the refugees from Central America fleeing farms no longer productive due to climate change and ravaging gangs; caught before the American border, they are sent to camps where they wait to be returned to the nothing and worse they left behind.

Magnified events displace magnified numbers from their homes. Last year when Tropical Cyclone Idai mowed into the coast of Mozambique, it was the worst storm in the country’s history. displacing 146,000 people, damaging 100,000 homes and destroying 1 million acres of crops. The World Bank estimates that by 2050, Latin America, sub-Saharan Africa and Southeast Asia will generate some 143 more climate migrants, an estimated third of those on the move due to sudden disasters.

Climate change is deeply affecting the destinies of so many within the borders of our respective homelands. An estimated 2.1 million residents of South Florida alone will be forced to relocate due to rising seas, many of them relocating to where I live in Central Florida.  Local homelessness will swell as well due to continuing economic upheaval and widening drift of the privileged class away from the 95 per cent.

The homeless may become the defining demographic of the 21st Century.

What happens to the heart when one loses their home? Glenn Albrecht, an Australian philosopher and professor of sustainability, put it this way:

People have heart’s ease when they’re on their own country. If you force them off that country, if you take them away from their land, they feel the loss of heart’s ease as a kind of vertigo, a disintegration of their whole life.

Albrecht observes that many native inhabitants—Australian aborigines and any number of indigenous peoples around the world—report this sense of mournful disorientation after being displaced.

In the Anthropocene, there is another, perhaps more widespread disorientation, because all around the world people who haven’t moved are finding themselves homesick because their homeland is vanishing. So many feel this same sense of “place pathology,” not because they had been removed from home soil, but as their home communities are becoming ruined by development or becoming inhabitable due to climate change.

In a 2004 essay, Albrecht named this condition solastalgia, a combination of the Latin word solacium (comfort) and the Greek root –algia (pain), which he defined as “the pain experienced when there is recognition that the place where one resides and that one loves is under immediate assault . . . a form of homesickness one gets when one is still at ‘home.’” Albrecht called solastalgia is a depressive mental condition.

Solastalgia may be the melancholia of the Anthropocene, a hollowing homesickness in a sickening home.

Here in the United States, one can’t help but look on vast corporate farms of corn and soybeans stretching for thousands of acres while small towns across rural America empty out for lack of work; or drive through vast tracts of suburban blight wondering how anyone could feel at home there; or see the opioid epidemic as the cheapest and most devastating remedy to hopeless yearning for home, or witness the soaring suicide rate among both indigenous peoples, farm workers, middle aged displaced and the gig-economy young, and wonder what happened to the future.

There’s an African American church just outside of my town which has sat empty for decades since the last black residents moved away for lack of grove jobs or service work in old Southern homes. (All those groves are now being sold, at great profit, for New South housing development.) I drive by that church every day watching it slowly crumble down and back, wondering what happens to a community when its cornerstones vanish. What happens to the vision of observers like me.

How to treat this new melancholy? Albrecht suggests the following:

All of our emotional, intellectual and practical efforts (must) be redirected towards healing the rift that has occurred between ecosystem and human health, both broadly defined. In science, such a commitment might be manifest in the full redirection of scientific investment and effort to an ethically inspired and urgent practical response to the forces that are destroying ecosystem integrity and biodiversity. The need for an “ecological psychology” that re-establishes full human health (spiritual and physical) within total ecosystem health has been articulated by many leading thinkers worldwide. The full transdisciplinary idea of health involves the healing of solastalgia via cultural responses to degradation of the environment in the form of drama, art, dance and song at all scales of living from the bioregional to the global. The potential to restore unity in life and achieve genuine sustainability is a scientific, ethical, cultural and practical response to this ancient, ubiquitous but newly defined human illness.

Whatever ground Professor Albrecht has covered since, hopefully it will have some value and use today as Australians look at their hot, burning, increasingly inhabitable homeland and wonder where there is to go.

Write a new poem on the theme of Solastalgia. What’s it like to be homesick in a sick land, particularly your own? What are you refugee from?  How does your life intersect with migrant humanity, with the homeless, with homeowners who have no home in the future? What is the healthy and sustainable road out from solastalgia? What’s the report, the witness, from your neck of the woods? Maybe we can cobble together here a global witness.

Find out what solastalgia looks and feels like to you: Then bring your discoveries to earthweal.

— Brendan


Thank God for Holderlin: Where danger grows, salvation too is on the increase.

Peter Matthiessen’s novel In Paradise, published just after his death in 2014 at age 86,  explores solastalgia in a gas oven. Set in Poland in the mid-1990s, it follows a meditation retreat in the death-camp of Auschwitz. For three days, people of various national, religious and philosophical bent meditate and attempt to bear ecumenical “witness” to one of the most horrifying relics of Nazi Germany’s final solution to racial impurity and the end of a long road from home for some 1 million Jews.

Over the course of this night sea journey Matthiessen raises and dispenses many questions: Can any but a survivor of the death camp experience can bear true witness to what happened there? Can there be any legitimate response to a place of annihilation? And can any true voice or presence of holocaust can still be “at home” there, in one of the most homeless way-stations in human history?

Tough questions, and Matthiessen is sparing in his answers. Auschwitz is what it is, and no one living passes through that morgue of the spirit without catching its chill. A rabbi leads participants in the Kaddish or Prayer for the Dead at the Black Wall, where some 30 to 40 thousand prisoners were shot to death in the early years of the camp. “It is the voice of the living calling out prayer across the void to the nameless, numberless dead who do not answer,” he says. Most of Matthiessen’s answers are calibrated by that silence.

But Matthiessen observes this: After three days of meditation, prayer, encounter and hard debate among the participants in this Hadean harrow of death, many felt a homesickness as they were leaving—as if by making space for inhumanity and death inside themselves, their humanity was enlarged. “The only whole heart is the broken heart, but it must be fully broken,” another rabbi says that in the shadowy gloom of the Oven—and strangely, on the last night they are there, those utterly broken by the encounter find themselves suddenly dancing, like children at recess, as if they had come home at last. It’s an utterly unexpected gift, hilarious, profane, perfect.

What do we know about the heart, that compass whose pole star ever points us toward home? Even in its darkness, solastalgia offers orienting truths.


Jack Gilbert

The fox pushes softly, blindly through me at night,
between the liver and the stomach. Comes to the heart
and hesitates. Considers and then goes around it.
Trying to escape the mildness of our violent world.
Goes deeper, searching for what remains of Pittsburgh
in me. The rusting mills sprawled gigantically
along three rivers. The authority of them.
The gritty alleys where we played every evening were
stained pink by the inferno always surging in the sky,
as though Christ and the Father were still fashioning
the Earth. Locomotives driving through the cold rain,
lordly and bestial in their strength. Massive water
flowing morning and night throughout a city
girded with ninety bridges. Sumptuous-shouldered,
sleek-thighed, obstinate and majestic, unquenchable.
All grip and flood, mighty sucking and deep-rooted graces.
A city of brick and tired wood. Ox and sovereign spirit.
Primitive Pittsburgh. Winter month after month telling
of death. The beauty forcing us as much as harshness.
Our spirits forged in that wilderness, our minds forged
by the heart. Making together a consequence of America.
The fox watched me build my Pittsburgh again and again.
In Paris afternoons on Buttes-Chaumont. On Greek islands
with their fields of stone. In beds with women, sometimes,
amid their gentleness. Now the fox will live in our ruined
house. My tomatoes grow ripe among weeds and the sound
of water. In this happy place my serious heart has made.

from The Great Fires (1995)

Portions of this week’s challenge were adapted from a 2017 prompt I wrote for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

weekly challenge: RENEWAL

Fireweed is a native plant that’s found throughout the temperate northern hemisphere including some areas in the boreal forests. It earned its name because this plant is the first colonizer in the soil after forest fires.


Welcome to earthweal’s fifth weekly poetry challenge. We have covered some difficult themes—fire, ghosts, water, animals. Today we switch gears somewhat and focus on Renewal: How is your world opening new doors?

In these themed prompts, poets are asked to submit a poem with local perspectives on global events and / or illustrate it through the lens of your artistic expression and development. The weekly forum launches first thing Monday (EST) and remains open until Friday afternoon. Feel free to contribute multiple times if it magnifies the theme.

Friday night we launch an open link weekend where poets are invited to contribute more widely.

If RENEWAL is all you need to start working on your poem, Mr Linky follows. A write on the theme follows.



My job was eliminated by my company this past week, and for the first time in 40 years I’m unemployed. I saw it coming and have a parachute of sorts for the time being—we’ll be fine. I bring it up here because what I’m going through personally has a lot to do with this week’s theme of Renewal.

Having reached the end of one career in the collapsing newspaper industry, I’m starting over. I have a chance to take stock and look at what I want to do with the rest of my life. It’s possible I can retire (though I would like to keep working). I can get involved in things locally I couldn’t when I was a full time commuting worker drone—volunteer, or maybe run for the seat for my district on city council. Some things I have to let go of—that daily New York Times, and a favorite AA meeting in Orlando—but then I won’t be forced to continue the guilty necessity of consuming so much fossil fuel for a 250-mile weekly commute.

Still, I feel like one self has been burned to the ground. Fire is a natural occurrence in many forest ecosystems; it clears out old and overgrown vegetation and recycles nutrients back into the soil. Old life goes away, new life returns. What’s next? Nothing is very clear right now but what has been lost.

(Not all forest ecosystems respond well to fire; rainforests are vulnerable and we’re seeing swaths of the Amazon forest turning toward dryer savannah conditions, with more grass and less trees. Climate change is also affecting the Australian wilderness; its growing too hot and dry for forests. Tipping points make renewal a different story, one which is unpredictable.)

Renewal is an organic process, and to participate in it is a form of husbandry, as Wendell Berry writes.


In the stilled place that once was a road going down
from the town to the river, and where the lives of marriages grew
a house, cistern and barn, flowers, the tiled stone of borders,
and the deeds of their lives ran to neglect, and honeysuckle
and then the fire overgrew it all, I walk heavy
with seed, spreading on the cleared hill the beginnings
of green, clover and grass to be pasture. Between
history’s death upon the place and the trees that would have come
I claim, and act, and am mingled in the fate of the world.

—from Farming: A Hand Book (1969)

Ergo, my renewal and the world’s are part of the same act. There are many human transformations underway in the 21st century—dramatic and subtle, some for the better, others for the worse. Through history I am invested in a certain transit, or thought I was. But many things are changing, and the husbandry (and, yes, mid-wifery) of that is difficult. But it will be done.

Thomas Kineally, an Australian novelist (Schindler’s List), published an op-ed on Feb. 1 for the Australian edition of The Guardian on climate change and wildfire in Australia. Facing the growing possibility of an uninhabitable continent due to heat and fire, Kineally exhorted the denialist government of Scott Morrison to wake up to new possibilities. ” After our long glorying in minerals, it is promised that, if it wishes, Australia can be a leader in the new post-fossil-fuel world. It is a destiny our politicians seem unwilling to embrace, but they may have to.”

“For the fires have changed us,” he concluded. “Perhaps we, too, need fire to germinate an essential concept.”

Renewal is found in the ashes, there lies the germinating concept. But what does renewal look like?

As Heraclitus said, nothing can be properly named which is not first fully separated; Rage and Grief need their mosh-pit, so to speak. We have seen plenty of both here. But is that work an end in itself? Such poems eventually run out of oxygen, rope or ledge. I’m not sure what comes after, but it can be envisaged.

Maybe we start with something small.


William Stafford

We have all we need, some kind of sky and maybe
a piece of river. It doesn’t take much more
if your ghost remembers the rest, how Aunt Flavia
called the cows in the evening, and there wasn’t
anything coming down the road except a Ford
now and then, or a wagon with a lantern.

You could smell a little hay just to remind
the wind that sunlight would come back, and that
Heaven waited somewhere even if you couldn’t see it.
I don’t care now if the world goes backward—
we already had our show before the tornado came,
and somehow I feel in my hand all we ever held,
a ticket, a compass, a piece of iron,
our kind of pardon.

from Even In Quiet Places (1996)

For this week’s challenge, submit a poem about RENEWAL.  What does renewal look like in a vastly changing world? What is worth saving? Does one have to read the ashes to see it? Is it dreamlike in possibility? What other clues are there in our present situation? What is it like to begin?

Here’s to Renewal! Start writing!



By Sherry Marr

It has been a hard month, with kangaroos and koalas burning, suffering and dying in the Australian wildfires. Due to drought (and unregulated corporations buying up fresh water sources), rivers are drying up. Thousands of platypus have perished, among the billion beings lost.  I nearly lost it when someone proposed shooting 10,000 camels “because they drink too much water.” Typical human thinking: as if we are the only species that matters.

The exhaustion and gratitude in this orphaned baby joey’s face pierces my soul. The wild creatures lived in harmony with the natural laws of Mother Earth until the last couple of hundred years, when the dominant species began extracting more than our share of resources. Humankind is too slow to recognize that we are all interconnected. What the wild things are experiencing now, we will experience too, likely sooner than we expected. In fact, many of us are already climate refugees, as the cascade effect accelerates.

Governments are too slow to act. “Economic interests” still come first, as global systems falter and wreak havoc.

The animals are suffering all over the world: remember Tahlequah in 2018, carrying her dead calf on her nose for seventeen days of grief we shared. Near me, on the West Coast of Canada, wild salmon stocks, infected by fish farm pollution, are dying; the result is starving whales and bears, and collapsing ecosystems. Grey whales are washing up with stomachs full of plastic; dolphins are trapped in driftnets. A million seabirds were killed in the hot waters of the Pacific Blob.

The numbers of creatures suffering and dying is too vast for comprehension.

Up north, polar bears are dying excruciatingly slowly of starvation; photos show only their empty skin left behind in the spots where they finally mercifully perished. Habitat and food sources are running out for the wild ones. Last fall, a mother bear and her three cubs searching for food  in a city suburb near me were shot as they tried to flee back into the forest. Bees, that pollinate our crops, are disappearing.

Did you see the recent photo of the orangutan trying to physically fight the bulldozer that was destroying his habitat to grow palm oil? He reminded me of the lone young man facing the tank in Tiananmen Square in 1989. Courage born of desperation.

We now know that the lives of animals in factory farms are horrendous. We need a movement just to liberate them, and return to small sustainable farming. Without pesticides. Animal agriculture is one of the biggest sources of CO2.

This listing could push us right into despair, and heaven knows my heart breaks every day for the animals. But we need to feel there is hope, and my heart lifts at the people rising up to care for the injured animals in Australia, and the many raising funds to help them heal. The best in human nature is always evident during times of crisis, clear evidence that we humans can – and must – find a better way to co-exist with the other beings on this planet.

There is much we can do, individually and collectively, to help the animals of climate change. We can donate, we can care, we can push for legislation to protect the wild ones. We can choose a more plant-based diet. We can write poems.

Today let’s speak for the animals. We can look at the big picture, which is devastating, and requires human action, human change. Or we can take whatever creature speaks to us, whatever struggle has captured our hearts in these past weeks, and write about that. The animals are crying out to us for help.  Big blessings to those humans on the ground who are helping the helpless, terrified creatures of climate change.

(In future prompts, I will look for good things happening to reverse climate change, as well. Stay tuned. I won’t always be depressing. But the animals are always first in my heart in perilous times, because they have no voice, and they are suffering because of us.)

In hope, and love for the animals,


Sherry Marr posts from Tofino on Vancover Island, off British Columbia and the west coast of Canada. She is the first to submit a guest weekly challenge and will be back. The earthweal weekly challenge runs from Monday through Friday afternoon; then at 4 PM EST an open link weekend kicks off.  Feel free to contribute multiple times if helps scale the theme.Include your posting location on Earth, include a link back to this challenge somewhere in your post and be sure to read and comment on your fellows’ posts. We carry this work together.

weekly challenge: WATER

Photo: StockSnap

Greetings all,

As earthweal slowly wheels out its well for the global commonwealth of Earth, how wonderful to see participation from such corners of the world! From England to Australia, South Africa to India to Canada and Sweden to the USA, with way-stations ranging from Michigan to Florida to Pennsylvania to Michigan to Oklahoma. Does this forum begin to feel to you like a global hangout for local muses? Keep it coming—and keep including your port of call in your link.

On to earthweal’s third weekly challenge. In these themed prompts, poets are asked to submit a poem with local perspectives on global events and / or illustrate it through the lens of your artistic expression and development. The weekly forum sails forth first thing on Monday and remains open until Friday afternoon at 4 PM EST when the earthweal’s open link weekend kicks off. Feel free to contribute multiple times if helps scale the theme.

Next Monday, Sherry Marr takes over the reins with a weekly themed challenge on ANIMALS. Our wild world needs some poetry to envoy their presence! She will return again with future prompts as well.

If WATER is all you need to start working on your poem, Mr Linky follows. A dive into the theme follows.

Anchors away!





Photo of Earth by Voyager 1 from 3.6 billion miles away, June 6, 1990, as the probe was leaving the solar system.


earthweal week 3 challenge: WATER

The space probe Voyager 1 has been a busy camper since it left the Earth in 1977. It passed Jupiter in 1979 and Saturn in 1980, sending back to Earth the first detailed images of our largest solar system cousins. Though the mission had only intended to work that far, Voyager 1 kept sailing—it’s now about 14 billion miles out—and as long as nothing bigger collides with it, the probe will take about 300 years to reach the Oort Belt in the outermost ends of the Solar System,  another 40,000 years to get within 1.6 light years of the star Gliese 445, and 300,000 years to pass by the porches of the MTV star TYC 3135-52-1.

As Voyager 1 was leaving the solar system in 1990, it was commanded to turn its camera back for a last shot of Earth in the vast expanse of space. If you check out the photo which began this section, you can just make it out inside the bright vertical band toward the right. When he reflected on the photo, the astronomer Carl Sagan labeled it Pale Blue Dot and made that the title of a book exploring humanity’s relationship with the Earth and cosmos. Human pride made us Earth-centered, he writes, but astronomy eventually pulled our gaze away, helping us see that we are not the core of the heavens. Sagan concluded that if we are to survive, we must thrive elsewhere as well in space.

The pale blue color of Earth observed in the photo comes both from the scattering of sunlight in the Earth’s atmosphere, as well as the massive sprawl of oceans which 70 percent of its surface. Air and heat and water and voila, Pale Dot Earth. Before we leave this planet—spat out into the ether like watermelon seeds and/or some errant virus—let’s take a warm soak in one of our defining elements and look for new poetry there.

First, this confession: I’m a water baby. Maybe my mother’s uterus was just so damn comfy. Maybe the sound of her voice over the sea when we visited Jacksonville Beach made crashing surf sound like a welcome. Maybe a spell of wonder permeated my waking conscious mind when at 3 years old I fell into the deep end of a swimming and hovered there amazed at the shifting blue til a frantic lifeguard’s hook retrieved me. Who knows.

I agree with Fiona MacLeod: If you get splashed a certain way by the wave, yearning becomes part of you, your story, your song. I was baptized in the Atlantic Ocean off Melbourne Beach in Florida when I was 14, and the wave that washed over me while I was submergedwashed my entire soul.

Falling in love was like rebirth in water.

My tarot card is the Page of Cups.

My thirst for firewater comes from the burning abyss.

My poetry blog is named after a mythic well on Dun Manannan on the Island of Iona.

My online namesake is a hybrid of voyager and seal-man.

The sound of rain on the tin roof of this house has the murmur of blessing.

The ocean waves crashing harder and louder against the shores of my state of Florida are disturbing.

If you want to understand water, you should get to know the sea. One of the great books for this education is Rachel Carson’s The Sea Around Us. Published in 1951, the science has evolved some since—current cosmology has our Moon an errant planetary visitor, where Carson’s time believed it was born from depths now occupied by the Pacific Ocean—but as a poetic book of scientific wonders, you can’t get more satisfying draught.

To paraphrase the tale of water from Carson:  Two billion years ago, after our Earth had cooled enough from its formational fury, rains began to fall, steadily and incessantly for years, millennia, aeons, slowly filling the ocean basins and flooding higher ground. As mountain ranges eroded, minerals flowed back into the waters and the seas slowly turned saline. Life began to brew in the fertile soup, feeding first on inorganic matter and then developing chlorophyll, the process by which carbon dioxide in the air could be mixed with water to build organic substances. The oceans greened with undersea forests. Other life evolved to feed on this aquatic plant life, building shells from carbon stored in the water, followed by life which fed on plant eaters, then bigger life to prey on that life: And so the food chains evolved.

About 600 million years ago life crept ashore and the bare rock of dry land slowly turned green with plant life.  Some life grew lungs to breathe on land, legs to move about and wings to navigate an ocean of sky. Reptiles grew huge while tiny mammals evolved in their shadow. 50 million years or so some animals returned to the sea, becoming sea lions and dolphins, seals and whales.

Life on Earth rose and fell five previous times due to cataclysmic events like meteor strikes or major volcanic eruptions and the massive release of methane stored in seabeds, vastly changing the composition of Earth’s atmosphere. The most devastating was about 250 million years ago in the Late Permian Age, when 70% of all land life and 96% of the sea life went extinct. (The prevailing theory for that extinction event was that massive releases of volcanic gases resulted in a killing acid rain.)

All the while, water circulated in the oceans, evaporated into the sky and fell back down again as rain or snow. 100,000-year cycles of glaciation occurred as atmospheric CO2 rose and fell. At the height of the last glacial period in the Pleistocene, ice sheets covered vast areas of North America and Europe and the oceans were about 400 feet lower than they are now.

Humans appeared late in this story, only 3 million years ago, and it’s only been in the last 10,000 years have we developed tools which have allowed us live and thrive just about anywhere on Earth. To accomplish that, we have had to beat water at is work. Fire and flint spears kept us alive in frozen Paleolithic caves; irrigation provided water for agriculture; boats carried us far over the oceans; aqueducts fed cities with water; lighthouses helped voyagers navigate perilous shores; barrels stored drinking water; fermentation turned water into whoopie parties.

There is water in the ocean as old as the Earth. Ocean currents circulate water from surface to abyss and around every continent, so that the entire ocean—and most of Earth’s history—is represented by one drop. The salinity of ocean water is exactly the same percentage as what’s in our blood; we are more ocean than we think. As human embryos develop they lose vestigal fish-tails, and gills form into ears. Freshwater supplies derive from lakes scoured into place by past glaciations, and snowmelt from mountains which erode via rivers into the sea.  About a million billion snowflakes fall every second, yet each ice crystal bears the signature of the wholly unique.

Water is a mystery and sacrament, the very font of life and a tidal rhythm strummed across the Earth. It is also deeply part of our peril on a changing planet. Ice cores taken from Antarctica in scientific missions of the latter 20th century revealed dramatic changes in the Earth’s atmosphere in recent centuries; carbon dioxide levels were rising dramatically due to industrialization and burning fossil fuels, creating greenhouse conditions which would warm the atmosphere, melt the polar ice caps, dramatically raise sea levels and create a host of interwoven climate impacts, from more intense storms, drought, wildfire and freshwater loss, reduced growing seasons to a massive die-off of life in a sixth extinction event. The very thing which allowed humans to master their environment is now killing off and long-term chance of its survival, and the human ape proving exceptionally bad at foresight and care of its future.

We don’t have far to look for local news. Jakarta has been flooding from torrential rains, and spring rains last year caused massive agricultural disruptions in the American Midwest. Major cities around the world have had water crises, including Cape Town in South Africa and Chennai in India, with Cairo, Sao Paolo and Mexico City headed there. The recent Australian brushfire catastrophe is the result of a three-year drought and record high heat. Giant kelp forests offshore the southeastern corner of the content have been killed by record heat in the ocean, and blob of hot ocean in the northeast Pacific is said to have killed a million seabirds.

Without drastic steps to cut fossil fuel emissions over the next three decades, global warming will unleash upwelling impacts for centuries; we talk about sea level in 2100 as possibly ten or fifteen feet higher—flooding many coastal areas—but as Greenland and the Arctic and Antarctica melt, oceans will rise more than 250 feet in the centuries to come (bye bye, Florida), and large swaths of the world, including Australia and most tropic regions, will be uninhabitable due to swelter, storm and fire.

In their speculative fiction The Collapse of Western Civilization: A View From the Future, scientists Naomi Oreskes and Erik Conway tell the story from 23d Century—200 years from now—unfolding the tale of scientific discovery, climate denial, catastrophic events, government collapse and retreat and retrenchment into human world reduced to half a million people living in the northern reaches of Canada, Europe and the Russia, the final temperate islands on a flooded Earth.

There are those who are earnestly seeking technological fixes to this massive problem, from carbon traps to interplanetary geoforming missions as Carl Sagan imagined. Maybe one will come along in time. Nearby places like Venus and Mars are poor substitutes for Earth, the former an 800-degree nightmare example of runaway climate change, the latter a dry, cold and barren rock, having lost most of its atmosphere due an opposite effect of climate change. It’s a long, long way to our nearest star neighbors, and science fact is distant from runaway fictions of star ships zipping around the universe. More like crossing the monstrous Indian Ocean in thimble with a shingle for a sail.

For those stuck here in the early 21st Century, we have to deal with a changing relation to water. Seas are rising, storms are intensifying, rivers are flooding, plains are drying out and burning, clean drinking water is getting harder to find and summer swelter has a killing edge to it.

For this week’s challenge, write a poem about water in one of its myriad manifestations—in sea or river or bath; in tides and waves; falling from the sky or upwelling from down under; as rain or snow or sleet or hail. Write about water as thirst quenched and parched; as porch to voyage or adventure; as common element in womb and heart and brain and liver; as drainage and effluent, sweat and lubricant and abyssal reach and frozen edge.

How is water changing your Earth?


weekly challenge: GHOSTS


The other night I had a strange dream. I was observing some kind of tournament staged atop the world’s tallest building. Game officials tell one of the teams to station players closer to the building’s edge, in accordance with game rules or just to make the play more exciting. Then an announcer cries: “Peter’s gone!” As the crowd roars in surprise and shock, the dream’s camera pans fast toward the building’s edge, where we see a female teammate kneeling in shock, the sky’s incredible fatal falling distance just beyond. I woke thoroughly spooked.

At this 4 AM — the witching hour I normally write by– the spectral Wolf Moon shines over all, a brilliant echo of Friday night’s penumbral eclipse—passing behind the Earth, the moon dipped through our planet’s outermost shadow. For us it was a fleeting, ghostly encounter with our dear dead orbital; for the moon, well … one suspects is was business as usual, shining its ruined face for us all.

Ghosts have always crept about the edges of our culture; haunting stretches from my father’s pipe still redolent with Borkum Riff to Paleolithic cave-paintings of aurochs speared for the feast. We have cartoon ghosts, movie franchise ghosts and spookies risen from horror fiction and, of course, the Internet’s boundless bourne. There are haunted houses and caves and beaches. Ghosts take the semblance of departed loved ones, and you can never be quite sure who’s walking in the door of our dreams. They come in moonlight, icy in visage yet so real, almost there where we can’t let them go …

I’m thoroughly haunted by the eerie advent of the Anthropocene, spooking in from the edges to eclipse human life. And what’s so weird about it is the speed, accomplished not over millions of geologic time but over the latter portion of my tiny life. Twenty years ago I was a suburban hopeful with poetic ideas commuting 25 miles to daily work and returning to my little plot of Florida paradise and the inner satisfactions of home where good cooking and nightly TV assured a dreamless sleep. That life is still here; but five years of increasingly dire climate news, that life has the sound of a haunted carousel.  I have a hard time comprehending that I once took as the soundtrack of the good life. The edge of a shadow has passed over, and it’s growing more spectral every day.

It doesn’t help that spiritous waste from Australian brushfires now drapes the ghosts of a billion animals, willowy and particulate, around the world. A shroud which grows and creates its own bad weather …

Arts of Living On A Damaged Planet: Ghosts and Monsters provides some imaginative and useful metaphors for working with ghosts. Published in 2017 by the University of Minnesota and edited by Anna Tsing, Heather Swanson, Elaine Gan and Nils Bubandt, anthropologists, biologists and environmental scholars observe the ghosting of one world and the monstrous entanglements emerging in the new one.

An introduction co-written by the editors has three paragraphs I’d like to quote as points of departure for this Ghost challenge.

First, in the Anthropocene, ghosts are composite entities of loss:

As life-enhancing entanglements disappear from our landscapes, ghosts take their place. Some scientists argue that the rate of biological extinction is now several hundred times beyond its historical levels. We might lose a majority of all species by the end of the twenty-first century. The problem is not just the loss of individual species but of assemblages, some of which we may not even know about, some of which will not recover. Mass extinction could ensue from cascading effects. In an entangled world where bodies are tumbled into bodies, … extinction is a multispecies event. The extinction of a critical number of species would mean the destruction of long-evolving coordinations and interdependencies. While we gain plastic gyres and parking lots, we lose rainforests and coral reefs. (G4)

The Australian brushfires provide us witness to such a mass extinction event in real time. Australia is considered megadiverse, with 70 percent of the world’s species on just 10 percent of the world’s landmass and many unique to that continent: 15,368 vascular plants, 376 mammals, 851 birds, 880 reptiles and 224 amphibians. Along with the incomprehensible loss of life, habitat has been destroyed so widely that for animals who have survived, there is little for them to live on. Mammal life have suffered widely — the loss of those cute koalas–but other animals too—the Corroboree frog, the glossy black cockatoo and southern grass skink. Australian insect populations are vital, so vast that only about 30 percent of them have even been identified. Worldwide, insects are vanishing so fast that there are places eerie with the silence of their absence, and behind that silence there is a greater vanishing and lost as animals dependent upon them are also lost. As Australian ecosystems may be tipped forever out of balance if they lose their bugs.

We are only just beginning to understand the importance of assemblages we must now wave farewell to. The Australian brushfires are a proscenium to this farewell. How are the ghosts moving in and what do they tell us about what has been lost? We ought to learn something here, because far more is coming. We need a more resonant notation for transcribing these ghost choirs …

The second passage has to do with ghostly landscapes.  Two centuries of industrial-scale mining, damming, deforestation and agriculture has reshaped the earth. Mountaintops are stripped away, and vast tracts of prairie are turned into moonscapes for shale oil extraction. Fracking is creating new earthquake zones. Suburbs invade wetlands, increasing the potential for flood and damage. CO2 emissions are largely falling into the oceans and slowly turning them acidic. As a result we are losing the Great Barrier reef and giant kelp forests in Australia, and so so much we miss because its down from a moony heaving surface.

“As humans reshape the landscape,” the editors write,

we forget what was there before. Ecologists call this forgetting the “shifting baseline syndrome.” Our newly shaped and ruined landscapes become the new reality. Adding one landscape to its biological entanglements often entails forgetting many others. Forgetting, in itself, remakes landscapes, as we privilege some assemblies over others. Yet ghosts remind us. Ghosts point to our forgetting, showing us how living landscapes are imbued with earlier tracks and traces.

As spectral moonlight washes my suburban street tonight, I wonder what do the ghosts of your local landscape tell you? How has the ostinato  of driven human existence virally erased that which was thriving and extending and singing Yes and Yes to sun and moon?

During a moment of that moon’s full height and glory, a corner of a shadow crossed the Earth. Some call the present moment the advent of the Penumbral Age, “the period when a dark shadow began to fall over humankind. You’re living at the start of a new age, a new counter-enlightenment.” The third passage sings for the advent of ghostly time.

Ghosts remind us that we live in an impossible present — a time of rupture, a world haunted with the threat of extinction. Deep histories tumble in unruly graves that are bulldozed into gardens of Progress. Yet Arts of Living on a Damaged Planet is also a book of weeds –the small, partial, and wild stories of more-than-human attempts to stay alive. Ghosts, too, are weeds that whisper tales of many pasts and yet-to-comes that surround us. Considered through ghosts and weeds, worlds have ended many times before. Endings come with the death of a leaf, the death of a city, the death of a friendship, the death of small promises and small stories. The landscape grown from such endings are our disaster as well as our weedy hope. (G6-7)

So much is mixed in the watery mortar of dream—yesterday, myth, the future I’m not smart enough to read, the emotional struggles I can’t resolve, last night’s pasta and a poem about ghosts.  Endings precipitate ghosts which fall and fertilize a new Earth. It only looked like disaster from the tower’s falling edge.

For this week’s challenge, write a poem about ghosts in a changing Earth. Write a poem about ghosting, spectrality, haunting, moonshadows, living on, living through. Bear witness the haunting of your neighborhood or region. What would your ghost look like in a later century? Where would you find the ghost of an animal gone extinct, perhaps in the Australian bushfires? What voices seep melting Arctic permafrost and issuing up through earthquake tremors? Are they from our past or future? What happened to our past? our children? our pets? What do the ghosts of the opioid crisis have to say, or the gun violence dead? Do they mingle in those incredibly sad miles of clear-cut boreal forests, bare in full moonlight? Who are the ghosts of the Great Recession? the digitally disrupted? or climate change’s great derangement, squawking on all-night talk radio?

All of these ghosts are out there, crossing paths, murmuring with the lament of the dead. Perhaps they have something  to say about what we dreamed last night. Perhaps the next door of the dream has something more to tell us. Take a breath—the air is saturate with full moonlight and distant smoke—and give us their song.

Click on the Mr. Linky icon below and you’ll proceed to another page where you can enter your link. If you would, enter your location after your name in the link

The Ghost challenge will be remain open Monday til Friday afternoon Jan. 17. Contribute as many times as you see fit and be sure to visit your fellow linkers and comment. It was wonderful to see so much rich commentary in this past weekend’s open link forum. Let’s grow a vibrant community!

Friday afternoons at 4 PM EST earthweal hosts its open link weekend, with a themed challenge the following Monday.

Happy fruitful ghostly posting!

— Brendan

For more details about earthweal, see the Jan. 1 2020 opening post or click on the “about earthweal” link at the top.


Weekly Challenge: FIRE

Wildfires rage under plumes of smoke in Bairnsdale, Australia, Dec. 30, 2019 (AP)


WONDERFUL to see so many of you turn out for the first open link forum at earthweal! We should all feel encouraged and affirmed that so many are willing to bear witness to a changing earth. I don’t know about you, but reading everyone’s comments on each other’s posts made it feel like a real community is helping to carry a very difficult burden. Thanks for participating and please help get the word out. Now on to earthweal’s first weekly challenge …

It was New Year’s Eve when I begin laying out the foundations of this first earthweal challenge. The latest climate news on the media radar is the wildfire season ravaging Australia. After an awful few weeks burning out of control in New South Wales, record heat returned to the tinder-dry southeast and the fires took off again.

In Mallacoota, on the coast near Melbourne, temps the morning of New Year’s Eve were at 49C (120F) and fires burned so close that thousands of residents took refuge on the beach. The eerie orange glow of midnight had replaced at daybreak an absolute darkness of smoke and ash. Sirens went off and emergency personnel directed residents into the water where they huddled or were picked up by boats.

From the town came the sound of gas bottles exploding and houses burning down. This past weekend, the fires have whipped up with greater ferocity with entire communities evacuated and most of the continent in smoke and on edge. The fires have grown so large and intense they are creating their own weather, with anvil-like pyrocumulonimbus clouds rising 10 miles high, creating unpredictable winds and spawning fire tornadoes. One firefighting volunteer was killed when a fire tornado lifted a 12-ton truck and crushed him.

In a New Year’s Day video, Australian Prime Minister Scott Morrison encouraged his countrymen to be brave, praised the work of firefighters, lamented the loss of human life and said that Australia was still a fine place to raise one’s children. Later in the week, photo-ops with the public staged for Morrison ran afoul of residents who had lost everything in the fires. Rupert Murdoch’s flagship Australian newspaper has been tellingly silent in its reportage, and far-right elements of the ruling Liberal Party have continued to beat their drum for Christ, Coal & Cops—the trinity of extraction politics.

For the past several years, wildfire has been a leading climate storyline across the world, on every continent and in both hemispheres.  And for many where heat and drought are increasing, it is an ever-present, ever-rising concern—the next bad wind away.

Cracks are widening in the cultural denial which have kept us asleep as the dream of civilized progress devolves by fire into nightmare. “For a time we had come to believe that civilization moved in the other direction—making the impossible first possible and then stable and routine, ” David Wallace-Wells writes in The Uninhabitable Earth. “With climate change, we are moving instead toward nature, and chaos, into a new realm unbounded by the analogy of any human experience.”

In Borneo, illegal agricultural fires have eaten up 3,500 square miles of jungle to clear land for plantations making the palm oil which goes into half of all supermarket products. (releasing 626 megatons of carbon). Nearly a million Indonesians were treated for acute respiratory distress from the smoke. Critically endangered orangutan populations have lost habitat and less than 15,000 are believed to be in the wild.

Around the same time in Brazil, 80,000 fires were burning across the Amazon rainforest, many of them started illegally for agricultural clearing. President Jair Bolsonaro’s pro-business policies have greatly weakened environmental regulations. 300,000 indigenous peoples are being forced from their land by encroaching development. The lowland, wetland rainforest is less able to contend with wildfire; less mobile animals like sloths, lizards and anteaters are perishing wholesale. The Amazon forest is the largest terrestrial carbon sink and plays a significant role in mitigating the effects of carbon change, but scientists warn of an imminent tipping point where enough rainforest is lost and the area transforms to drier savannah with far less capability for storing carbon. Some scientists warn that that tipping point immanent or passed.

Social media feeds of the panic and horror of these cataclysms unfolding in real time have lent a new sense of global witness to decimated fields and forest, homesteads and animal life. The 2018 Camp wildfire in Northern California erupted at the center of our cultural lens. Thought to be sparked by a faulty transmission line, the fire raced down hills into developed area, consuming the small town of Paradise, where cheaper housing had attracted retirees and working families.

The fire charged through the town so fast that it literally caught evacuees in their tracks, melting their sneakers as they ran and immolating others in their cars. For those who escaped, they recorded the hellish burning landscape with their cellphones and fed the footage into the social media firestorm.

The panic and despair of an irreversible change made it feel like instead of a new century of progress and achievement, we were entering a time of The Fall.  The Camp Fire killed 85, destroyed some 11,000 houses and $16 billion in losses—a quarter uninsured. Most of the survivors have moved to states where property is cheaper; some live on in the ruins of their former dream homes.

Wildfires in the past several years also raged in Siberia, British New Columbia, Lebanon, California, Greece, the Congo Basin, Bolivia, and India, where smoke mixed with industrial pollution to create smog in New Delhi three time worse than the “hazardous” level of the global air quality index.

Wildfires are erupting so frequently now that it is becoming eerily normal. The Australian fires have been burning since September, and in California the fire season grows toward year-round. The frantic desperation of fleeing residents during the Paradise fire in 2018 is becoming an ostinato, a terror never that far and immanent. The sickening pall of smoke is now part of our common atmosphere, with megatons of climate-heating carbon is released by each new fire and the spectral remains of the dead settling silently over us all.

Maybe because the Australian fire catastrophe is so far away and has been burning for so long that for its scale—at present 14 million acres, 90 times larger than the Camp Fire—the cultural awareness has been fleeting. There’s always a next big bad event happening somewhere else, and if it isn’t at our doorstep, we don’t take much notice.  Or won’t, until it’s our own house that burns, our own beloved local nature which vanishes.

Such fleeting attention is surely dulled by social media opiates and fossil-fuel industry ads for the happy suburban (commuting) life. We’re taking too many selfies for that world for the big picture of the real world to come into focus. It doesn’t help either that Iran and the United States are currently involved in some flashy saber-rattling.

Maybe what is coming to view is just too difficult to envisage. David Wallace-Wells, again:

… California governor Jerry Brown described the state of things in the midst of the state’s wildfire disaster: “a new normal.”

The truth is actually much scarier. That is, the end of normal; never normal again. We have already exited the state of environmental conditions that allowed the human animal to evolve in the first place, in an unsure and unplanned bet on just what that animal can endure. The climate system that raised us, and raised everything we now know as human culture and civilization, is now, like a parent, dead. And the climate system we have been observing for the last several years, the one that has bettered the planet again and again, is not our bleak future in purview. It would be more precise to say that it is a product of our recent climate past, already passing behind us into a dustbin of environmental nostalgia. (ibid 18-19)

How does anyone carry that dawning information? Can anyone carry it alone? What can the world’s poets do?

Earthweal’s first weekly challenge is Fire. How have you seen fire changing the world YOU live in?  Maybe wildfires have come close or roared through. Maybe you are encountering smoke from distant fires. Personal witness of these events in the media have been shallow (has anyone seen accounts from indigenous Australians? Or read how their traditional methods of managing wildfire demand an intimacy with landscape?)

Is there something in the history and myth of fire you find compelling? Have you been burnt badly by fire or its emotional equivalents? Drank too deeply the vintage of what the Greeks called “the fiery drink of the black mother”? Perhaps you care to sing for a species of life which was devastated or vanished in the Australian fires, the koala or wombat or dunnart, the mountain pygmy possum or rufous scrub-bird or plants like the blue-top orchid found nowhere else in the world. What is signified by a burning tree?

Give us your news!

Click on the Mr. Linky icon below and you’ll proceed to another page where you can enter your link. If you would, enter your location after your name in the link.

The Fire challenge will be remain open Monday til Friday. Contribute several times if you like and be sure to visit your fellow linkers and comment. It was wonderful to see so much rich commentary in this past weekend’s open link forum. Let’s grow a vibrant community!

Friday afternoon at 4 PM EST earthweal hosts its second open link weekend; the second weekly challenge follows on Jan. 13.

For more details about earthweal, see the Jan. 1 2020 opening post or click on the “about earthweal” link at the top.

If you’re having difficulties or have would like to comment offlline, you can reach me at earthweal@gmail.com.