and uncertainty in Europe. And look what the poor woman had stepped into.
The girls sang their songs. As young as they were, they had clear, sweet voices. They were a delight to hear. Their mother must have been a good teacher. When they had finished, and all the seedlings were watered in, a few members of the community stood up to quote from Earthseed verses, the Bible, The Book of Common Prayer, the Bhagavad-Gita, John Donne. The quotations took the place of the words mat friends and family would have said to remember and give respect to the dead.
Then I said the words of the Earthseed verses that we've come to associate with funerals, and with remembering the dead.
'God is Change,' I began.
Others repeated in soft voices, 'God is Change. Shape God.' Habits of repetition and response have grown up almost without prompting among us. Sad to say, we've had so many funerals in our brief existence as a community that this ritual in particular is very familiar. Only last week, we planted trees and spoke words for the Dovetrees. I said,
I paused, took a deep breath, and continued in slow measured tones.
'We remember,' the others whispered. 'They live.'
I stood silent for a moment, gazing out toward the tall persimmon, avocado, and citrus trees. Bankole's sister and brother-in-law had planted these trees, had brought them as young plants from southern California, half expecting them to die here in a cooler climate. According to Bankole, many of them did die, but some survived as the climate changed, warmed. Old-timers among our neighbors complain about the loss of their fog, rain, and cool temperatures. We don't mind, those of us from southern California. To us it's as though we've come to a somewhat gentler version of the homes we were forced to leave. Here, there is still water, space, not too much debilitating heat, and some peace. Here, one can still have orchards and groves. Here, life can still come from death.
