Last year, in the wake of relentless wildfires, I wrote about what is lost in a world of climate extremes. My reflection was even before the Maui wildfire, which was the deadliest wildfire in the United States in over a century (and the fifth deadliest in US history). On the one year anniversary of the wildfire that destroyed Lahaina and left 102 individuals dead, my first instinct was to sit in the grief of what’s been lost and the fear of what may come (funny how election cycles tend to really amplify that one).
Ironically, we were planning to visit Lahaina just a few months after the wildfires, perhaps making an otherwise ‘far away’ crisis feel somewhat closer to home. It was the smallest of inconveniences to pivot our plans to visit my sibling on the West coast instead; in comparison, for the last year, thousands of individuals and families with uprooted lives have had to decide whether to stay to pick up the pieces, or rebuild their life elsewhere.
For weeks after the fire, I pored over the news and firsthand accounts in a sort of disaster voyeurism, as though something I saw or read would help explain the tragedy. It was as if I could read my way into preventing the crisis— but if I’m being honest, what I was looking for wasn’t the academic answer.
The academic answer matters, of course: A downed power line ignited a flame in the midst of an unusual flash drought that robbed surrounding vegetation, especially non-native grasses, of moisture. The crisis was exacerbated by climate change that makes flash drought more common, by corporate negligence, and by decades of tourism and encroachment on indigenous Hawaiian land. And now, the suffering in the aftermath of the wildfires has been exacerbated by “disaster capitalism” that seeks to exploit those who have lost their homes by convincing Hawaiians to sell their land to developers.
We need that explanation if we want to implement policies to protect people and the land, if we hope to prevent future tragedies in the wake of climate extremes. But what I wanted to find was some glimmer of hope that this tragedy was a one-off, guaranteed to trigger climate action and, just as importantly, never happen again.
I didn’t find that comfort in a headline, not that I every really expected to. And, of course, a year later, we continue to experience climate events, including relentless heat waves impacting everywhere from Las Vegas to the Paris Olympics. But I realized that what I needed today wasn’t really to consider what we continue to lose, but rather what we stand to gain in a changing world.
This is not an endorsement of decades of bad political and economic decisions that have created environmental disaster, and I want to be unequivocally clear that we need climate action now. But I also know that we can’t continue this fight from a place of fear. Fear paralyzes us, so much so that there is a growing market for workbooks that help children manage eco-anxiety. Adults are similarly affected, with many quick to jump to the mentality that we should do what we want because “the whole world is burning anyway.” It’s hard to stay engaged in issues that matter without taking the time to rest and rejuvenate, and without finding hope to sustain us.
So I hope, in a world of worsening heat, that we recognize the disproportionate impact this has on our most vulnerable, including the elderly and the unhoused. I hope this spurs local businesses to offer reprieves as simple as water and outdoor fans, and it convinces city councils and state legislatures to push for reforms like more affordable housing and green energy transitions.
I hope that when we feel the economic impacts of worsening climate crisis— from insurance companies pulling out of high-risk areas to supply chains affected by climate events— we don’t financially subsidize our way into prolonging the status quo, and instead face structural solutions head on.
I hope the latest spurt of political excitement in the United States translates to engagement at the polls, and engagement with these issues that lasts long past November and goes much deeper than the casting of a ballot.
I hope we vote with our dollars, in ways big and small, and recognize the impact that supporting local, small, and sustainable can have.
I hope we don’t wait until a disaster to connect with our community. I hope that in our reckoning with a changing world, we individually reckon with the other things that tear us apart from the people we are physically near, that we evaluate everything from convenience culture and screen time to work-life balance.
I hope that we use the knowledge that crisis— from climate crisis to personal health crisis— can strike anyone as an opportunity to create robust systems to promote people’s well-being and create a safety net for one another.
And on a visceral level, I hope we find ways to love our neighbors. Really, truly caring for each other starts at home: it starts within your four walls, within your neighborhood and community. It’s hard to extend that love to people we’ve never met in far-flung places around the globe if we aren’t practicing it in tangible ways nearby too.
Nothing in this hoped-for future is guaranteed. In times of scarce resources and an altered climate, history tells us that things could just as easily go the other way: Geoffrey Parker’s analysis of the “Little Ice Age” in the 17th century, for example, demonstrated that climate events can trigger calamities from malnutrition and disease to political upheaval and war. If we want a different future, it’s up to us to build it.
Etc.
Jen Panaro of
just released a lovely interview with Chelsea Henderson, the author of Glacial: The Inside Story of Climate Politics, which was just released a few days ago! Chelsea’s book is near the top of my to-read list, and I highly recommend checking her interview out.Also, the disturbing connection between climate change and junk food (and it’s not just plastic related!) (New York Times paywall)
Thank you, as well, to those of you have upgraded to a paid subscription over the past week! It truly made my week. The birthday sale on annual subscriptions— 31% off, or $34.50 annually— will last until August 15th. I believe that these conversations about sustainability, low-waste, and intentional living are important— so I don’t want to shield them behind a paywall. Your support, if you can afford a paid subscription, allows me to continue making this work (and yes, writing, even when you love it, is work) accessible to everyone, and I deeply appreciate it.