Articles by Mary DeMocker
It’s nature’s “killing season,” when everything is tested; to participate in March’s explosion of new life, everything–animals, plants, appliances, careers, relationships–must first withstand February’s decay.
He Hijacked My Brain. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I study Gandhi. I’ve always steered my kids from violence in word, deed, and entertainment, nixing bloody comics and first-person shooter games.
I’m starting a new series about things that delight, surprise, or amuse me. They make my heart leap and remind me that life on Planet Earth is dazzling and that countless earthly and human creations –and sometimes co-creations–are worth my humble Climate Mom rescue efforts.
Dear Spirit of the Departed, If it’s true that the doors between worlds grow thin during the Day of the Dead, this weekend offers an ideal opportunity to haunt your sister Nancy Brinker.
I don’t have a genre. I have an agenda—climate recovery–so I write stories of what’s possible, using whatever medium serves my message and reaches people.
Last Wednesday at the Eugene Federal Building, I delivered, along with two dozen other climate activists, a letter to Those In Charge. What did I write to denizens of the shiny behemoth that seems better suited to the Death Star than to our liberal hamlet?
Since my Sun interview with Kathleen Dean Moore on “The Moral Urgency of Climate Change” hit newsstands and the web, I’ve received passionate responses from both friends and strangers.
Usually I try to ignore the football games, talking heads, and any image of Romney. But today, the cloud whorls on those cartoon-ish meteorological maps churn over the northeast, where 90% of my huge family and countless friends from my first 26 years hunker down from North Carolina to Maine. Everyone predicts chaos.
It’s seven a.m. on a school day and I write from atop Mt. Pisgah. The sun burns through the early morning haze enough for a glimpse of real mountains—snow-capped Cascades—that heft themselves over these hills.
As we perform the morning routine, I cheerfully inquire, multiple times, “Want eggs?” I can’t hear the either mumbled or non-existent answer and finally declare, “I’m cooking eggs unless you shout ‘cereal’ in the next two seconds.”