Invitation

This past Sunday I skated along Harbor Ave, on my way back from a lovely morning at Alki beach with my niece and nephews and their moms. As I passed Terminal 5, I stopped to have a look at Shell’s arctic drilling rig through the chain link fence, and was hit with a wave of grief. I stood there for a while, thinking about those babies, and where we seem to be headed, climate-wise.

Scientists tell us we need to leave 80% of the world's fossil fuels in the ground if we want to keep global warming below 2°C, the level they believe humanity can reasonably adapt to. Beyond that it's rising seas, mass extinctions, droughts and floods and crazy storms (of course, we are experiencing many of these things already, and we're only up .85°C so far). Then there's the possibility we'll trigger a feedback loop that sends the temperature spiraling irreversibly upward.

Arctic oil is among the most risky and difficult to get at; there's no way we can justify Shell’s drilling expedition, if we're planning not to burn most of the stuff that's way easier and cheaper to extract. Sending the Polar Pioneer to Alaska this summer means essentially giving up on that 2°C limit. Under current projections, we can expect the planet to warm anywhere from 4°C to 6°C (7-11°F) by 2100. We will likely blow past 2°C by the middle of this century. What will the world be like then? How old will your kids be?

Whether that transition is planned and orderly, or more of a chaotic scramble, the world as we know it is ending. Many of the things we love -- or simply take for granted as part of our existence -- will be gone before my own children grow old. Species, habitats, whole island nations. Apples from Argentina, cheap flights to Vegas. Maple syrup. Skiing. (Note: I'm not equating the magnitude of these particular losses, just pondering their enormous range and variety.)

When there's a tragedy -- like 9/11, or a school shooting -- there's often a place where people come to mourn. There are candles and flowers, and ribbons tied to the fence. People leave photographs, teddy bears, letters to those they've lost. Maybe we need something like that now to help us imagine, in concrete terms, the things we'll be mourning when the Polar Pioneer has done its work.

I understand why people don’t want to face their feelings about climate change – I’ve spent plenty of time in deep despair over this stuff myself. I have great compassion for people who say, “Ugh, that’s so depressing!” or “Isn’t that a little melodramatic?” and turn back to their jobs and kids and busy lives. People who hope that LED lightbulbs and plug-in Priuses will save us. People who react with cynicism, hostility, or outright denial.

The problem is, if we don’t let ourselves feel our grief and fear about what lies ahead, we may never find the will to act. And we need to act. We need to speak up and hold our leaders accountable. We need to pivot our economy away from fossil fuels -- fast. We need to invest in sustainable energy that will create jobs and leave a habitable planet for our kids. We need to protect the people around the globe who will be most affected by the coming crisis.

But we can’t do any of that unless we acknowledge what’s really at stake – what we stand to lose – and what’s already gone.

Seattleites, I invite you to pay a visit to the Polar Pioneer while it is here –- I recommend Jack Block Park for a nice, unobstructed view. While you’re there, spend some time thinking about the path Shell is taking us down, and the world that path leads to. Try to imagine what a +4°C planet might look like. Or +6°C. What scares you most about that scenario? What will you miss about the world we have now? How will you feel when it’s time to say goodbye?

Sit with that sorrow. See where it takes you. If you want, leave a piece of it behind.