Ecstasy Not Included

The revelations from the universe that I have experienced when ingesting psilocybin mushrooms were not gentle. I was hoping for the ecstatic we are all one moment, or my other favorite, the losing all fear of dying that I've heard reported. But alas.

At low doses, my experience can be both pleasant and interesting. I take walks and am more intensely focused on my surroundings than on the usual bombardment of thoughts. My ego, my personality, loses its entrenched hard edges and becomes more diffuse. There are fleeting moments when I lose all sense of a human form consciousness for something "other." All quite predictable and by the book for any self-respecting alternate state of consciousness adventure.

At higher doses, it becomes considerably more unpredictable but for my two forays into deep mushroom territory there was a pattern. I get somewhat nauseous which is unpleasant but can be ignored. The sensations in my body are more disagreeable and can't be ignored. The visuals are distorted which is a given. My ability to express my thoughts to other people seems little impaired. 

Emotionally for me it was a confusing and negatively charged space that just persisted, a wait it out situation. On the other side of that state was an intermediate place; not fully normal yet and highly reflective in nature. On my initial trip, I was confronted by fear and sadness. I had chosen my companion well and was with a long time friend who allowed me to shift into what felt like a therapy session.

My second high dose experience was by accident. I had intended to take a milder dose but miscalculated. Again the negatively charged state; wait it out, and then an intensely introspective state of mind followed. This time I was alone. I was sitting next to the fireplace watching the fire when I was besieged by a series of memory clips; times when I had felt most alone and abandoned. Memories so painful I could hardly bare to relive them even in brief. From there I jumped to thoughts of my two granddaughters who have both been emotionally struggling and in the next leap I was experiencing the collective pain of all beings. 

In my normal non-altered state I'm a political junkie and I spend far too much time on social media sternly judging and criticizing those beings who run the world in the most corrupt manner possible. In my altered state, I saw them differently. I saw that their raw pain matched my own, and that their actions were varying degrees of unskillful and deluded attempts to escape that pain, and to be loved and admired. My casual meanness toward them on social media is equally unskillful and deluded. 

The epiphany was not entirely new; I've had similar insights in meditation. The mushrooms demanded of me not just an understanding but a deeper participation. It was, I suppose, a we are all one moment with a twist; ecstasy not included. 

Orphaned Sculpture

While taking a walk in the wetlands on an overcast, rainy day, I found what appeared to be a giant wood-carved mushroom lying on its side at the edge of the water. My first impression was that a beaver had inadvertently ingested some part of a psilocybin mushroom and was recreating its vision. But that seemed unlikely. 

I dragged it to the bench for a better look. Definitely not a naturally evolving piece of driftwood either. At least temporarily, with my intervention, the orphaned sculpture is now a table companion to the bench.

Nobody Dies Anymore

Tiny Rant

Nobody dies anymore. They do, of course, more gently and euphemistically just pass away. Even pets don't die. The harsh reality cannot be born, so pets too just pass away. 

The transformation in language is not quite complete however. We will know that moment has come when from the pulpits we hear that Jesus passed away on the cross.  

The Psychedelic Society

 

I was a hippie era bystander in the San Francisco 60's. I loved the counterculture and liked to join in at Goldengate Park, the Filmore and the Avalon Ballroom, but I couldn't do the drugs. Hippies dropping LSD had no guardrails; no guides watching over you, no guarantee of product or dosage.

No Guardrails

I tried to get all those safety features in place, but it didn't happen. When President Nixon passed the draconian anti-drug laws, I gave up the pursuit of a psychedelic experience. Fifty years later, we're getting a gradual thawing of those drug criminalization laws and in Washington state, I now have another chance. A friend and I joined the Psychedelic Society meetup group. No actual drug taking is allowed at these meetings, but we can talk about our experiences, or lack thereof, and get acquainted with others who share our interest.

The first meeting we attend is set in a large, darkened room that has a distinctly seance atmosphere. It's a gathering of around twenty people, most look to be in their 30's and 40's with a small minority of senior citizens. The topic for the evening is death. As we go around the circle, each person gets a turn to talk about whatever the topic of death brings up for him or her. I'm surprised by the seriousness of the sharing, people telling their intimate stories, a therapy group of sorts. The seance atmosphere is not about contacting the dead but contacting a deeper level of ourselves.

One man in our group does see dead people in his room at night. He tells us stories about being a child in a country that was in war torn chaos, where death was everywhere and all around him. He tells about being separated, lost in the jungle, and being led back to his village by a woman guide that no one else could see. His life has been a black hole of despair. He remains separated, not from his village now, but from other people no matter what village or what country. He is the last person in the circle to speak.

We are good listeners in this psychedelic society. Sometimes one of us asks a question or makes a comment, but mostly we give our full attention to each person's story. It creates an instant bond with people who were complete strangers to me when I walked in the door.

The next meeting has a quite different atmosphere and feel. We're meeting in a building that was an old schoolhouse with large, magnificent cross pane windows and ancient, smooth wooden floors. The lighting is turned up several notches this time and the seance atmosphere is erased. My friend and I come early this time and spend the first half hour doing group breathing exercises led by a young man who accompanies our breathing with drums and crystal singing bowls.

Our topic at this second meeting is to talk about insights we've had when taking psychedelics. Several people in the circle are alcoholics who've used psychedelics to help them recover and their stories reflect their varying degrees of success. A few people report life changing insights, but the majority report experiences that are quite transient and less exciting. The man who sees dead people in his room at night is once again the most interesting to me. He has had some very fruitful psychedelic sessions since our last meeting and is coming out of his total despair position. He is seeing that he is always going to be "different" but it doesn't have to mean that he is completely separate; that maybe it's okay to just be different and live with it.

I have no psychedelic experiences to report but I tell the group about my insights when on or coming out of anesthetics during multiple surgeries. I went to a different plane of existence and thought I lived there. The light was like the golden light of our fall season. There was a feeling of remarkable harmony with very low to nonexistent threat of violence. I was in a cottage with a room full of convivial people when the back door opened and I was catapulted out.

"You can't stay here," they told me, "You have to go back now." I had no memory of another place and I begged them to let me back in, to let me stay. They showed me an image of my husband. "He'll be fine," I told them, "He can find somebody else." They showed me an image of my son who was still a minor and it was over. I had to go back to that place I was beginning to remember where violence and immense suffering pervade. I was reluctantly going home.

Waking from another surgery, I was filled with unquestioning acceptance and love for all beings. My hospital room was a swarm of people coming and going and I saw beauty in everyone and everything. Each individual seemed perfect just as they were. That beatific state of mind continued for several hours before I went to sleep and woke up in a more judgmental, unfortunately more normal state. I could see that it's possible to cultivate that desirable state but I haven't managed it.

Belonging to the Psychedelic Society means that I have opportunities to meet people who can facilitate a psychedelic trip for me. I'm in no hurry, I discover. Coming out of covid isolation to explore compelling topics with kindred congenial companions is perfect.

Previewing a Cashless Society

 

"We don't accept cash," the monorail ticket lady informed me. "We only take credit and debit cards."

I'm incredulous. I am traveling light without my bulky wallet as I've just completed a political action march from downtown to Seattle Center, and I have only cash. Definitely an inconvenience for me but I'm immediately thrown into a reflection about how millions of people who have no bank accounts, and no plastic cards, will deal with a futuristic society that won't accept cash. 

This sober concern for the future possibly gives me a more dejected look than I realized as I make my way back down the ticket line. A young woman steps in front of me holding up her credit card. 

"Jump in line with me," she says, "I'll pay your fare."

I'm momentarily dazed by the kindness of strangers but manage the presence to join her in line. The ticket lady does not look happy to see me again as if I'm making her life unreasonably difficult. 

Now standing on the monorail platform, I offer my benefactor the cash I owe her. She waves it away. In a generous mood, she's not accepting cash either.

Almost Famous

Zoe Kravitz walking to train platform. 

I have just completed my breakout role in a major Steven Soderbergh movie. The movie titled Kimi stars Zoe Kravitz. 

I was hired as an extra, which can lead to exciting possibilities or to editing extinction. Extras are seemingly assigned to background roles randomly, and I joined the passengers waiting for the train group, or Company Peach. Names of colors were the organizing tool to move large numbers of people in a chaotic setting, much the way kindergarteners have buses designated as the Bluebird or the Goldfinch bus. 

Movie making starts early as even extras are subject to wardrobe, hair and makeup calls. Even though we were told to bring outfit options, a high percentage of us were redesigned anyway by the wardrobe people. I regretted having obediently dragged along a small carry bag with alternative clothing as I was deemed perfectly outfitted on my first try. Everyone, however, passed through the hair and makeup department with no changes and nothing added which left us with several hours to wait patiently for our action time. Normally it would be entertaining to chat with fellow extras during this down time, but covid favors introverts and we were separated by a mandated space that made conversation difficult. The required masks not only discouraged idle conversation, but made it almost impossible to understand all the shouted orders by organizers. Humans are highly adaptive. If our leader waited for us to do something, we formed a line; otherwise, we politely stayed in place.

There were twenty of us in Company Peach; most of those twenty people looked to be well under age forty. There was a dearth of senior citizens in the entire gathering which surprised me. When the mostly young Company Peach was called to action, we headed down to the train station platform. Five of us would board a train car with Zoe, the only movie star involved in the scene. Several more would board adjoining train cars. The rest of us were relegated to milling about as passengers waiting for the next train. As we practiced all the variables of milling about, another woman and I were motioned over to the up-bound escalator. Halfway up the stairs beside us was Zoe, the movie star, waiting to descend.  

At the given signal for action, my new best friend and I are seen going up the escalator as Zoe passes us on her way down to the trains. We repeat this action at least seven times before Zoe gets it right. My companion and I were perfect on the first take. 

My Patty Hearst/Tania Moment

Chase Bank is the world’s largest funder of fossil fuels — it’s loaned the fossil fuel industry $196 billion since 2015. Unacceptable! That’s why we’re visiting all 44 Puget Sound branches today to tell Chase to stop #BankingOnClimateChange! 

On April 10th, 2019 activists in twenty-two cities shut down branches of Chase Bank across the country. Seattle activists temporarily closed forty-four bank branches, and my team, EarthWindSolar, visited six Chase banks. 

EarthWindSolar Team gets ready to hit the banks. 

Cold day and we are wearing many layers under the fat suits.

Photo credit to guy walking by with his dogs who agreed to take our photo if we held the dogs. 

We think it looks like an album cover and are considering releasing first album by EarthWindSolar, featuring the sound of wind turbines and solar panels.

  

This felt like my Patty Hearst/Tania moment as the bank managers reacted as if we were carrying automatic weapons into their banks, possibly because the young man with solar panels is wearing a mask. 

We personally visited six Chase Bank branches. Managers all seem to have no sense of humor or whimsy. 

Ironically, CEO of Chase Bank, Jamie Diamond, was spending the morning at a hearing before the U.S. House of Representatives’ Financial Services Committee to explain why the mega banks have continued to engage in frauds against the investing public since the big bail-out in 2008. 

Night Guests

My husband woke me. His eyes were open and he was pointing to the foot of our bed.

"Who are these people?" he asked, "Do you see them?"

I did not see these people.

He lowered his arm and turned to focus on the space beside him, then cautiously reached out. He told me that he was seeing two women, and that the young woman he was attempting to touch had stepped back, then both women vanished. Curious for both of us, of course, but we had read neurologist Oliver Sacks's book, Hallucinations, and were feeling well-informed and reassured. Hallucinations are more common than most people realize. Neither of us had trouble going back to sleep.

The following night my husband was again visited by the young woman beside our bed. He didn't wake me this time, but tried again to touch her. He reported to me in the morning that the figure again disappeared when he attempted contact. Some concern is creeping in though not fear or alarm. The night guests might become an unwelcome nuisance.

The pale young woman returned for a third night; my husband is prepared. She stands beside the bed with a new guest. This time she brought her dog.

"Who are you?" my husband inquired, "Is that your dog?"

The young woman looks directly at him and smiles slightly. There is no other response. She faded and was gone. My husband does not aspire to continue the paranormal research and begins to think of possible mundane causes for the nightly visitors.

The most mundane yet terrifying information anyone can read is the list of possible side effects to any drug he or she might be taking, whether prescription or over the counter. My husband thought to check online for all possible side effects for a new drug his doctor had prescribed.

• confusion, trouble concentrating, hallucinations, unusual thoughts or behavior

My husband contacted his doctor who said the hallucinations constituted an allergic reaction to the drug, and he was to taper off immediately. And just that fast, it's over. 

I miss the apparitions, their stories, their dog. My husband does not.

Who are you?

Missing Mary

I worked with Mary for about a year at a prestigious law firm in Seattle, but only got to know her in the six years we spent together as friends on Facebook. She died of cancer four months after announcing her imminent death to her large collection of followers and Facebook friends. She was as shocked as we were by the totally unexpected diagnosis. Many of those followers had never met her in person, but it wasn't necessary. Mary was a writer. She was a storyteller and included us in her daily adventure; her online friends were family.

Offline, Mary's closest friends were her dogs and her cats; with people she seemed to be a friendly but determined loner. Online, she was open, always interesting and amusing. For the last four months, I have been part of the online family's grieving process as we tried to tell Mary how much she has meant to us; how much we will miss her stories, her bright spirit.

Mary loved to travel the city with her dog and her camera, and report back. That ended abruptly with the pain of late stage cancer; Mary did not go out anymore. In response, I begin to take photos on my daily walks to share with Mary as she was still able to spend brief periods online with us. My walks became more lively and more poignant; I began to see again instead of listening to the constant chatter of my mind. I will continue to see and take the photos on my walks, but it's not the same. I am missing Mary.

Photos for Mary

Reflection of Leaves in Water

I cannot properly describe Mary. It is more appropriate for Mary to describe herself as she did in this Facebook Note from February of 2009.



25 Random Things by Mary Witter

February 2, 2009 at 5:03pm


1. I caught a fish as a child and when its eyes met mine, I threw it back. I’ve never fished again.

2. I believe that nothing can take the place of wood-pulp books and papers—the feel, the sight, the smell, the sound of turning pages. Same with snail mail letters with doodles in the margins.

3. I have never quite learned when to quit or to wait until the flag drops before plunging in, but I’m working on it.

4. Eager to believe, I listened when they said it’s never too late

5. I went back for four more years of school at nearly 50 years old. Graduated with honors, awards and massive debt.

6. One of my greatest pleasures is to plan, nurture and watch a garden grow from my window, complete with birds, hummingbirds and butterflies. Wish I had one now.

7. I’m going to stop smoking for good tomorrow...third time is the charm. I started again when Sadie died…I was lost and didn’t care.

8. As a very young child, I once sat on the dusty earth under an enormous wasp nest and poked it with a long stick. I thought the wasps were rushing out to say hello…didn’t occur to me that they were angry. I didn’t get stung.

9. I have a sense of curiosity and adventure that sometimes lands me in trouble.

10. I enjoy intellectual pursuits--obviously. :~)

11. I believe that poets, writers, artists and actors serve their countries and humanity better than all the militarizes in the world.

12. My favorite film director/screen writer is Sally Potter.

13. The Sally Potter film I love most is “Yes”. I was so caught up in the storyline and visuals that it wasn’t until the second time through that I realized the dialog is written entirely in iambic pentameter.

14. I am an only child. An orphan who has been up for adoption for some time now. We problem children are notoriously hard to place.

15. I have painted my toes gold every summer since 1976. Before that, I was a hippy-chick flower child and it was not allowed.

16. I am a romantic to the core.

17. I'm closer to online friends than anyone I’ve met since returning home to Seattle seven years ago. We’ve been through a lot of stuff together –births, deaths, jobs, health. Online friends feel like family.

18. I believe that rough edges are immeasurably more interesting than cut and polish. Diamonds in the rough have gotten a bad rap.

19. When I was 9, I secretly signed and mailed in a form from the back of a magazine belonging to my mom’s spooky friend. The form was to add my name to a list of people to be taken up by aliens. I didn’t hear from them, but I’ve kept one eye on the skies ever since.

20. I once worked for a circus and married the Ringmaster.

21. I saw a ghost when I was three, but didn’t tell anyone. He was an old-time Native American man who didn’t notice me. I’d never seen anyone dressed like that before. The image has remained, causing me to keep an open mind about such things, even though I don’t really believe in ghosts.

22. I drove a long haul truck in the 80s (field trip!) and lived like a gypsy in a bubble, flying across the open road. Had a little dog, microwave, great stereo, TV, bookshelf and so many blooming air plants it looked like a floating greenhouse.

23. My mom was an immigrant from Austria with an 8th grade education, my dad had a 6th grade education—both had immeasurable wisdom and compassion. I was the first in of either side to go to college.

24. The one thing that turns me off is obscene wealth. Greed is not a virtue.

25. I am cracked up by life and all its glorious variety and I'm sure the Tricksters roll on the floor laughing at mine. (Or is it the aliens? see # 18)

With the Dead in a Dead Language

Most people are unfavorably surprised to find that in the afterlife, God and his entire celestial bureaucracy speak only Latin, which greatly adds to the general confusion of waking up dead. On Earth, the assumption has always been that God would have mitigated the language problem, or would at least have better technology to deal with it. Even more frustrating, celestial bureaucracy is no more friendly or helpful than Earthly bureaucracy; speak Latin or step out of the line.

Under such unexpected circumstances, the newly dead often slip into denial and bitterness simultaneously. With so many Earth people claiming to speak with God, why did not one of them mention this essential language requirement? Not once, not ever. Most wonder now why they never cultivated friends who spoke Latin, and why even in Earth academic circles, Latin was considered a dead language. The irony of this point is not lost on most newly dead people, but in their denial and bitterness phase, they find irony unbecoming in a God. There is a growing realization that unless they understand Latin, they cannot clearly decipher where exactly they have ended up in the afterlife.

When denial and bitterness have played out, most people advance to phase II; take action. Though widely spread out, there is a huge crowd of people milling about, and the idea arises that one could find others who speak a familiar language and possibly also speak Latin, or know someone who does. With a mixture of enthusiasm and panic, people rush about connecting and questioning complete strangers. Everyone will eventually find others who speak their language, but will not find anyone who speaks Latin. Consequently, misinformation is freely traded exactly as it was on Earth. Predictably, some will be dismissive of other beings who do not speak their own language; others will develop a deep empathy for all fellow beings who are sharing this unsettling experience.

The action phase will also play out, and instead, people talk less and begin to pay closer attention to their surroundings. They notice that Latin grammar books, complete with multilingual glossaries, are lying conspicuously about in the vastness of the afterlife. The action phase gives way to resignation; everyone will have to learn Latin or be left behind. Predictably, some people focus on the unfairness of it all, refuse to learn anything, and thereby become totally isolated.

Those who do choose to learn Latin discover that long time afterlife residents are intermixed with newcomers in the huge milling crowd, and that long time residents, of course, do speak Latin and could have acted as translators. The entire exercise was designed as an ice-breaker for the newly dead; the long time residents do not wish to spoil the game. In this spirit, fluent speakers of Latin enter the afterlife through a separate expedited checkpoint, though it was generally acknowledged by long time residents that in any case, fluent speakers are disinclined to assist the non-Latin speaking rabble. Fluent speakers of Latin are, after all, on a career path into the celestial bureaucracy.

My personal riff on a book by David Eagleman, Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives.
Cum mortuis in lingua mortua  <with the dead in a dead language>

Kayaktivists

Storming Shell's oil rig. This is a family friendly drill.

A photographer's lucky shot.

Selden and I, preparing for the action.

Our job was to stop Shell's oil rig from leaving Seattle's harbor and going to drill in the pristine Arctic. Being a member of the kayaktivists  on family friendly drill day is one of my favorite days on the planet. In the shadow of this day is that after days of elaborate planning and organizing, the giant ship exited in the middle of the night, and only about thirty kayaktivists were in place. The fault was modern technology. We were told to wait for the text message which most of us didn't notice while we were sleeping. A simple phone tree apparently didn't occur to anyone until after the fact. 

Kayaktivist at dawn staring down the giant rig. 

Shout It Forward

I was an early enlistee for the People's Climate March held in late September of 2014, on a Sunday in NYC. I was enjoying the trip preparations, a high of expectations, when two family members came down with a bad cold just five incubation days from my flight day. Five days of mild panic to real hysteria as I body scanned for symptoms of a cold that would ruin it all. On Thursday morning, still wary but allowing myself to be excited again, I made it to the airport. Sitting at the gate, waiting for my flight, I was finally feeling both calm and giddy at the same time.

I haven't flown for several years, and wasn't quite prepared for economy class. Airline economy class is designed for very small people: everyone else just makes do. You can only sit in one position until your feet go to sleep and then you join everyone in the aisle waiting in line for the restrooms. The aisle is a one lane road with traffic going both ways. It's a clever arrangement because by the time you actually get to the restrooms and back, your feet are revived, and you go back to one position. I flew into Newark, NJ. Newark Airport and the nearby airport hotel were standard, nice enough, but leave little impression. The ubiquitous hotel room is my jump off place for the grand adventure. I was feeling bubbly; continuous body scanning assured me I was not sick.

While I'm probably a normal adult with a bad sense of direction, I see myself more dramatically as having a mild form of Developmental Topographical Disorientation (DTD), characterized by the inability to navigate through a non-verbal process, or generate cognitive maps. Catching the train to Penn Station in NYC the next morning was easier than I could have imagined as the crowd going there formed a human wave that carried me right along. That clarity ended at Penn Station. The subway system is a hot, brightly lit underground rabbit warren, and those rabbits move fast. I was in no mood to figure out the system at that moment; couldn't find my rabbit mode, so I headed for an exit. Twenty-five short blocks to my hotel, a moderate walk by New York standards. Wheeling my luggage heightened it to level moderate plus, but the pleasant, warm weather still made it a pleasure.

I had booked a room at the Park Savoy Hotel on W. 58th Street, a block from Central Park near Columbia Circle. It's a very expensive neighborhood, full of posh hotels, but the Savoy is a wonderful exception. The rooms are more like college dorm rooms than hotel rooms except that you do have your own small, private bathroom. The charm lies entirely in the affordable price at a great location.

Park Savoy Hotel NYC

While checking in, I met Susan, who had the seriously informal look, and the sturdy shoes of a fellow climate activist. After a brief conversation confirming we were both there for the march, we were instant comrades, and went with another couple Susan knew to find food. These people were prepared. Of the hundreds of workshops and other events planned for the days leading up to the Climate March, the couple had definitively chosen their events, purchased their metro passes, marked their subway maps, and were ready to rise at the crack of dawn to begin. Susan was not quite as up to speed but exuded confidence for getting about. I felt like the kid who didn't do her homework, can't read, and doesn't want anyone to know. I could have tagged along, of course, but the very competent couple struck me as quite humorless and I preferred my own confusion.

Comrades from the Hotel Savoy 

The four of us met again at our complimentary breakfast site next door to the hotel. The competent couple rushed off in order to stay on schedule. Susan was ready to launch before I was, but she stayed in contact with me through texting. It was perverse, but while I very much appreciated the navigational help she gave me, I wanted to do it on my own. It didn't go smoothly. I got turned around a number of times, but I emerged from the subway station on the right street and with my very own metro pass.

Of the approximately one thousand organizations that participated and supported the march, Global Climate Convergence was perhaps the best organized with 40 or so different workshops presented. A conference of very serious people all networking. I made it through two workshops; The Climate Crisis is a Water Crisis, and Toxic Trade Agreements. I had planned to attend three or four workshops but was feeling overloaded with depressing information. Had the urge to immerse myself in serious subject matter not been so strong, I could have been sight-seeing on such an idyllically beautiful day. I did consider going to a Bee In with Reverend Billy and the Stop Shopping Choir, but I would have had to travel to a distant Bowling Green Park. I could manage a subway backtrack to my hotel. I could not manage a whole new subway project and then find my way back. In retrospect, je regrette profondement. I love Reverend Billy.

Stop Shopping Choir 

I was a mere subway ride away from singing along with the Stop Shopping Choir whereas if I wanted to join them again, my next opportunity would be St. Louis, MI, where they will be celebrating a pesticide free, non GMO organic Thanksgiving meal at Monsanto's headquarters. Whimsical activism is obviously more fun than the normal shuffling about with signs and banners except for the going to jail part. 

In a departure from the usual protest march agenda, there were to be no speakers at the end of the Climate March on Sunday. The speakers were instead holding court the night before at several venues. Susan and I were able to take a modest hike from our hotel to the All Souls Unitarian Church to hear a panel discussion with Bill MiKibben, Bernie Sanders, Naomi Klein, Chris Hedges, and Kshama Sawant; all rock stars of progressive politics. The audience was hyped for the march and high on just being together with leaders who could articulate so perfectly why we had come from all over the country to be part of this event. Bernie Sanders, Independent, socialist senator from VT is the political man of the hour to fight the corrupt corporate takeover. Kshama Sawant, socialist city council member from Seattle, is a charismatic and effective politician who can always deliver a "Storm the Bastille" speech. Naomi Klein and Chris Hedges are journalists with sharp edges, and Bill MiKibben is the 350.org instigator of the Climate Change March.

For Progressives, it was like being at church with nearly one thousand of us in attendance, all warm and glowing. Somewhere inside my inner glow, I'm vaguely becoming aware of my sore throat. When church is over, I'm eager to get back to the hotel, go to sleep, and maybe lose the sore throat. I'm really trying for a state of denial about impending doom. As I'm standing outside the church impatiently waiting for Susan to join me for the walk back, I nearly stumbled over Amy Goodman of Democracy Now. I wanted to gush and proclaim my admiration for her, but this is NYC and some sophistication is required.

Amy Goodman & Juan Gonzalez on TV set. Democracy Now! 

As I wake up on Sunday morning, the cold is now inevitable, but my energy is still good and I can hold it off for a few more hours. I head out to meet my Seattle friends at our designated starting point for the march. My hotel is easy walking distance from Central Park, and I'm early enough to engage in pre-march photo ops.

Poster Child 

The World At Rest 

It has been advertised as the largest climate march in history; it's certainly one of the most organized marches in history. We are neatly divided by city blocks in order to allow traffic to cross periodically. Consequently, there is a lot of starting and stopping to this march, and we are marching for hours to cover the two and a half mile permitted route. The anarchists among us are disdainful of all the coordination with the city police force. A relatively small contingent of anarchists do join the march anyway and are rewarded with their very own police escorts. Otherwise, the police along the route are very relaxed and non-threatening. This is definitely not a hostile crowd. It feels to me more like a Macy's day parade or maybe a ticker tape parade with NYC mayor, Bill de Blasio, out in front of the approximately 400,000 exuberant marchers. The props, banners and costumes on display are more elaborate than I was expecting. I'm marching with 350 Seattle and we are taking turns pulling a huge globe with large and heavy accompanying banners. Marching bands are tucked in at random, and for most of the route, we are entertained by a talented four person drum band.

Alex Garland photographer 

It's difficult to feel the true impact of the crowd, or to have any idea of the numbers when we are folded somewhere in the middle. An inspired piece of the march plan is that at a given time, we will all stop marching and have a full minute of silence to be followed by exuberant, joyful noise making to let the world know we are here. The silence is almost eerie. Whether by design or by chance, the joyful shouts begin at the back of the line and the human roar travels forward toward us on a wave of incredible volume and intensity. We join the wave in turn and shout it forward. We are single drops of water flowing together in a river of white water noise. We look at each other in surprised awe; the moment passes, and we are groups and divisions of people marching forward.

Adam Smith photographer

As we cross the finish line, we are already going our separate ways. The cold virus has taken over; my head is stuffy and my energy is drooping. In a parallel universe where I didn't get the cold, I would have helped my friends to dismantle the props and joined them for the dancing in the street and general merry making that followed. Instead, I took to the sidewalk and followed the march route back to my neighborhood. Since my division was somewhere in the middle of the march, I got to experience the last half of the march as a sidewalk spectator. I was too weary to photograph it myself, but there is no shortage of march documentation.

Alex Garland photographer 

Doing my job; helping to carry the world. 

According to GobalClimateConvergence.org, a mere two days after the People's Climate March, the UN Climate Summit ignored the mandate from the street, fulfilling lowest expectations for inaction and empty rhetoric. The cheer-leading was led by President Obama who called for other countries to follow U.S. leadership in pledging a puny 3% emissions reduction by 2020.

Bill and Hillary Clinton were elsewhere on People's Climate March day, though not far. It was rumored that they were otherwise occupied in a meeting with Wall Street bankers at the Sheraton Hotel. True or not, they were in NYC but did not find it politically expedient to join the march or express support.

We, the marchers, did not expect more from the politicians. The People's Climate March was for show, and for fun, and to energize and inspire us for the less glamorous work ahead.



“Into the Streets”, a gorgeous 9-minute video about the march from our friends at Meerkat Media