Hope 

Each day, it seems, we are made aware of startling new crises in our environment — Mesopotamia's Fertile Crescent, the "Cradle of Civilization," has turned, ironically, to dust; the oceans' depths are garbage dumps; the discovery that nano plastics are truly everywhere, found even in meconium — a newborn baby's first bowel movement. Each new category of calamity and shock is a piece of a giant puzzle coming inexorably together. And the picture on the lid of this puzzle's box is not pleasant.

I cannot comprehend what is happening.

In this dilemma, I grapple with use of language, how it can bring solace or despair. The use of the word "hope," for example. I find myself now flinching when I hear the word used overly optimistically.

It's this: It's quite easy nowadays to believe our species is, perhaps, a failure of evolution. We've taken more from Earth than we have ever given back. It's easy to contemplate that we, perhaps, are 50 years or more too late to stop the processes we ourselves set in motion long ago, processes rampantly destroying ecosystems everywhere. It's very easy — now — to think that we are no longer in charge of our self-created chaos.

I've always held the comforting hope that nature could recover from Homo sapiens' negative impact on this living planet. A hope that when we've disappeared, Earth would be allowed — in time — to heal itself and once again flourish abundantly.

But that hope has now been darkened by contemplating one of modern humankind's most stunning (and stupid) technological achievements. In our collective consciousness, we seem to have let simmer on an almost forgotten back burner the high probability of nuclear suicide.

In the foreground of my thinking now sits the Ultimate Climate Grief — the likelihood of instantaneous annihilation of everything — the coup de grace in our long assault on Earth. There is no "Stop" button.

Not unlike the asteroid that took away the dinosaurs, we are powerful, sufficiently so to leave a planet's life maimed and wounded for millions and millions of years. That we have arrived at such a capability reveals the enormity of our ignorance. We are a carefree species, wandering the universe, destroying things.

So where is hope? Why did I flinch? If it's true we have arrived at a time in history when a word like "hope" is irrelevant, then what is left to do?

This: We shall see each other. We shall see and understand that all we've ever known is an ancient present moment — here, where we are.

Thus we shall do our daily routines, tend our gardens, do our work, make our music and our art, live our lives in gratitude for every breath. And we shall see each other.

And we shall love. We shall love ourselves, our partners and our friends. We shall love those whom we do not yet know.

We shall love so that we may stay sane, sane enough to be of use to someone suffering in distress — anyone. Our loving will be a safe haven in the chaos we all may soon experience. And lovingkindness shall be the antidote against much sorrow and much grief.

That is what is left to do.

Jere Bob Bowden lives in Ferndale.

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