A Reason to Write

 

I can point to an experience seven or eight years ago that explains why I write. On a warm summer evening my wife and I were on the dock solving world problems with our good friend Scott Johnson, when Scott and I realized a mutual interest in writing. We made a pact to get together every couple weeks to share something we'd scratched out, and it became routine. Not long after, a local writer's group formed and our dock meeting moved to a monthly gathering at Black Dog Coffee, which continues today.

Beyond the obligation to have something to share with Scott, I started writing for at least three reasons: 

— I'm not good at thinking on my feet. I need alone time to ruminate on a topic before forming an opinion. 

— I write because it’s a dread, a challenge, and a passion rolled into one. The most difficult and rewarding thing I know. The last thing I want to do and all I want to do.

— I write on matters that concern me most, that threaten the ecological systems supporting life on Earth. When those systems break down, which they are doing, there are life altering consequences. That’s worth writing about. 

I was recently asked to give a presentation on the state of wildlife today, but it became more than a talk on orioles and raccoons and lightning bugs. Concerns for wildlife are a segway to the sixth mass extinction, rising sea levels, desertification, loss of habitats, increased frequency of destructive weather events. Inevitably, it leads to climate change and its effects on national security, trade, economics, and the hopes and dreams of every person alive. 

 

For several years I made an effort to steer away from politics. But the reality is the environmental threats we face are time sensitive and not likely to be addressed with speed without government mandates and incentives. To this end the US is failing miserably. China, with full government support, is installing solar fields at a rate of 1 gigawatt every 8 hours— the equivalent of an average nuclear power plant— while we prop up antiquated coal-fired facilities, reduce environmental safeguards for oil and gas, and remove incentives for renewable energies like wind and solar.  

I don’t write to change closed minds or argue facts supported by overwhelming evidence. Those who see climate change as a hoax, who use a blue jay in the backyard as proof songbird populations are good, who won’t accept that extreme weather events are increasing, are likely beyond persuasion. I write for those undecided, who doubt things could be as dire as predicted, or who feel powerless to respond. 

We have technologies that hold tremendous promise and no shortage of skilled and dedicated engineers. If given full support, they’ll find solutions beyond our dreams. 

It’s complicated and challenging and requires commitment from every industrialized nation. But rather than leading the way, the US is doubling  down on fuels and practices that pump more heat trapping pollutants into the atmosphere. Rather than harnessing clean, free energy, we’re still shoveling coal. 

Alexander Von Humboldt warned of the influence of human activities on climate in the early 1800’s. ExxonMobil scientists recognized the threat of atmospheric CO2 more than 50 years ago but kept their findings under wraps. The impact that greenhouse gases have on global temperatures is not new information, but time has caught up with us. We delay at our own peril. 

In his new book, “Here Comes the Sun: A Last Chance for the Climate and a Fresh Chance for Civilization,” author Bill McKibben puts it all in perspective:

— In the past two years, 95 percent of new electric generation came from wind and solar. Once viewed as costly alternatives, clean, renewable energies are now the most economical.

— Half of the corn grown in the US is turned into ethanol. Farming produces one crop of corn per year. The ethanol rendered from one acre of corn powers a traditional Ford F150 25,000 miles. In one year, a single acre of solar panels will power an all electric Ford F150 for 700,000 miles. 

— More than half the cars sold in China last year were electric and powered by sodium ion batteries. Sodium is abundant and readily available. 

— According to the Rocky Mountain Institute, an organization focused on energy and efficiency, the amount of mining required to satisfy world demand for lithium through 2050 is less than the mining done for coal last year. 

— Forty percent of ocean freight involves transporting carbon fuels— oil, liquified natural gas, and coal. 

— The US is the second highest carbon emitting country in the world.

— States, counties, and local jurisdictions are free to move towards clean energy without federal support. Deep red Texas is installing renewable energy faster than any other state.  California reduced its reliance on natural gas for electricity by 40 percent in one year as a result of solar development. 

Solutions within our reach, yet we waver— paralyzed by politics, short term interests, and willful ignorance.  It’s maddening.

And so I write, venting frustrations, mourning losses, hoping against hope that those of us occupying the most powerful and wealthy country in the world will become aware, alter our behaviors, and demand change for the sake of a living planet. Numbers provide power and with power comes momentum.  We can still get it done. It’s too late to avoid a lot of discomfort— it’s not too late to avoid the worst. 

As I wrapped up this piece I stepped out for a swim in the pond. The heat index was 105, the pond still low following several inches of rain.  An osprey appeared out of nowhere, struck the water near the island and climbed skyward with a spunky bluegill in its talons. Twice it paused mid-flight to shake like a dog before disappearing over the treetops.

It was a snippet of something timeless. Predator meeting prey. Much more than a bird catching a fish, it was a beautifully refined transfer of energy relying on endless connections between the living and nonliving. Perfect in function. Marvelous to behold. All of it, threatened. 

Berries, Butterflies, and a Big Bad Bill

In mid-June we went raspberry picking for the first time this year. A two-inch rain a few days prior fattened the wild fruits and brought them to peak sweetness. 

The morning was drenched with heavy dew. It was hot. A south wind puffed and sent ripples across the pond and shimmered the cottonwood leaves but did little to dull the heat. The air was thick. Heavy. We were soaked with sweat by 9 AM.  As the first berries landed with dull thuds in our pails we were privy to an impromptu concert: an ensemble of vireos and warblers and cuckoos. We were hunter-gatherers, engaged in a ritual as old as humankind. Strangely, there wasn’t a mosquito. Not one, and I didn’t know if I should be grateful or concerned. 

There’s a line of thought that says a healthy and balanced ecosystem should have few mosquitoes, because predators—fish and frogs, bats and birds— keep numbers in check. It’s logical, but why, in the far north, where some of the cleanest and healthiest environments still exist, do mosquitoes cloud the sky?

Why does our evening porch light attract so few moths, June bugs and lacewings? How is it we take a drive on a warm summer’s night and return with a clean windshield? Why have dragonflies, butterflies and grasshoppers nearly disappeared from our landscape?

Insects are the foundation of terrestrial food webs and their services and value are beyond measure. We might think we can live without them, but we can’t.  Yet their absence, when noticed at all, usually causes little concern. We might prefer that most were gone. 

Monitoring insect populations is limited to a select few. Pollinators, responsible for much of the food we eat, top the list. Next are those that threaten crops or timberland, especially when the threat comes from an introduced pest like gypsy moth or emerald ash borer. If an insect seems dangerous it gets our attention. Most do not. 

In the world of insects there are over a million known species.  The actual number may be 10 times higher as so many are yet to be discovered. Each fills a niche, plays a role, and most are in decline.

  

The Krefeld study measured flying insect numbers in German nature preserves. Over a 30-year period, observers found a 75 percent reduction in total biomass with no clear explanation. Another long term study, this one at the Guanacaste Conservation Area in Costa Rica, links a dramatic loss of moths and caterpillars directly to climate change. Renowned entomologist E.O. Wilson called insects “the little things that run the world,” and those little things are disappearing.

 

By the 4th of July the law of diminishing returns put an end to our pursuit of raspberries. The heat dome occupying the eastern half of the country sat like a brooding hen. The rains were spotty, and the corn fields missed grew pale, their leaves curled into spears.

  

We had seen exactly one monarch butterfly and were still awaiting the first grasshopper of the season when the Big Beautiful Bill was signed into law. The scalawags that pushed it through hailed it as the Golden Age of America, despite opposition from the majority.  At its core was a permanent tax break for the wealthy at the expense of healthcare, education, foreign aid and food assistance. It removed incentives for electric vehicles and renewable energy, dismissed an assortment of science-based services, gave the fossil fuel industry the green light— all while threatening to add three trillion to the deficit and nudging us ever closer to authoritarianism.

 

For those of us who want to simply live, work, dream, and have a legitimate hope for a long and prosperous future, the bill has the appeal of a nuclear winter. It’s tempting and much easier to ignore it, embrace ignorance, and believe all will be well in the end. The good people of 1930’s Germany did exactly that. 

Government incentives and mandates are essential to meaningful environmental policy. Capitalism won’t rise to the call on its own, at least not quickly. And with all the turmoil and confusion, the cries for justice and fairness, the chaos of tariff uncertainty, there is zero probability the current White House will intervene for the sake of butterflies or anything that hints of environmental wellness. 

My former boss would say, “Expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed.”  It’s not the most joyful motto to live by but can offer unexpected comfort in the face of overwhelming odds, encouraging us to better appreciate the people in our orbit, the song of a wood thrush, a ripened peach, a perfectly chilled monastic brew…

Quiet resistance. Savoring what’s left. Sometimes it feels that’s all there is. 

Cautious Optimism

I had a birthday last month, a special one, not because it was a notable milestone but because I still had a pulse. The average life expectancy for a man in the US is 75.8 years, which is to say 50 percent of us will never see our 76th year.  Because I’ve made it to 72 there’s a reasonable chance of hanging on another decade.  We’ll see.  I’ll keep buying green bananas, but long term investments are out.

Living more than seven decades is a privilege denied to many, which is blatantly unfair.  Some of us take that long to recognize how wrong we’ve been, to let go of notions long accepted.  An aging man who claims no regrets is delusional or has a poor memory. 

Thirty-five years ago, astrophysicist Carl Sagan addressed the 5th Emerging Issues Forum at NCSU, reminding attendees that the US military had spent 10 trillion dollars fighting the Cold War. At that time, 10 trillion dollars was enough to buy everything in the country except the land— every home, automobile, dishwasher, screwdriver, diamond, yacht, and airline. Everything. The expense was justified given a threat of Russian invasion. The likelihood was unknown but the possibility, however remote, was real. 

Sagan compared that response to our reaction to climate change, a certain rather than perceived threat, and having global consequences more disastrous than a Russian invasion.  We’ve made headway— at least we’re talking about a warming planet— and we’ve developed technologies that are very promising. But we continue to pour oil on the fire. “Drill, baby, drill,” is what we hear. Any mention of “climate change” has been stricken from government documents. Scientists who monitor polar ice have been sacked. We have an aggressive cancer of the brain and the doctor is saying, “This isn’t real. I’ll scratch it from your chart and we won’t monitor or mention it again.”

As an extended birthday treat we spent a few days in northern Ontario in an off-grid cabin out of cell range. It’s wild country, where the boreal forest extends to the horizon in every direction and loons sing and moose roam and deep blue lakes speckle the landscape. While there we had a pack of wolves serenade us from a couple hundred yards of the cabin. I can’t be certain it was their rendition of Happy Birthday, but that’s what I heard. 

It’s interesting to get a world news perspective from a different country.  Canada does not look favorably on the US these days with its threats of tariffs and political posturing implying dominance. I couldn’t help wondering if Lee and I were scorned for being from the states. Nothing we experienced suggested it was so— the Canadians we encountered were as welcoming as ever— but the thought was there, and it was maddening. 

Beyond good luck and self care, a growing body of research indicates that optimistic people live 11 to 15 percent longer than their cynical counterparts. It’s another statistic in a world of gloom.  

There’s a clear distinction between contentment and optimism.  Friends and family, a bountiful garden, a good dog, a warm sun, a great meal— all can be satisfying but do little to fuel our optimism. If we’re aware of the rapid decline in biodiversity, the alarming rise in extinction rates, rampant microplastic contamination, dying coral reefs, melting glaciers, rising seas, the loss of productive soils— how can we be genuinely excited for the future?  

Artificial Intelligence is a life-altering technology that’s here to stay. In its simplest form it uses a library of data to simulate collective knowledge of the world. So I turned to a machine to ask, “In terms of environmental health, can the human race be optimistic?”  It answered, “Cautious optimism is possible— but only if significant action is taken… We have a narrow and rapidly closing window— roughly until 2030– to take major action and avoid the most catastrophic impacts of climate change and environmental decline.”

“The greatest threat to our planet is the belief that someone else will save it.” —Robert Swan

“Cautious optimism” requires a total commitment from every nation in the industrialized world. The  government of the country best positioned to lead the way (that would be us) denies a problem at all, and chooses instead to focus on military strength, immigration, and tax cuts for the ultra rich.  

“The time to answer the greatest challenge of our existence on this planet is now. (We) can make history or be vilified by it.” —Leonardo DiCaprio

The world spins and years scream by.  We get one life and if we’re lucky it’s a long one. We can use our time well— work hard and always do our best— but that doesn’t mean we’re doing it right. 

“The earth is what we all have in common.”  —Wendell Berry. 

A Gift and a Responsibility

On a morning in late April more than 30 painted turtles were perched on a floating log in the pond, soaking up the sun and 70 degree warmth. What is it that breaks the spell of hibernation and spurs them to leave the cold mud of the pond bottom?  How can they possibly know the conditions above the water line?  They spend months buried in ooze, “breathing” through their butts, not eating, growing stiff from lactic acid that accompanies long stretches of low metabolism. Then, prompted by some timeless cue, they haul themselves from the mud, climb onto a floating log, stretch out their necks, and bask in the ecstasy of an April sun. 

We found three newly hatched turtles this spring no bigger than nickels. They were a couple hundred feet from water, on a treacherous journey challenged by obstacles and predators.  Last summer we found several females laying eggs in hard-packed rocky soils, two hundred feet or more from water. They could have laid their eggs closer, in sun-warmed sandy loam, but didn’t.  I don’t have to understand. Their decisions have proven effective for millions of years. 

There are three broods of goslings on the pond, a total of fourteen. They have merged into one group and are guarded by a single pair of adults.  I don’t see the advantage. Broods that stick with their birth parents maximize the ratio of adults to young which would logically improve their odds of survival. But they do what they do and my suggestions on the matter have no influence. 

The birds are back— the orioles and catbirds and thrushes. Bluebirds have claimed nest boxes now coveted by house wrens and English sparrows. Everywhere is competition— for nest sites, for mates, for food, for space. There is no shortage of strife and conflict.  What appears as perfect harmony is fraught with unrest. It’s not all peaceful and pretty. 

We’re not so different from them. We’re prone to compete and defend, and can delight in the first warm days of spring. We do what we do, but our actions are less driven by instinct and more by subjectivity or impulse or pure greediness. 

We have the ability to reason and empathize but can still be cruel, hateful, and overtly stupid. We can have a solid understanding of science yet hold firm to practices and lifestyles that are not sustainable.  We can know our activities are chiseling away at global biodiversity yet be recklessly slow to change our ways. 

The soil in the garden is soft and warm on bare feet. I’m in the zone, planting sweet onions— 30 per row, five-inch centers.  With luck, in July we’ll have onions the size of softballs, mild and sweet. They will accompany potatoes and greens, tomatoes and sweet corn, carrots and fresh herbs.  We’ll nurse them along, enjoying fresh harvests, then fire up the canner and dehydrator when the time is right. A deep satisfaction resides in a pantry of homegrown goodness. 

There are no prerequisites for the barefoot gardener, no basic biology or agronomy. He can be unaware of the connections between birds and insects and crop yields and still enjoy a great garden. He can rely on fungicides, synthetic fertilizers, and insecticides without understanding their wide ranging toxicity, or knowing that organic methods have comparable, often superior results with fewer inputs and massive environmental benefits.

Some reconciling is in order. Just a few lifetimes ago the land our house and garden occupies was deep forest.  The entire state was forest or prairie or wetland. If the land had not been cleared we would not be here doing what we do. If not for infrastructure, housing, a willing and adequate workforce, medical and research institutions, and advanced learning, our society would look much different. 

We strong-armed our way across the country, taking land by force, and began a massive transformation. They were innocent times, driven by hard working immigrants seeking opportunity.  

But enough already. Perpetual growth as we know it is not an option. 

We got an inch of rain yesterday and this  morning we’re in search of yellow sponge mushrooms. The birds are active— the white eyed vireo, the indigo bunting, the parula warbler. We wind our way through a gauntlet of invasive Amur honeysuckles, cursing their existence and the threats they pose to woodlands, then realize we’re not so different from them. We both alter habitats and claim land as our own. But honeysuckles don’t understand science. Neither do turtles or geese. We do, or should, and how we use our knowledge and empathy, our reasoning and judgement, is both a gift and a responsibility. 

 

A Bigoted Beekeeper

In early April we had nights of solid freezing and daytime highs in the 40's with persistent cloud cover and pesky winds. The radishes, peas, kohlrabi, and spinach managed to sprout but were stifled by the cold and paused for better days. We covered them with blankets at night to keep their spirits up.

On April 5th we drove to Lafayette to join a protest. It was one of more than a thousand held across the country attracting 5.2 million participants. The intent was to send a message to Washington that we weren't going to sit idly by during a constitutional crisis or be silent while our democracy slips away.

I met a gal my age who was part of the march and struggling to walk. She said she should’ve brought her cane but she was self conscious about using it in public. In 71 years she’d never been to a protest. She preferred to stick to herself, try to get along with the neighbors even when she disagreed with them politically. “Things are different now,” she said, choking up. “I can’t just sit at home any longer thinking everything will be alright.”  

There's power in a public gathering, when a diverse demographic comes together and you realize you’re not alone in your convictions. There’s comfort when a thousand people, almost twice what organizers expected, show up in a red town like Lafayette, Indiana, and the PA system proves inadequate so rather than listen to speakers we just kept marching. Passing cars honked in support, and there were chants and songs and camaraderie among perfect strangers. At one point I felt a little lump rise in my throat.

Last November there were more people who voted against Donald J Trump than for him, which is to say those who opposed him were, and still are, the majority. It may not seem so, as unpopular executive orders fly from the Oval Office like so many bats; as the greatest democracy in history teeters on survival; as the world looks on in disbelief. 

I’m not the best beekeeper but I like to keep a colony or two. I was watching them fly in and out of the hive the other day, returning with pollen sacs loaded and bellies full of nectar, and I realized a similarity between the bees and the majority of Americans. 

Bees live in a community where they work cooperatively for the benefit of the whole. It’s a lively, busy place, where societal duties are understood and communications are solid. They focus on their roles and one another and are highly productive and efficient. 

Enter the beekeeper. On a pleasant, sunny day he makes a house call, opening and disassembling the hive. The occupants, accustomed to total darkness, are showered with vivid sunlight as individual frames are removed so brood and honey stores and overall health can be assessed. For some remarkable reason, the bees tolerate it, even though they outnumber the beekeeper by tens of thousands.

In exchange for the bees' hard earned honey and wax and pollination services, a good keeper will provide emergency food, administer medicines as necessary, and ensure housing is adequate. He watches over and cares for his bees, intent on their needs and his responsibility to them. 

But let the day be cloudy and blustery, let the beekeeper be too rambunctious in his actions, let him use too much or too little smoke in an attempt to disrupt communications, or spend too much time inspecting a colony, and he’ll incite a riot. The bees will turn on him and force a reckoning. 

Over 5 million bees took to the streets on April 5th. Their homes and communities, their rights and livelihoods and freedoms, are being threatened by an inept administration blowing too much smoke and causing worldwide turbulence. At the helm is a man elected by a minority of voters. He has stirred the hive.