A Broken Mirror

Monday, backing out of our garage, rather mindlessly, I took the passenger mirror right off my car. Roo taped it back in place, but it's broken and defunct. I wonder how long it will take me to get it fixed.

Even before the pandemic, I put off errands that involved strip malls, fluorescent lights, and crowds--I hate being in spaces where the windows don't open, or worse, there are no windows. For this reason, I hate going to the doctor. Thanks to a friend, I found a dentist who practices out of her home, and as a result, I have very clean teeth. I realize I speak from a place of privilege (and fortune in having a partner who will stomach these to-dos for me when he can) but I am also speaking a truth.

Driving down an auto row or pulling into Home Depot, I inevitably hear Joni Mitchell's lyrics "they paved paradise and put up a parking lot." There is a lower vibration in these places, one that is stripped of our source where temptations to buy, spend, and numb hang low like wilted fruit at every turn. Somewhere along the way, I decided to avoid these types of places as much as possible, and because of said privilege and fortune, I was fairly successful in my quest. The pandemic has bumped up my success rate to almost 100 percent thus living with my broken mirror feels like a real possibility, at least until Roo intervenes.

Yesterday, while driving with my defunct mirror, I listened to this episode from the NPR Invisibilia Podcast about an unlikely collaboration between biologists and technologists that is a wild and beautiful scheme to combat climate change (which I won't give away as it's worth a listen). Sadly, they describe the plan as a Hail Mary. I went to a dark place when I heard the following exchange between co-host Alix Spiegel, environmentalist Roger Payne, and climate scientist Michael Mann:

SPIEGEL: Take Roger Payne. Even though he's committed himself to this Hail Mary pass, that's how he sees it - as a Hail Mary pass. He doesn't seem very optimistic.

Like really, truly not much hope?

PAYNE: Really, truly not much hope. I don't think we have much of a future. I suspect we may not have any and that we - it may end very quickly. That's my sad, true, deep feeling about what the future of humanity is.

SPIEGEL: How - what's your time frame?

PAYNE: One or two generations.

SPIEGEL: You have grandchildren.

PAYNE: Yep.

SPIEGEL: So what does that mean?

PAYNE: It means I - my heart breaks, really, about the thought of what kind of world their children will have.

(SOUNDBITE OF MUSIC)

SPIEGEL: Roger is one of the most influential environmentalists of our time, and he privately thinks we have one or two generations left. Honestly, it wasn't the time scale that I'd been thinking when I started this reporting. I hate that time scale. So I started calling around, looking for a second and third opinion. I wanted some level-headed climate scientist to tell me that Roger's prediction was insane. And eventually, I made it to Michael E. Mann from Penn State who, according to word on the street, is a great researcher but very nonapocalyptic. Unfortunately, Michael Mann wasn't as dismissive as I would have liked.

MICHAEL MANN: What he describes is correct in the eventuality that we fail to act on climate. But it's not correct if we choose to act, and I think there is the danger of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Our future has not yet been determined. And that is one possible future, but it does not have to be our actual future.

SPIEGEL: Basically, when Roger and Michael Mann look to the future, the real difference between them is their belief about humans. Roger does not believe we will make the kind of radical changes it will take; Michael Mann is more optimistic.

At what point, do we begin to care less about our kin?  I believe it's safe to assume we care deeply about our children, and their children, but things start to get murky after that.  As time separates generations and relations become abstract, humans have a greater capacity for detachment, passivity and denial.  These damnable coping mechanisms are harder to fall back on.  Translating the climate risk at-large to my grandchildren's wellbeing engenders an unfamiliar call-to-action.  I want my grandchildren to know what wild looks like; I want them to have the capacity to opt-out of spending time in man-made environments. 

I encourage all of us to pay better attention: take note of spaces you inhabit that are saturated with instant gratification, spending, and consuming (the virtual spaces too).  How do these spaces make you feel; how do they affect your behavior and others around you?  Is there an alternative to inhabiting these spaces or a means to occupy them less?  Their vitality depends on our buy-in, our participation.  

I wonder what it would be like to live with one car rather than two.   It starts with the inquiry.  This would eliminate at least half of our trips to auto row.  Following this train of thought, I realize I could avoid almost half of the grocery store if I choose to stop eating meat; more, if I stop consuming all animal products.  I also realize (when it's not a moot point and I'm not desperate to travel far and wide) limiting time spent on planes is a possibility.  And then there's my capacity and responsibility to educate Pip and Phoebe, two capable and compassionate members of the next generation.  I see this charge as three-fold: maintaining an open and honest dialogue about climate change that, at its heart, is hopeful; modeling behaviors that, at least, consider, and, at best, combat climate change; and spending lots of time outdoors.  

The podcast episode is titled "Two Heartbeats A Minute," the slowest rate at which a whale's heart can beat and a metaphor to encourage humans (a species obsessed with achieving, striving, and doing) to be more whale-like--to slow down to a rate and pace that buys humankind more time on Earth as we know it.  Ironically, the show aired in March 2020, days before our nation locked down in response to COVID-19.  Surely, it is not lost on us that this pandemic has showed us it is absolutely possible to spend less time in cars, on planes, and in paved parking lots, and that we can be our children's teachers.  The question isn't if it's possible; the question is if humans are willing to behave differently.   

I think if we pay greater attention to what nourishes us, we would be more willing to make changes, and with willingness, there is hope.   

Mindfulness practices such as yoga and meditation, and coming together in community, are good places to start.  See below for the many Blue Light opportunities to pay greater attention.

As always, thank you for reading.