Angry

Today is October 25th, 2012. In the Caribbean, Hurricane Sandy is inundating the Bahamas. The storm will, over the next several days, move up the east coast of the United States, where, according to current forecasts, it will make landfall somewhere in the mid-Atlantic, bringing unprecedented rain, wind, and coastal flooding to a huge swath of the eastern seaboard. Last year, another hurricane, Irene, made landfall in New England, and Vermont, my home for a little over a year some time back, suffered severe flooding. It may - may - be spared the worst of it this year, but still, for the second year running, a part of the country that simply does not see hurricanes more than once every century is bracing for one.

I am angry about the cruelty of this, angry that the people of Vermont and of New England may have to rebuild much of what they just put back together, angry at the lives that will probably be lost, angry for the trees that will be ripped down, at the soil that will be washed away, angry that the northeastern United States must apparently now pay much closer attention to hurricane season despite the fact that hurricanes are not supposed to make landfall in New Hampshire, or New York, or New Jersey, or Vermont.

I'm angry because this is our doing, and because it simply doesn't have to be this way. Climate change is extending the hurricane season, and the warming of the ocean waters means that hurricanes have much more energy upon which to feed. The terrible change in the planet's climate which we have wrought - well, there's little we can do to change that now. But we can stop making it worse, and eventually, within a few hundred years, return the climate to the sort of stability we have seen over the past 10,000 years.

I am angry, because the causes are obvious, and the solutions so achingly simple. Stop burning fossil fuels. Stop cutting down the forests. Stop laying down pavement. Stop changing the chemistry of the atmosphere. This is all we must do. Modern humans have existed on this planet for at least 200,000 years, and we have only been burning oil and coal for the last 200. If we stopped, life would be very different, but ultimately, we would be fine. And we could all awaken each day knowing that, even though we must live for a while with a climate likely to throw drought, freak rainfall, and the like our way, that this is temporary, that over time this would happen less and less often, that over time the amount of carbon in the atmosphere would fall, and that the world would renew itself, and be bountiful and beautiful again. It is so simple, so simple. It strikes me full force whenever I consider it, the madness, and the deep sickness that forbids us from even thinking about this, forbids us from realizing that the so-called comforts of a world driven by the combustion of fossil fuels are worthless if we destroy that world in the process. It is so simple. What does it say about us that the obvious and certain solution is not even entertained? I cannot even express how angry it makes me.

So, when Hurricane Sandy makes landfall on the mid-Atlantic coast, and does as much damage as it is likely to do, what will we say? This is the price of doing business? The price of global, oil-fueled economy? As the freak storms become more common, and simply become "the weather," what will we say? What will we do?

I cannot tell you how badly I yearn for a world in which hundred year floods, freak weather, and perfect storms remain so rare that they are spoken of like mythical events, like Noah's flood, or the plague of frogs, so rare that they pass easily into memory, then into folklore, then into mythology, referenced as one references the fairy tales of childhood, or the gods and goddesses of the most ancient myths, real and powerful, but manifesting themselves with a rarity that simultaneously belies and affirms their power. Such stories ought to be told reverently around the harvest table, as cautionary tales about the rare fury of nature, what utter havoc she is capable of wreaking if her limits are crossed with abandon. The simple fact is that those stories can be told in that way again. We can make this simple, simple, life-affirming, earth-affirming choice. We can, if only we know the simplicity of it, and the consequences of choosing otherwise. My God, it is so simple.

I hope Vermont does not suffer again this year, the way it did last year. But it seems apparent that hurricane season is now something that the northeastern United States will have to attend to. But it doesn't have to be that way forever. It doesn't have to be that way.