Leaving Washington after 10 days in front of the White House, I ride the train through hills and mountains – Maryland, West Virginia? I look out on trees, rocks, river: wide river, shallow with rocks, winding, here and there a small island; now an old stone building, a wide field, a farm; now trees again, roads, farms. “Beautiful,” I think. There's a bit of mist, now turned to rain streaming down the windows. Across the aisle a baby is entertained by his mother.
This is what it is about – that life should continue. Perhaps I should say, life as we now know it. The teaching says, “Accept what is offered,” but I am not yet able to accept the end of human life, the end of trees, of rain, of deer. I am worried at the loss of insects. Suddenly I remember, driving a car in the summer 10, 20 years ago meant a windshield splattered with insects, frequent scrubbing and cleaning of their dead bodies – and this is no longer true; the insects are nearly gone. What else is lost, will be lost every day in this great extinction? How can I come to terms with it?