Global Warning

I can endure harsh winters, three feet of snow, ice-driven power failures, plowing and high energy bills because of the October beauty in New England.  Growing up in Miami, I had little understanding of what fall was all about.  It was not until I came to college in Boston that I experienced my first color show of autumn foliage.  There is something so poignant about the mighty oak trees as they begin to yellow—leaf by leaf.  Finally, a delicate dried leaf is captured by a cool breeze, plucked from the branch and floating gently and circuitously to the ground.  One by one other leaves follow suit until they coat the walkways and gutters.  But first, before the quickening of the season, there is an all-too-brief moment of unequalled yellows and reds that gives us pause. 

Fall is a reminder of the persistence of Nature to mend its wounds and to nurse itself back to vibrant health.  It represents the orderly shut down of Nature’s production cycle, shedding the excess of its busy season in order to regroup, renew, and reseed.  Before it turns inward on itself and disappears for the winter, Nature gives us one last appeal for respect and kindness.  Remember me, it begs, so that I may continue to feed you and shelter you and live harmoniously in your presence.   No one who is witness to a New England autumn can doubt that the Earth is a delicate, organic being.

Those who argue that there is no perceptible climate change, or that Global Warming is not a scientific fact, do not deserve to enjoy the bounties of this beautiful planet.  There is a certain ignorance implicit in the argument itself.  Why try to prove that we have not systematically destroyed the Earth unless you plan to justify its continued desecration with toxic waste and depletion of its resources?  The Earth is not here to service our needs; we are all part of a larger closed biosystem.  We have what we have until there is no more.  I fear for a world where increasing populations, increasing industrialization, and increasing ignorance cause us to outstrip Nature’s ability to renew itself.  

Already, I see my trees do not grow as full each spring as they did 15 years ago.  Beautiful Walden Pond is not as high as it was when I swam in it as a college student.  The majestic Multnomah Falls on the Columbia River was a trickle this summer compared when I first saw it nearly 30 years ago.  The glass Farnsworth House in Plano, Illinois now floods frequently—not because there is more water, but because there has been so much concretization of the surrounding lands that the natural run off has become choked off.  When Mies van der Rohe first built this structure over 60 years ago, he situated it over 12 feet above the 100 year recorded high water mark.

The beautiful cycles of Nature fool us into believing that we can do anything to this planet with impunity.  Not so.  Like other forms of disease that attack from the inside out, the outward manifestations of life continue even as the foundation shrinks from within.

Nothing in my life has taught me a more important lesson about the environment than a simple family trip we took in 1993.  It was the 150^th anniversary celebration of the Oregon Trail.  My husband is a descendant of Oregon Trail pioneers, so we returned to his ancestral home in Baker, Oregon, once a terminus for the Trail itself.  We visited many sites where ruts from the covered wagons are still visible today.  There are places where these wagon ruts run through private farms, and farmers have tried again and again to plow under them to reinvigorate the soil.  It begs the question:  If something as simple as wagon trains crossing the plains can create such an indelible scar across the Earth, what hope do we have for the planet as we pour toxic waste into our rivers, and blight our forests? 

We have all seen police dramas on television where a child has been kidnapped and forced to live in a basement or boiler room in her own filth.  Or post-apocalyptic dramas where survivors are left to ration the small supply of remaining food products.  These are not extreme stories; they are lessons for the here and now.  We are already living on a planet that has more people than it can reasonably sustain.  We have a partner in Nature that we have shortchanged to our own detriment.  We need to do a much better job taking care of the environment around us.  We do, indeed, live in our own filth.