I believe there are five things almost every person has the ability to do, from birth, to combat climate change:
1. Do not own a car.
2. Do not have children.
3. Do not eat meat.
4. Buy only what you need.
5. Rigorously vet the ethics of companies you must buy from.
Robin Wall Kimmerer, author of a book all about reestablishing our connection with nature, clearly accomplishes only one of these, as far as I can tell (independent research suggests she is vegan). This is not a problem unique to Kimmerer as an environmentalist--we are all hypocrites, in the paradigm of climate change. But I found myself particularly bothered in this case, because there is an attitude pervading this book that the degradation of nature is their fault. Whose fault? The West's. But not Kimmerer's. She may not say it explicitly, but the attitude of the book is that she is a messenger of ancient Truth to the hyper-technologized masses about how to live in harmony with the earth.
I find this incredibly off-putting, coming from someone who leads a life that is far from environmentally sustainable. Here is someone who drives a car, presumably a lot, because she lives in a rural area, complaining about oil companies, chemical runoff, and road kill, preaching that we should realign our lifestyle with that of the indigenous Americans who gave and took with respect for the world around them. But many of her demonstrations of respect are entirely symbolic, with no substance. For example, harvesting wild crops and then placing tobacco leaves on the soil as a show of thanks. This does nothing other than make her feel better about herself (and in fact, is probably worse than nothing, since the tobacco farming required to make this offering is so harmful to soil health). She also glorifies wood as a "renewable" fuel source, ignoring the fact that wood produces carbon emissions worse than coal, and is terrible for ambient air quality.
There is a lot of talk of ritual in this book. As I read the rituals she described, I recalled a chapter from a book I recently read, The Forest Unseen, in which the author discusses the problem of finding a golf ball in a piece of a forest he's observing. At the beginning of the year, he decides he will not touch the plot of land for a whole year--only observe it. But when he encounters a golf ball there, hit from a nearby course, he wonders if he should remove it. Ultimately, he decides that removing it will not improve the health of the environment. It will merely create the illusion of cleanliness, granting him undeserved pride in his "good deed", when in fact the true culprits of destruction: soil pollution and acid rain, go completely unaddressed. At the end of the day, gifting the earth with tobacco is like removing the golf ball.
Here is a representative passage that bears the attitude I'm talking about:
"I once knew and loved a man who lived most of his life in the city, but when he was dragged off to the ocean or the woods he seemed to enjoy it well enough--as long as he could find an internet connection. He had lived in a lot of places, so I asked him where he found his greatest sense of place. He didn't understand the expression. I explained that I wanted to know where he felt the most nurtured and supported. What is the place you understand best? That you know best and knows you in return?
He didn't take long to answer. 'My car,' he said. 'In my car. It provides me with everything I need, in just the way I like it. Seat position fully adjustable. Automatic mirrors. Two cup holders. I'm safe. And it always takes me where I want to go.' Years later, he tried to kill himself. In his car."
If you know me, you know that I despise cars. But I cannot appreciate this passage. In this section, she is caricaturizing someone who committed suicide to try to bolster an argument (an argument for which she does not provide very sound evidence). Meanwhile this person, if he existed, is no longer around to provide his perspective. She subsequently writes: "He never grew a relationship with the land, choosing instead the splendid isolation of technology. He was like one of those little withered seeds you find in the bottom of a seed packet, the one who never touched the earth."
This combative, almost mocking tone, which here elevates to a level that could be called insulting, permeates the book.
Ultimately, though, my biggest criticism of the book is its over-reliance on spirituality as a solution to very material problems. At the end of the day, these problems can only be solved through action. And even then, I do not believe that 7+ billion people can live sustainably on this planet, no matter how devoted to the earth each person may be.
With that said, I must admit that I'm walking a fine line in voicing this criticism. Because I do agree with her general point in this book: that our society has strayed far, far away from the relationship we should have with the natural world. Food comes from a grocery store, not the earth. Recreation is obtained using electronics (destructive mining), cars (more destructing mining, carbon emissions, roadkill, war, land misuse), airplanes (ibid), books (deforestation, chemical runoff) etc. We do a bad job appreciating exactly where we are, without toys and external entertainment. Changing this attitude should make it easier to be an anticonsumer, and thus stop living in a way that demands so much from the earth while returning so little.
I fully acknowledge that I am a hypocrite too. Like many environmentalists, I am pulled in two directions. In one direction lies the realm of my society. The world of roads and buildings, electricity, internet, running water, music, movies, book, and human relationships outside of my immediate neighborhood. The other direction is the realm of harmony with nature, the inhospitable realm of minimal impact, where I cannot visit Milwaukee unless I want to spend a week walking there; where I can't eat bananas because they're shipped from central America; where I might afford one or two pairs of clothing; where gas furnaces do not exist. I can't live in both of these worlds. But I believe it is my job to walk as close to this latter world as I can without destroying my relationship with the former world. This book is too light on pragmatic advice for this struggle and too heavy on spiritual poetics.
This book does have some really good chapters, though. Kimmerer writes about some pretty fascinating natural phenomena. For example: did you know pecan trees don't produce every year? In fact, not only that: all pecan trees produce irregularly--but at the same time. Somehow, all the pecan trees in a whole state will withhold seeds for years on end, until they all, one year, decide it's time. This has pretty interesting ecological repercussions. She also writes about Potawatomi culture and language, something about which I am sorely uneducated.
My favorite chapter was called "Sitting in a Circle," which details an excursion she had with her students, where they try to live off the land for a night. I learned that you can eat a bunch of different parts of a cattail, among it's other uses. I think this chapter best embodies the more peaceful, hopeful tone I anticipated from this book, leaving behind, for a while, the tone that I disliked elsewhere in her writing.