The world outside my window calls me. Whenever the weather cooperates—no snow, not too cold, not too rainy—I exist outside. I live in a city but my favorite places are the green sloping parks and bits of forest bridging one backyard to another. I am an explorer; from the trails behind my high school, to the dog park, to the ice cream shop down the street; I walk everywhere. My memories outside are vivid. From standing in the rain during a warm summer thunderstorm to walking home from school through the red and yellow leaves of fall, or climbing the tree in my backyard to watch the blue jays in my neighbor’s yard, I have always been ensnared by nature.
Today I leave footprints across my college campus. The trees wake from the recent snowstorm and absorb the sunshine. Light dances across the snow. Late winter air nips at my nose. I walk along a shoveled path by a green shrub and pick a stray clipping off the ground. I roll the needles between my fingers. Flat, small, and dull green, they poke my fingers with their prickly tips.
Spruces, like other conifers, like cool and humid climates. Some climate estimates project that the strands of coniferous trees in the Northeast United States will lose 70 to 100 percent of their current range to deciduous trees by 2085 because of increased temperature and precipitation.
Nana’s house is surrounded by wild sprawling spruce bushes. The front door to the big brown house is framed by the bushes, trimmed back every so often just so they can wildly regrow again. The little spiky needles fall off rather easily and she sweeps her front steps to keep them away. The sidewalks in front of these bushes are wide and smooth, perfect for learning how to ride a bicycle.
The bicycle is a slightly-rusty hand-me-down from our neighbor, equipped with new purple and white tassels sticking out from the ends of the handle bars, next to the shiny new bell Mom bought for the occasion. The training wheels are attached to the back wheel, lightly touching the ground in an effort to balance a clumsy four-year-old.
Mom and Nana stand on either side of the little bicycle and half-lift me onto the seat. The sun peeks through the clouds. The warm breeze glides across my arms as I steady myself in the seat. I grip the handle bars firmly and touch the ground on the tip toes of my purple sneakers. Mom tells me “Now, put your feet on the pedals…There you go.” They feel funny, not quite big enough for my feet to fit completely. I move my feet back and forth as the pedals turn like gears. I look up and Nana smiles with quiet reassurance.
“I’ll hold onto you and the bike, but you’ve got to start pedaling your feet, okay? One at a time. Ready?” Mom says.
I nod. “Ready!” my voice squeaks.
Furrowed concentration on my face, I sneak the bicycle forward. Five feet later the bicycle stops. “You’ve got to keep moving your legs,” Mom says, “Or you won’t move forward. Push!”
This time, I gain a little bit of speed and they let me go. The training wheels guide me down the sidewalk until I forget to steer and lose control of my direction. I close my eyes tightly as I crash, steering wheel first into Nana’s spruce bushes. Me and the bicycle tip over and the bush absorbs the fall. Prickly needles poke into my skin and a broken twig scratches into my forearm. Spruce needles get stuck in the holes in my brand-new helmet as I sit immobile. Mom runs over to lift me out of the bush and inspect the scratches. It isn’t anything too bad so she brushes me off, helps me back onto the bicycle, and we try again. Finally I zoom down sidewalks—not allowed to go on the street—as Nana watches from the front steps. Mom shouts, “Good job!” and claps her hands in excitement.
The dent in the bushes grows in a few months later.
Plants have a hormone called auxin that causes them to grow towards the sunlight, as a way to capture the maximum amount of light possible through their leaves. Bushes and trees grow upwards or slightly east or west depending on maximum sunlight. All that photosynthesis takes Carbon Dioxide out of the atmosphere naturally.
One bicycle and two fewer training wheels later, I ride to Forest River Park. The air prickles with warmth and sunlight glistens off the pavement as I race down the bicycle lanes on the roads near my house. Turn right. My backpack contains a summer reading book and a beach towel and my phone is on full volume in case Mom wants to check in on me. Turn left. The busy streets are full of cars and I stay carefully in my lane to avoid the bustle. I stand on my pedals and propel myself up the hill towards the park’s entrance, straining my calf muscles while perspiration drips down my face from underneath my helmet. Turn right.
I reach the entrance of the park, relieve my legs of the fast-paced pedaling and coast across the parking lot half-full of cars, towards the beach. I dismount and lean my bicycle up against the bushes along the walkway looking over the beach. I stroll over to a patch of green where I can see the lighthouse across the bay. I spread the beach towel across the uneven grass. The salty sea breeze cools me down and I relax, stretching out my legs and arms to settle in.
I people watch. A lifeguard sits at the end of the small beach in a tall chair with chipped red paint. A group of older girls with matching green STAFF t-shirts sit across the beach or wade in the water as smaller children of all shapes and sizes build sandcastles, splash in the ocean, and search for hermit crabs. A young woman with blonde hair and bright pink shorts walks by with her golden retriever, not stopping long enough for the dog to roll around in the sand. A myriad of voices screech with delight in the beautiful summer air.
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire sits open before me. The pages are slightly ruffled and the binding shows that this is the third time I have read the book. Harry dives into the Great Lake after eating gillyweed as I hear splashes of small children stomping along the shore. The warm air comforts me and I let my mind wander into the pages of the story.
A small fuzzy-brown caterpillar slowly makes his way across the page of the book, mistaking it for a black-and-white leaf. I watch as it crawls across the page in inch-worm like fashion, searching for words to follow. I stretch out my hand on the page and the caterpillar climbs onto my knuckles. His fuzzy body tickles my hand and I watch as he tries to decipher which way to go next. With caution I stand up, take him to a nearby maple tree and place him gently on a low-hanging branch.
He makes his way over to the middle of a leaf, reaching towards the sunlight to soak in pure energy.
Plants photosynthesize light energy into sugar energy. The energy they convert becomes energy for a caterpillar-eating bird, which becomes energy for a bird-eating mammal and so on and so forth, transferring energy across the food chain indefinitely.
Henry David Thoreau once wrote, “We need the tonic of wildness...At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature.” Children often capture this need to explore and learn in the natural world in a way that adults don’t often think about. Children can be carefree and open because they do not yet know the wonders of every corner of their neighborhoods and with excitement they explore unencumbered by the weight of adulthood. They do not yet know what they do not fear and find mystery to be the most enthralling thing about life. Our parents call us inside for dinner and we yell back “five more minutes!” because we need more of what nature gives to us. We forget that we need the invigoration wilderness provides to make us excited about the unfathomable.
I walk along the faux-brick path beside the college chapel and listen to the sounds of the wind sailing through the trees. I relax a little, focusing my sights ahead of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a small white circle. A plastic water bottle cap. Frustrated, I shake my head and pick it up, examining the grooved edges of the cap and the series of numbers stamped to the side of it. I turn towards the nearest trash can, tossing the cap into the trash. I dwell on my aggravation at the number of water bottles I see across campus.
20 billion plastic water bottles end up in landfills or incinerated each year instead of recycled. That’s enough plastic bottles to circle the Earth four times. Producing those bottles adds 2.5 million tons of Carbon Dioxide into the atmosphere every year.
It is sophomore year and I sit in our crowded campus center behind a poster of a plastic water bottle adorned with facts about Carbon emissions and waste. I participate in a “Ban the Bottle” initiative with my environmental club in the hopes that students would use their reusable water bottles instead of buying out the Aquafina bottles. We try to show people that they can both save money and prevent more plastic from entering the waste stream if they choose the reusable option instead of the easy option. I hear several different reactions to the cause:
“Oh, I always have my water bottle with me! Water from a faucet is free!”
“What if today was the one day I forgot my water bottle in my room? Should I not be allowed to get water?”
“This is ridiculous. I’ll recycle the bottle after anyways.”
“Who are you to tell me I can’t buy a bottle of water?”
“Tap water is bad for you.”
Banning water bottles might not be the solution to the problem—not everyone gets the picture—but I watch as students and faculty walk up to the water refill station with their Nalgenes, Klean Kanteens, and Gatorade Sports bottles.
Those water refill stations strangely make me feel good about myself. The fountain has a regular drinking spout, but the back of the fountain has a special censor to dispense water into bottles or cups. The right side of the fountain wears a small rectangular screen with a number that reads: “10568 water bottles have been saved from reaching landfills.” The number increases every time someone uses the fountain. I save a plastic water bottle or two every time I filled up my thirty-two ounce Nalgene water bottle, as if that could solve the world’s plastic crisis.
Americans consume over 8.6 billion gallons of bottled water a year. It’s the same amount as filling 13,158 Olympic-sized swimming pools.
I examine the stickers we hand out to students. A plastic water bottle captures the eye, covered by a dark red circle with a line through it and “Ban the Bottle” in bright red lettering. Within the week, reusable water bottles across campus are adorned with the sticker. I vow to make sure my water bottle stays with my backpack. I buy a travel mug for my coffee and tea purchases.
Earth is our life-support. We breathe in the oxygen from her plants and trees, we consume her freshwater, and we eat plants grown in her ground. We live while she lives. We often fail to see how dependent our lives are on her wellbeing. Our plastic bottle use is only a tiny piece of that problem. We see ourselves as independent from Earth and sometimes dominant over her. Wangari Maathai once said, “We are called to assist the Earth to heal her wounds and in the process heal our own - indeed to embrace the whole of creation in all its diversity, beauty and wonder. Recognizing that sustainable development, democracy and peace are indivisible is an idea whose time has come.” To embrace the whole of creation—and our relationship to it—is to realize how our actions make an impact on the Earth and every other living creature. Maathai speaks of sustainable development. What must we do to sustain the world that we live in?
In 1987, the World Commission on Environment and Development defined sustainable development as development that meets the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs.
The sun shines down on me, burning my nose as I smile for a picture. I hold a small plastic white board with the words “Educate others about sustainability!” scrawled across it in black marker. This is the answer to the question I am asked: “What do YOU do for the Earth?” It is Earth Day 2018 and I am at a Farmer’s Market brought to campus by myself and a group of friends from the environmental club.
I smile for the photo and hand the white board to the next person. We watch the other students walk in circles around the market. We collect photos to post to the group Facebook page to promote our Earth Day message. The same thing happens every year. My Instagram feed becomes full of gorgeous pictures from places around the world where nature has not been destroyed by development. “Appreciate Mother Nature” and “What a beautiful day to be alive” exclaim the Earth Day sentiment. We revel in the beauty of the day and hope that the next Earth Day brings good weather like this one. Why don’t we treat every day this way?
I sink into the green grass, watching people walk by with hands full of salty kettle corn, glass jars of preserves, and cups of fresh juice. I enjoy the fresh air and let the sounds of happy people fall into the background.
What do I do for the Earth? I think back to environmental club in high school and I remember preparing for the Enviro-thon. We got to school early that semester to prepare for the competition in a day of environmental education. I remember learning the names of all the trees behind the school. Quaking Aspen. Red Pine. White Pine. Paper Birch. Maple. Oak. Juniper. Cherry. That class set me on my path to actually studying environmental science. I think about joining the environmental club at Holy Cross as soon as I arrived. I smile.
I walk up to a vendor selling various preserves. “Such a beautiful day!” she exclaims.
“Yes it is.”
I taste test the Raspberry Peach Preserves and take a jar home for myself.
The quality of fruits that grow in New England could be affected by the increasing summer heat stress due to climate change. It may mean a shift in prominent apple varieties and changes in the growing season.
On my walk I think about the hiking Mount Moosilauke, the Beehive in Acadia National Park, and the trails of the Ipswich River Wildlife Sanctuary. The campus does not have quite the same views. Massive structures of wood, brick, and concrete line cement pathways and green patches of hand-planted grass. The vine-laden brick buildings remind me that nature still exists in a built environment. Along my path I find a twig from a white paper birch tree. The twig itself is a deep chestnut brown with polka dotted white spots. It curves across my palm in a bumpy pattern. Birch trees feel familiar to me. They frame the photographs from family vacations to New Hampshire. They remind me of hikes among deeply rooted forests.
Birch trees are a pioneer species, which means they are one of the first species to grow after a disturbance to a forest. Though they burn quickly in a fire, it doesn’t take long for the species to sprout up again.
Birch tree after birch tree, far as the eye can see. White papery bark like corn husks create a flowing field of white and green and brown. Birds chirp, squirrels jump from tree to tree, and I feel at peace.
We hike up Mount Monadnock in sunny, seventy-five degree weather. There are sixteen of us from my high school, using this sweet summer day to explore the mountain. Sweat forms on my brow but I keep a steady pace, breathing in the fresh air, consuming the beautiful landscape.
Step by step, I follow the leaders of the pack. The path is clear by way of constant travelers, whose footsteps mark out the beaten path, snaking around trees and rocks. I stop to catch my breath and quench my thirst. My calf muscles feel tight from climbing uphill over rocks. I hoist my foot up to a rock slightly lower than waist height and stretch. I'm not in pain--rather, I feel energized and calm as I take in the tonic of the wilderness around me. Feeling power pulse through my body, I continue to climb.
After two hours or so pass by, the birch trees start to disperse. Up, up, up. My line of sight changes as speckles of blue peek out from the leaf cover. Up. An opening in the trees reveals that we are close! A bird flies overhead and his shadow glides across my feet. I hear the twittering of birds reuniting in the tree tops. I look up and watch the wind sway the tips of the trees in a magical dance. My friends and I quicken our pace, anticipating that the end goal is near. We grow quiet in our final steps. A pile of rocks marks the path ahead and we snake around it, almost there.
Finally we see the rocky summit of the mountain. The sun blinds us and our eyes take a minute to adjust. I reach my hand above my head as a self-made cloud to block the sun from my eyes. I search for a horizon in the blue abyss until my eyes strain. We made it, pioneers of Mount Monadnock. The breeze cools the sweat on my forehead and trails through my hair. My muscles relax. Former signs of exhaustion disappear as I join my friends on a rock face for lunch. We sit in a jagged circle on the smooth rocks. Quiet hovers over us and the cheeps of birds, howl of wind, and trickling of distant water whisper in the background. For once we do not speak, we just listen.
I inhale and smell the fir trees, the cool breeze, and my peanut butter sandwich. The sunlight reflects off the rock face and glittery beams of light scatter in a million directions like diamonds. Tops of the white birch trees near me quiver in the wind. Evergreens and firs dot the hills around me like a painting splattered with speckles of green. The rolling hills cascade into a distant blue waterfall of mountains that seem to river across the horizon endlessly. The sky is blanketed in bright blue and the place where the mountains meet the sky is blurred. I capture a picture with my phone but realize it won't be nearly as good as the real thing.
The rock beneath my feet is hard and absorbs the warmth of the sun. I run my hands across the pebbles next to me, small, round and rough. The flaky bits of mica stick to my hand and sparkle like a natural shiny nail polish. I pick up a small stone with rounded edges and roll it over and over in my hand. Slightly rough and uneven, imperfect in shape, I examine rocks surrounding me to see if the piece I hold was broken off of a larger parent rock.
I suddenly feel infinitely small, encapsulated in a dome of incomprehensible magnitude. The mountains stretch out their hands across miles of the Earth’s surface, reaching towards valleys and rivers and oceans while the nearest piece I touch is the stone in the palm of my hand. I cannot begin to imagine the possibilities before me, the exploration yet to come, the memories yet to be made. Like an ant in a pit of sand, the paths I can make are endless and all to my own desirous design. I smile and ask myself, “where to begin?”
33% of the land area in the United States is forest. Forests in the United States continue to sequester more carbon than they emit each year, and combined with urban forest, and harvested wood products, offset nearly 15 percent of greenhouse gas emissions.
In Silent Spring, Rachel Carson wrote “In nature nothing exists alone.” This feels particularly important when talking about climate change. Everything is connected. Ecosystems are dependent upon each plant, tree, and creature existing within it. Even a tiny change in a system can create ripples that affect the entire surface. Nothing exists alone—rather, everything is interdependent. Humans have become a huge factor in these ecosystems—in some places, wiping them out entirely. We are an essential part of the equation. Not dominant over. Not subversive to. We are a part of nature as much as it is a part of us. The Earth serves us: she creates natural wetlands to bar land from flood, she regrows after fires, she stores carbon in her plants and oceans. In return, we can utilize all the resources Earth has to offer, we can farm and cultivate the land, and we can also destroy it. Our relationship to nature depends on our decisions. Do we exist with nature, or against it?
I walk along an unfamiliar trail in the Angeles Crest National Forest. The trees are different here, the plants more cactus-like because they don't need as much rain. The weight of my backpack, packed with snacks and extra water, presses up against my back. Dry heat prickles my skin. The sun peeks through the gaps in the tree cover and I keep my eyes wide open. Michael walks beside me, watching the forest alongside me.
"Shh." Michael reaches an arm out in front of me to stop me.
I look over and he puts a finger up to his lips, signaling me to keep quiet and points just ahead of us in the trees. Two deer, light brown coats and white spots, graze silently in the brush. They take turns sticking their heads up, ears perked, to listen. I stand as still as possible, nearly holding my breath.
The deer slowly move through the trees, searching for food. I look at Michael and smile. I have never seen deer so close. They continue about their day, undisturbed by our presence.
We hike for nearly an hour through the patchy trees and rough paths when we come to a steep hill. The ledge along the hill is rather thin so I follow Michael as he slowly makes his way up the hill. I watch my feet attentively, hoping I won’t trip, sidestepping rocks along the way. I am nearly out of breath when I finally look up. Woah.
I stare into the canyon spread out in front of me. One hill cascades into the next and I can see just between two mountains, the distant shapes of more. The hills are all a sandy brown color, dotted with different shades of green and the shapes of California’s native plant species. It looks like it hasn’t rained in a while, but these hills are resilient. The view is beyond words.
We step out to the edge of the path and look down into the canyon. Tops of trees cover the bottom of the canyon like the hills grow out from the forest. The sky feels wide and open as dark clouds roll out in the distance and a blanket of blue warmth hugs the mountains. I hear the rustling of the wind in the trees below and the sound of bees buzzing nearby, hunting for nectar. My skin feels warm in the direct sunlight as I sit down on a nearby rock to rest.
“I’ve lived nearby my whole life and haven’t seen this,” Michael said in bewilderment.
“Guess you just needed someone to come with you?” I asked playfully.
He smiled. “Guess I didn’t look too far.”
I looked out across the canyon to the mountains in the distance. “Can we do things like this more often?” I asked.
“I’ll follow your lead.”
I suppose that the beauty of nature is sometimes enough to make you want to protect it. That’s part of why national parks became national parks. Manmade structures can hardly compare to the hot springs of Yellowstone, the pristine lakes of Acadia, and the waterfalls of Yosemite. At the same time, I suppose the resources available in some of these locations are the reason that land has been mined and exploited. The survival of the economy has prevailed. I think about my childhood days at Franklin Street Park, bike rides down the trails in Marblehead, and running down the trails across from campus. I cannot fathom the idea that some of these places are struggling and disappearing because of anthropogenic climate change. I think about the places I haven’t been like the Grand Canyon, the Mississippi River Delta and Alaskan mountain ranges. I think twice about my decisions sometimes, wondering about my own participation in destroying the environment.
If the rest of the world lived like Americans do, we would need five Earths to sustain us.
I walk on the cement road on my college campus, examining the red brick buildings and twisting roads, the trees reaching over my head and the bushes planted aside buildings. I think about the roots to each of the trees, digging themselves deep into the ground, under the roads and even under some of the buildings. No matter how many buildings are
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