A Strange and Bitter Harvest

Listening to cover versions, which has become a habit of late. I was reminded of this by James Taylor as covered by Kate Rusby.

"Dark and silent, late last night, I think I might have heard the highway call"

This is a strange and bitter harvest. My life was split between the Night Planted Orchard and trips to faraway places. Now, each week, we speak to more people in those places. We have become familiar with the sound of their children, their pets. Their partners appear from time to time trying not to be seen in the video. Their studys and their gardens are becoming familiar. We are more engaged yet further apart than ever. They are humanised, but less tangible. It is a strange time.

I find myself looking at ways to help people remotely. Through all of that it seems that the World is receeding from me. Those trips to the US seem to be long, long ago. In the pre-amble to a meeting this morning I found myself comparing wistful notes with a New Zealander on Christchurch and Dunedin. Finland last week. Oz tomorrow. Oregon yesterday where we talked of smoke-haze from the all-consuming fires there. I wonder if I will ever fly again. Perhaps that is as it should be. That it is as it should be. In my heart I know that this is an opportunity to end those hard, crazy, trips to ecological ruin. But that heart is selfish and I know that would be a desperately sad outcome. My heart is therefore broken. I cannot put my love of travel aside. I know that I should, but I just can't. The idea makes me so sad I can barely speak of it, like an alcoholic facing an open bottle. Just one more. Just one more. Maybe the Vermont trip? Please? I'll stop tomorrow. I'll plant trees. Lots of trees. Please?

I realise with mounting horror that after all that, it's me. I am Babylon.