Local writer Elling Lien asked this question on social media after the blizzard: “What are some good things happening during this state of emergency that you’d like to see continue?” He got dozens (maybe hundreds) of wonderful answers, many of which focussed on the joy of being able to walk (snowshoe, ski, snowboard, slide) freely around the city and the sense of connection and community that engendered. There was a bit of controversy about whether or not the bonfires in the streets were a good idea but other than that a lot of agreement about everything else. One thread is here if you’d like to have a look, and it has a link to another longer thread in the Snowmaggeden 2020 Information Centre Facebook group (which is itself worth a look, though more of a mixed bag, but lots of heartwarming stories). Anyway, I didn’t have much that was original to add since I came upon the threads when they already had many responses but this morning I did think of something that nobody else had mentioned: In normal times, if you want to avoid the traffic on Military Rd. you can walk across Bannerman Park and Government House grounds but you have to take an annoying detour down to Military Rd. and back up between the two because of a high fence. However, in the current state of emergency, you can snowshoe right across that pesky fence!
It was a white Christmas and we saw fireworks. Here’s Jazzie watching them.
It may seem odd, and jarring, to post this after a cheery snapshot of coloured umbrellas at the Babylon Mall. But then, maybe they do go together if they both refer to the last days of capitalism. I’m reading Roy Scranton’s book, with the same title as this post and this article. Scranton argues that none of the dominant stories we humans use to make sense of our existence will save us from the impending doom of climate change. Not the stories that we must invent better technology, or vote the right way and muster up more political will; not the ones that say that God or the Market will save us; certainly not the ones that deny the problem even exists and instead blame refugees or terrorists for all our troubles.
I can only read the book in small doses, and yet I find it strangely comforting. Scranton’s basic reasoning is that we must accept that we are doomed and learn humility. We cannot fix things. Our children’s lives will not be better than our own. They will almost certainly be much worse in many ways. As Scranton puts it, “the gap between the future we’re entering and the future we once imagined grows ever wider.” And yet, he says, our capacity to make sense of our existence through the stories we tell can make almost any life bearable and enable us to survive. We need stories that guide us to accept our fate and our limitations, and that draw on multiple perspectives, on the wisdom not just of other traditions but other species and entities:
We need to learn to see not just with Western eyes but with Islamic eyes and Inuit eyes, not just with human eyes but with golden-cheeked warbler eyes, coho salmon eyes, and polar bear eyes, and not even just with eyes at all but with the wild, barely articulate being of clouds and seas and rocks and trees and stars.
Each chapter is an essay on something Scranton learned from experiences as diverse as his time as a soldier in Iraq, his tourist voyage through the Northwest Passage, and his decision to become a parent. In the end, as the second part of the title indicates, Scranton has some modest suggestions for what we should do next.
The full reference is Roy Scranton, We’re Doomed. Now What? Essays on War and Climate Change. Soho Press, 2018.