Seeking balance in a human-challenged world

Fall 2014 – Fall 2015

“Getting Serious Now” is what I firmly believe we must do regarding the state of the world and its future, especially regarding biodiversity and climate change — and for my part, how food systems fit into that work. I believe we must see with fully open eyes what is happening to our world and its future, but retain the ability to act to improve things. We need to hold in our minds both the devastation of our natural world that we have caused, are causing now, and what needs to be done to reduce further impacts, and, the amazing beauty, abundance, resilience, mystery, and enjoyability that remains to be appreciated, preserved, and restored. This is essential if we are to evaluate our priorities objectively, gauge the urgency of various actions needed, and avoid the paralysis of denial and hopelessness.   Not easy, but I am convinced we can hold both concepts in our minds, and I think we must, in order to help make the changes necessary for our future and that of our grandchildren.

There was a notable week last Fall, as I was working on these thoughts, where a rapid-fire sequence of devastating reports came across my desk. Corals have a dismal future, Rocky Mountain Forest are dying — including my favorite Whitebark Pine, wildlife populations worldwide dropping by 52% just since my career began, and much more followed. From a very human-centered perspective, it’s sad to see the colors and the syrup of maples that I grew up with moving toward Canada, Minnesota’s loons and Baltimore’s orioles leaving their “proper homes.” For a lover of the Pleistocene, melting glaciers are distressing indeed.

I agree with Bill McKibben and many others that we should be saddened, perhaps mad, and mourn these changes we have brought to our world — for me, less because of the impact on our human needs and wants, but much more so because we have no right, in my opinion, to allow our excesses to wreak such havoc. Certainly, as poet-farmer Wendell Berry says, we ultimately “live by the deaths of others,” but we need to do so “knowingly, lovingly, skillfully, reverently”. That has not been our way, and we should be ashamed.

But we also should be adamant about changing our ways, reducing our impacts, and restoring whatever we can. Two ways I find to sustain the resolve to improve things are to get out and enjoy the world we have now and secondly, to devote whatever energy and opportunities one has to making a positive difference, in spite of the odds. In both respects you could say the glass is half-full. Surely, we have devastated the world, but much, much remains. Surely, the momentum of our species’ impact is huge, but there is much, much we can do.

Last January, we spent some time with our daughter in South Florida, enjoying the Everglades and ocean with their amazing diversity of wild creatures. Nothing like there used to be, but in the face of such diversity and numbers, it is hard to imagine that there was once so much more. Much is left to enjoy, protect, and restore.

Last August, I revisited the beetle-ravaged slopes of Wolf Creek Pass in Southwest Colorado — a place I held close as my favorite forest. Good to mourn the loss, but also to make it a point to look for the emerging young trees, colorful flowers and rich understory, and be ready to appreciate and protect whatever comes back.

As I write this in the shade of a massive elm tree we planted 17 years ago, I see more dead pinyon pine trees on our farm than live ones — the 2002 drought and beetle kill was disheartening — but this is still one of my very favorite spots — under the elm watching birds, insects, weather, and of course the ever-inviting La Plata Mountains.

To me, the concept of ‘the glass half-full” is not about unfounded hope or optimism, not a rigorous balance sheet of environmental liabilities and assets, not a comfort zone of complacency. Rather, it is a deliberate decision to try to see the world in this way — see the good and the bad, the problems and the possibilities.

My predictions for the future? I gave that up when I left the Weather Service decades ago. Changing the course of history, getting population under control, and shifting the balance of good and bad in human nature all are daunting tasks. Hope and optimism are complex terms – fraught with nuances only touched upon by the dictionary. I feel most comfortable with what Michael Soule, the father of biological conservation who visited us recently in Durango, calls “possibilism” — which I take to mean that good outcomes are possible, and therefore we have an obligation to try.

Just being cheerful is a good start. As our two-year old granddaughter taught me — or reminded me — why not wake up and just start the day happy? I must admit, such cheerfulness may seem overdone to some. I do sing all three stanzas of “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” to our sheep at morning feeding even on days when there is no bright golden haze and the corn is challenged by drought — maybe too much, but they haven’t complained yet.

So, the glass-half-full approach is the best way I have yet found to describe my outlook on the world and my place in it — I do recommend it!