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Nature never deceives us; it is we who deceive ourselves.
(Rousseau)
Today the temperature in New York City dropped to around 10° (and I love it). In the 19th century, the Hudson River used to be frozen all winter; it used to be this temperature all the time. This past weekend, a supposed snowstorm fell, was dispersed, as a lukecold rain; it was depressing. The seasons are always depressing now — because there’s always out of order; days, weeks, months, do not really unfold the way that they’re supposed to. I’m listening to a record now; I’m bundled up; I’m writing next to my radiator; I have windburn on my face; I feel great, content. My sister, who has been working on a farm in Switzerland all winter, texted me today and said she’s happier than she’s ever been; I can’t help but envy that she’s in a place, because of geography and economy, that allows her to remain tethered to nature. Of course she’s happy. I feel imprisoned in New York, in America, in 2019 — it’s like there’s no way to get back to the roots of the earth, the roots of natural civilization. Obviously I’m torn between the occasional delights of modern life in New York, and the grounded, consistent, vitalizing life my sister is experiencing amongst cows, goats, cats, sheep, children, farmers. When nature is confused, when nature does not nurture us, provide for us, heal us — because we’ve wrecked out relationship with nature — then we’re left to trying to create wholeness out of the incongruence pieces of consumer society. You need to be entertained only when what’s around you has lost its beauty.
