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My awareness of the climate crisis started like tiny raindrops in a pond, splashes of recognition each time I read a news article about the catastrophic consequences of our warming world—the dramatic melting of arctic ice, devastating droughts, wildfires, hurricanes, and unprecedented species loss. Each moment of troubling recognition quickly dissipated into the normal rhythms of my life and my immediate personal concerns. Robert Jay Lifton says that when we continue to live in a functional environment, we find it hard to grasp the existential threat of the climate crisis.
My awareness grew to a steadier stream when evidence of the climate emergency touched me more directly. On a visit to the mountains in my home state of Colorado, I witnessed the marked devastation of forests, where the usual glorious blanket of green conifers had turned brown and withered, like harbingers of emergent catastrophe. Increasing temperatures had prevented the usual winter die-off of pine beetles, and the proliferating insects were devouring the trees. The familiar solace and comfort I gained in returning to the alpine landscape of my childhood was replaced with a deep mourning. Harold Searles noted that the nonhuman world can be as much a part of us as the parents who raise us, exerting influence, shaping parts of our inner experience. My sadness cast a shadow in the background of my mind.