Yesterday was Earth Day, and, as I have before, I wanted to mark it. I’m a little late, but here is a poem that has been circling my mind, and troubling me, for a couple of weeks now. I heard this question – or something like it – on a podcast, and it rather took my breath away. I do spend time attempting to answer questions such as – What can I do to limit the harm I am doing? or, Is there anything regenerative that I could attempt?, or What can I do about all this plastic in my life?.
The more philosophical question, of what makes a good life, in this time when we are waking up to the way ecosystems are fraying and dying, is harder to attempt. Yet these phrases came to me, and I think there is power in the question. There is some liberation, too. It doesn’t focus on all the things I’m not doing, or are unable to do. Neither does it reassure me by looking at what everyone else isn’t doing either. So the poem is not a list of tasks, but something closer to a way of being, which will, naturally, lead to tasks, and to action.
In some ways the question is offensive. And in the places it rubs against you, there is something to be explored. And perhaps, in finding our own answers to the question, we may find the dying receeds, and the living has more hope and space. But that is not the point just for the moment, just as we approach this question. The point is, to face up to what we are doing, and then find a way of living within that knowledge. It’s quite a task. But I feel there is some merit in the attempt.
I was encouraged that yesterday the virtual Climate Conference that President Biden convened made some positive announcements. As we seek to move from goals to a change in the way we live, maybe this question helps.
The question arose on a Nomad podcast which centred around an interview with Gail Bradbrook, of Extinction Rebellion. It is well worth listening to. You can find a link to it here.
May we live well. May that wellness include all living things.
What might it mean, to live well on a dying Earth?
Who knows?
The worst kind of foolishness,
of absurdity
to even try.
And yet, something sparks,
something kindles,
at the question.
And so, knowing the absurdity,
these words come….
To be tenderhearted,
though afraid.
To know that each
small thing matters.
That even though
it is not enough,
such calculation
is not your task.
To tend the tender plants,
and see their flourishing.
To feed birds.
To stop on your way
and talk to friends,
and those you barely know,
to stand with them
in their griefs,
to laugh within their joys.
To be compassionate
to all, beginning with
yourself.
To do those things
you have found within
your power to do.
To also do those things
your heart whispers.
And both, without
measuring outcomes.
To act as if you have
hope,
even if you do not.
To act boldly when you feel
the call to do so, but
with gentleness and grace.
To look for beauty, and joy,
and love.
To travel through despair
and let its darkness
dissolve about you,
having held you.
To grow food
for yourself, and for
all those you share
your place with.
To stand in awe under
the song of the songbird.
To be merciful to the
worms and the beetles
and the spiders,
To – again and again –
say yes to life, and to joy.
Say yes to all that is good,
while there is so much that
grieves you, and leaves
you despairing.
To know a more beautiful world
is already here,
and yet coming,
and still beyond our grasp,
And to live in it anyway.
The last section of the poem mentions a more beautiful world. That refers to a book by Charles Eisenstein – The more beautiful world our hearts know is possible
Andrea Skevington 