The Lights Go Out in Kiev
I plant flowers while bombs fall in Ukraine. I reach my hands into the damp earth, sewing calendula, clary sage and borage while the lights go out in Kiev. While another hospital—another apartment building or warehouse containing food is shelled—I watch the sky and contemplate rain. All around me people share their fear. Fear of nuclear war. Of another world war. I am surrounded by fear and anxiety and I feel nothing. Fear and anxiety are currently unavailable to me. They have been exhausted after overuse, and I have now only the ability to see what I can do. I cannot stop this war—could not stop the last or the one before that. I have only these two hands and piles of wildflower seeds I have been harvesting all winter. I have only this small corner of the world, and it is here that I focus my attention.
When the United States rushed to illegally invade Iraq in March 2003, I was in the minority of Americans to oppose the war. Both parties, FOX and MSNBC, the New York Times all rattled their sabers and screamed for vengeance. Screamed for the head of Saddam Hussein. In the Congressional cafeteria french fries were renamed freedom fries and irate, self-righteous people poured their French wine in the gutters, not realizing France had already been paid for that wine, just as Russia has already been paid for the Russian vodka being poured down countless drains by more self-righteous Americans crying for war. It is hard for me to listen to the nightly news—to the indignation of journalists and politicians who showed none of this moral outrage when the UK and US destroyed Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya or Yemen. It is hard to listen to them when they refuse to acknowledge the war crimes committed by their own militaries, or to demand accountability of Israel every time the IDF bombs a school or hospital. The selective application of human rights and respect for international law leaves me distrustful of any official narrative. So I turn my hands to the soil.
It is March and another country has been invaded. It is March and the bees should be hibernating, but they are out in a vibrating quest for food. I cannot feed Ukraine, but I can feed the bees. I cannot save Lviv or Mariupol, but I can save at least a few small lives. I cannot wring my hands in worry, but I can turn them to the earth—to planting leeks, potatoes, cosmos and lavender. I can take out the recycling, start another compost heap, and cut the required firebreak between the farm where I work and the houses of the village in which I live. I can greet my neighbors—can listen to their worry, their fears—can offer my shoulder for those who cannot keep thoughts of Ukraine and the suffering Ukrainians at bay—I can offer my stillness to those in need of it. I can plant trees and native flowers and harvest potatoes and wild thyme. I can keep in mind the size of my own footprint on this endangered earth, and move with kindness. That is all I can manage—I am done with fear. There is enough of that, and I have already lost too much time to it. I turn my mind to what is in front of me—the only place I can make a difference—and identify each day what I can do to leave this small corner of the world better than I found it.