Fast forward twenty years, to my late twenties. I was living now in Idaho, having fled Colorado because there were to many people. But here, too, people were building (a.k.a. destroying). I saw beautiful forests murdered by clearcutting. I saw vibrant streams lose fish, birds and in some cases algae.
And then I found action, and resistance. At first my steps were tiny, and timid: letters to the editor under a pseudonym because I was too scared to have a voice; protests where I stood silently because, once again having a voice was too frightening. But even these small steps encouraged me, made me happy. And they were really fun! Not only the actions themselves: and not only the camaraderie of standing shoulder to shoulder to others who were at least doing something to try and stop the horrors; and not only the solid and profound ecstasy-I mean ecstasy -of doing the right thing; but also the equally profound and ecstatic joy of, however timid and terrified one may feel on the inside, rising from ones knees, standing full upright and shouting, “No!”
For a while that joy of resistance helped stave off some of the sorrow. Or perhaps its more accurate to say it counterbalanced the sorrow, since the sorrow was still there in full, only now it felt like I was doing something about the cause of that sorrow.
This only worked for a few years: in time resistance alone was no longer sufficient I needed effective resistance alone was no longer sufficient. I needed effective resistance, and this was (and still is) in short supply. I needed to do far more then just put up a good fight; with symbolic victories, win only defensive victories, or public awareness while the real world continued to be destroyed at ever accelerating rates. No matter what victories we claimed, real forests continued to be murdered; real rivers were killed or enslaved; real plants, animals, and fungi were driven extinct
And then I found action, and resistance. At first my steps were tiny, and timid: letters to the editor under a pseudonym because I was too scared to have a voice; protests where I stood silently because, once again having a voice was too frightening. But even these small steps encouraged me, made me happy. And they were really fun! Not only the actions themselves: and not only the camaraderie of standing shoulder to shoulder to others who were at least doing something to try and stop the horrors; and not only the solid and profound ecstasy-I mean ecstasy -of doing the right thing; but also the equally profound and ecstatic joy of, however timid and terrified one may feel on the inside, rising from ones knees, standing full upright and shouting, “No!”
For a while that joy of resistance helped stave off some of the sorrow. Or perhaps its more accurate to say it counterbalanced the sorrow, since the sorrow was still there in full, only now it felt like I was doing something about the cause of that sorrow.
This only worked for a few years: in time resistance alone was no longer sufficient I needed effective resistance alone was no longer sufficient. I needed effective resistance, and this was (and still is) in short supply. I needed to do far more then just put up a good fight; with symbolic victories, win only defensive victories, or public awareness while the real world continued to be destroyed at ever accelerating rates. No matter what victories we claimed, real forests continued to be murdered; real rivers were killed or enslaved; real plants, animals, and fungi were driven extinct