Space looks like the ocean — where few eyes venture beyond the surface. This image presents our planet Earth, and scattered around it flecks that represent active satellites, inactive satellites, and debris: green, gray, red. Each object is much, much smaller than the dot that depicts it. Yet each dot is still a dot.
I looked at this picture of space crap, and imagined current or future spaceflights from Earth, tiptoeing into the sky like bathers at the polluted beach who, if they even dare swim, must pick their way through plastic flotsam and toxic jetsam and things that could, with any lack of luck, kill them. And as that metaphor surged up like a gritty wave, I thought of all the news stories citing our degraded oceans, the cradle of life made a sewer by the most self-centered, wasteful generations ever to wander the planet. Our destructiveness equal to our creativity, perhaps: is that a balance that Nature will always strike?
There is a potential cure: awareness.
Ω
There’s that joke about the less-than-aware religious leader facing a flood. The weather had grown more and more severe of late, and now it had rained for 40 days and nights, nonstop. The dams gave way, everything rushed downstream, and his valley town was washed away. From his house in the foothills he had watched it all: terrible, awful, overwhelming. It felt like the original Flood.
He had prayed and preached his entire life. He knew the scripture from first breath to last exhaled word. His god said he would be saved: that was his foundation, and a beautiful foundation. How many had he comforted? His god would comfort him. How many had he counseled? His god would counsel him, and he scanned his books for his sign of redemption, while the river rose.
It didn’t seem to be slowing; rather increasing in speed, everything above bent on destruction. Another strong current uprooted his mailbox, and he could watch the water level inching up the slope of his yard. It reached his steps, then it touched his doorway. He took his books and went upstairs. Water began to seep under the bedroom door, so he tucked his favorite volume into his shirt and climbed out the window onto his roof. The water edged up the roof, so he climbed to the chimney.
When the danger of flood was growing, the mayor and the council took no risk and quickly evacuated the town. Sirens and radio warnings echoed around the hills. People found a depth of compassion and courage completely invisible through the preceding mundane days and weeks, as though they had woken from a dull dream; while there still was time, they helped the elderly and single mothers with their essential belongings, they moved folks out of the hospital, selflessly lent a hand to anyone in need. When time began to run out, they encouraged folk who were afraid to leave, afraid to lose everything, to come away. They didn’t call them foolish: everyone understood that the work of years, even generations, was an enormous loss and hard to bear.
Then the sudden tide came down like an avenging army and crushed the streets. People were helping one another get settled high up in the hills. They were making sure they had a supply of food, and enough sources of clean water. A few of the bravest who owned boats headed back into the churning water to look for stragglers.
So far this doesn’t sound much like a joke.
During their last rounds, they spotted their religious leader clinging to the bricks of his chimney.
— Teacher! Thank Heaven we saw you! We thought everyone had left… We’ve still room, give me your hand, climb aboard!
The religious leader smiled.
— Randall, so good to see you! I see you’ve saved the Andersons, how splendid! Randall, you know, I have prayed to my god my whole life, I am promised salvation, and I am in his arms. Please get yourselves to safety. Go with god!
The captain aghast.
— But…!
— No, no, said the teacher. No, no, waving the rescue away. Blessings on you all!
And the boat pulled away as the waters swirled. The river climbed so rapidly! But it would recede, as promised. It would recede… but the water was up to his waist, and it was cold.
— Teacher!! Another boat hove into view. Randall sent us to you. Please, be reasonable! It is still raining upriver, the flood won’t abate until the morning. In the name of God, come aboard! Please!
The teacher smiled, though his teeth chattered slightly.
— D-d-daniel. You have such a kind heart. Look for those who need your aid — there may be some still stranded. As for me, I prayed and know that my god will deliver me. G-go with my blessings!
The boat slowed at the roof line. The current that filled the valley knocked it against the tiles. It sounded like a huge hand pounding a huger door.
— Come down, teacher! The water is already to your shoulders; you’ll catch your death!
— G-g-g. G-good bye, D-d-daniel.
His teeth rattled as he forced a smile. The people in the boat looked at one another. They pulled their raincoats around them and pulled away. He had to admit his heart sank as he watched them leave. He repeated his prayers under his breath. The water rose to his chin; he raised his chin. The water rose to his teeth; his lifted his nose above it so he could breath, and blew out through his mouth. His breath made bubbles on the surface.
— TEACHER, TEACHER!! A boat came speeding up. Thank God he’s still there! TEACHER, quickly, take this rope!
The boat came up and bumped against the chimney. It knocked chips from the bricks, and the metal flue cap broke off and splashed into the torrent.
The teacher shook his head wildly. —Goboboboboo ahwaybbaybaybay he bubbled, and with a great surge another volume of water came down through the valley, covering everything that remained.
Ω
Saint Peter: Next!
Teacher (dry): Where am I?
SP [a long stare]: See these wings? Where do you think you get wings like this?
TR: Am I dead??
SP [offering a quill and a book]: Sign here, please, and proceed through the gates.
TR [offended]: What! What does this mean!
SP [gently, tapping him on the shoulder and gesturing behind]: Please, there has been a flood. Look at the line… Now, all you need do is sign. There are the gates to your right.
TR [angry]: But I followed all of his edicts. I gave to the poor and taught those who didn’t know his words! I waited… I waited for his sign! You… you didn’t save me!!
SP [writing in the book]: Okay, I’ve signed for you by proxy. [looking up] Actually, we didn’t expect to see you here today. He came to you three times, and every time you told Him to get lost…
Ω
Ha-ha.
I’ll tell you what. There are millions of us — me included — so wrapped up in this little materialistic game of ours, that it is hard to see out of the fog. When a little light breaks through, we squint, or hold up a hand in front of the face, or turn our heads away. Those who stand to “lose” the most, all that money, all those toys, are holding so tightly to the chimney, and they can’t be reasoned with, begged to come away, or pried loose.
What we can do is make acquaintance with our modern prophets. They don’t sound like prophets, but are treated the same way. Those who measure huge islands of plastic debris in the ocean, or find high levels of plastic in the fish we catch are prophets. So are those who measure the die-off of species, and count the increasing pods of whales beaching themselves. They are prophets with magnifying glasses. Or the bright lights whose published “findings” go against big business, whose support to do research is suddenly cut. Or the ones who count all the pieces of junk we are throwing into the sky, who suggest without suggesting it: What goes up….
It find it difficult to listen to prophets, because their message is frightening, much larger than me, and hard to translate into action. Maybe what is needed, as individuals, is not to solve this species-sized puzzle we’ve co-created, but simply to loosen our grip ever so slightly, to move in the direction of those who are saying There is a safer place. Maybe their hands reaching our way can pull us to safety. Maybe we can do a small part, just waking ourselves from the dream.
The punchline, in the end, is not in jest: we are here to save ourselves. The messes we create — have always created — are ours to learn from, the challenges we rally to resolve, the worst of us calling out the best of us.
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