I read recently that the harvest is all but ruined in Britain this
year, courtesy of a record wet winter, an unusually dry, warm spring, and a
changeable summer with lots of rain. The wheat crop has been unable to cope,
millers have little to work with, the price of bread is going to rise, and the
meteorologists say it’s the shape of things to come. When nature tells us that
the world is changing, maybe we’d better believe it.
And what of the pandemic? Don’t you begin to sense that the
ship of history is resetting its sails and steering a new course? My personal ship
of history is nearing its destination, and if metempsychosis is truly a fact I
suppose I must expect to wake into a different world. The young ones may have
the turbulence.
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