State of the Union, state of the world

Tonight the President of the United States will deliver his State of the Union address. Early reports indicate that he will focus on economic achievements. The House Chamber will not require masks be worn. It is unclear how much emphasis will be given to the most recent United Nations report on climate breakdown and its implications. Nor do we have a clear sense how much attention will be paid to the ongoing invasion of Ukraine by Russia (Poland 1939 anyone?).

If the President is trying to play to his perceived strengths, he may succeed, but, in my opinion, at the expense of addressing the major issues facing the short, medium and long-term success of our country. Without an international success, lead by the United States, to eliminate greenhouse gas emissions in the near future, we will be lucky to survive, let alone thrive.

clouds of war block the horizon

Photo by J. Harrington

Think about what occurred in World War II prior to Nazi leaders being tried for war crimes and crimes against humanity. Do you foresee a similar post-war tribunal for Putin’s crimes? That’s what concerns me. What does it take to deter pathological leaders from the carnage they heap on innocent civilians? Then again, if we’re all dead or dying within the next century, does it matter much?

Yes, I am full of doom and gloom today. Minnesota has an obscene state budgetary surplus that could be used to make real progress bringing the state into alignment with its greenhouse gas reduction targets. Instead, our political leaders will undoubtedly piddle it away on feel good, look good programs rather than do good projects.

There are few things that would please me more or make me happier than to have any of you, a year from now, figuratively rub my nose in today's posting and point out how wrong I was.

This is the first day of Women’s History Month, so we’ll share a perspective on war and the earth in the poem. May we learn to do better.

In California During The Gulf War

by Denise Levertov

Among the blight-killed eucalypts, among
trees and bushes rusted by Christmas frosts,
the yards and hillsides exhausted by five years of drought,
certain airy white blossoms punctually
reappeared, and dense clusters of pale pink, dark pink-
a delicate abundance. They seemed
like guests arriving joyfully on the accustomed
festival day, unaware of the year's events, not perceiving
the sackcloth others were wearing.
To some of us, the dejected landscape consorted well
with our shame and bitterness. Skies ever-blue,
daily sunshine, disgusted us like smile-buttons.
Yet the blossoms, clinging to thin branches
more lightly than birds alert for flight,
lifted the sunken heart
even against its will.
But not
as symbols of hope: they were flimsy
as our resistance to the crimes committed
-again, again-in our name; and yes, they return,
year after year, and yes, they briefly shone with serene joy
over against the dark glare
of evil days. They are, and their presence
is quietness ineffable-and the bombings are, were,
no doubt will be; that quiet, that huge cacophany
simultaneous. No promise was being accorded, the blossoms
were not doves, there was no rainbow. And when it was claimed
the war had ended, it had not ended.

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