he described the current oil boom in northern alberta as ‘rape and pillage’. rape and pillage make it hard to laugh and dance. rape and pillage have been going on for millennia. but so have laughing and dancing.
far away there are holes in the side of cliffs from long ago when we first mined copper and there are holes in the ground too where we found water deep underground. we made axes that chopped wood and bone. we made the desert bloom–then in north africa, now in vegas. patrick laughed and picked up the blanket he and heather were felting, a wedding gift.
oil is concentrated, easily portable, easily storable energy from millions of years ago. it just makes things easier–things which we started long ago like building cathedrals and pyramids and fighting wars. patrick and heather, having reached a fork in the road, choose to do things the hard way, without much oil. like felting this wedding gift. oh sure, nothing’s pure. they drove to the store for felting supplies. they’ll probably use a tractor on their farm near pembroke, ontario, though they farm without oil-based fertilizers or pesticides because they are organic farmers.
their real harvest won’t happen until hundreds of years have passed. maybe thousands. but they have to plant now. their fertilizer is love and compost. they must plant now. it’s always now. it’s always thousands of years from now. it’s always everything leading up to now. more than you can ask or imagine. in the meantime, patrick laughs and dances with heather.
like her dad does with her mum.
i’ve known heather since she was a little girl. i’ve just met patrick. i like him instantly. he knows the importance of laughing at everything. everything must pass, including cities and holes. still, my now has these holes. and now my now has this blanket.
my parents have been dead many years and someday i will be too. so will you. from my dad i have a lamp he welded of railway ties. from my mum i have a quilt. you have these words from me. even words must pass. love remains. say yes. give yourself to love.
when someone dies, often the love for him or her becomes grief. you weld a lamp. you sew a quilt. sooner or later everyone dies. in the meantime, you do what you love, you love what you do. or else. then you aren’t and you can no longer do what you love and love what you do. then love becomes fixed and solid, like a gravestone.
while you are alive, your love remains fluid. love can deepen. or love can become hatred. that you may decide. but the other you rarely know when, when you will die, when the unfixed becomes the fixed. better fix it now. give yourself to love.
no more holes in our love. only blankets.