Ammi Midstokke: A legacy of intention

One of our representatives called me twice in a row this week. Apparently, no one has told him this is code for BIG EMERGENCY, and seeing as his house is a skip down the hill from my house, I assumed the trees were on fire.

They were not. He called to tell me a local bookstore had said kind things about me. For his generosity of spirit, I said, I would wait for another day to ask him how he sleeps at night with his voting record. Har-dee-har-har, we laughed. But I meant it, as he is well aware.

It comes as no surprise to me that I am struggling to reconcile the world right now, including my good neighbors who will happily loan me power tools and say nice things, then vote for the decimation of my reproductive rights or the selling off of public lands.

Isolated in my hilltop oasis in the trees, I wondered whether anyone else is suffocating from this bizarre ennui.

I am well-versed in running my way through trauma and trial. Miles on trails and days in nature have saved me from other enticing forms of escape, though double margaritas are sounding better every day. I make claims of meditation and green bathing as medicine for mental wellness, but I fear none of this is enough right now.

Curate your news feed. Limit your exposure. Volunteer on nonprofit boards for whatever cause matters to you. Grow your own garden. Donate what you’ve got left after paying rising insurance and egg prices to education, art, research and conservation because you suspect none of it – nor all of it – will be enough.

I’m rather a charlatan with my fluff about restoring equilibrium in nature, like trees and streams and birds and bees are the panacea. There will not be nature in which to seek repose if we allow the denial of climate change, the retraction of environmental protections (sorry Monarchs, cancer victims, contaminated wells), the reversal of funding for renewable energy infrastructure.

I drove past a road this week named after our current leader. Beyond a hundred yards of shiny new curb, it was a dead end. Apt, I thought, as I wondered how the agricultural producers of the nation are harvesting, how communities will recover from catastrophic flooding they weren’t warned of, and if we’ll know to filter our water before it’s too late.

Wandering in the woods this morning, I was lost in thought on the word “legacy” and what it means. We’re facing problems of a short-term thinking, immediate gratification culture, compounded by limited attention span and greed. The word “legacy” hardly comes into conversation as we discuss the future, the new distant point of import being mid-terms, not the lifetime of a Sequoia.

Is the act of conserving Mother Earth now left to the generosity of the individual? What if they are too busy or broke surviving to contribute to such a legacy?

The most staunch hopefuls in my circle are flirting with nihilism. Admittedly, it’s a sexy alternative to burying our heads in the sand, if only because the sand is probably contaminated with heavy metals and PFAS.

I recently read a report by political scientist Erica Chenoweth on the efficacy of nonviolent protests that offered a promising number. Her research suggests it takes just 3.5% of the population to engage in such protests to affect meaningful change. (Her research also indicated that violent protest was far less effective, a reminder that the pen is mightier than the sword.) In a time of feeling helpless, it was a number that lifted my spirits.

Even in my pessimism, I see those who do all they can: landowners putting lands in conservation trusts, volunteers cleaning up trash, brilliant young minds creating innovative solutions on shoestring budgets. Historically, the most impactful legacies of environmental causes have been instigated by public outcry and funded by government. The Superfund Act, Theodore and Franklin Roosevelt’s administrations, that tireless Jimmy Carter – they’ve left legislative legacies, many of which are being undone to be replaced with legacies of a different kind. Like the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. It has a ring to it, I suppose.

Maybe in order to save the trails and trees and seas, I need to leave the comfort of the forest and stand on a sidewalk with a sign a little more often. Maybe we all do.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com