on optimism, on land.
Dear Z.,
The optimist in me has a nagging suspicion that the pace at which the world is changing will antiquate most of what I say in these letters to you. That part thinks that by the time you read this, you’ll be in your twenties or thirties, and not only will the fate of humanity have been decided based on our collective choices and actions around climate change, but society too will have undergone such a radical shift in consciousness as to render obsolete that which I might think important to remember from the old days.
That part also—perhaps naïvely—assumes that the human tone of those changes will be for the better: that people will be more connected and kinder to each other; that we’ll be more aware and considerate of the delicate balance of life on this planet; that profit will have lost its sickening edge of influence in favor of something more graceful. Although I don’t have much data to back it up, I must assume such things nevertheless.
My optimist also trusts that the wildfires which every year ravage our forests have, by the time you read this, done their work to seed the wild with healthy habitats where birds and insects and animals and plants and fungi can thrive. That the need for detrimental resource extraction has abated; the fish populations have rebounded; that the ocean has begun to neutralize and recover from its poisoning and acidification. And perhaps, just maybe, there has been a cultural shift toward prioritizing the more-than-human world not just in the zeitgeist and in policy, but in the actions and words of average humans.
I want to believe that the amazing work that happens on the ground in communities all over the developing world, far beneath the doom-focused senses of mainstream media, will have set a new precedent for people to help each other in tangible ways, whether through developing new ways of harnessing clean energy, educating and empowering women and girls toward whatever they want to be educated and empowered toward, and working toward healing and reconciliation.
Although this may come across as a smattering of flighty wishes in some utopian dream, for me, it is simply an act of balance: a twitch of a wrist whilst walking a slackline, or throwing a leg behind in hopes of not falling—again.
The alternative, or rather, the norm, for me, for many years has been deep and constant acknowledgement of all of the most horrible things which humans do to each other and our kin sentients and our planet. There aren’t too many people in my experience who want to speak casually about government-sanctioned torture, genocide, slavery. That’s an old story, I guess: certain social and climate justice movements in the last eight years or so have normalized conversations that speak to the deeper truth of things.
It might still be fair to say that most people don’t want to walk around even more broken-hearted than life naturally requires.
I may have reached my limit of pillow-talk sessions which sound like games of Cards Against Humanity. That’s partly why I deleted my social media accounts in 2021. I know it’s a mad world out there. And maybe, for some, cataloging its madness is helpful, or brings opportunity for support, or justice, or increased awareness. I respect the pursuit, and I continue to choose to bring my attention closer in: the sound of the wind in the bamboo; the white noise of the highway interrupted by a particularly loud motorcycle; a barking dog; an emergency siren that amplifies one’s anxiety the closer it gets and the longer it lasts; the soft piano drifting from a neighbor’s window. My heartbeat, hardly audible in the blue evening bustle of Portland at the end of June.
This is a new experience for me, to be on land in summertime. In Bristol Bay, Alaska, where I (and your mama, and your grandfather) fished for many years, the fish are arriving home in full force—by the millions. I can still feel the sea in my body, even now, two years removed from boats. My arms and back know the pulling of nets in ways I don’t quite know how to describe.
The 24-hour work cycle and familiarity with living in very small spaces for weeks on end with folks I wouldn’t choose to spend time with on land makes 50-hour weeks here with a bicycle commute and hanging out with you in the mornings and evening positively marvelous.
I do wish you and I had more time during the day, though. I’m glad you get so much time with your mama. And maybe there’s something important about my being away to work, to provide, and all the rest. Or maybe it’s just that I am in so many ways a cog in the system of our capitalist society, participating in the rat race to the extent that works for us to live a good life in this context.
We have so much to be grateful for. It really is unfathomable how privileged we are, even if we’re just a few short months from zero most of the time.
And, it’s bullshit that I miss so many moments with you. I’m sorry about that.
More soon, little one.