WIND TURBINES VS. WILD BURROS: OR CAN WE HAVE BOTH?

By Paul M. Lewis

No matter what, the impact human beings have on the natural environment is seldom entirely benign.   Often it is extremely destructive, as is the case with the proposed construction of the XL pipeline, which the House of Representatives recently passed a bill regarding. As is normally the case with most Republicans, environmental issues have taken a back seat, and a distant one at that, to other concerns. So-called energy independence and job-creation are the ones most often cited, but in reality even a little digging reveals instead ominous and disconcerting signs of covetousness and greed, particularly on the part of already well-heeled owners of energy supply companies.

But what are we to think when we are talking not about the transportation and use of fossil fuels, however it is to be done, but the creation of clean energy? Surely, this is a good thing, and one that Democrats and environmentalists of every stripe can get behind, right? Unfortunately, the answer is: not necessarily

As an example, take a look at the recent proposal that a Spanish company by the name of Iberdrola Renewables has made for a major project in California’s Silurian Valley. To get ourselves situated geographically, picture the familiar shape of California, and focus for a moment on the area near the Nevada border not far from Death Valley, about 100 miles southwest of Las Vegas. This is pristine desert territory par excellence. Death Valley itself is the largest National Park in the United States. And the nearby Silurian Valley is located in a prized location sitting astride the old Spanish Trail, itself managed by the National Parks Service. Although outside the park’s boundaries, the Silurian Valley is a well-known wildlife corridor in the Mojave Desert, to say nothing of a place visited by tourists who want a little solitude and a whole lot of open space.

Iberdrola has asked for a variance here, a legal term that indicates a kind of dispensation from the usual rules, in order to construct up to 133 wind turbines towering as high as 480 feet off the ground, as well as a 200-megawatt facility that would consist of 400 pairs of photovoltaic panels. The Bureau of Land Management, which oversees the area, is considering whether or not to allow this to happen.

Here, then, is the dilemma: on the one hand, clean, renewable energy that replaces polluting, greenhouse gas-causing fossil fuels is a good thing; on the other, cluttering up pristine land that also serves as irreplaceable wildlife habitat, and killing some of that wildlife in the process, or otherwise making it impossible for these creatures to live and reproduce there, is bad. The whole brouhaha might be thought of as a win-win for the no-federal-regulation types, who espouse unfettered free enterprise as the only way to live, and as the panacea for all freedom loving people everywhere. You can almost hear them jeering: these environmentalists can’t even agree among themselves. First they want to do away with fossil fuels and replace them with renewable energy, and then they won’t even allow entrepreneurial companies to build the very plants that produce renewable energy, because of what? They’re afraid it’ll harm the damn desert tortoise, or something!

But let’s slow down a bit and look more closely at the dilemma. Just because environmentalists object to a company building in one location in the desert, doesn’t mean that they object to building everywhere. In other words, not all desert parcels are equal. As Jenny Kordick, a renewable energy representative for the Wilderness Society says: “My job as renewable energy representative is to push forward an important part of protecting wilderness: replacing dirty forms of energy with clean, non-polluting options. But poorly located energy projects can scar wild areas and harm sensitive species. To prevent this, the Wilderness Society is working to guide wind and solar development to low-conflict areas and away from special places like Silurian Valley.” The key phrase here is “poorly located energy projects.”

An article on the subject by Julie Cart in last week’s Los Angeles Times (Sunday, Nov. 9, 2014) also points out that the Bureau of Land Management has 22 million acres that it can choose from in California’s deserts. And there are definitely portions of that desert that are far less environmentally fragile and susceptible to damage than the one proposed in the Silurian Valley. Not only is this locale, just off of Hwy 127, on the way to the magnificence of Death Valley National Park, it is in its own right a prime area of unspoiled beauty and ecological importance. It is clear that building such an enormous project in an easily spoiled area is not only bad for the animals who live and travel through there, but also for those humans who seek to experience true wilderness (or as close as we can get in the 21st century). Why not find a location where the impact is less destructive, and the clean-energy deliverables are, if not one hundred percent as good, at least good enough, given all of the drawbacks of the originally proposed site?

Not only would the Iberdrola project build the huge wind turbines and dangerous photovoltaic panels mentioned above (both of which, it is well know, kill birds, sometimes in their thousands), but it would also require construction of 45 miles of new roads and 11 miles of transmission lines through California’s Mojave Desert. Surely, we can do better than cluttering up and despoiling an area long known for its untrammeled vistas

As mentioned at the beginning of this essay, human intervention in any landscape is always and everywhere problematic. No matter where, it is dangerous for the creatures who had lived there before, because humans seldom take into consideration any other being on the planet, aside from ourselves and our own needs. The feral desert burros of the Silurian Valley that escaped from miners and explorers who traversed these same desert landscapes a hundred years ago have now fully acclimated to a sometimes unforgiving land. They have prospered and returned to a more natural life for themselves, one that up until now had been blissfully free from further human encroachment.   And now we want back what we once had so freely given away, when we thought the land was of no value to us.

Human beings seem to want everything. I remember an old friend of mine once saying of her then (now ex) husband: “He wants what he wants when he wants it.” But can’t most of us say the same thing about ourselves? We want modern life styles that provide all the energy we require at the flick of a switch; we want our ease and our comfort; and we surely want money, that blessed commodity that brings with it all good things, or so we are convinced.   But above all, we want power. We want control over everything.

It may be time for us to begin realizing that we’ve got to come to a place of compromise. In fact, the more we humans over-populate the world, the more we need to share what is left of that world with other life forms. It’s not even just as a matter of morality (why does everything always belong only to us?), but also simply of sustaining our own lives.

Humans and burros can coexist. So can birds, and even those much maligned desert tortoises. But we’ve got to make allowances for them, and to learn to be more generous in how we live our lives. Believe it or not, not everything is only about us. If we motivate ourselves, in the end we actually can find other places on earth – and here in the California deserts – where it’s possible to safely build turbines and photovoltaic panels. All in the hope that one day we will learn to tread more lightly on the planet that nourishes and sustains us all.

THE QUESTION OF THE DECADES

By Paul M. Lewis

There’s something about turning 70, as I did not so long ago, that gets your attention in a way that turning 69 did not. One day, you’re still in your 60’s, and the next morning suddenly you’ve arrived at what sounds like a whole new level of agedness. Of course, these are just numbers, numerals that have their life on a page, or in a computer, or while otherwise calculating something that can be counted up. This momentous moving from one ten-year spacing of numbers to the next that startles us so is what I think of as the question of the decades.   But it’s not the numbers per se that matter; it’s more what they remind us of. They seem to say: What have I done with my life; see how fleeting it all is; and what ought I to do with what remains? Ultimately, it’s the question of mortality that we all must face. How many more of these numberings will I attach to my life’s span before this particular series runs its course? The 17th century English poet, Andrew Marvell, put it this way: “But at my back I always hear/Times winged chariot hurrying near.”

Time – more to the point, fleeting time – is like that. It brings with it questions of meaning, of what we have done with what has been given to us. No wonder it’s a common topic in art of all kinds, since art at its finest puts us in touch with the ultimate questions. Art can make us ask ourselves, using whatever devices and conventions are specific to its particular expression, what is most important in life. We see it in theater, in novels and stories of all kinds, in painting (note the heartbreakingly beautiful and almost too painfully truthful self-portraits of the aging Rembrandt, for example), and as noted above in poetry. William Butler Yeats is one of those poets who spoke movingly of getting older. In “Sailing to Byzantium,” one of the great seminal poems of the early part of the 20th century, he says: “An aged man is a paltry thing/A tattered coat upon a stick”. But he doesn’t stop at such a simple lament. The whole remainder of the poem speaks of what to do with our lives as we age: “unless/Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing/For every tatter in its mortal dress,/Nor is there singing school but studying/Monuments of its own magnificence.”

Soul clap its hands and sing. What an interesting image; and what a wonderful thing to do as the body grows older, to make one’s own music, to choreograph one’s own life with a dance that incorporates the ages into it. How each person does that remains forever his or her own personal expression. And it is no one else’s place or right to dictate how that particular manifestation reveals and articulates itself. It is, after all, the reason for the journey in the first place, to give each of us the opportunity to create that most personal revelation of the ultimate magic of who we are. I am, as you no doubt have already noted, speaking here about nothing less than the meaning of life. And not just in some general philosophical sort of way, but specifically and most personally the meaning of one’s own life. That is the thing that no one can tell you, because as life unfolds, as we put foot in front of foot and make our way along its sometimes torturous path, our life slowly reveals itself to us, even as we create it ourselves. It could even be said that it reveals us, ourselves, as we most truly are. That’s why art is such a fine metaphor for life, because art too unveils itself through the artist’s use of what is within and without, all the while creating something utterly unique, a thing the world has never seen before, and which it will never again see the likes of.

What is it that the world sees? And in that ultimate sense, what do we see, as we both create and reveal our lives? Each day presents its own high and low points, its own opportunities for triumph and failure. Yes, of course, there are times in everyone’s life, critically divergent moments, when the choices we make set us along a certain course that veers this way or that. This also means that there were other paths that were presented, but which were not taken. Such are the decisions we all have to make, and we make them to the best of our abilities at the time. There is no room, no time later for regret, for the way we have chosen reflects who and what we were at the moment of the choice.

Still, it must be said, most of life is not so dramatic. We go about our business according to the diurnal patterns we all create for ourselves. We work each day, or we otherwise spend our time according to frameworks that have become familiar to us. And there is nothing wrong with that. Or, I correct myself, there is only something wrong with that if we do so unconsciously. Because the job of life must be to live as consciously as we can, in order to participate as fully as possible in its blossoming possibilities. It is exactly these steps we take each day, each moment, one following after the next that finally makes the fabric of the life we are weaving. Wisdom does not necessarily come with age. How many older people do we all know who have not achieved wisdom? No, it is not physically surviving for a certain number of years that counts, but the quality of the life that we have created. How to go about that? The best way I know is through reflection, dare I say meditation, that deepest form of introspection. Which one of us was born wise, and who has gone through childhood unscathed?   These are the givens that we must deal with. What we make of it all is what is ultimately important. Life never skimps in giving us opportunity after opportunity to test ourselves, to grow, to flourish and blossom, or else to wither and fade away. The highest inner qualities, peace and joy and wisdom, do not always come at first invitation. They are shy and diffident visitors; they must be coaxed and cajoled, lured even into the warm hearth of the soul.

These are some of the things I think of as I turn 70. It seems natural that one should think about them at this stage of life, but we all do well to think of them at every stage. Who we are at any moment in life is the end creation of what we have thought and done, what our hopes and aspirations are, how we treat ourselves and others in the wider world. That is as much true at age 20 as it is at 70. And we can only hope that with 50 years in between we might have learned something about what is important and what is not.

In Yeats’s symbology, Byzantium represents the goal, the hoped-for end of life’s journey. It is a mystical place that can never be fully explained, only experienced, because it is not a thing of the intellect. And that perhaps is a good part of ultimate wisdom, the acceptance of the fact that we cannot explain any of life’s final verities, only strive to achieve what a human being can never fully achieve, left to his or her own devices. In the last stanza of the poem, Yeats likens the soul, the human spirit, to a bird “set upon a golden bough to sing/To the lords and ladies of Byzantium/Of what is past, or passing, or to come.”

It is a great metaphor. In the end, what more can any of us do but sing our song, work to understand the past, fully embrace each passing moment, and look with hope and trust for what is to come? Good advice to myself, as I enter into this next decade, and maybe not such bad advice at any age.

WRITING “AFTER THE DEVASTATION”

By Paul M. Lewis

It has been some time since I have written on this blog, and to those who read it on anything like a regular basis, I offer my apologies. What has been keeping me otherwise occupied is working on a novel that I originally wrote several years ago

The history of writing the novel goes something like this. Just before I retired at the end of the year 2006, I had a strikingly vivid dream. It was so powerful, and imposed itself so on me, that it woke me from sleep at 3 o’clock in the morning. I sat up and thought about it, but not wanting to awaken my partner, I went into another room and wrote it down. Basically, the dream gave me the broad outline of the book that I came to write. There are three parts to it, and each part was vividly laid out for me. This is what came directly from my subconscious mind. The characters described come, I suppose, from a combination of my conscious mind and the parts of my subconscious that leak out in ways that are both known and unknown to me. The “I” that speaks its name, that is, this amalgam of the aware and the unaware, the mindful and the slumberous, the cognizant and the incognizant that I normally think of and refer to as “me” is responsible for the detail of the story.

But the question that may legitimately pose itself is this: if I wrote the novel several years ago, why am I only now publishing it? That requires some small bit of explanation. The original writing of it took eighteen months. I wrote every day, and was utterly engrossed in it. The story followed the main outline of the original dream, but I had to create individuals to populate this superstructure, as well as plot, and of course conflict. The conflict was both easy and difficult for me. On the one hand, I have always been hyper-aware of conflict, both in my immediate surroundings and in the wider world. There is never, it seems, surcease of conflict. On the other hand, I have also never liked conflict, and my natural tendency is to shy away from it. Yet, you cannot write a novel without embedding discord, dissension and strife of various kinds within it. So, there is that aplenty in the novel. As an aside, all this reminds me of a story I once read about the great Bengali writer and Nobel laureate, Rabindranath Tagore. He was spinning a story for his granddaughter, who loved to listen to the various tales he would create just for her. But in this one instance, his story was going on and on, and he was elderly and getting tired. So he began bringing it to an end. However, the granddaughter had other ideas, and each time he would make a move toward an ending, she would say to her grandfather that this or that then happened to the heroine, and so it couldn’t be the end yet. As Tagore later noted, there is no ending a story until the conflict is resolved. Or, I suppose, another way of thinking of it is, the story goes on and on, and it never fully ends. Whatever end we come up with is always a temporary one.

Once the novel was finished, with lots of help from friends, I attempted to find an agent and get it published. However, as an unknown author with an untested novel, no one was willing to take me on. I cannot say that I blame them. The publishing world has changed drastically in the last several years, and continues to change. As a result, I put the novel away for the next few years. It literally sat in a drawer, or in a file on the computer (some of both, actually), until just recently. What happened then was that I was about to turn 70 years old. As that birthday approached, I said to myself that if I am ever going to publish this, to give it a chance to be seen by a wider world than my own eyes, or only by my partner and a few willing friends, I had no choice but to self-publish. And this has been what I have been in the process of doing

Fortuitously, all of this coincided with my partner’s retirement from work. As such, I coopted him (he was more than willing) to make use of his excellent editorial services. We both read through the novel three or four times, depending on how you count, and in the process he made many extremely useful suggestions. I will not say that I took every one, but I did incorporate many of them. And I think, or at least it is my hope, that the novel is the better as a result.

So, I have now submitted the work to the publisher (Lulu.com), and they have just begun to work their own magic. I want to add here too that my old friend and blog-partner, Kevin, who is one of the finest artists I know, was kind enough to agree to create cover art for the novel. I cannot yet say exactly when the novel will be ready, but I am hopeful that sometime in the next couple of months, six at the outside, it will be available.

The novel itself is called After the Devastation, and a brief description of it goes something like this: The year is 2024, and the world is teetering on the brink of global environmental disaster and nuclear war. Nora tells her husband, Aden, she’s leaving to report on a crucial meeting at the new Chicago headquarters of the UN. With the world about to fall apart, this is the last thing he wants to hear. A professor and environmental specialist, Aden understands all too well the risks and dangers involved. But the worst does happen, and the two become lost to each other. In the ensuing years, they lead lives apart in isolated communities without modern technology or the conveniences once taken for granted. Separated and still longing for each other, they both rise to positions of power and leadership in fragments of civilization torn by their own brand of conflict based on religion, political affiliation, sexual orientation and race. They meet traditionalists, doctrinal zealots, outrageous individualists, as well as shamans and those wise in the ways of the world. In the process, each discovers their own intuitive awakening and comes to know and rely on their personal spirit guides. It is a story of political intrigue and magical mysticism, as well as a tale of post-apocalyptic crisis and uncertain future for humanity, riven by its ever-present flaws, but bolstered by its greatest attributes. It poses the questions we ultimately all need to ask ourselves: can we learn from our past mistakes, and are we capable of building a new and better world, even after the devastation?

I have learned a great deal throughout this entire process, and again am enormously grateful for all of the help I have gotten along the way. I can only hope that the novel will live up to my own expectations, as a work that dramatizes and gives life to the enormous environmental issues of our day, to say nothing of the ageless human questions that challenge us all, and that it may serve to remind everyone who reads it of one essential truth – that the earth is not some senseless, inert thing, but has its own kind of consciousness, one that is both other, and greater than, our own.