It seems like forever since the pandemic upended life as we knew it. With more of us getting vaccinated every day (at least here in the U.S.), things were gradually getting back to some semblance of normal, until the Delta variant arrived on the scene. (It’s given us time to contemplate what elements of “normal” we’d like to see return and those we’d prefer to go by the wayside. But that’s a topic for another day.)

Many of us fortunate enough to be able to shelter at home found ourselves with a lot of time on our hands. I spent much of that time doing music, which was a life saver, playing guitar and writing songs, and participating in Zoom song circles, open mics, and concerts. Along with music, I found myself spending a good deal of time (especially while walking) thinking about the past and the people and events that had shaped me.

I was born in Philadelphia and spent the first four years of my life in East Oak Lane. When my father opened a hardware store in Elkins Park, we moved there, to a house just a few blocks away, which resulted in my father spending most of his time working, often returning to the store after a hurried dinner. My mother was not a warm person. She was overly concerned about cleaning, and I’d often come home from school to find her with her head in cabinets wiping them down, or with the rugs rolled up and her on her hands and knees, scrubbing away. I wasn’t allowed to “make messes” or lie on my bed without removing the bedspread first. When my friends came over, we were relegated to the basement.

Luckily for me, there were some kids around my age nearby. Down the block was my friend Barbara. We met when we were four, and then walked the mile or so to school together in elementary school. Summers, we spent time on her back porch playing jacks, riding our bikes in the neighborhood, or playing with her Barbie and Ken dolls.

And then there were the Peases. They lived just two houses away. Three girls: Penny, Sandy, and Jackie. Clark, the youngest and a boy, came along a few years later. Penny was older than me, but Sandy and Jackie, though younger, were closer to my age, and they were the ones that became close friends. I spent a lot of time at their house, playing in the sandbox, and doing art and fun things like listening to Elvis records in their basement. I sometimes had lunch at their house. I remember sitting at their large, oval-shaped dining room table eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, feeling like one of the family. Mrs. Pease was a fun-loving and warm person, and I loved being around her. One particularly joyful and vivid memory I have is sitting on her back porch, listening to her singing “Lipstick on Your Collar.”  She was dancing around, and Jackie, Sandy and I joined in. 

Then, when I was 12 or 13, they moved away. Not far, but much too far for me to walk to. My father took me to their new house one day and dropped me off. My memories of that day are few, but one that stands out is sitting on their front porch waiting for my father to come back to pick me up, and feeling sad. The warm connection I had to the family had been broken, and things just didn’t feel the same. That was the last time I saw or heard from them.

Some years ago, in the Philadelphia Inquirer, I saw Mr. Pease’s obituary. I read of his WWII service, which I had not known about, and how, like so many young men at the time, he had taken advantage of the GI Bill to go to school and buy a home. Clark’s address was included in the obit, and I wrote a letter to him about how much I had enjoyed being a friend of the family and how much it had meant to me. I asked him to remember me to his sisters and his mother, if she was still with us. I never heard back.

After my visit to the Pease’s new home, I couldn’t quite articulate or understand my feelings, but looking back mid-pandemic shutdown, I realized that I had felt abandoned. Sandy and Jackie were the sisters I never had. Mrs. Pease was the warm and loving mother that my own wasn’t, and I had gravitated to her just like a sunflower seeks out the sun.

I used to admire the look of weed-free lawns I would pass while on my daily walks in spring and summer—no dandelions, no clover, no creeping charlie—and wish my lawn were similar. I had all those “weeds,” and more: plantain, wild strawberry, you name it. Not that I would ever use herbicides on my lawn, though sometimes as I pulled creeping charlie that had crept not only through my lawn, but also into my veggie and flower beds, I felt sorely tempted.

Now, though, I see my lawn with new eyes: a place full of life, rather than the dead zone that a perfect (and usually herbicide-treated) lawn is. We call certain plants “weeds” because we don’t like their look or where they grow, but many of them are beneficial, both to us, and to beneficial insects. Bees, for instance, that are under threat from pesticides and herbicides, love the clover flowers in my lawn. Sometimes I find more bees on the clover (we mow our grass high, so often have lots of clover flowers) than on other bee-attracting plants in my garden.

One of the earliest “weeds” to appear in the spring is the dandelion. A veritable war is waged every spring against this plant, yet all parts of dandelions are edible and rich in antioxidants. Their flowers are one of the earliest in the spring for bees to feed on; dandelion’s peak flowering time is from late March to May, when many bees and other pollinators emerge from hibernation. Each flower consists of up to 100 florets, and each one is packed with nectar and pollen, making this early, easily available source of food a lifesaver for pollinators in spring. Bumblebees, solitary bees, and honeybees all visit the flowers for food.

Yet despite the benefits of dandelions, herbicide ads on TV and the Internet invariably feature an intrepid suburban householder, armed with his herbicide sprayer, dousing the plants, then watching with smug satisfaction as they wither and die. I call these ads anti-life, because not only do they wage war on an innocent and highly beneficial plant species, but the use of herbicides (and pesticides) on lawns is hazardous to pets and children alike, and the chemicals eventually find their way into our water sources. If you’re super concerned about dandelions taking over your lawn, though (your neighbors might give you nasty looks if you live in suburbia), then consider just removing the seed heads once they form. That way, the insects get to enjoy the flowers beforehand. However, if you’re not concerned about dandelions spreading, consider leaving those seed heads: the seeds are a favorite of many birds, including blackbirds, goldfinches, sparrows, siskins, and towhees.

Another important way I’m seeing with new eyes is my attitude towards insects. Have you noticed that there are far fewer of them around these days? We’re in the middle of what’s being called an “insect armageddon,” with insect populations plummeting. Not only does this have dire consequences for our food supply (35% of global food crops are pollinated by bees and other pollinating insects), but also for the many species of animals that rely on insects for food. Many of us are afraid of insects, and I used to be as well, since when were young, most of us were taught to fear insects or find them disgusting. Except for poisonous ones, many insects are our friends, and now I view them that way. So whenever I find any in my home, I either try to shoo the flying ones out a window or door, or gently catch crawling ones and take them outside. I also coexist with spiders, as they catch and eat insects we consider household pests, such as roaches, earwigs, mosquitoes, flies, and clothes moths. If left alone, spiders will consume most of the insects in the home, thus providing effective and chemical-free home pest control. I find myself leaving spider webs alone for longer periods of time. But when I do dust (when preparing for a party or a song circle, for example), and find a spiderweb with its resident spider, I gently remove the web, so the spider doesn’t get injured and will live to build another web and help me out with those darned mosquitoes and flies. And just in case you’re wondering: Scientists say that pests like flies, mosquitoes, and cockroaches may actually increase in numbers in coming years, so don’t worry about your resident spiders feasting on them!

It’s been a year since I’ve posted anything on this blog. I haven’t been doing much writing (except for songs – more on that later), but I have been busy singing and playing guitar and getting out more into the music community. Doing so has helped immensely with the other thing I’ve been “busy” with: being thrown into a state of depression by the daily sucker-punches to our country by the demented man in the White House and those in Congress who enable him—and by the ever more horrifying news about climate change. Almost daily, there’s a stunning new report to take in; most recently, just to name a few: temperatures soaring over 46 degrees Celsius in Australia’s recent heat wave, causing massive animal die-offs (23,000 spectacled flying foxes, just one example); the melting of the ice sheet in Greenland reaching a tipping point; the catastrophic collapse of insect populations worldwide.

There are two warring viewpoints on who or what’s responsible for the climate crisis and what to do about it: A number of articles implore us to alter our habits and life styles to cut back on carbon emissions, and a nearly equal number that claim we’ve been hoodwinked into thinking climate change is our fault, while it’s really the capitalist world order and the rapaciousness of large corporations (the fossil fuel companies the most notable examples) that have placed short-term profits over the health and well being of all life on the planet. I personally place responsibility both on the profit-driven corporations and the individual. One individual cannot have much of an impact, whether for good or bad, of course, but one plus one plus one, up to millions, can add up to a huge impact, indeed.

Taking action, however, requires us to end our denial about climate change and start doing those things in our own power to help curb it. Along with demonstrating  and demanding action from our leaders, we can end, or at least limit, our meat (and dairy) intake, since emissions from livestock contribute around 6 billion tons of greenhouse gases per year. We can also cut back on or eliminate air travel.

Cattle contribute large amounts of methane, a potent greenhouse gas, to the atmosphere. One cow releases between 70 and 120 kg of methane per year. Since methane has a negative impact of the environment that is 23 times higher than the effect of carbon dioxide, the methane release of just one cow equals on average about 2,300 kilograms of CO2. A Japanese study showed that producing a kilogram of beef leads to the emission of greenhouse gases with a global warming potential equivalent to 36.4 kgs of carbon dioxide.

Air travel is also responsible for huge carbon emissions. Emissions for airlines were forecasted by the International Air Transport Association to grow to 897 million tons in 2018. What does this mean for an individual? Here’s an example: If you take one round-trip flight between New York and California, you’ll generate about 20 percent of the greenhouse gases that your car emits over an entire year. According to the World Bank, the average American generates about 16.4 metric tons of carbon dioxide per year. A round-trip flight from New York to San Francisco emits about .9 metric tons of carbon dioxide per person, which for an American, represents about one-eighteenth of his or her carbon emissions for an entire year. But, a travel-by-air-loving individual reading this article might say, the plane would take off whether I’m on it or not! To which I say, if more and more people cut back on flying, fewer and fewer flights will take off.  The airlines are, of course, in it for the profits, and are not about to fly nearly empty planes. (Such a situation would also surely accelerate the production of planes that emit far less carbon dioxide, including solar-powered aircraft.)

This denial/head-in-the-sand kind of mentality, and the direness of the situation we face, compelled me to write a song about climate change, which I’ve entitled “End of Days.” I plan to do my part (I’m already a vegetarian, and I have decided to cut way back on or eliminate my own flying) by performing it as much as possible. I’m posting the lyrics here. Please contact me if you’d like me to come sing it at any event you think appropriate.

          End of Days

                      – Marsha G. Low

Passing by City Hall the other day      

I spotted a woman wearing a sign, saying                                                                 

“End of days! Mankind, you’re out of time!”

Many a time I’ve laughed at warnings     

Of fire. brimstone, floods, and blight          

But now I think, she may be right                                                             

The end of humankind might be in sight

Chorus: (2x)

End of days, end of days,                                                                        

Could it truly be the end of days?

Another big storm heads up the East Coast     

Fires out West burn out of control                        

They’re still drilling for oil and fracking for gas                                                                            

As the death toll of man and beast keeps rising          

Temps are soaring higher and higher         

The White House clown is a climate denier                

There’ll be no action from that quarter                                                             

Time to hit the streets and sow disorder

Chorus

You may think this song’s a bummer              

But we must act now, cast caution asunder   

March in the streets, put our bodies on the line                                                             

If you love living things, now is the time                  

There’s plenty to do once we stop our denying

Like eat less meat, and cut back on flying                

And demand fossil fuels remain underground                                                

Or to extinction we may be bound!

 Chorus  

ACT NOW, so it won’t be end of days! – 3x

Okay, now that I have your attention, let me say that I’m not proposing that the Eagles never win another Super Bowl. Another win or two would be fine with me; after all, the Eagles are my hometown team. What I mean is that this brutal sport should be phased out, and the sooner, the better.

I’ve always considered football kind of barbaric, the modern-day equivalent of gladiators sparing in the Coliseum. Sure, people don’t die by the end of a game, but they can get rather battered, and injuries abound. And the cheering crowds at games, who seem to get louder the more violent the hit or tackle, are not that far removed from the ancient Romans packing the Coliseum cheering while one gladiator kills another or gets killed by a wild animal. Now that we know about C.T.E., chronic traumatic encephalopathy, the brain condition that results from concussions and repeated hits to the head, the comparison to the favorite spectacle of ancient Rome seems even more apt. For, while it may take some years for full-blown C.T.E. to show up in a football player’s brain, show up it most likely will (a recent study has found the condition in the brains of 110 deceased NFL players, a mind-blowing 99% of former players’ brains donated), and cause severe disability and even result in death by suicide.

But, you might ask, what about newer and better helmets? Won’t they protect against C.T.E.? The newest helmet, called Vicis Zero 1, could reduce the number of concussions a player suffers, but C.T.E. damage from repeated hits to the head can occur regardless of how many concussions a player gets. When a player is thrown to the ground, his brain bounces against the side of his skull. As Dr. Uzma Samadani, neurosurgeon at the Minneapolis VA Medical Center and traumatic brain injury researcher, explains, “Most injuries are probably from getting tackled and hitting the ground. There is a rapid acceleration and deceleration of the brain.” So a player’s brain is being injured regardless of the kind of helmet he is wearing.

My take is that football is on an inevitable decline, since the pipeline of players is bound to dry up. Knowing what we now know about C.T.E., how many parents will allow their children to play such a sport? This is especially true for those in a higher income bracket, since their sons have the privilege of choice. Those parents who are low-income might be more likely to take the risk, seeing success in football as their child’s ticket out of poverty. Since 70% of players in the NFL are black, and are likely to continue to be the dominant group playing in the NFL, we end up with a situation in which whites in the stands (the NFL fan base is a whopping 83% white) cheer on these players, knowing full well what is in store for them, while their own children are safe from the ravages of the sport. To my mind, this flagrant disregard for the well-being of the mostly black men who play the sport is unconscionable—and racist.

I almost never watch football, but I did make an exception for the Eagles-Patriots showdown. It proved to be an exciting and even exhilarating game. But every time a player took a hit, and I could see their head snap back or bounce on the ground, I thought: How long before he starts to exhibit symptoms of C.T.E.? How long before he suffers from memory loss, deep depression, anxiety, aggression, confusion, and mood swings? How long before he attempts suicide?

The costs of football far outweigh its benefits, and for that reason, the sport should end up in the dustbowl of history. You might say that, as someone who has never liked the sport, it’s easy enough for me to say, but any feeling and compassionate person, fan or not, must come to the same conclusion, sooner or later. And sooner, rather than later, would be far better.

The video by a National Geographic photographer taken while on an expedition in the Baffin Islands of a polar bear starving to death has been making the rounds on social media these past few days. It is truly heartbreaking and gut-wrenching, and I found I was unable to watch it in its entirety.

The suffering of animals due to us humans is one impact of climate change that I find particularly painful to contemplate. Scientists tell us that our planet is now in the midst of its sixth mass extinction of plants and animals — the sixth wave of extinctions in the past half-billion years. According to the Center for Biological diversity, we’re currently experiencing the worst spate of species die-offs since the loss of the dinosaurs 65 million years ago. As many as 30 to 50 percent of all species could be headed towards extinction by the middle of the century. And this current mass extinction is almost entirely due to human activity.

The video of the polar bear brought to mind a song I wrote sometime back about climate change and its impact on animals, set to the tune of a hit song recorded by The Brothers Four in 1960, called “Green Fields.” If you know the song, you’ll find that the first verse is little changed, while subsequent ones are mostly completely rewritten.

Once there were green fields kissed by the sun
Once there were alleys where rivers used to run
Once there were blue skies with white clouds high above
Once they were part of an everlasting love
These were the green fields where we used to roam

Green fields are gone now, parched by the sun
Gone from the valleys where rivers used to run
Gone are the flocks of birds that swept across the sky
Gone with the fireflies that once lit the summer nights
Where are the green fields that we used to roam?

Whatever happened to this world that is our home?
Where polar bears played in the snows and buffalo did roam?
I look around, and devastation greets my eyes
And it’s all that I can do not to fall to my knees and cry

But I’ll keep on hoping we’ll open up our eyes
I’ll keep on praying one day we’ll realize
We can’t survive unless other creatures thrive
How can we live our lives if the world around us dies?
Where are the green fields that we used to roam?
Oh, where are the green fields that we used to roam?

We all suffer from some kind of trauma or other— or will eventually, since the rose garden of life contains plenty of thorns. And here’s something that you may find surprising: Some of us may be feeling the effects of trauma experienced by a parent or grandparent, as recent research has shown that trauma can be passed down through the generations.

A study of the DNA of Holocaust survivors and their children showed variations from the norm in both generations for the gene associated with depression and anxiety disorders –an epigenetic change that affects how the gene is turned on and off by other molecules, rather than a change in the gene itself. Other studies have shown that both the survivors and descendants of those who have suffered war, violence, and incessant fear have lower levels of cortisol. Reduced cortisol levels have been linked to increased vulnerability to PTSD. This may seem counter-intuitive, because we think of cortisol as the “fight-or-flight” hormone, but one of the important functions of cortisol is helping the body return to normal after trauma. Not having enough cortisol to completely bring down the sympathetic nervous system, at the time when it is very important for a person to calm down, may partially explain the formation of traumatic memory or generalized triggers. Some of the effects of low cortisol include depression, weakness and fatigue, social anxiety, and emotional hypersensitivity.

This doesn’t come as a surprise to me: I’ve often thought that the suffering my Jewish ancestors faced in Eastern Europe—the forced conscriptions into the tsar’s army, the pogroms, the Holocaust—and particularly, my own father’s experience as a young boy in his shtetl, hiding from the Cossacks hunting down Jews—has led to patterns of anxiety and depression in my family.

How about the history of African Americans? Their ancestors were stolen from their homelands, chained and shipped to the “civilized” world as slaves, then sold to the highest bidder as if they were furniture or bundles of cotton. Those here in the U.S. were then subject to impossibly long hours of work in the fields in the hot and humid South, beatings, rape, and having their families torn apart—wives separated from husbands, children ripped out of their mothers’ arms. Once the slaves were freed, their descendants had to deal with Jim Crow laws and presently face or experience discrimination in the housing and job markets (despite federal laws to the contrary), the incarceration of a disproportionate number of black men and what that does to families (while African Americans make up about 13% of the U.S. population, 37% of prison inmates are African American males), the shooting and killing of unarmed black men by police, who are then acquitted if it even comes to a trial. No wonder, then, that so many African Americans are traumatized. Wouldn’t you be?

Most people think of PTSD something suffered by veterans, those who returned from the World Wars, the Vietnam War, the fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan (and by those who have survived a mass shooting, a phenomenon which has become far too common in this country). There’s another form of PTSD that’s less known. It may be that some people you pass on the street and wave at and say, “How are ya?” and who answer, “Fine,” struggle with its symptoms. Those abused or neglected as children, wives abused by husbands, sweatshop workers, concentration camp survivors, survivors of cults or cult-like organizations—many of these individuals suffer from a form of PTSD called complex PTSD, or C-PTSD, which results from prolonged and repeated trauma.

So instead of rushing to judgment and condemning someone whose life experience or family history might be different from yours (or telling Jews to just “get over” the Holocaust, or African Americans to just “get over” slavery), how about pausing and imagining what it would be like to be the person you’re so quick to judge? It’s called empathy, and it’s the ability to imagine we’re walking in someone else’s shoes. It’s sorely lacking today. So how about a bit of empathy? Please?

It’s been quite a long time since my last post, as I’ve been doing much more music than writing—finding that playing guitar and singing, especially with others, has helped me fight despair these months since the election of Donald Trump. I have a sticker on my guitar case that proclaims “Music Helps,” and indeed it does—which is the main reason I started a monthly women’s singing circle at my house. I got the idea from an email from some friends a few days after the election, asking folks if they suffered from Post-Election Trauma Syndrome, and, if so, to join them at a local pub to commiserate. I thought the idea was great, but elected to go with music instead of beer. And thus, the singing circle was born. We have several voices, a few ukuleles and guitars, and everyone contributes copies of songs for us to sing together. Some are old protest songs, like “We Shall Not Be Moved” and “We Shall Overcome,” but those aren’t the only kind we sing. We’ve sung songs as varied as “Crazy” by Willie Nelson and (few more examples.)

So, I’ve been practicing guitar regularly, and am feeling pretty good about my playing and singing. I continue to attend the monthly Open Circle at a church in Mt. Airy, and recently sung a song there that I wrote, “Stop This March to War,” getting a great response, which was very encouraging. My next step is to sing during open mic nights at local venues.

Thankfully, my voice is doing okay, despite my asthma. I tried a few months of Alvesco, and while it didn’t affect my voice as badly as other inhaled steroids I’ve tried, it didn’t raise my peak flow levels in the slightest. So I decided to just go back to using albuterol, which doesn’t affect my voice at all. I know I’m at risk for what the doctors call lung “remodeling,” but I’d rather have remodeled lungs and still be able to sing than have old-fashioned, unremodeled ones and not be able to.

Along with my goal of doing open mics this summer, I’m also hoping to get to more writing, including doing blog posts on a more regular basis. But my main writing goal is to finish my novel. Believe it or not, there’s a personal silver lining for me in Donald Trump’s becoming president. When I started my novel, the idea of Trump even running for president had been unimaginable, but his election has played right into my plot. That’s all I’ll say about it at this time. I do hope you’re intrigued. Stay tuned!

Like almost everyone I know, I woke up to a new reality on November 9. The sense of unreality I felt then hasn’t abated at all, and I feel like I’m inhabiting an alternate universe, one whose landscapes bear little resemblance to those before the election. Assumptions I had all my life about this country and the presidency (that no president would appoint or nominate people so clearly unfit for or so bent upon the destruction of the very agencies or departments they have been tapped to lead; that no president would prove to be a pathological liar; that no president would name an avowed white supremacist and anti-Semite to be one of his closest advisors and chief political strategist, just to name a few) are collapsing at an alarming rate, and the steady stream of awful news and executive orders coming out of the Trump White House has quickly become a torrent that is hard to keep up with. Every day, another outrageous tweet from our president. (We should call him our “president-in-tweet”!) Almost every day, another destructive executive order. It feels like Trump has been in office for a year, and it hasn’t even been a month! How can we— the American people, the world and all its peoples, the very environment and its endangered creatures—bear four years of this? The answer is, we cannot. We have to do everything we can to resist.

With this ongoing assault on our rights, our environment, and our American values, what should an artist (and by artist, I mean anyone involved in any of the arts: writers, painters, dancers, musicians, singers) do to resist? Is it selfish to continue to work on one’s art when so much is at stake? Shouldn’t we all be out marching in the streets and writing letters, sending emails and making calls to our representatives and senators?

We all need to speak up and have our voices heard at this crucial time in our history. For artists, as well as everyone else who is horrified by Trump and his minions, that means resisting by organizing and marching and by contacting our elected representatives, but it also means making time to keep producing our art. Indeed, our art is our voice, and singers and songwriters, for example, are already bringing those old 60’s-era protest songs out of mothballs and are busy writing new ones. In addition, the daily assaults on our freedoms takes its toll, and what better to uplift not only ourselves, but those who participate by viewing, reading, or hearing what we have to offer?

During the first rehearsal of my choral group that took place after the election, our conductor shared that he had received phone calls from some singers who felt so disheartened that they felt they wouldn’t be able to continue to practice their music and come to rehearsals. This surprised me. Surely, singing is an antidote to the profound sense of loss, confusion, and depression many of us are feeling. I don’t know who those individuals are who felt that way, but I hope they got over their initial shock and continued to attend rehearsals and make music, the beauty of which not only uplifts all of us in the chorale, but also the audiences at our performances. We all need this more than ever.

So here’s to making our voices heard in all the ways possible: by marching and chanting, making phone calls, writing letters—and also by taking the time to continue to create art that resists by pointing out the very injustices that we’re facing and uplifts and inspires ourselves and others.

There’s no doubt that nature plays a big role in creativity, both inspiring works of art and being part of the art that is produced. Examples abound, but just a few come immediately to mind: Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, and Orhan Pamuk’s Snow, not to mention countless numbers of poems and paintings.

That truth was one of the thoughts that came to me one day as I walked through my neighborhood on a gorgeous and mild late-spring day, with temperatures in the mid- to upper-70s and low humidity levels. Despite the comfortable conditions, more than one air conditioner was grumbling its way through the afternoon, and it got me thinking: how did we get so spoiled and addicted to air conditioning that some of us would have it going on a day on which, when I was a child, we’d likely not even be using fans?

Growing up in the ‘50s and ‘60s, no one (at least, no one I knew) had air-conditioning in their home. It’s true that nowadays, we have more days above 90 than we did back then, but we still had our fair share of scorchers. So we Northerners did what folks in the South who routinely contended with scorching summers did: Closed our windows and blinds in the heat of the day, drank cool drinks, sat under the shade of a tree or porch, and went swimming. And used fans. Then, when the heat of the day had passed, we opened our shades and windows and let in the cooler air. And used fans.

Even now that I’m older and more intolerant of the heat and humidity (experiencing high summer in cities such as Kolkata, Mumbai, and Cairo while encased from head to toe in polyester nun’s dress likely had something to do with this, but that’s another story), I rarely turn on our air conditioning. For one thing, it seems strange to me to be sealed in a box of artificially cooled air, removed from the environment. With the windows closed and the air on, you can’t hear birds calling or the squeaks and cries of other creatures. When you’re sealed off from the outside, you don’t feel or give thanks for the sudden and miraculous and refreshing breeze that springs up to cool and dry your brow. And you don’t get the inspiration from the natural world for art or music or writing that artists throughout the centuries have.

Imagine William Faulkner, Thomas Wolfe, Harper Lee, or even Barbara Kingsolver, all quintessential writers and chroniclers of life in the South, sealing themselves off in air-conditioned rooms while writing. My guess is they probably wouldn’t have come up with those fabulous descriptions of the (outdoor) South in their novels. They’d have had to imagine them rather than drawing on direct experience, their memories of evenings spent outdoors, perhaps imbibing a cool drink or two, for example (Faulkner was known to have favored mint juleps), doing the things Southerners did during the summer months. And while novelists are known for having great imaginations, there’s nothing like direct experience to inform writing.

Another reason I rarely turn on my air conditioning is this: I can’t help but think what the exponential growth of the use of air conditioning is doing to the environment. Sales of air conditioners have exploded worldwide over the last few years, and the use of AC is predicted to continue to rise substantially all over the world.

I don’t mean to suggest that those who really need air conditioning shouldn’t have it. Those living in tropical or subtropical areas, in countries like India, for example; or those living in the inner-city heat islands, where there are no trees to speak of (the irony being that poorer people in such areas either have no access to or can’t afford air conditioning), should and must have access to what could be life-saving cooling. But we must realize that AC’s increased use all over the world will result of billions of tons of carbon dioxide being dumped into the atmosphere, which will lead to higher temperatures, which will then lead to more use of air conditioning, and so on and so forth, in a vicious cycle.

Since I don’t live in such an area (though it can feel like it sometimes!), I choose to limit my use of air conditioning to heat waves, when the temperature is consistently above 90 degrees for days at a time, humidity is high, and the heat index approaches 100. At those times, I set the thermostat high, at around 79 degrees. There’s just no need for the inside of buildings to feel like the innards of a refrigerator or even a freezer, as so many offices and stores do! And let’s not forget that the most important thing is to reduce humidity levels. It’s high humidity levels that make us uncomfortable more than high temperatures. Otherwise, I do what I described above: Rely on shades and curtains to keep the hottest air out, opening shades and curtains and windows when it cools down, and using fans. In particular, in our bedroom, we turn on our window fan, the type that can be set to either expel hot air out or draw cool air in. We have it run for a few hours drawing cool air in before we go to bed. As a result, as long as there is cool air outside (which there is most of the time, except during extended heat waves), we cool down our bedroom sufficiently to be able to sleep comfortably.

One final thought: When we use air conditioning all the time and have our thermostat set low, what happens when the power goes out? Someone like me will likely have a much easier time of it, as my body is adjusted to higher temperatures, but those of us who spend all our days in artificially cooled air will no doubt suffer a great deal without it. Power outages are likely to happen more and more in the future, both because of the increased demand for electricity during heat waves, and the stronger and more intense storms that are predicted to occur (that are already occurring!) due to climate change. So just like weight training, you can train your body to withstand higher temperatures by gradually raising your thermostat in the summer.

As I write this, I’m sitting under my apple tree, enjoying the early-evening breeze that has sprung up, watching the birds flit about, listening to them chirp and warble. I’m not drinking a mint julep, but I might treat myself to a cool drink a bit later, when the sun starts to set and the fireflies come out.

Singing has become such a big part of my life, and one that gives me so much pleasure and joy, that not being able to do it would be a big blow, indeed. Recently, I have come face to face with just how important singing is to me, and what its loss would mean.

Not long ago, my asthma specialist prescribed an inhaled steroid to deal with my worsening asthma. Though I thought the prescribed amount (two puffs in the morning, two in the evening), to be somewhat excessive, I was looking forward to the positive impact it would have on my singing. Having asthma, and despite knowing and employing methods of breath support, I often run out of air on long passages and have to take a breath in inopportune places in the music. With improved lung function thanks to the inhaler, I figured, I wouldn’t run out of air as easily, and my singing would improve.

Alas! Even before enough time had elapsed to get this hypothetical benefit, I encountered some major problems: My voice had become hoarse, my vocal range had gotten lower and I could no longer hit the higher notes in what had been my range. I went online and checked out the side effects of the medicine I was using and, sure enough, hoarseness and diminished vocal range were common ones listed. Darn! Then I decided to research other inhaled steroids and found that pretty much all of them can cause the same problems. Next, I searched for comments from singers with asthma who have experienced voice problems from inhaled steroids, and found plenty—a plethora of comments from singers with these problems—but precious little by way of solutions. Now what?

The bottom line is this: Singing is so important to me that I cannot give it up just to have improved lung function. I’m trying everything I can think of to counteract the hoarseness—gargling after each use of my inhaler, drinking warm water (suggested by a member in my choral group member who is struggling with the same issue), skipping doses on rehearsal days or when I plan to sing—with limited success so far. If it comes down to a choice between singing and improved lung function, there’s no contest: Singing wins, since it’s something that gives me real joy, and a world without singing is no world for me.

There is a ray of hope, though. While doing some more online searching, I discovered a brand of inhaled steroid that may be just the kind of medicine I’ve been looking for. According to what I’ve read, the steroid, Alvesco, activates only when it encounters enzymes in the lung, and therefore shouldn’t cause the kind of hoarseness and lowering of range I’ve been experiencing. I have an appointment with my doctor coming up, and I’ll ask for a prescription. I’m pinning my hopes on this medicine and will let you know how it goes. Fingers crossed!