As a child, I spent summers burying my nose in books and exploring forests and ponds. My parents had set up a time bank to guide me and my brother during the summer: for every hour spent outside or reading a book, we would get to watch TV or play video games. Looking back, I realize this was aimed more towards my brother who had recently acquired his first Xbox. My bank was always in a surplus. Screens were a faraway desire during those long days in which thumb-length tadpoles and quarter-sized turtles swam the creek. By the time I curled into bed, you’d think I would pass out clean, but instead I’d take my lime green flashlight and read long past the hours any elementary kid should.
My imagination was kindled during these years. There’s no doubt: I wouldn’t be the person I am today without that landscape of books and wilderness. The two are linked inextricably in my mind. Maybe it’s all those Eyewitness Books I checked out from the library? As it turns out, the wild world I witnessed was far different than the one prior generations had experienced. And the same will be true for the generations coming after. The Living Planet Report revealed that between 1970 and 2020, Earth lost 73% of wildlife.
Since numbers are hard to swallow, I’ll paint this a different way. Today’s children are less likely to find salamanders under logs, trout in streams, tree frogs on camping trips, whales on that once-in-a-lifetime family vacation. The southern dusky salamander can be found where I live — a miracle, given that they have disappeared from 99% of their range. This weekend, Marc and I visited them at a local stream and marveled at their existence, their unintentional and epic resistance to a world that pushes them out, out, out.
Last month, Marc and I found a starfish in the Atlantic Ocean on the coast of Ireland.* Another marvel, as scientists predict that the increasing acidification of the oceans is slowly dissolving starfish. It’s likely the acidification will eventually prove so severe that starfish will be unable to survive in places like Ireland. As Marc and I doted over the starfish, our enthusiasm was tempered with the knowledge that this might be our last visit with such a marvelous creature in an equally marvelous place.
I do not know of a simple solution that exists to save the starfish. But I have to hope there is at least a possible solution, no matter how remote the possibility. I’m thinking of that scene from Oppenheimer in which Oppie tells General Gross that there’s a small chance the test of the atomic bomb could create a never-ending chain reaction resulting in atmospheric ignition (aka the whole world blows up). “Chances are near zero,” Oppenheimer says to pseudo-comfort the general. Then adding, “What do you want from theory alone?”
The chances of starfish losing their home in the north Atlantic are well above “near zero.” In fact, it seems more likely than not. But still, it’s a theory. It hasn’t happened yet. It might not happen. And it’s therefore so very hard to fathom. I think this possibility that it might not happen is what often keeps me from changing course. (That, and we’ve got a lot of other concerns occupying our minds these days. Last week, Bill McKibben brought to my attention that fossil fuel billionaires are bankrolling anti-trans legislation, their goal being to keep focus off the climate crisis.)
I’d like to have kids someday. And I’d like them to experience the majesty of ocean life, the whimsy of creek creatures, and a diversity of moths and other pollinators. They say that having kids changes your life and I believe them. But lately I’ve been dwelling on the reality that we all need to change our lives, regardless of whether or not we are producing offspring. If I truly desire to have a kid and if I desire to share my favorite aspects of the natural world with them, my life shouldn’t just change after I have a kid. It should be changing now.
While paging through Ishmael by Daniel Quinn, I stumbled upon this quote: “If you can’t discover what’s keeping you in, the will to get out soon becomes confused and ineffectual.” I am thinking of the box that keeps me complicit in inflicting harm on our Earth. The box that tells me it’s no big deal to place another order on Amazon or have one more hamburger or take another transatlantic flight. People say the planet will save itself if humans perish, but what about all the life that perishes before that? I’m talking about life both human and non-human. I’m talking about all of us animals. What of the salamanders and starfish and birds and bears and wolves? I am still in the box. I am still figuring out what keeps me in it. I am ready to discover a reignited will. I am yearning for effective action. I suspect what keeps me inside the box: ease. Inside, no change is required of me. Inside, I can tell myself the starfish might survive by chance.
If I step outside, I become a player, an actor. Outside, I can do my part to ensure these creatures live. But here’s the scary part… I might fail at it.
This fear triggers my instincts to write about my attempts to step outside the box. Vanity pushes me to tell you about the carbon budget I’m considering living by and the red meat I’ve decided to not eat. The next compulsion leads me toward confession: let me tell you that I ordered three items on Amazon and ate meat multiple times this week. Both of these rise from my desire to placate myself, when a flourishing of the planet instead requires a decentering of individualism (a prevalence in America that drives our per-capita carbon footprint to more than double the world’s average). I think the departure from this individualism, this hyperfixation of the self, might be a key ingredient to getting out of the box. In spending less time absolving myself, perhaps I can better concentrate on the necessary actions, on positive actions**. Let the work begin.
*My flight to Ireland generated 2.2 tons of carbon… and that’s just for my seat. That’s not include the other hundreds of passengers on board.
**I’ve also been thinking about positive inaction lately. The conscious choice to not do something. The choice to not order off of Amazon. To reduce travel and limit gas expenses. We focus (rightly) on the actions that must be taken, but there is also power in the not-doing or the doing-less.
Find Me Here:
In the next month, I’ll be popping up in multiple creative sectors. You can catch me in-person in North Carolina and Michigan or you can find me for an online workshop. More details below!
Winston-Salem, North Carolina - June 20 : Art Crush Market on Trade Street. I’ll be selling my fiber goods, including pillows, tapestries, napkins, and scrunchies. All naturally dyed and sewn with love by me. <3
Saugatuck, Michigan - July 5 : This creative writing workshop takes place in one of my favorite slices of nature: Ox-Bow School of Art and Artists’ Residency. Their campus makes for the perfect place to indulge in a workshop on Somatic Practice and Nature Writing. Join me on a lagoon-side meadow for an afternoon of poetry writing.
Online Workshop - July 8 : I’m teaming up with Alchemy by Kailee’s halfmoon workshops. Join for an hour session on Futurisms where we’ll spend time with the works of adrienne marie brown, Becky Chambers, and Eve Ewing. The workshop will include a visioning session for restorative and sustainable futures. Early bird registration is open for only $5!
Grand Rapids, Michigan - July 9 : Catch my poetry alongside a lineup of some amazing West Michigan poets. We’ll be reading at The Grey Rabbit from 7:30-8:30.
Dear Shanley, not bearing young is the single most planet loving thing you can do. I am 71. I made that decision when I was 28.
Sending you love and strength.