I love my classical radio station but I’m easily irked by some of the hosts. They’re always going on about how “relaxing” or “soothing” the music is, in this turbulent world. Well. There is a sort of wallpaper orchestral genre that many people equate to classical music, but I’m in it for the combustion of the spirit, the jump-up-on-the-table storm of joy, the surrender to being battered by beauty. It’s not relaxing. Mozart has to tear the tissues of your heart first, to heal it in the next note.

So I quibble. What difference is it to me if the nice lady thinks soothing is the point, as long as she plays the music?

It’s possible I’m too sensitive. But the other day, hours after the town had shivered, powerless in every sense, through record cold, it was 65 degrees and sunny here. Bees bothered the crocuses. Daffodils charged through the sweet-smelling soil. It was the first day of February.

And our chirpy radio host referred to all of the above and said she was afraid to “jinx it” by playing Beethoven’s Pastorale Symphony.

Jinx it? Honey. We couldn’t be jinxeder.

I understand that humans like to be comfortable, and there’s nothing to compare to a summer’s day. But I can wait for it. I want to wait for it. That’s what sweaters are for.

I did go outside for a walk in the sun. It was pleasant. But I heard a bass line of tragedy. The breath of a dragon may be warm, but if you can feel it, the dragon is too damn close.

Our balmy interlude is a random, roaming pocket in a roiling system which is already dismantling the conditions we evolved in—that Goldilocks perfection that some believe God designed for us, as though we’d be here at all if it were any different.

Today we’re being told that all those souls trudging across the desert with their babies strapped to their backs are demon invaders. There are many reasons people have to leave the homes they love, but not least because American policies, covert and otherwise, have deliberately destabilized their countries for years. Wretched poverty and violence fill the vacuum left behind. Democratically elected governments are sacrificed to maintain profits and control markets. A sensible policy would address conditions so people wouldn’t be forced to leave their homes. The policy we are pursuing is meant to terrify people into voting for the same people and policies that got us into this.

But the political destabilization that sends us so many of those scary, desperate women and babies is nothing compared to the destabilization we continue to visit on the planetary envelope that has sustained us. So powerful is the disruption we have engineered that it wreaks destruction in every part of the globe, even stopping the ocean currents our living systems depend on. And the burgeoning rate of migration worldwide is nothing compared to what it will be as people escape drought and fire and desertification and collapsed fisheries and disease and famine and all the warfare that will attend it. You don’t like furriners in your country, you don’t vote for the team that wants to drill, drill, drill, baby.

We know what to do. But we can’t do it. We would need political will for that, and our politics is designed to keep the wool over our eyes, to trick us into our own graves. Only the grave-diggers will profit, for a while, but they’re the ones running the show.

Maybe we really could use a dictator. But not the one we’re liable to get.

It’s all enough to wreck a pleasant winter day. But we can hope maybe somewhere Mozart is finishing that Requiem, just in time.