stargazing into the abyss
on community, cow shit, and climate resilience ✨
The last of the tea lights atop the relocated coffee table flickers out, as our eyes fully adjust to the sliver of moon shining onto surrounding rhubarb mounds and golden, flowering kale patches.
Above us, more stars than I’ve ever seen—a realization that makes me briefly melancholy, then giddy again. Below us, a cushion of overgrown grass, completely dry after weeks without rain—an unfamiliar but increasingly common reality for the Irish.
We have finished the birthday dinner we quietly, happily cooked together for our roommate, and as we cradle mismatched, thrifted mugs of hot nettle tea between our palms, someone asks, “Do you think humans will still be here in 200 years?”
The answers vary in length, confidence, and accent (our representation spanning France, Germany, and America), but generally come out to: not a chance; very few; yes, absolutely; I’m not sure it matters.
An easy silence settles in, as we savor this range of predictions for our species. And as a duo of bats swoop across the sky, a distant owl calls out from the Scots pines, and each of us gently lowers into a softer pose on the cottage lawn.
The question lingers as my eyes dart between constellations—will we still be here—my body fidgeting under the weight of its impossible answer.
I feel the heaviness of grief: for the pain we endlessly inflict upon one another in denial of life’s abundance. And then the emptiness of surrender: for the sacrifice of “hope for the future” in exchange for presence to this moment.
But then, I feel comfort: for the reminder that no matter, we must face it all together. There, nestled amongst each other in the front yard, under the ancient light.
field work
To quote the manager at my new farm, who has been hosting WWOOFers for 20 years (and met his partner WWOOFing in Canada), "To WWOOF is to reap the fruit of someone else’s labor.”
The food we’re harvesting (and eating!) is the product of another’s hard work, and the garden beds we’re planting will provide the next wave with something delightful. Here’s what we’ve been up to:
Clipping broccoli tips (like a delicate asparagus) and bunching kale
Re-potting celery that we started from seed, grew into cotyledons, and now need a bigger space of soil to spread into
Relocating a polytunnel from one field to the next, giving the former field time to breathe before we sow cover crops. We manually removed 20 large metal hoops from the ground, rolled up a 100 meter long plastic tarp, and walked it all to the next location, where we reinstalled the entire structure once again. What I imagine an Amish farm-raising to be like.
Cutting long rhubarb stalks at the base and bundling them for market
Planting tomah-toes by measuring out plant beds, kick-punching holes in the ground, and placing string under the roots to tie to the rafters above
Shoveling manure off the back of a moving pick-up, onto the pea beds
Too much hoe-ing between onions, lettuces, kales, purslane, turnips 😮💨
reverence
in which I share a quote, prayer, or meditation.
“We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community.”
—Catholic Worker, social activist, and Servant of God Dorothy Day
devotion
in which I share lifestyle suggestions to better honor this earth.
Humans are social creatures—pack animals—just like myriad other species. No need to go it alone all the time. Instead, try out the following!
👯♀️ Cultivate companionship: Invite someone along for the mundane. To walk to the bodega, to help build an IKEA dresser, to sit on your porch for tea, to bring you soup when you’re sick, to watch you pack for a trip. Doesn’t need to be a big plan, just an easy opportunity to passively connect.
💗 Love thy neighbor: My friend Solveig describes mutual aid as “an alternative to capitalism.” These collectives pool money to help neighbors pay rent, plant produce to distribute for free, coordinate Buy Nothing exchanges. Google one near you and connect with your community!
🦇 Keep it fly: Our pollinator kin need us. As their natural habitats dwindle thanks to overdevelopment, help by installing a bat box by your roof or a bird house in your yard. Or of course, plant a native tree or shrub!
the craic
now listening: Icky Thump (White Americans! What? Nothing better to do? Why don’t you kick yourself out, you’re an immigrant, too!); birdsong
now reading: letters from the Pope: “…the act of deporting people who[…]have left their own land for reasons of extreme poverty, insecurity, exploitation, persecution or serious deterioration of the environment, damages the dignity of many men and women...”
now drinking: so much nettle tea. Hurts to touch, but goes down smooth!
now watching: cows and sheep milling about, sunsets over the Scots pines, kitchen towels swaying on a clothes line
now eating: turnips straight from the soil; variations on bread with butter, off-brand Nutella, jam, tahini, c/o my German and French roomies
now wearing: my garden hat with the flaps—it’s been record heat in Ireland for weeks; dried cow shit on the ankles of my overalls
now visiting: the Choctaw Memorial, Kindred Spirits, in County Cork. A symbol of solidarity, selflessness, and urgent allyship
thank you // go raibh maith agat
Each of us comes from a culture or lineage rooted in reverence for the earth, proven through our collective ancestors’ lifestyles, ceremonies, and world views. For many, that divine connection to the land was severed—by force, by choice, by both.
Confronting and mitigating the climate crisis will depend on a great remembering of that connection, and a reestablishment of traditions, practices, and spiritualities we can employ to honor it. I appreciate you working to remember.
PS: 🎶 Here’s my ongoing “dark peace” playlist. Enjoy!
"stargazing into the abyss"--nice image (even if not an outlook I share). Keep writing!
Beautiful. And I love the shout out to Solveig :)