The other night I was out walking the dog. A nice crisp clear arctic night. The northern lights were out. It is not rare to have northern lights out, but they are often faint greenish clouds that change slowly. Beautiful, but we’re used to it. Like someone might not notice the ocean, the mountains, the forest, their spouse or any other features of their environment that they are used to. The other night was not one of those nights. The lights were amazing. They were straight over head and stretched to touch three horizons. They were green, white, purple and red. They flowed and danced so fast it looked like time lapse photography.
It is the sort of thing that fills us with amazement. It made me note how amazing the world is (yes, yes, okay, the universe, because northern lights are caused by solar particles). Normally I think this about living creatures. As a bio-medical scientist by training, physiology has always amazed me: what our bodies can do, and do without our attempts to control it (in fact, the are designed to do their amazing and complex processes unbeknownst to us because we would just muck it up). Chemical and physical processes like the aurora are just as amazing and deserve their moment in the – ahem – sun.
In other news, COP 24 is on, where the world gets together and talks about how we aren’t doing enough for climate change. There and around the world, there are a lot of climate anxious people: people who worry about climate change. A lot. I mean really, really worry. It is the perfect thing to be anxious about:
- A big problem of potentially very serious consequences for many people’s health and well-being, and for the overall wealth of the world.
- A problem that a worried individual can only do what seems like an insignificant amount to solve. (Not true, of course; the cumulative actions of individuals, directly and politically, are exactly the solution, but that doesn’t change the feeling of helplessness.)
- A future-loaded problem, where the results of actions today will lead to the consequences in the future. Suspense like that is fun in horror movies, but for people worried about climate change? Not fun.
- Climate anxious people look around and see other people who don’t look anxious and see actions that make the problem incrementally worse (vehicles whizzing back and forth, sometimes idling, lights everywhere, consumption and more consumption, and cows belching (okay, you only see it if it is cold out, but still…). The thing about anxiousness, I think, is that being around calm people doesn’t rub off on them and make them more calm. It makes them more anxious because they can’t figure out why everyone is so calm when there is a perfectly good reason to panic. That just heightens the reasons for panicking.
So walking up over the hill here, on a beautiful peaceful night, in the darkness and all alone with the dog, one of my thoughts was that climate anxious people likely view the earth with wonder. They wouldn’t be so anxious, perhaps, if they didn’t think the earth was pretty amazing. Think of a kid with one super fantastic toy and they share it with other kids and the other kids don’t even care about it and break it. Climate anxious people’s anxiousness and passion and annoying self-righteousness comes from a deep sense of wonder at the world. It also comes from a sense of fairness: people out there plowing through life spreading big damaging wakes and a massive carbon footprint are the kids breaking the toy (ie earth) so no one else can play with it.
Of course, the world is much more than a toy. It is our home and it sustains life. There is only one world for us for the foreseeable future. The toy thing is an analogy. Stay calm. If that analogy doesn’t work for you, think about the photocopier at your work, or the subway, or anything that is pretty important to you that you have to share. Then multiply that by, say, 1000. Okay? Okay.
I was walking along thinking this and appreciating the light show. I was thinking about how amazing it is and the sharing toy analogy and wondering if it was a good analogy and if anyone would be moved by it. I mean actually swayed or prodded out of lethargy, because most people don’t want to be That Guy: The Breaker of Other Peoples’ Toys. Then I got to the far end of the hill looking out over Frobisher Bay, and headed left down the side of the hill back to the road. The road does what roads do when they reach the ocean: it ends in a lookout. There were three cars down there, and two of them, to my bewilderment, had their lights on.
Maybe what they were doing in those cars was so amazing the northern lights paled in comparison. I don’t really want to think about it. But would it hurt to turn their lights off to appreciate the light show, too? Turn the car off; save gas, save fumes and have a little peace, but that’s just me, I guess. The real sad truth is that perhaps many people are more connected to cars that nature’s amazingness. I’m going to extrapolate my survey to say two out of three people in Canada are going through life with their lights on (based on my sample size, that’s plus or minus 50%, 9 times out of 20). And probably the radio too, and don’t really give a hoot about nature except when watching it dramatically portrayed on TV.
That’s why in much of Canada the weather report has become a subset of the traffic report. Weather is something that happens when you are in your car, or going to or from your car, or that is trying to make it difficult for you to use your car. That means climate change, for many people, will affect them primarily by making them want to make sure the have a car (because bus stops and taxi stands aren’t air conditioned), and that their car has good air conditioning. And since it is so nice in there, it may as well be big with lots of gadgets so we are comfortable and have lots to do while we avoid being outside where the traffic report says it is really hot from all the asphalt and exhaust.
When I’m out walking the dog in the dark, I’m tempted to turn on my headlamp. I can see right in front of me better. I can see my footing better. I am less likely to slip or stumble. I can walk faster. But I can’t see anything that isn’t right in front of my face. I much prefer to walk with the light off. All-in-all, I can see more. I can not see things with greater acuity, but I can see more. I can see farther, higher, more peripherally. I actually enjoy the challenge of finding my footing as I go. If I slip or stumble a little, so be it. There are wonders out there to be seen (and threats and opportunities and surprises).
So if you get the chance, turn the lights off. And the radio. And go outside and find somewhere dark (but safe. I’m not suggesting you wander around dark alleys…). And look up, and around. If you don’t see anything amazing out there, that’s okay. A dim but wide view is also a good way to see amazing things that are in, not out.
The next time you hear a climate anxious person say that the sky is falling, don’t roll your eyes. They’re looking up. That’s good. And if they look like someone’s broken their super-fantastic favourite toy? Maybe someone is, right now.
