A youthful acquaintance of mine was asked by her English teacher to write a short ‘Letter of Introduction’ as a summer homework assignment. Basically, her teacher wanted to ‘know [the students] a little differently’, prompting them to consider including things like ‘goals, hobbies, and experience with the English language’ in their letter. My young friend’s essay turned out to be a very brave, forthright account of her feelings about the world and the times in which we live. Here’s an excerpt:
Sometimes I see very clearly the future, and it fills my heart with sorrow: sorrow that I may never have children because there will be no life for them here; sorrow for the young people of my generation who will see the great species of our time perish due to human idiocy; sorrow that in our distress and self-absorption we lash out at each other and find reason to blame people for our unhappiness. I wish that I could change so many things for other people.
Young people still know how to be honest. I wish I could say the same for adults. What follows is my attempt at the same assignment.
In our culture, when introducing someone (including yourself), it is almost universal to begin by telling the listener what you ‘do’ (have done)—for a living or otherwise. Just look at people’s Twitter profiles. My own used to go something like this: “Scientist. Disillusioned entrepreneur. Reluctant activist.” By introducing ourselves like this we’re blindly following a cultural norm, tacitly agreeing that our value lies in our work. We’re saying to the world, “Look what I’ve done. These are my social credentials.” Many people proudly add “mom” or “father” or “grandparent” to their cred. I’m not so sure about any of it anymore. In a time when our culture and value systems are so clearly failing, maybe it’s time to question fundamental assumptions about who we are. Maybe it’s time for each of us to compose our own Letter of Introduction?
It’s been a lot of years since my AP English class. I remember my cute young teacher, but little else. Come to think of it, I remember many of my favorite teachers, but not so much of the subject matter. I remember their encouragement, their consternation, their delight, and their perseverance in helping me learn. It was fun. And that’s where I want to start with this Letter of Introduction. I’ve realized, that regardless of what I chose to ‘do’ at various times in my life, I expected it to be fun. And I still expect it. This isn’t as frivolous as it sounds. Fun certainly can be frivolous, but it can also be challenging even risky, whimsical and carefree, or technical and careful. Context is everything. Growing up, I was told I should ‘work hard’… something about ‘deferred gratification’. So evidently, even if your work wasn’t fun, it was still all about having fun later. But in these times, I’ve begun to see that something deeply important was missing in this understanding—something beyond gratification.
You might think that my latest ‘gig’, giving public talks for Extinction Rebellion (XR) called ‘Heading for Extinction (& What To Do About It)’, would not be the most gratifying exercise one could choose. And yet, pre-Covid, it was exactly that—I was grateful for the brave people who actually showed up to listen, to question, to cry, and ultimately to contend with an impossible-to-fully-accept message. I was grateful that I was not alone in my grief. But there was another dimension to it—beyond gratitude. As a scientist, as a person, I felt an obligation to talk about the climate and ecological catastrophe even if collapse seemed imminent. In truth, I think I felt this way precisely because collapse seemed imminent. It’s an impulse to be honest (coming from who-knows-where) that creates a near desperate need, an obligation, to talk about it. But now, mid-Covid, after months of not-talking, and no clear path forward, I’ve been listening a lot to journalist and author Dahr Jamail. Dahr quotes Chief White Eagle: “When you are in doubt, be still, and wait; when doubt no longer exists for you, then go forward with courage.”
And so, I’ve been still. I’ve been waiting. In a time when “today is better than tomorrow”, Dahr says he’s given up journalism. “I don’t even know what to write,” he says and continues, “I’ve been reticent to write anything publicly, because it feels like a really, really sacred time where each person is given this opportunity to really look inside.” Pretty serious words from a guy who writes ‘for a living’.
Listening brings up mentorship for me. Mentors are the people we listen to and pattern ourselves after. Our first mentors are our parents (and, in many cases, grandparents, siblings, or other extended family). The significance of this for children varies from joyous to devastating. Even if we rebel, we never quite shake it. I rebelled. In adulthood, I chose a few mentors, most of whom I can now never meet in person, but I’ll mention them because they give insight into who I’ve become. Carl Sagan (on science) – “We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it’s forever.” Arundhati Roy (on politics) – “Flags are bits of colored cloth that governments use first to shrink-wrap people’s minds, and then as ceremonial shrouds to bury the dead.” John Lennon (on peace) – “Imagine”. E. F. Schumacher (on economics) – “Small is Beautiful”. Now you know where I stand on a few things that matter to me, helped along by some of the best among us. And if I’ve ever helped anyone else along, it’s because I was shown the ‘right’ way by folks like these—and now, by new mentors…
Having no children of my own, I marvel at parents who manage it (few), and despair for those who fall short (many). Catherine Ingram, a ‘dharma teacher’, says this of parents:
It is a mystery as to who can handle the truth of our situation and who runs from it as though their sanity depended on not seeing it… There is one category of people that I have found especially resistant to seeing this darkest of truths: parents. A particular and by now familiar glazed look comes over their faces when the conversation gets anywhere near the topic of human extinction.
How in the world can one be an honest mentor to children when this is the message? I know what Catherine says about parents is true from my own experience talking with people about ecological catastrophe. And since a great many people are parents, I wonder if this explains why those who seem best able to ‘handle the truth’, no holds barred, the actual reality of our incipient catastrophes, are largely non-parents—namely, our children. A deep irony. And yet, while human extinction may be ‘possible’ or even ‘probable’, no one can say with certainty that it’s ‘imminent’. It’s like the difference between a really big number, the biggest you can imagine, and infinity; the gulf itself is infinite and therefore filled with incalculable possibility. And so, regarding what to say to our children, Stan Rushworth tells us that “crossing the children’s fire” is forbidden. I, for one, am taking that wisdom to heart. Patricia’s words:
Yet, in the same moment I see all this, I know deep down I will try. Even when it is futile I will persist, because that is what young people do.
I think that mentorship and elderhood are of a kind, but honestly, I have no idea how to be an elder. Enter Stephen Jenkinson—”the death guy”. His writing style is so unconventional that it’s bit scary, but in a good mentor-kind-of-way. Anyway, he says that the near absence of genuine elders (who might help us find our way) is a consequence of our broken culture, and he asks for candidates to step up… to their obligation. There’s that word again. So now I know, thanks to Stan and Stephen, that there are bona fide elders—and an obligation to aspire to.
Moving deeper. Fears. It takes courage to list these, but here I’m following the example of the younger, braver writer who inspired this letter. Here goes. Conditioned by our death-phobic culture, I’m afraid of pain and death (Stephen says that’s understandable). Covid-19. Can I (or do I even want to) be employed again? Am I (and my family) safe from the ignorance and violence of America? Will anyone be there to help me (and my family) if we need it? How have things gone so wrong that I even have to think about stuff like this? Catherine Ingram writes:
I am aware that virtually no one in my family and few of my friends are either ready to hear this information [about ecological collapse] now or will be prepared to face what is ahead in time.
It’s worth pausing and thinking about what that last sentence means. To me, it practically screams, “Don’t expect any help.” So what should I do? Or, as Dahr Jamail and Barbara Cecil put it, “How then shall we live?” We have a cultural glitch, a fundamental assumption that we must always ‘do’ something—proactive, progressive. Dahr again:
What I think is necessary is if each one of us really, really looks inward deeply at this time, gets our affairs in order, and then really listens to what we feel most called to do in that way—the earth herself is going to organize what needs to happen through each one of us. So my point is, it’s not going to come from a person, it’s going to come from deep, deep within—it’s going to come from the earth. And I think that’s the moment where we are. I think that’s the biggest gift of this time.
To me, this sounds a lot like ‘not-doing’ and more like listening. Dahr’s listening with Stan, and Stan’s listening with tens of thousands of years of ancestors who’ve listened to Her. Our Earth. Who are we? We’re her children. That’s my new fundamental assumption. So if I listen carefully… “when doubt no longer exists, [I can] go forward with courage.”
Thank you Patricia.
UPDATE July, 2022: I am going forward, taking Patricia’s words to heart:
Yet, in the same moment I see all this, I know deep down I will try. Even when it is futile I will persist, because that is what young [at heart] people do.
