The Deliberate Millennial

Ripples of Reality

There is no escaping reality; staying busy doesn’t keep it away, nor does vacationing, and although it’s been said that ignorance is bliss – being unaware is no free pass.

I just returned home from my honeymoon. The last few months, wedding planning took up so much of my energy that although I knew the seasons were changing and Spring was emerging, my focus was elsewhere. Major life events were happening, and I felt the disconnect between myself and the natural world while I wrangled the details of dinners, seating arrangements, and wedding vendors. What I had the energy to do, and think about, was so different than it usually is. Our wedding was perfect, I spent the entire day smiling, and our guests told us how beautiful and special the whole day was. The effort was worth the outcome, yet at the same time, the reality outside my realm of attention didn’t take a break while my focus was elsewhere.

Climate change is always on my mind, and it was present when I thought of all the traveling my guests would be doing to spend this day with us. It was on my mind when we decided to fly across the ocean to spend a week on a tropical island in the Pacific for our honeymoon. Sitting at the edge of the ocean in Maui, with the colors of the water and the variety of plants and birds so different from those we had at home, I was in awe – and so grateful that I was witness to this. While I was in Maui, I kept thinking about how wonderful it is that so many places on this Earth exist; places I may never see, but whether or not I am there, they are real.

I was also very aware that I was on an island, and that what the land can produce for the population that lives there is very different than what one can actually purchase while on the island. The analogy to the planet was not lost on me. I was simultaneously grateful for the immense beauty of this place and the experiences I was able to have there, and also wistful because I knew that the beauty I was seeing is undergoing its own changes and losses in response to a warming climate. The reality of climate change, my own part in the system that permeates it, and the soul-affirming experience of being in a beautiful place jumbled together and imbued my thoughts. Actions and choices we make now matter for the future of places I love and places I may never see.

A stone tossed in a calm pond will distort the surface; ripples reverberate on the surface while the stone is sinking through the water column, landing with a soft thud and plume of sediment before settling itself in its new watery home – but that is not the end.

The elements above the surface that shaped and wore the stone have traded places with the ways of water. All the leaves, twigs, insects, and other bits of organic life that fall to rest on the surface of the pond eventually sink down too, where they decompose and settle on the stone. A layer forms, on which microscopic life feeds and breeds, lives and dies, and the stone now wears a warm, fuzzy blanket of algae. But this too is not the end, for this blanket will be worn down and replaced, time after time, until the stone is enveloped in layers of old blankets, which now provide a foothold for the plants whose roots thrive in wet places. And still, change – reality, continues.

Even if I had turned my back and missed as you arched your arm back to throw that stone, and did not hear the splash as it met the surface, and did not see the point of impact or the ripples that spread out across the surface, the reality is that a stone is now missing from the shore, that it now exists on the floor of the pond, and that elements are at work.

My feet were in the warm waters of the Pacific Ocean while snow fell at my home near its western shores. It is the middle of April, and flower trees in bloom sagged and broke under the weight of blossoms and snow flakes. Invisible carbon released yesterday is swarming and warming the invisible atmosphere – I cannot see these molecules but they are there, and they are like the stone. Released from fossil sediments into an airy home, where its introduction has ripples too. Snow in April, fires in December. Believe it or not, for belief has no bearing on the truth. The climate has changed, and we cast the stone.

Regeneration

Earlier this summer, I submitted the following essay for an artist-collaborative curated book about fire and the Pacific Northwest. To my delight, the essay was selected to be included in the final book, which you can pre-order here.

The essay below is a reflection of the first massive wildfire that had ever impacted me. After the numerous large wildfires we had on the West Coast just last month, I have more thoughts about fire and our role in it that I hope to untangle in the coming weeks. For now, I hope you enjoy the essay below, and I’d love to hear what you think.

I am stepping out of the Portland airport in September 2017, into the news of the wildfire burning in the nearby Columbia River Gorge. As the shuttle bus carries me from the terminal to my car, I read news about the fire. When and where it started, how much is contained, evacuation notices, and the story that almost overshadows the fire itself, how it started: a fifteen year old boy tossing fireworks down into the canyon of Eagle Creek.

Arguments ignite over what should be done about (and to) the boy: years of community service, public shaming, millions of dollars in fines, physical violence, a lifetime ban from public lands. In the end, his identity is never revealed, his family is required to pay a substantial fine, and if the boy remains on the right side of the law until his eighteenth birthday, his record will be wiped clean. There is fervor over the anonymity. Where is the retribution for the collective wound this boy inflicted upon the forest and those who loved it?

It has been almost three years since the fire began. The boy is close to the point at which he will be free, legally, from the ashes that have followed him since that summer day. There is no news of him, and the cries of anguish that condemned him then are silent now. The forest is healthier today than the fiery images led us to believe would be possible. Where waves of evergreen once covered the hills, a mosaic of ghost trees, untouched forest, and new life quilt the landscape. The way wildfire is viewed here has gone from apocalyptic to cyclical, with huge outreach efforts educating the public about the role of fire in the Pacific Northwest. The bright green shoots of fern and young firs against the charred, black trunks of their elders evoke hope among those who walk the reopened trails. Could this newfound respect for the dynamism of a forest extend to the regeneration of a vilified boy into an atoned young man?

Who is this mystery, almost-man, who sparked new conversations about the necessity of wildfire on the landscape? What does he remember about that day? How has it haunted him, if it has at all? Who will he become, when he is no longer legally bound to the fire? I find myself wanting answers, imagining a stoic young man with a burden that burns inside him. Perhaps he finds solace in the woods, alone among trees who cast no judgement to the being wandering below them. Or does he avoid their company, ashamed and unready to face their towering statures? Have the words spoken against him years ago scorched into his psyche, barring him from forming a deeper relationship with the forest?

The term generation is often used to demarcate an era, or age, of various segments of the population; the silent generation, baby boomers, millennials. In the wake of the Eagle Creek Fire many decried the lack of respect “the younger generation” has for the woods. But in biological terms, generation is a process: one of renewal, growth, and restoration. Wildfire is often the catalyst that sets in motion the process of regeneration in Western forests. In 2017, the regular interval of 300-500 years between fires was rekindled by the casting of a firework into a dry, summer forest at the hands of a teenage boy. How different is that really from the likelihood of a lightning strike in these westside Cascade woods? Both events are rare. The simple answer is agency: wildfire by choice or wildfire by chance. But like the ash that dusted the landscape, the line between them is gray.

The story arc of the fire’s characterization from forest-killing to re-birth leads me to question the narrative of the fire as a loss. Undoubtedly there was economic loss, the emotional and physical toll on human and wildlife populations, and millions of dollars spent in containing the fire to protect nearby communities. The actions of this boy were reckless, ignorant, and dangerous. Yet the fire that sprang from his hand restarted a natural cycle that had been intentionally suppressed for decades. In the conversations about that cycle that have followed, fire has begun to regain its status as a necessary part of a healthy forest ecosystem. While access to Eagle Creek remains closed to the public, other trails have reopened, and given people the opportunity to reengage with the landscape. Perhaps because the identity of this young man remains unknown, the conversation has shifted to narratives of healthy ecosystems and cyclical fire patterns, and left out the harder questions, like why a young man and his friends believed the act of lighting a firework in a forest would have no harmful consequences. When will we ask what brought him to that trail? Clearly he knew, or valued, little about forest ecosystems, but did we know much more?

The collective heartbreak at seeing the Gorge that we knew on fire was a manifestation of love for a place, and agony at the thought of its loss. But the beauty and wonder found in the new life in the forest the following Spring was a regeneration of that love, in new form. If the lessons of the past three years have taught us to no longer curse fire as simply a destructive force, are we ready to reckon with the the redemption of a boy?

The Thread

Famous quotes are good ways to start essays; I read the quote, feel connected to it in some way, and then compare it’s relevance to the current moment. One that I have heard often in environmental circles is John Muir’s “when one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world.” In essence, this is the study of ecology: how various species interact in a given ecosystem.

For most of my environmental education, there has been a clear thread of connection between the actions of modern humans and the desecration of rivers, air, mountains, and forests. Nature is always defined in contrast to urban life; for many people nature is a place we go, not a place we are part of. But nature is not a place, it is an act. Nature does not stop where the pavement starts.

Nature in motion is the seedling emerging from winter dormancy, the sunlight fading the color from a tablecloth left out all summer, rivers of rain washing down neighborhood streets after a downpour, the air that I breathe filled with particles of plants, bacteria, and molecules. Ivy wrapping itself around any fencepost or tree it can find. Wind blowing pollen from the trees in quantities that coat the car windshields in our driveways. Nature is the act of life, and of death. No amount of carbon in the atmosphere or pollution in a river will stop the act of Nature – it will seek equilibrium with the inputs it is given.

The equilibrium that is eventually reached will not necessarily be one that is habitable for many of the current species we are familiar with, including ourselves. This is where it is important to recognize that humans – and the urban environments that we build, live, and play in – are as much a part of Nature as a faraway forest. The pollution that we output never truly goes away. It resurfaces in the lungs of children who live near power plants, in the breastmilk of mothers, and as cancers in communities downstream or downwind of military experiments.

By separating “pristine” Nature from the act of Nature, it becomes easy to disassociate the causes and effects of our proverbial “tugging” on nature, and to disentangle ourselves from Nature. I myself am guilty of preferring mountain wilderness to the urban jungle, of longing to hear the rush of a river instead of the rush of the highway. But that desire to get away from it all is exactly what I realize I must fight against. The city is my home; I spend the majority of my days here, so why have I relegated it to a lower status?

What we do in our cities absolutely affects the global environment; we know that climate change is caused by an increase in emissions from human enterprise. Yet because the current infrastructure supports the status quo, nature as a separate entity remains entrenched in the design of urban policy. It could be different, and my own efforts to reshape how I envision Nature is a deliberate act. I actively seek the thread that attaches me to the rest of the world -wherever I may be – and think about what I’m tugging on.

50 Years of Earth Day

Today is the 50th anniversary of Earth Day. 50 years ago, thousands of people took to the streets to celebrate the planet. Today we are in our homes, watching the natural world through our windows, or visiting it virtually behind our screens. We are experiencing nature in our backyards and neighborhoods, instead of on our public lands. Yet, the pause in visitors has given the wildlife who call our public lands lands home the freedom to roam without fear. Perhaps it is fitting then that on the 50th anniversary of such an important holiday, rather than descend en masse upon our public lands, we are home reflecting on why those places matter and why the fight to protect them must continue.

Despite the change in weather from blue skies to gray, I embarked on an urban hike this morning in order to pay my respects to the Earth. We saw petals falling from cherry trees like winter snow, woodpeckers tapping on a light post, layers of evergreen trees beyond the interstate, and fields of puffy white dandelions ready to grant a million wishes. My hair and clothes were dusted with fine droplets of water, from the rain-but-not-quite-rain that is so common here. We passed the General O.O. Howard House on Officers Row and saw that it was built in 1878. If Earth Day was a holiday then, today would be its 142 year anniversary. Imagine what our country would be like today if we had been thanking and celebrating our Earth for over 100 years already.

A pair of old, wise trees. Think of all the things they have seen in their lifetime.

Each Earth Day we are reminded that what we do today will reflect back on us in the future, but the uncertainty of this moment in time, coinciding with a half a century of Earth Day is surprisingly on point. I wrote in my first post about the certainty of nature, and it is clear that people need time spent outdoors now more than ever. Nature gives us perspective. This is a chance to look around and see our connection to the environment in plain terms. We are not distinct from the environment – we are a part of it, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not.

When we all come out of this our public lands will still be there and I will visit them with a newfound appreciation. In the meantime I will pay attention, virtually volunteer, and pay respect to the nature outside my front door.

Reclamation

I have satiated my need for fresh air with long walks around the neighborhood, looping down through Fort Vancouver and back up along the high school and community college. Trees are in bloom, little bulbs are peeking out in front yards, the grass is green. But this morning I ventured out to the store and decided to walk at the Salmon Creek Greenway Trail, since it’s near the store and I am getting a little bored of my neighborhood jaunt. There were a few other people on the trail, and I was wary of their breath hanging in the cold air as they walked by. I gave everyone a wide berth. Does the virus linger in the air after someone passes by? They say its transmitted via coughs and sneezes, but now the CDC is recommending that everyone wear masks when in public, even though that contradicts what was said a month ago. This is a moment of unknowns. It seems nothing is certain, at least from the perspective of the status quo.

But the trail was much the same as it always is in early Spring; nettle popping up, Trillium hiding among the ferns, an explosion of green as the groundcover wakes up from Winter. The creek is full and birds abound. Hummingbirds, Canada geese, woodpeckers, ducks, little wrens and tiny bushtits. Robins, herons, egrets and a Bald Eagle. A multitude of chirping birds whose identity I do not know. The screeching of a Jay.

I have read reports of the water in Venice running clear for the first time in decades. Cougars and coyotes are venturing (further) into cities whose population is contained indoors. There has been a marked difference in pollution levels in China – so much so that it is noticeable from space. Los Angeles is breaking records for how clean its air is, due to the dramatic drop in vehicle traffic.

And, the toll on human systems – the economy, healthcare, social life, education – has been severe. This pandemic has led to an ugly, rapid exposure of the problems that have always been there but have been easier to put off dealing with until some other time. Yet, if we have ever doubted that change could happen at a rapid pace – for the better or for the worse -we are being shown otherwise.

From violent and sudden changes life reemerges. The eruption of Mt. St. Helens in 1980 created a moonscape where an abundant forest had been the day before. But the apparent emptiness of the place did not last long. The speed at which life reclaimed the landscape stunned scientists. When the Elwha Dam was removed in Olympic National Park, salmon returned almost immediately, despite projections that it would take much longer for them to come back to the river.

I read an essay by Terry Tempest Williams last night, “The Glorious Indifference of Wilderness“. She reflects on the stoicism of a mountain, and all that it has weathered in comparison to her own small life. And despite it’s indifference, the steady existence of the mountain offered respite and hope for her own aching soul. I experience a similar feeling when I place my hand on the bark of an ancient tree. Much like a mountain, the tree did not ask to exist. It does not care either way what happens to the small human standing at its base. But as a human, I am not indifferent. I have the gift of recognition, humility, and compassion. So what will emerge from this crisis?

The news is full of agony over the loss of the status quo. People are suffering – physically and financially. The response from the National government has been mediocre, but State and local governments are taking action. Communities are responding. People are paying attention. The exposure of the fragility of this system perhaps will ignite a reclamation – not one that replicates what was lost, but one that builds upon what was learned. The indifference of nature is a blessing that allows us to try, fail, and try again. The existence of grand mountains and old trees is a reminder that we are but a part of a larger whole. The persistence of wildlife returning to recently unsafe places is a physical manifestation of hope.

This is a moment of unknowns, but the pace of nature is certain. The solace of sunsets and riverbanks is universal. Erosion wears down bedrock to create canyons. Seeds drift in on the winds of storms. I’m not sure what the future will look like, or how long we’ll be in this moonscape, but projections seem to say that there will be lasting repercussions. Ripples emanating from the point of impact. The first waves shake the ship the most, but the later ones lull it softly, until calm returns to the surface again.

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