gm-reflection

  Yes, we do — as much as we need this life, severely, passionately, undeniably. We cannot do without this life, and so we cannot let go of it. The hope of an afterlife is nothing more than holding on to the life we already love so much. We are human, after all. I always said I was not afraid of death, only of dying. Whether I lived or died felt like no big deal — the lightness of being and not being. But it was not so light. One night I watched a documentary called How to Die in Oregon . The first person we meet is Roger, who had chosen to take the lethal medication under the state’s Death with Dignity law. Surrounded by family, he thanks them, thanks even the wisdom of Oregon voters, and then drinks. His face is calm, almost serene. There was such a peaceful countenance about him, such ease in how he accepted reality, that it left an impression on me. A few nights later, I dreamt I was in his place, on the same sofa, with the same glass of orange juice in my hand. The powder...

Snowflakes melt and vanish, but we don’t. We are the dippin-dots. We don’t melt. We linger. We bend, but we don’t break. There was a time when “save the owl” was common sense. In 1990, the northern spotted owl was listed as threatened, and logging in huge stretches of the Pacific Northwest simply stopped. Not paused for debate. Stopped. Crews packed up. Contracts froze. The forest stayed standing because a law said the owl mattered. Now, in this season of wanting to dismantle the EPA, letting tailings from open mines run straight into creeks, fiddling like Nero while we jog back toward a future where the Cuyahoga burns again, it earns a smirk. The kind that says, that’s cute, but we’re talking about real things here. Somewhere along the way, the language of care became the language of weakness. It didn’t happen overnight. It crept in over years, while power hungry leaders aligned with big money interests, selling the story that saving an owl or a whale was against business, against p...