earthweal weekly challenge: BEGINNINGS


Think back to your first impressions of the world when you were very young. Do they look like Eden?

One psychological theory has it that our early childhood memories are embedded with earlier ages of the species.  Those first lights shine back on the grand savannahs where homo erectus walked from the treeline some 2 million years ago. Leaving that homeland must have borne an echo of departure from Eden. Sandor Ferenczi argued in Thalassa that the cataclysm of birth echoes the trauma of the first fish emerging from the sea about 500 million years ago; if so, our early are ripe with an early, growing Earth.

Given the despair of these times, with so much falling apart so fast, no wonder we feel Eden drifting farthermost away. We are haunted both by the eviction of this historical moment and the extinction is portends. As I wrote last week, grief and hope are as imbalanced and wobbly as summer and winter for many of us now. Since that post, the torrid alternation of heat-waves and furious storms have continued in the US, with the Northwest and western Canada suffering record heat, wildfires raging in California and record rainfall events in Missouri and a few days later in Kentucky. The widespread intensity of this summer (extreme heat also in Japan and Korea, north Africa and Turkey, Siberia, southwest France; flooding in Pakistan, Iran and the United Arab Emirates) Startling events become a duration, like the sursurrus of drenching rains which smoothed over the geography of rural Kentucky.

“Expulsion from the Garden of Eden,” Thomas Cole, 1828

In such ends, are there new beginnings?

If time is circular — an immense throb of beginnings and ends repeated endlessly — then we might look for evidence of Eden seeding in the destruction of our Earth. There is also a confusion of times in a round world, where Oklahoma in the U.S. unmercifully roasts where you might be enjoying a placid winter morning in South Africa; even in one location like my own in Florida, daybreak casts the image of one world far different and menacing mid-afternoon. Globally we may feel the impending doom of a rapidly-changing climate, but our angst will probably seem halcyon to someone living 50 years from now; and downright strange to someone living far North or South 200 years from now, in the placid and temperate zones of what was once Antarctica and the Arctic.

As the I Ching says, to and fro goes the way.

But let’s try. Recall, as you can, your early hours and days on this Earth. Where did light first break for you? What did the great world look and feel like when you were outside? What games do you recall playing, what places did you explore? And how do those early memories resonate for you now?

Was there an Eden once? When did the Fall come, and how did it happen?

It’s important to point out that the Judeo-Christian myth of Eden and the Fall has many similar motifs in other cultures. According to some ancient sources, the four main rivers of the ancient Near East—the Tigris, Euphrates, Halys, and Araxes — flowed out of a garden. Scholars today debate the origin of the word Eden. Some believe it comes from a Sumerian word meaning “plain”’ Others say it is from the Persian word heden, meaning “garden.”

Yet in other cultures, our place in creation is not defined by a Fall. Robin Wall Kimmerer writes in Braiding Sweetgrass (2013):

On one side of the world were people whose relationship with the living world was shaped by Skywoman, who created a garden for the well-being of all. On the other side was another woman with a garden and a tree. But for tasting its fruit, she was banished from the garden and the gates clanged shut behind her. That mother of men was made to wander in the wilderness and earn her bread by the sweat of her brow, not by filling her mouth with the sweet juicy fruits that bend the branches low. In order to eat, she was instructed to subdue the wilderness into which she was cast.

Same species, same earth, different stories. Like Creation stories everywhere, cosmologies are a source of identity and orientation to the world. They tell us who we are. We are inevitably shaped by them no matter how distant they may be from our consciousness. One story leads to the generous embrace of the living world, the other to banishment. One woman is our ancestral gardener, a cocreator of the good green world that would be the home of her descendants. The other was an exile, just passing through an alien world on a rough road to her real home in heaven.  (6-7)

Exile brought Western settlers to North America, and they carried with them a haunted sense of the Fall which made them extractors and developers, stealing everything they could from the wilderness their God told them to master. (In the United States, those descendents now tell woman their body belongs to the will of the religious state, a garden women are finding themselves  banned from.)

Divisions of culture and nature also create a false wall where inside is human plenty and outside is the raw material for that comfort. Suburbias are unholy Edens, a gated paradise adorned with walls and security systems and rich green lawns and viciously overworked irrigation systems.

Back at the end of the 19th century, there were those here in the U.S. who sought to conserve some fraction of the frontier which had been fenced and portioned off. They sought government protection of public lands and made national parks out of lonely islands of the old wild — Yosemite and the Grand Canyon in the U.S., Banff National Park in Canada, Plitvis Lakes in Croatia, Torres del Plaine in Chile and Kruger National Park in South Africa.

As good intentioned as these national parks are, they reinforce the sense that wild nature is out there and far away, hiding the living wild that is part and parcel of our daily lived reality.

Indeed, nature in the Anthropocene is no less everpresent, and though resembles far less the Edens of memory, it is still something to be loved. We may have to reimagine our relation to the wild, as Jedediah Purdy writes in After Nature:

American environmentalists imagine wild nature as diametrically opposed to lowland of society, technology, and politics — a view that enables nature’s devotees to divide their loyalties in a too-convenient copout. When in the lowlands of everyday life, they are not entirely of it, because they hold apart the most essential portion of themselves. In wild nature, they cultivate a (supposedly) higher part of the self, but to assume that this, the best of them, cannot thrive where they spend most of their time and energy. The best and highest, what they live for, is elsewhere for most of their lives. This divided attitude … is an excuse to neglect and disrespect the places where environmentalist actually live and the people they live among. This attitude ironically also fails to take seriously the “higher” values of nature, because it reserves those values for rare occasions in faraway places, rather than working to bring them into everyday life. (283-4)

Which means if we are looking for beginnings, it is well for us to begin in our own back yards, that place of personal experience and enactment.

For this week’s challenge, write of Beginnings — wherever they may be found.





Emily Dickinson

Some keep the Sabbath, going to church;
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.

Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;
I just wear my wings,
And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.

God preaches — a noted clergyman, —
And the sermon is never long:
So instead of going to heaven at last,
I’m going all along!



Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Give me a church
made entirely of salt.
Let the walls hiss
and smoke when
I return to shore.

I ask for the grace
of a new freckle
on my cheek, the lift
of blue and my mother’s
soapy skin to greet me.

Hide me in a room
with no windows.
Never let me see
the dolphins leaping
into commas

for this water-prayer
rising like a host
of sky lanterns into
the inky evening.
Let them hang

in the sky until
they vanish at the edge
of the constellations —
the heroes and animals
too busy and bright to notice.

From Oceanic, 2018




Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

— from House of Light, 1990




TS Eliot


What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea’s throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree

Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always–
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

— “The Little Gidding” is the last of Eliot’s Four Quartets and was originally published in 1943

Meanwhile in Antarctica, the slow march to summer begins.


earthweal weekly challenge: SACRED GLIMMERS


Just 51 years old in 1926, Ranier Maria Rilke’s major work was behind him, following the 1923 publication of his Duino Elegies and Sonnets to Orpheus. He suffered weariness, abdominal pain and ulcers of the mouth, faint signs of the leukemia that would kill in in late 1926. In the Rilke myth, the diagnosis would not come until one day when he was to be visited at his (loaned) chalet in Muzot, Switzerland, by Nimet Eloui, an Egyptian beauty who was even more renowned for her probing intellect. Rilke was gathering some roses from his garden in honor of the visit in early October when a thorn pricked his hand. The wound worsened, became infected, and soon his entire arm was swollen with sepsis. He recovered somewhat, but the leukemia at last had been discovered. He died shortly after, at the end of December.

As death approached, Rilke composed his epitaph:

rose, o pure contradiction, desire
to be no one’s sleep beneath so many lids

The pure contradiction: It’s how poetry arises, the thing of heaven on earth. In the droll and ordinary and fallen — our leaden existence — the artist creates gold.

It’s a tall order, these days. Much of  the Northern Hemisphere is suffering an infernal summer, with temperature records breaking daily in China, the United States and Europe. On its hottest-ever day of 40C, 10 grass fires burned around London, igniting suburban homes. The heat has claimed 1,700 lives in Portugal and Spain. A heatstroke monitor by the Chinese Center for Disease Control and Prevention’s Health Emergency Center showed that for the first six months of this year, the number of people who had heat stroke increased by 42.2 percent compared with the average level of the previous two years. The roof of the Forbidden City Cultural Relics Museum in the city of Chongquing recently melted in the heat.

More than 84% of Texas (in the U.S.) is in severe or worse drought conditions, the highest percentage in over a decade. It’s so dry in Fort Worth that the ground is shifting, causing a rash of water main breaks. Tulsa, Oklahoma, hasn’t recorded a daily high temperature below 100 degrees Fahrenheit (37C) in 10 days. On Tuesday, for the first time in 25 years of collecting air temperature data, all 120 stations of the Oklahoma Mesonet recorded temperatures of 103 or higher.

Combine all this with high energy prices and rising inflation due to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and the tenor of the time edges dangerously towards a shriek.

Recent research suggests that the asymmetric pattern of warming underway (with polar regions warming faster than middle latitudes) is altering the pattern of the summer jet stream. The growing pattern is one of high-amplitude meanders of stream, leading to persistent high and low pressure centers associated with extreme heat, drought, wildfire and extreme flooding. (Welcome to tipping points now in the rear-view mirror.)

And for anyone pining for relief, remember that we’ve yet to pass through the wall of wildfire and hurricane before our autumnals commence.

All this, we are repeatedly told (most recently by the latest IPCC report), is just a hot glimmer of things to come.

Oh well. For our friends in the Southern Hemisphere, we hope you are enjoying the respite. (How stark the contrast grows between summer and winter. Many now experience the onset of seasonal dread as summer rolls around.

Sherry’s IN THE WAKE OF PROGRESS challenge last week produced as much energetic commentary as poetry, a sign that Edward Burtynsky’s Anthropocene landscapes evoked a raw nerve. It is so a painful to see how vast these vistas ruined by human hands have become. The changes are ramping up far more quickly than we believed and will be with us far, far longer than any of us can imagine.

Our fraught awareness of this makes the central dynamic of earthweal between grief and hope a difficult one to sustain. Like our summers and winters, grief waxes and hope ebbs.

Perhaps it is a good time to address this perilous imbalance with this poem by Rilke, written a few years before the poet’s death.


Muzot, mid-February 1924

As once the winged energy of delight
carried you over childhood’s dark abysses,
now beyond your own life build the great
arch of unimagined bridges.

Wonders happen if we can succeed
in passing through the harshest danger;
but only in a bright and purely granted
achievement can we realize the wonder.

To work with Things in the indescribable
relationship is not too hard for us;
the pattern grows more intricate and subtle,
and being swept along is not enough.

Take your practiced powers and stretch them out
until they span the chasm between two
contradictions…For the god
wants to know himself in you.

(transl. Stephen Mitchell)

At the time of this poem, Europe was struggling up from the vast destruction of the Great War, trying to figure out if a future remained. He was aware that his greatest work of “passing through the harshest danger” lie ahead. But how to achieve that? He was humble enough realize that it was a “bright and purely granted” thing, “being swept along” by events “is not enough.”

His solution? Become the bridge which makes possible a deified awareness. I think of him taking his grief and hope and placing them on either side of an impossibility, so that we might behold the sacred glimmers of transformation.


Another poem I take for this is Mary Oliver’s “Foxes in Winter,” from House of Light (1990):

Every night in the moonlight the foxes come down the hill
to gnaw on the bones of birds. I never said
nature wasn’t cruel. Once, in a city as hot as these woods
are cold, I met a boy with a broken face. To stay
alive, he was a beggar. Also, in the night, a thief.
And there are birds in his country that look like rainbows—
if he could have caught them, he would have
torn off their feathers and put their bodies into
his own. The foxes are hungry, who could blame them
for what they do? I never said
we weren’t sunk in glittering nature, until we are able
to become something else. As for the boy, it’s simple.
He had nothing, not even a bird. All night the pines
are so cold their branches crack. All night the snow falls
softly down. Then it shines like a field
of white flowers. Then it tightens.

In my reading, the sacred glimmers aren’t revealed when snow “shines like a field of like white flowers”; rather, they come later, after and because “it tightens.” We’re sunk in this shattered, glorious majesty. How are we to sing of that magnitude, its failure?



I’m retiring this Friday from a 45-year career of warehousing someone else’s goods and selling their soap. It’s provided well enough; I can retire at the age of 65, bolstered by Social Security and Medicare and supported by pensions and savings. Yet I feel it’s an accomplishment of time, not talent; my labors strengthened a company’s bottom line for some while, until the inevitable came to pass. I did some creative things, made this or that, spent an infinity hunched over a computer moving things around on a screen – numbers, text boxes, photos, layouts, Web pages, naughty nudies, mindless diversions. Now that the necessity of it passes (I will freelance, do this and that, but unless circumstances change there will be no more careering someone else’s careen, I wonder what achievement it represents, if any.

Jack Gilbert grew up in the industrial city of Pittsburgh, and the raw steel of its foundries gave him a scale to understand magnitude:


Jack Gilbert

The fox pushes softly, blindly through me at night,
between the liver and the stomach. Comes to the heart
and hesitates. Considers and then goes around it.
Trying to escape the mildness of our violent world.
Goes deeper, searching for what remains of Pittsburgh
in me. The rusting mills sprawled gigantically
along three rivers. The authority of them.
The gritty alleys where we played every evening were
stained pink by the inferno always surging in the sky,
as though Christ and the Father were still fashioning the Earth.
Locomotives driving through the cold rain,
lordly and bestial in their strength. Massive water
flowing morning and night throughout a city
girded with ninety bridges. Sumptuous-shouldered,
sleek-thighed, obstinate and majestic, unquenchable.
All grip and flood, mighty sucking and deep-rooted grace.
A city of brick and tired wood. Ox and sovereign spirit.
Primitive Pittsburgh. Winter month after month telling
of death. The beauty forcing us as much as harshness.
Our spirits forged in that wilderness, our minds forged
by the heart. Making together a consequence of America.
The fox watched me build my Pittsburgh again and again.
In Paris afternoons on Buttes-Chaumont. On Greek islands
with their fields of stone. In beds with women, sometimes,
amid their gentleness. Now the fox will live in our ruined
house. My tomatoes grow ripe among weeds and the sound
of water. In this happy place my serious heart has made.

— From The Great Fires (1994)

Likewise, a consequence I carry with me, even if it was an overwhelming failure:  the magnitude of 100-ton press bays roaring out 300,000 daily newspapers every night, the rumble which echoes in my dreams where I walk through warehouses and offices I worked in my career, all gone now and dead, like the huge bay which sits silent and empty, the presses shut down, sold, disassembled and freighted to smaller opportunities elsewhere. Whatever news there was has become a silent, silted, fleeting ghost, no longer even white noise. Yet something leads me through those rooms, a tiny gold flame pacing slowly along, bidding me to look back and behold.

I am that contradiction.


Lammas approaches, the prechristian old European summer festival of harvest. As Sarah Connor wrote for this forum last year, harvest is a term with many meanings and amplifications:

The actual harvest of grain, the production of food and seed for next year; but also how our wishes, dreams, plans have ripened. The things that have given us a sense of achievement, the things that turn out to be rungs on a ladder to something new. The experiences we have transformed through our own personal water, yeast and time. Of course, we are not the only creatures who gather harvest – squirrels create food stashes, bears prepare for winter. Corn, barley, wild grass – they all sacrifice themselves to plant the seeds of the next generation.

We reap what we sow, and we sow what we reap.

I like to think there are glitters along the scythe-blade of harvest, poised between fullness and the fall. Sacred gleams. For this week’s challenge, look for the sacred glimmers hidden in the contradictions of our time. 

Happy gleaming!

— Brendan




Kay Ryan

It seems like you could, but
you can’t go back and pull
the roots and runners and replant.
It’s all too deep for that.
You’ve overprized intention,
have mistaken any bent you’re given
for control. You thought you chose
the bean and chose the soil.
You even thought you abandoned
one or two gardens. But those things
keep growing where we put them—
if we put them at all.
A certain kind of Eden holds us thrall.
Even the one vine that tendrils out alone
in time turns on its own impulse,
twisting back down its upward course
a strong and then a stronger rope,
the greenest saddest strongest
kind of hope.

— from Flamingo Watching, 1994



Carolyn Forché

A night without ships. Foghorns called into walled cloud, and you
still alive, drawn to the light as if it were a fire kept by monks,
darkness once crusted with stars, but now death-dark as you sail inward.
Through wild gorse and sea wrack, through heather and torn wool
you ran, pulling me by the hand, so I might see this for once in my life:
the spin and spin of light, the whirring of it, light in search of the lost,
there since the era of fire, era of candles and hollow-wick lamps,
whale oil and solid wick, colza and lard, kerosene and carbide,
the signal fires lighted on this perilous coast in the Tower of Hook.
You say to me stay awake, be like the lensmaker who died with his
lungs full of glass, be the yew in blossom when bees swarm, be
their amber cathedral and even the ghosts of Cistercians will be kind to you.
In a certain light as after rain, in pearled clouds or the water beyond,
seen or sensed water, sea or lake, you would stop still and gaze out
for a long time. Also when fireflies opened and closed in the pines,
and a star appeared, our only heaven. You taught me to live like this.
That after death it would be as it was before we were born. Nothing
to be afraid. Nothing but happiness as unbearable as the dread
from which it comes. Go toward the light always, be without ships.

— from In The Lateness of the World, 2020

earthweal weekly challenge: IN THE WAKE OF PROGRESS

by Sherry Marr

All images © Edward Burtynsky, All Rights Reserved
Used with permission

Since 1980, around the time I became aware of climate change, Canadian photographer Edward Burtynsky began taking photos illustrating the impact humans are having on earth. In his 40-year study, his obvious takeaway is that “Human expansion has a casualty – the natural world.” This is not news to us. But I remember, in 1980, when I began studying with futurist Bill Floyd at Okanagan College, he had to close the classroom doors to teach us, because a lot of people considered him crazy, back then, an outlier. My family scoffed at anything I said about what I was learning. “Resources are endless. We will never run out. That’s ridiculous. There are millions of trees.” Etc.

Turns out everything he taught was true. The only difference is it didn’t happen as fast as he thought it would.

Pennsylvania USA 2008

At his website,, Burtynsky states, “Nature transformed by industry is the theme of my work. These images are meant as metaphors to the dilemma of our modern existence; they search for a dialogue between attraction and repulsion, seduction and fear. We are drawn by desire – a chance at good living, yet we are consciously or unconsciously aware that the world is suffering for our success … For me, these images function as reflecting pools for our times.”

Houston Texas 2004

Oxford tire pile #8 Westley California

Oxford tire pile #9 Westley California 1999

Burning tire pile Stockton, California 1999


The human population, within Floyd’s and Burtynsky’s lifetime (and mine), has risen from two to eight billion.

At, they report:

For real populations, doubling time is not constant. Humans reached 1 billion
around 1800
, a doubling time of about 300 years; 2 billion in 1927, a doubling
time of 127 years; and 4 billion in 1974, a doubling time of 47 years.

On the other hand, world numbers are projected to reach 8 billion around 2023,
a doubling time of 49 years, and barring the unforeseen, expected to 
level off
around 10 to 12 billion by 2100.

This anticipated leveling off signals a harsh biological reality: Human population is being curtailed by the Earth’s carrying capacity, the population at which premature death by starvation and disease balances the birth rate.

Santa Ana freeway, L.A. 2017


Imperial Valley, California USA 2009

Makoko, Lagos, Nigeria 2016

The greatest impact has been in the last hundred years of exponential growth, sparked by the Industrial Revolution, development of combustion engines, addiction to oil and a plethora of plastic, as well as technology and the change in agricultural methods. Extraction capitalism, which has made a handful of people very rich, comes at a cost to the rest of us, including the beyond-human realm. Payment is now coming due, everywhere.

What futurists and fantasy writers envisioned as happening in some comfortably distant future is happening here and now. The pace is accelerating exponentially. (An example: the entire B.C. town of Lytton burned down last summer. There is only rubble left on the ground. In Sydney, Australia, they are experiencing flooding for the third time this year. This is why target dates of 2050 for zero emissions leaves me in despair that there will even BE a livable world by then.)

Burtynsky has produced books and films featuring his work. His newest project is In the Wake of Progress, a scathing, immersive multimedia installation by which the viewer experiences, in photography and film, images which illustrate the impact human “growth and development” has had on the planet in the name of our great god, the Economy. It had its world premiere in Toronto in June this year.

Los Angeles freeway, 2003


Los Angeles freeway, 2009

Oil refineries, Houston, Texas, 2004

“I became an observer of the human condition at the scale of industry – building cities and transport systems, making clothes, all that stuff,” Burtynsky says. “There is a whole other world that exists that we don’t see. I thought the camera was the perfect tool to bring that world into our consciousness.”

Open pit coal mine, Sparwood, B.C., 1985

Nickel tailings, Sudbury, Ontario, 1996

Marble quarries, Carrara, Italy, 2016

Coal train, Wyoming, 2015

Tyrone Mine #3, New Mexico, 2012


Phosphor tailings, Lakeland, Florida, 2012

“I began to think about oil itself: as both the source of energy that makes everything possible, and as a source of dread, for its ongoing endangerment of our habitat,” Burtynsky states.

Alberta oil sands, 2007


Alberta oil sands, Fort McMurray, 2007


Bakersfield oil sands, CA, 2004

Oil spill, Gulf of Mexico, 2010

Oil spill, Mississippi delta, 2010


(These photos actually hurt to look at.)

When people ask Burtynsky why he takes such graphic and disturbing photos, he replies, “Art can say: ‘Look, here it is. This is what it looks like.’” And it isn’t pretty. Poetry can do that too. Our job as poets is to record the times we live in, and, sadly, we live in historic but terribly unenlightened times. Future generations, if such survive, will be appalled at how we choreographed our own demise and destruction. We are the only species that destroys its own habitat (and that of every other creature) without remorse or even the most basic awareness, blinded by lust for the false god of money.

Ivory tusk mound, Nairobi, Kenya, 2016

Dandora landfill #1, Nairobi, 2016

 Burtynsky’s work In the Wake of Progress challenges us to take a hard look at how human industry is impacting the planet, not just now, but also affecting the future of sustainable life on this planet – the world our grandchildren and great-grandchildren will live in, if human life is still possible then.

“The story is very much about what we’re doing to nature, how our success is pushing back the biodiversity,” Burtynsky says. “It’s changing the nature of the oceans – we’re watching coral die off; we’re watching fisheries collapse.”

Owens Lake, California, 2009

Salton Sea, eastern shore, California, 2009


Clearcut, Vancouver Island, 2017


Clearcut, palm oil plantation, Borneo, Malaysia, 2016

“We’re seeing all kinds of issues – deforestation, desertification, droughts, storms, heat domes. Thirty years ago, you could say climate change is something out there. Now, we can’t brush that off. It’s at our doorstep.”

It’s at our doorstep

Ontario, Canada, 2010

 Burtynsky attempts to present his work in a revelatory, not an accusatory, way. He says he hopes people will go away from his work thinking deeply about the impact humanity is having on the planet.

“The high price of gas, as much as it hurts, will be a great motivator for us to get off gas. These changes never come without some pain. Once we get the economics right on this, change happens fast.”

“I hope it facilitates a conversation,” he continues. “When you touch people emotionally, it gets their minds thinking a different way. It’s a universal story that starts with nature and ends with nature.”

Because, in the end, nature will always have the last word.

Avatar Grove, Vancouver Island, 2017
(As yet, still standing, to give us hope and beauty)

For your challenge: Express your thoughts and feelings about how humankind has brought Mother Earth to this critical point in time, and what you think and feel about where we go from here.