Once upon a time, in a world that no longer exists, there was a planet with vast seas, abundant forests, splendid continents, polar regions, and civilizations that evolved from remote beginnings to an age of skyscrapers and digital revolutions. Those who lived on this planet seemed to have the idea that no matter what they did life would continue there.
—Ben Okri, “And Peace Shall Return”
The lines above are the opening lines of a stunning piece of short fiction by Ben Okri, published by Emergence Magazine in 2020. The story is called “And Peace Shall Return” and it is one of the few pieces of writing that I keep returning to over the past few years. I’ve read or listened1 to it at least a dozen times, and despite its apocalyptic nature, I almost always feel a deep sense of calm afterwards. I even bought the small physical book published by Emergence Magazine called Short Stories of Apocalypse, which contains Okri’s story and three other short pieces of apocalyptic fiction.
This tiny book has, somehow, become my bible.
I can’t really explain why I am comforted by reading apocalyptic stories. Perhaps it has some relation to my mild curiosity about dying (you can read more about that here). But generally speaking, I’m not that into sci-fi or dystopian tales. These stories, however, and particularly Okri’s, feel so true to the human experience that I somehow want to believe them. In some weird way, having a clear picture of the future, albeit a bleak one in which we all don’t survive, feels strangely comforting.
Earlier this week, I decided to catch up on some sessions of the Bio-Leadership Fellowship that I missed last month. One of these was a guest session with Stephan Harding, a Deep Ecology Research Fellow at Schumacher College and leading proponent of Gaia theory. As most of these academic types do, he began his little lecture with the bad news. He spoke about the Great Acceleration2 and the ways in which we have done enormous damage in such a small amount of time.
None of this was new to me, but the way he presented it, I suddenly felt the gravity of the situation. This might have been because he kept saying things like “we should be terrified” and “it’s very possible that we will all be gone by the end of the century.”
Well shit, dude.
For most people, seeing this information presented so clearly initiates a process that Joanna Macy calls “The Spiral.” The spiral contains four steps, but it is never-ending. We are always walking the spiral. A step along this process is honouring our pain for the world, but this also means we need to feel that pain. And that’s what happens to a lot of people who are newbies to the information presented above. They fall into grief, into pain, into despair, and into hopelessness. But here’s the thing: you must give this pain a place, you must honour it, and then you can use that to bring you to the next step. The step where you can start to see with new eyes and begin to build the new.
I have walked this spiral for a while now, so I don’t land deep into the grief anymore. If anything, I carry it with me every day, in a small way—a way that fuels me. And I am excited about the idea of building the new, of doing things differently, of finding a new way forward. The grief must become fuel, or else how do we go on?
But something about Stephen’s talk left me thinking: what if we don’t figure it out? What if this century is our last century as a species; as an ecosystem; as a living, breathing planet?
And then, in a furious moment of brilliance(?), something just poured out of me and it feels monumental, somehow. Because, in an unexpected twist, it turned into something positive that I could not have anticipated it would come from me, of all people. The cynic supreme that I am.
As I promised to myself, and to all of you, I am writing.
And now, I’m sharing it with you.
Let us live
80 years.
It’s possible that 80 is years is all we have left. It’s possible that the children being born today will be the last generation of humans to ever live. Ever.
Can you even imagine?
I must admit, I can’t imagine. It’s hard to fathom the extent of the destruction that is to come. It’s hard to fathom how it’s all going to play out. Even the best models cannot tell us. The tipping points are too volatile.
No one can know. I don’t believe that we are supposed to know. And there is beauty in the not-knowing.
You see, there are millions of people out there who are putting in all the effort they possibly can to see if we can turn things around. If we can mitigate the effects of the emissions and pollution and warming. If we can, against all odds, slow the acceleration and manage to survive.
It’s an honourable pursuit, trying to save the world. It’s a pursuit in which I am inclined to participate.
But what if it’s not possible?
Then what?
The world-saving pursuit is noble, for sure. And it’s not to say that we shouldn’t try. We absolutely should. This world is unspeakably beautiful. Language is not powerful enough to convey the majesty that is Planet Earth. Especially when you consider that, so far, it’s the only life-giving planet we know of.
A cosmic miracle. Perhaps a pre-ordained one, but a miracle nonetheless. Because the universe is miraculous.
But I think we’re missing a piece of the puzzle here. Because, as we know, the odds are stacked against us. We did nothing for far too long, and now the window is rapidly closing, the window in which saving ourselves might still be possible. Soon, the window will be gone, and we will be forced to live out our last years as we face the apocalypse.
But this doesn’t have to be so apocalyptic. In fact, it shouldn’t be. Why should our final years be a time of suffering? Why should we brood over our failure? If there is nothing left to do except wait for the world to end, why should it not be as magnificent and miraculous as the fact that this cosmic blip occurred in the first place?
Some religions prophesize the apocalypse as the final war between good and evil. It seems that evil is likely to prevail, but once it does, there will still be another half-century before we all disappear into dust. Once the war is over, there is still the aftermath. Some of us will still be here.
And in those final years, good can prevail. It must. Our only hope of leaving this universe any better than we found it is to let goodness be the very last thing on earth.
If we are indeed to have only another 80 years on this planet, as a species, then perhaps it truly is time to give ourselves into Gaia.
Let her breathe her life back into us.
Let us spend these final years in freedom.
Let us return to the animal.
Let us return to the essence of what it means to be alive.
This is not to say we should stop caring and do whatever we want. No. This is to say the exact opposite. This is to say that we should become ourselves again. Away from the systems that have bound us in prisons. Away from the oppression that has destroyed generations. Away from the concrete.
Let us dive back into the earth and follow her trails.
Let us beseech her to teach us.
Let us remember what it feels like to put our toes in the grass on the first warm day of the year.
Let us remember what it feels like to wake up to fresh snow in the mountains, where all sounds are muted and there are no tracks.
Let us marvel at the glacial breaches, the earth-shattering volcanic eruptions, the powerful floods, the fire, the rain, the ash.
Gaia is far more powerful than we are able to conceive. Let us be in awe of her.
Let us remember what it feels like to be alone, together.
Let us remember what it feels like to be together, alone.
If we have 80 years left,
Let us live.
*
The audio version, beautifully read by the British actor Colin Salmon, is breathtaking.
If you don’t know what the Great Acceleration is, look it up. It’s horrifying but also SO powerful. If everyone learned this in school, the world might be a very different place.
Fun stuff
Some goodies and extras for you this week. 🙃
Read & Listen 📖🎧
A few of my favourites from Emergence Magazine:
If you haven’t left this space to read “And Peace Shall Return” yet, please do it now. (There is also a beautiful audio version.)
This poem by Ocean Vuong has been sitting with me for a few weeks. It might also explain why I’m so hung up on the apocalypse lately.
This piece by David Haskell about the voices of birds is truly beautiful. I highly recommend listening to it—the audio version (narrated by David himself) has stunning birdsong in the background.
I love Nick Hunt. His essay “Dead Wood” is particularly haunting. He also narrates the audio file and it’s lovely to listen to.
Listen 🎧
An oldie but a goodie. Spring is springing in the northern hemisphere, and so it’s time to listen to some “Vivaldi” (recomposed by Max Richter) and soak up the sunshine.