For my second semester as an MFA student at the U of R, I’m once again taking a Group Studio course — a class students need to take at least four times throughout their degree. The course objectives are as follows:

The MFA Group Studio is a seminar focused on studio work, research, writing, presentation and professional practice. Through group discussions, studio visits, gallery visits and field trips seminar participants will practice critical engagement and build collegiality in the university community and beyond. (from the syllabus)

This term, Holly Fay is teaching the course, and I stand to learn a lot. Her own work deals with “natural systems, phenomenology, ideas of place, and has addressed anthropocentric representation of nature in the tradition of Western landscape art” (“about”). In fact, in one of her recent projects, Floating Series, she is exploring how in nature, “patterns of structure that are self similar can be observed over a wide range of scales” (Floating Series), such as patters seen in both clouds and water molecules. This is someone I have to get to know! I hope to learn more about her practice as the term goes on.

One of the assignments she’s having us do for this class is called the “Arts & Culture Events Journal.” For it, we need to write a reflective text on four such events.

Last night, thanks to Holly alerting me to it, I watched the Dunlop Gallery’s live-streamed “Opening Remarks and Artist Talk” for their States of Collapse exhibit.

OMG, it was amazing. This was the first online presentation that I actually did NOT multitask once throughout. I hung on every word the presenters spoke, transcribing them for my future reference (I don’t trust my memory). Here’s my response to this event.

The three artists who spoke last night are each doing work that amazes me. Jude Griebel, Jill Ho-You, and Sylvia Ziemann. I want to talk with them. I want to go out for coffee with them. This can’t happen. I also want to thank them — for the work they’re doing, and also for what I’ve learned from them. Through listening to them talk, I reached a deeper level of understanding something about my own art practice: that it’s okay to portray “states of collapse.” It’s okay to show the anticipated effects of catastrophic climate change. It’s alright to include melting glaciers, for example. I don’t mean this in terms of being given an “okay” to keep reproducing tired tropes, but inasmuch as my concerns about depicting the “doom and gloom” of the situation and how doing so may actually turn people further away from taking any type of personal (or political) action. One of my concerns has been how to implement what I’ve read in a few studies about the psychology of viewing images of climate change — how images showing “the solutions” nudge more people towards becoming invested in those solutions, whereas images showing emaciated polar bears just make people sad. These three artists don’t seem to worry about such studies, at least not from what they said. They are creating the work they feel they need to create, and they know it will stand to impact its viewers in a positive way. Ho-You put this so well when answering the question “what are the ways that you’re hopeful about the state of the world?”

Really great question, and other people have asked me about that because my work is very somber and clinical, and for me a part of the function of showing these speculative images is we’re sensory animals, we’re logical too, but we respond to images because we’re so visual. I think there is some usefulness in making these cataclysmic images because it speaks to a different part of our psychology than lists of statistics. If you think about warming in the arctic and polar bears, someone would tell you that and you’d know it logically, but as soon as you see the image of the emaciated polar bear swimming, it hits you on a more bodily level, so I’d like to think that my work opens up a space where people can start to imagine – what would be left, what would it look like, if all life on earth was gone? What would happen to our cities/infrastructure. Despite some of the images, I am very hopeful. They’re not created out of despair for me, though certainly people are in their right to feel anxious and despair and think “this could be the worst thing that could happen, so now that we’ve imagined that, that’s like, now we know we don’t want that, so what are the actions we need to take?”

Ho-You, Jill. “States of Collapse — Opening Remarks and Artist Talk” YouTube Livestreamed event, Dunlop Art Gallery, January 26 2021.

(this reminds me of Quarmly’s account of seeing art work about a polar bear in Watermelon Snow — I mention this in my post about that book).

The work Ho-You shared at this event is an installation titled Inversion comprising a series of petri dishes with images of industrial life etched into a medium that bacteria and mold eats away over time. They are a synecdoche — the micro-climates inside each dish contain a process of consumption and then death (when the food, in this case the medium, runs out) that mimics what is happening all around us — what Ho-You (and scientists) believe may ultimately take place with our species. In the end, she says, the world may belong to bacteria and mold once again.

Gob-shockingly brilliant idea.

Jude Griebel’s work has a much more playful quality to it, and yet the messages in the work are just as dire. He says he uses a lot of humor in the intricate miniatures he creates to help viewers “navigate the larger things happening in them.” Another way he words this is by saying that his work “provides an access point for a diverse public to confront issues.” So, so important.

Sylvia Ziemann takes this strategic use of humour even farther in her work. In her recent work, she’s created dioramas where animal/human figures go about their daily business. She says that “if kids and old people can’t appreciate my work, then I’m not communicating property.” At the same time, the work is as much about impending apocalypse as the work of the other artists who spoke: “I have a doomsday clock in the rabbit room. It’s at 20 seconds to midnight.”

I’m not able to find the image of this work that we saw during her talk, but I she’s done other work with dioramas and puppets on similar themes, such as for Carnival at the End of the World:

and Game of Chance:

The work and words of all three of these artists are incredibly inspiring to me. I’m going to stop worrying about not making pieces that include solar panels. I’m going to keep considering how to incorporate humour into my work (I’m waiting to receive The Artist’s Joke, thanks to Risa). I’m so grateful to have been able to attend/watch this event. I’ll end this post with the words of Cindy Baker, the event’s moderator:

We can’t yet fathom whatever will become our ultimate undoing; all the calamities we know about seem way too easy because we have imagined them. They end neatly, with a conclusion that we feel some resolution from. Contemporary artists though don’t wrap things up with neat bows; we ask questions, etc. We refuse resolution. We play an important role in an uncertain world. The artists in this exhibit are creating the unfathomable right now.

Baker, Cindy. “States of Collapse — Opening Remarks and Artist Talk” YouTube Livestreamed event, Dunlop Art Gallery, January 26 2021.

After much deliberation over the break, I’ve decided to return to representing the effects of climate change in clay and ceramic.

For my directed studio course with David this semester, his first assignment is to come up with ten ideas. Five of these should be strictly illustrative, straight-up objects, and five should be about process. In 2018, I came up with the idea to represent melting glaciers via the form of the cup. I’d like to return to that idea and create other pieces that resemble functional ware (cups, bowls, plates) but that are purely conceptual representations of other effects of climate change.

Here’s what I’ve got.

But first, the effects of climate change include:

• drought
• flooding
• forest fires
• intense storms
• extreme winds
• heatwaves
• ice loss
• rising sea levels
• biodiversity loss (contributing to the 6th mass extinction)
• increase in disease
• increase in pests (ex. mountain pine beetle)
• ocean acidification
• mass migration (human)
• hunger and water shortages
• collapse of economic systems
• emotional toll

Illustrative Objects

1. a plate that looks like dried mud

Here in the Canadian prairie, where agriculture is a major resource (and one which also significantly contributes to climate change), I know that drought is going to be a major problem in the future in part because of diminishing runoff from mountains and in part because of changing weather patterns that will likely mean extended periods of low-precipitation rates. The processes we employ to grow the food we eat are factors leading to our future food shortages. A plate is symbolic of eating.

I’d use terracotta for this piece, and likely leave it unfired.

(photos from the bank of South Saskatchewan River, near Leader Sask, 2015)

2. A partner piece to the one above, a plate made to mimic flat pieces of sea ice

I’d use fired porcelain (polar ice, cone 6) with either no glaze or a transparent glaze that in an oxidized firing gives a blue hue.

OR a plate that mimics one solid larger piece of arctic ice:

I could imagine having slabs that mimic these sea ice forms set on a dinning table with tableware.

I’m less sure about how I’d connect the form of a plate to these pieces of ice. A cup would be a better form for this representation, but artistically, the shape of a plate is more suitable. Actually, the fact that people may not see the connection between arctic ice melt and our everyday life and survival needs (such as the food we put on our plate) is in itself an important issue to draw attention to. I’d have to think about this more.

3. A bowl shape formed of what looks like pieces of bleached coral.

As excessive carbon dioxide is absorbed into oceans, it lowers the water’s pH, making it more acidic and leading to coral bleaching.

This would be a piece that involves hand-building, and it would require considerable time and experimentation to achieve the look I’m after. I’d use unglazed polar ice porcelain for this piece.

4. a plate formed from dead bees

There are several causes for biodiversity loss and the mass extinction event we are seeing, and climate change will become a major one of those issues as time goes on. Weakened by pesticides, mono-culture, and other anthropogenic changes to their environment, insects are weakened and particularly susceptible to the effects of climate change. We are experiencing what has come to be known as the insect apocalypse. This is not good for anyone alive on the planet.

I’d attempt to make this plate out of bees cast in fired porcelain slip, but I’d also consider leaving it as a plate shaped out of dead bees (no clay involved).

5. A plate that shows the edge of an undercut glacier

Glaciers are melting much faster than scientists have predicted, and one reason appears to be that they are becoming undercut by currents of warm water.

I can imagine a piece of porcelain in the shape of a glacier on one side that gradually morphs into the shape of a dinner plate on the other side.

6. a bowl with a single ridge of trees standing on its lip

Forests are in danger as a result of climate change for two main reasons: increases in forest fires due to drought and storms; mass movement of insects that destroy trees. The image below is what remains after clear cutting (not an effect of climate change), but I have this image in mind as I think about the precarity of our forests facing climate change.

I can imagine a bowl with a circle of trees coming out of its lip. Would they be burned? I don’t know yet. This isn’t a strong idea to begin with, but hey, it’s a sixth…

Process Pieces

1. a plate made of only unfired porcelain dust that viewers could watch blow away on a video of this process taking place

Areas of intense drought set to double, and areas desertification will continue to grow. The IPCC reports on this in their “Special Report on Climate Change and the Land: Desertification.” (FYI: The University of Regina’s Margot Hulbert has worked on policy documents for the IPCC on this topic.)

Here in the Canadian prairies, drought will likely be one of the largest and most devastating consequences of climate change as time passes. WaterCanada reports that

Canada faces its own land degradation challenges. Most people associate dryland regions with a hot and dry climate. However, large parts of the Canadian Prairie provinces—Alberta, Saskatchewan, and Manitoba — can be classified as drylands. They are also enormously important agricultural areas, accounting for 60 per cent of the cropland and 80 per cent of the rangeland in Canada.

The Prairies expect to see longer and more intense periods of drought interspersed with major flooding with future climate change. And although North America is one of five regions identified by the UN as facing relatively fewer challenges related to land compared to the countries most at risk, the region does face significant water stress challenges.

WaterCanada

I can imagine this plate of dust which blows away (or simply crumbles on a plinth) being an apt representation of the situation we’re facing and will be facing more so in the near and distant future.

2. a stop motion video of one of my Saskatchewan Glacier cups disintegrating

The group of “snowflake cups” I made between 2019-2020 is my most successful work to date. Representing the fragility of the world’s glaciers at this time, the cups also draw a connection between the glaciers’ demise and our own survival: 80% of our drinking water in this part of Saskatchewan, for instance, is made up of mountain runoff.

I created a rough trial of this video in 2019, but I’ve been wanting to return to the idea and make it more successful.

3. a stack of fired porcelain plates on the brink of being destroyed

This idea is quite outrageous, but it’s one I came up with when pressed to find ten ideas in a week…

I imagine using a machine similar to one that I was recently introduced to in an episode of the Netflix show Sherlock. In this episode, “The Blind Banker,” we see a tool of ancient Chinese escapology in use. To quote from the website Kulture: Asian American Media Watchdog,

At 1:02:00, Sherlock, Watson and Sarah (Watson’s white date, played by Zoe Telford)) enter the tent of the Chinese circus in town. […] The act is supposed to be one of [an Asian man] escaping before being impaled by a crossbow’s bolt. The crossbow is attached to a delicate string that will deploy once weight is placed upon it. The Asian woman stabs a sandbag attached to a string an pulley that begins to lower a weight toward the delicate string attached to the crossbow. The three white heroes look onward at the seemingly bizarre cultural act.

source

This machine that I would construct would employ the idea of the sandbag rising as sand pours from a hole in its fabric. As it rises, another part of the contraption lowers. At a certain point, the part that is being lowered would trigger another weight to fall. This weight would land on a stack of porcelain plates, destroying them.

It’s a stretch, and so likely not a very good idea, but the sand loss would symbolize the planet’s sixth mass extinction that we are beginning to witness: grain by grain… species by species. The Guardian reported in 2017 that

A “biological annihilation” of wildlife in recent decades means a sixth mass extinction in Earth’s history is under way and is more severe than previously feared, according to research.

Earth’s Sixth Mass Extinction Event Under Way, Scientists Warn

At some point, the life systems that support us, and which we have been taking advantage of for centuries, are going to collapse to such a degree that our own survival is threatened. With the insect apocalypse I mention above, for instance, our pollinators are dying at such a rate that simply growing our crops will increasingly become a dire challenge.

4. a cup that keeps rising, filling, and sinking in a tank of water

The idea of a tank of water rising and emptying is one I take from an installation in Times Square, Holoscenes, in which performance artists took turns carrying out mundane daily tasks while in a 12 ton tank of water that would continuously fill and empty:

I imagine having a much smaller (10″x10″x18″ or so) tank of water with a cup inside of it that somehow (???) will continuously rise and fall. How can we keep our cup full and upright?

5. For an even wilder idea… a typhoon tank, similar to what we have at our local Science Centre, that people can add plates into which will immediately spiral and crash

I can’t find an image of the one we have here, but there is (or used to be) a plexiglass box near the stairs to the second floor of the Science Centre that had a crank people could use which would induce a mini whirlwind. As tornadoes are going to become more common in this part of Canada in the future, I can imagine employing something like this. Perhaps audience members could participate by somehow inserting a plate into the box to watch it smash? Yeah, pretty crazy. Hmmm.

That’s all I’ve had time to come up with. Let’s see if I carry out any of the above ideas over the next three months.

Quarmby, Lynne. Watermelon Snow: Science, Art, and a Lone Polar Bear. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s UP, 2000.

Risa gave me several great book and article recommendations this past term. A book that I made sure to read over the December break is Watermelon Snow. In it, Quarmby intertwines journal-like entries from her time on the Arctic Circle Expeditionary Residency (28 artists and two scientists on a tall ship sailing the International Territory of Svalbard), her work as a biologist, and her work as a climate change activist (she quotes from this article in the book, page 123). It’s a beautifully written and heartfelt account of an attempt to maintain some sense of wellness while learning about and combating the existential crisis that climate change presents. Thank you, Risa, for telling me about the book. It was also very cool to see your name mentioned in it (Risa was a member of the 2017 residency that Quarmby was on).

Quarmby tells us about the dilemma she had regarding whether or not to cross an injunction line and risk arrest (see article linked above). She was involved in a protest that was blocking access to Kinder Morgan’s pipeline expansion. She writes in Watermelon Snow:

“If I violated the injunction, it most certainly would be flagrant, and criminal charges could mean jail time or a large fine, and a criminal record that could cause difficulty crossing into the US, where my son Jacob lives. Friends advised that I really did not need to do this. I had done enough already and others could now step up. But then I called Jacob. After all, it was he who stood to lose his financial safety net if I were to lose my condo and my retirement savings. ‘Do it, Mom,’ he said. ‘There is nothing you could do for my future that is more important than this'” (126).

I took this section of the book especially to heart. I haven’t risked arrest yet, but I’ve considered it. I’ve been starting to get involved with a newly formed (still at a nascent stage) Saskatchewan group of Extinction Rebellion. I nearly went ahead with an idea I’d had for an act of non-violent civil disobedience. I was shocked to read what is considered against the law in Canada in Direct Action Works’ A Legal Handbook for Civil Disobedience and Non-violent Direct Action in Canada.

Even so much as singing or shouting (what I’d been planning to do for my action) is illegal: Causing a disturbance is a criminal offence, appearing in section 175(1) of the Criminal Code, and includes such actions in a public place as fighting, shouting, swearing, singing, using obscene or insulting language, obstructing people, or loitering” (81 Direct Action Works). I knew it was unlikely I’d be caught and charged, but this handbook did give me pause. Am I willing to be arrested for an act of protest in the name of climate change? The short answer is “no,” not now at least. I admire Quarmby very much for her courage and selflessness.

The following are several long citations from the last thirty pages of the book which I found most powerful and useful.

In our story so far [that of the evolution of complex life], some consider the emergence of consciousness to be the final grand leap. I wonder if the climactic grand leap in the dance of energy and life might have come when the most complex of the complex species discovered fossil fuels — carbon fixed into complex organic molecules by life that lived eons ago. The discovery of this energy source powered the development of industrialized civilization and simultaneously transformed Earth’s atmosphere. Will our dance with energy resolve with a beautiful pirouette and a surprising denouement? (138)

Sitting on the knoll, I wonder: which [artist] projects will come to fruition? What will the projects contribute? Who will be influenced? Much of what I am seeing perplexes and amuses me. I lack the knowledge or the vision to see where the work is going. […] Had I seen but not recognized Ai Weiwei lying on a pebble beach in Lesbos, in the pose of the now iconic image of the drowned Syrian child, Aylan Kurdi, would I have dismissed Ai as crass or frivolous? It seemed silly when the four artists “walked” the polar bear print around the ice floe while a fifth made a video recording. Yet, in a few months I will see Adam’s slow-motion video of this walk and be moved more deeply than by any photographs of the living bear encountered on our hike. […] I felt nothing but amusement when watching the action in real time, but the eerie slow-motion animation elicits a deep sadness. It grows in me as I contemplate the care with which the carcass was moved, oiled, and printed, the artists who conceived of the return of the “bear” to the sea ice, and of course, the bear that died of starvation. Sometimes, it takes an unusual and provocative shift to knock us out of a flat response to a pervasive iconic image, like the polar bear. It occurs to me that the risks involved in experimenting with unusual and provocative shifts are akin tot he risks at the leading edges of science. (141-2)

For a long time, the production of this pollutant [oxygen] wasn’t a problem becasue tehre were lots of sinks to soak up the oxygen — iron, for example, rusting to red iron oxides. But eventually the sinks filled and oxygen began to accumulate in the atmosphere. Now at this time, methane was abundant in the atmosphere, and, being a powerful greenhouse gas, methane was keeping the earth warm. When oxygen reacted with the methane, carbon dioxide, a much less potent greenhouse gas, was produced, and the earth began to coll. The earth cooled so dramatically it entered a global ice age known as Snowball Earth. […] And so it was that the discovery by cyanobacteria of an awesome new way to make a proton gradient ended up poisoning the atmosphere and triggering massive climate change. This was likely the first mass extinction of life on Earth. Some lineages, including the cyanobacteria, squeaked through. We have no idea what evolutionary inventions might have been lost, but life survived. The cyanobacteria couldn’t have known the consequences of their discovery, nor could they have changed course had they known. Now we are the species remodeling the planet by dumping carbon dioxide, the waste product of our energy consumption, into the atmosphere. We know what we’re doing and it’s within our abilities to change course. (143-4)

And yet, as I look at the eerily peaceful storybook depiction of a Yangtze River dolphin, I feel sick to my stomach. The dolphin in question is now extinct. I flip through the book and see science infused with [Douglas] Adams’s quirky humour. A world tour to see species on the cusp of extinction — to raise awareness, but also, I suspect, because it was something the authors wanted to do. The book was published in 1990. Does this make it okay in the way that, if one is so inclined, it can be easier to forgive an old man his misogyny? I am not in a forgiving mood. I am repulsed by the book — not by the authors or by a text I haven’t read, but by the extinctions we are causing, and by what has since become a thing: extinction tourism. And now I feel called out — by my own thoughts, by Brett handing me this book [Last Chance to See]. Here I am. Here we are. I close the book and hand it back to Brett, who has been watching all of this play out on my face. He smiles and says softly, “I knew you’d understand.” He gently reshelves the book. Has he just executed a small and personal act of art? (145-6)

I explain the greenhouse effect and then show the Keeling Curve, direct daily measurements of atmospheric carbon dioxide since 1958. (147)

The lens of cold fresh water off Greenland is contributing to a weakening of the critically important major Atlantic meridional overturning circulation (AMOC). If AMOC stalls, the implications are enormous, including extremely cold winters in Europe, hotter summers and extended droughts in Africa, and more-rapid sea level rise for the eastern US. We’re facing loss of species, especially in the oceans, but also on land, as climatic regions shift faster than species can migrate or adapt. (So far, the accelerated rate of extinctions is due to habitat fragmentation and pollution. Climate-related extinctions are just beginning.) Related to all of these things, we’re already seeing increased famine, human migration, and war. We’re facing radical changes in our weather systems, with severe impacts on human civilization. It’s happening now and it will continue to get worse. How fast it gets worse and how bad it gets is up to us. (149)

[Upon finishing a talk to the members of the residency about the science of climate change] I’ve presented the problem and its urgency. I’ve connected the dots from fossil fuels to carbon dioxide to consequences that affect us all. What comes next is important, but my confidence flags. People always want to know what to do. Sometimes, the awareness of all that I could be doing can weigh me down to the point of not being able to act at all. I refuse to be prescriptive — individual responses to different solutions vary dramatically. And that is okay because climate change is a complex problem — it requires us to pull together, towards the same goals, but not necessarily doing the same things. My approach is to open the floor at this point and allow solutions to emerge, as they always do. (149)

The conversations have fragmented and I pull us back together for a wrap-up. I emphasize that one of the most important things we can do is to talk about climate change. By working to reduce our own personal footprints, we inspire and motivate others to action, both personal and political. I emphasize that individual behavioural change, however diligent and widespread, isn’t enough. Nor is it necessarily something we should expect form everyone. It is only with regulatory changes, new policies, and cultural shifts that we can build a society where low carbon choices are the easy, appealing choices. If we don’t take back the power, corporations will continue to dictate environmental regulations and policy that favours pollution on a scale that wipes our all of the individual and community good we might do — pollution in service of enriching the rich. (151)

At the end of the day, politicians work for us. We hire them with our votes and with our votes they get to keep their jobs. The failure of our politicians is our failure. In her TED talk, climate scientist Katharine Hayhoe says that the most important action we can take is to talk about climate change. I think that she is right. The more of us who understand the urgency, the more likely we are to hire political leaders willing to pull with us instead of against us. Participatory democracy requires participation. (152)

For the past decade I’ve been, perhaps, a bit manic with fear. When I finally understood the magnitude and urgency of global warming, I panicked. I felt a tremendous weight of moral responsibility to act, to join the climate justice movement and do everything in my power to help humanity change course. I gave it everything I had until I had nothing left to give. Yet, the situation remains urgent and some days it feels not much has changed, or that some things are changing, but much too slowly. Gradually, I’ve become aware that global warming will define not just the present, but the entirety of my remaining life. (159)

I breathe and watch the water appear at the top of the ramparts and cascade down its short but spectacular life as a waterfall; the water bounces up briefly as it strikes the scree and then falls again and disappears underground. Only now do I see that this Arctic trip has been like a “celebration of life” for ice. I think of this new gang of mine, standing together on the deck of the Antigua listening to the bearded seals singing to one another under the fast ice of Raudfjorden. There was joy and celebration in our exclamations of surprise, laughter, and fellowship as we shared the astonishing experience of summer sea ice. Some of us shared sadness when we awoke to find ourselves tethered to a much smaller ice floe than we had played on the day before. We all delighted in the immensity of the glaciers, the ethereal sky-blue glow of some bergy bits, the tinkling sounds of a bay filled with ice from a crumbling glacier, the reverberating gunshot and splash of calving. Every day, we celebrated ice. And every day there was sorrow at how much a glacier had retreated, at the sight of a polar bear in distress. (160)

Change is motivated by connecting on values, not by sharing data. (163)

When I raise the issue of the carbon cost of air travel [at meetings back at work] and suggest alternatives, the room is quiet. I would like to see us shift from a financial budget to a carbon budget. I am politely listened to, there are a few murmers of “Good idea” and “Yes, we should think about that,” and then we are on to the next item on the agenda. Have I become the crone who is politely given space to speak, and then is ignored? I feel like screaming, “Wake up!” I think of my great-grandfather stuck in his cabin, “I am near crazy for being such a fool.” But then I let it go. I don’t choose to fight this battle. (166)

I thought my job was to take care of myself and recover from burnout so I could once again be my warrior self, defending polar bears, microbes, and the generations of humans that follow, but it isn’t as simple as that. In the process of reading my journals and assembling this chronicle, I became aware of my growing irritability, low-grade depression, and sense of separation from others. Burnout to be sure, but also a failure to process grief. How does one mourn something so big and abstract and at the same time profoundly personal: the world my son will inherit, the loss of the rich, old-growth forests of my youth, the loss of summer sea ice? What would healthy grief look like? Lately, I have found some peace — at least intermittently — and I’ve noticed a richer quality to life. But I can only do this a little at a time. I am terrified by the thought of opening myself to this grief. I’ve leaned heavily on an evolutionary perspective, an intelligent grieving that may not adequately release me. I am keen to turn my attention to a painting project because I am curious whether the more visceral experience of that form might take my grief to a new place, but that too, I know, is missing something important. (169)

There’s no denying the darkenss of what the cheater class has done to our planet. Acknowledging the constant pain that comes with that knowledge has been part of my healing. Letting go of my investment in particular outcomes has also been important. (169-70)

Hope and despair are ephemeral. What matters, is we have found a way to live well, however desperate the reality of our times. (170) (last page of the book)