Who's snowing whom?

On the trees and covering the fields, last night's snowfall was beautiful. Although each flake is unique (think about that for a moment), the snow that we admired and enjoyed in fields and wood we disliked, intensely, on the driveway, road and path. The snow hadn't changed. It was the "improvements" we've made to the land that shifted out attitude and perspective. How much does that tell us about our larger ability to accommodate nature when she inconveniences us? Does it suggest motivations for why we're not responding to climate disruption as rapidly as we need to, because to do so would cause inconvenience?

this morning's trees, before the wind rose

Photo by J. Harrington

Do you remember Al Gore's book, An Inconvenient Truth? We have a copy in one of the downstairs bookcases. It would be interesting to see how many, if any, of the predictions or projections made in the book have been validated. How much is our convenience worth to us? What are we willing to sacrifice for convenience? Perhaps more to the point, how much will we end up sacrificing to the impacts of climate disruption, willingly or not?

As for us, we're going to take a chance on a little inconvenience and see if we can get away with letting the snow melt from the driveway without burning gas to run the snow blower. The extended forecast anticipates rain and temperatures near 40℉ for Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Meanwhile, today the wind is still gusting like hell, which is another reason to avoid blowing snow (read that whichever way you want). We're kind of old to be foregoing our perfectionistic tendencies, but maybe we'll turn out to be one of those old dogs that can learn at least some new tricks. If our children, and their children, are going to have any kind of opportunity to lead a really decent life, it's time we learned to adapt to a few inconveniences. If you don't believe us, or Al Gore, you can think about why so few are adapting to even longer-standing warnings of trouble, contained in Limits to Growth, and its sequel.

Mortal Limit

Robert Penn Warren, 1905- 1989

I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming.
It rose from coniferous darkness, past gray jags
Of mercilessness, past whiteness, into the gloaming
Of dream-spectral light above the lazy purity of snow-snags.

There—west—were the Tetons.  Snow-peaks would soon be
In dark profile to break constellations.  Beyond what height
Hangs now the black speck?  Beyond what range will gold eyes see
New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light?

Or, having tasted that atmosphere’s thinness, does it
Hang motionless in dying vision before
It knows it will accept the mortal limit,
And swing into the great circular downwardness that will restore

The breath of earth?  Of rock?  Of rot?  Of other such
Items, and the darkness of whatever dream we clutch?

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