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A Search for Holiday Cheer
I had lunch the other day with a welL-known author who at times seemed almost morose. He had spent his life rhapsodizing, as he put it, about the natural world; he was arguably the literary heir of such authors as Emerson, Thoreau, and Edward Abbey. But he told me he was feeling somewhat hopeless. We have passed great laws to protect the environment, established beautiful national parks, saved sacred places, he lamented. But what use is it to have a Glacier National Park with no glaciers in it? The great triumphs of the environmental movement seemed to him puny in the face of today’s immense challenges. Furthermore, he worried, we in the post-industrial west have become so entranced by virtual technologies -- our TV’s, iPods, web pages, our "Second Life" -- that we were becoming unconnected from nature. We can experience so many beautiful distant vistas on screens, yet the opportunities to encounter unmediated wilderness, in the raw, are becoming more rare. Nature itself was receding from our view.
I had a similar conversation with another writer I admire, Rick Bass. He and I were chatting on the phone, when Rick began describing the poignancy -- indeed, his ambivalence -- in sharing the wilderness he loves with his young daughters, knowing that some day those places and the beautiful wildlife they harbor could actually disappear. Wouldn’t he be helping to break his children’s hearts ultimately? This is a new predicament for those of us living in the 21st century. Yet in the end, Rick conceded the heart simply can’t help what it loves, no matter how evanescent the object of its desire. And so we asked him to write about this dilemma. You can read the results in the magazine's current issue: "Better to Have Loved and Lost?" Even more rewarding, you can listen to Rick reading his rhapsodic essay in a podcast we just posted.
One thing that keeps Rick from despair is his impassioned activism. He has been hard at work for many years to preserve crucial patches of wilderness in his home state of Montana, an endeavor that shows promise of coming to fruition. (He will be writing about this work in a future issue of the magazine. And, ahem, if you’re not a subscriber yet, click here.)
I know how these guys feel. Because I work at an environmental magazine, a fair amount of discouraging news crosses my desk or flows across my computer screen. But I also have a front row seat to a tremendous amount of innovative work being carried out on behalf of the planet. Last week, for instance, several legislative policy experts I know offered their eyewitness account of how the first-ever global warming bill was wending its way through Congress. After such a long spell of federal inaction, this development -- though still incomplete -- stirred in some of us a sensation akin to bliss. At the same meeting, I heard ocean experts describe the recent passage of an international marine law protecting 52 million square kilometers of South Pacific ocean from bottom trawling—a destructive practice that catches fish but also lays waste to virtually all life on the seafloor in a trawler’s path. These folks had participated in these events; they were making a difference; and they were pretty jazzed about it -- justifiably so.
I and other people I know contribute on a smaller scale -- do the little things, which nevertheless add up: vote, donate hard-earned dollars to worthy causes, volunteer, change our lifestyle a bit. I do these things and am also glad that there are real visionaries -- artists and activists -- in our midst, thankful that a new crop somehow emerges in every generation.
Oh, yeah -- I should add that this is my inaugural blog post for OnEarth's new web site. It offers you abundant stories from our award-winning print magazine and lots of new blogs, podcasts, video blogs, slide shows, and more. From my perch in the editor’s chair, I’ll regularly share some impressions about life on the planet from an environmental journalist’s point of view. So please visit us often, and, most importantly, get in touch to tell us what's on your mind.
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Drained Lake, Heron in Mud