Let Go Or Be Dragged

A couple of weeks ago the ranch across the road from mine caught fire. Though the flames were quickly contained by firefighters whose station is a half-mile from my place, still I worried, remembering the devastating Bastrop fires. How long, I wondered, before fire comes for me?

I asked a firefighter if he knew what caused it. He speculated a construction truck dragging chains threw off sparks. Not just any truck. One of Elon’s trucks. 

For it is weirdly true that the Deranged Mister Musk has landed not only in my zip code but on my very street. Yes, that lunatic is building his sick Neuralink operation a stone’s throw from my property. And—hardly surprisingly— he clearly doesn’t care if the rest of us burn to the ground in the process. 

Which means my real life is a literal microcosm of the world at large, everything on fire whilst the billionaires continue to add accelerants and fiddle on, a bunch of delusional Neros fancying themselves heroes.

It’s been months now since the heat dome sealed down upon us like a perfectly burped Tupperware lid at a home demo party in the 70s. The planet appears to be experiencing Stage 12 cancer and while I like to think of myself as someone who doesn’t give up hope, I’ve been feeling pretty hopeless at the prognosis. I imagine myself ten, twenty, thirty years from now—in my family women live forever—some shrunken-apple-headed kitchen witch, sucked dry by the heat, huddled in front of a struggling window unit as the thermostat outside reads 130 degrees. 

I am in no way prepared for this. I am feeling extreme paralysis at the prospect. I look at the juxtaposition of articles about Maui in Ruins printed next to articles about how to get great travel deals on fuel-guzzling airplanes and cruise ships and I can’t help but think, “Are we really this collectively stupid?”

I am puzzled watching my fellow humans seem to carry on like no big deal. While I can still recall many moments of awestruck joy across the endless trips I’ve taken, I am also saddled with grief and guilt at how cavalierly I used to hop on airplanes, sometimes ten times in a year, hurtling hither and yon around the globe. 

I had a hand in all of this. Still do. I feel so terrible about this. Pursuing or experiencing joy of any sort feels about as right as laughing in the face of a howling baby.

And yet, in my discomfort, something else occurs to me. Sitting in my house crippled with anxiety waiting for Elon Musk’s trucks to torch my ranch is not helping. 

So how to reconcile these things? I am trying so hard now to figure that out.

I recently read an interview with the French monk often referred to as the happiest man in the world. For him happiness is less about seeking pleasure and more about living in acceptance, neutrality and equanimity. I’m more than a little familiar with these concepts, having latched onto Buddhist philosophy nearly 25 years ago when I began a meditation practice that was uneven for the first dozen years and is now a nonnegotiable daily routine for me. 

I’m even more familiar with the fact that very often there’s a wide gulf between knowledge and application. Sure I love the idea of remaining equanimous to alleviate suffering—my own and others’. And being mindful seems like it shouldn’t be that hard. But then I catch myself, not infrequently, on the delivery end of a protracted one-finger salute anytime someone cuts me off in traffic, which is basically anytime I am out driving. Also, the act of driving itself feels very unmindful, given the impact driving has on the environment.

After reading the monk interview, I assigned myself two tasks to try to reshape my attitude. Because the thought of mucking around in this current malaise for the rest of my life does not feel like a good use of whatever time I have left. And so, for the next thirty days I will attempt to live immersively in these activities to see if that helps.

The first, the easier, is to consciously practice what Buddhists call Beginner’s Mind. Greet everything as if you are a child experiencing something for the first time. That is precisely what I always loved best about traveling, how everything was new to me: the people, the food, the architecture, the culture, the language, all of it. I know I can easily conjure childlike wonder at the ranch watching the baby goats run, hosing down the pigs, listening to the birds.

I can even get it in my bathroom.

To wit: Every time I sit on the toilet—at my age this is with great frequency day and night—I look at the plant on the floor at my feet. It is a coleus plant, also known as St. Joseph’s Coat—growing up catholic I was never taught the Latin names for plants but rather the religious names for them—that serves the dual purpose of absorbing water that leaks from the shower I keep forgetting to re-grout and mesmerizing me.

I stare at the leaves while I am doing my business and I will myself to truly, deeply take in the beauty of them, the impossible wonder of plants. There is this glorious, dynamic, ever-changing explosion of color right there in front of me, at least as astonishing as any great wonder, natural or human made, as I have ever seen in all the faraway places I’ve been. And it’s right there in front of me. 

The second challenge I have set for myself? I already know I will never, ever come anywhere close to fully accomplishing it, but I’m going to try anyway. Let’s call it Radical Kindness. I am going to attempt for one entire month to not lose my shit. With anyone.

Those of you who know me know that I am an incredibly kind person. To a fault. That I have, an embarrassing number of times, hurt myself deeply in my efforts to help others. But you also know I will not hesitate to cut a motherfucker who manages to cross my incredibly high threshold for pain and hurt me. 

Now, I will attempt to laser focus on the Softer Side of Spike. I will smile at more babies, compliment more strangers and even strive to be patient with insufferable idiots. (Side rule: If I am in a situation in which I absolutely cannot muster kindness, I am going to walk away.) I will (probably only temporarily) mute grudges and refer as needed to the Zen proverb tattooed on my right forearm: Let Go Or Be Dragged.

The goal is acceptance. Not of things I will never be okay with—like a certain political party. But acceptance that these things—the hellfire of climate change, the insanity of growing fascism, etc—do exist. That I must coexist with them, like it or not. I want to embody a meme about acceptance I once saw. The gist of it is, you can look out the window, observe rain, and proclaim, “It can’t be raining!” Or you can note that it is raining, which is not what you hoped for, but, you know, there it is, so figure out how to operate within the reality of this moment.

I got a hard lesson in acceptance this summer. I’d been looking out the window for many weeks, unwilling to fully acknowledge what my eyes were seeing. Even the fire at the ranch across the way could not fully get through to me. Fascinating how long we can live in denial. 

But then I saw things as they truly are and have been for months. The fields are all dead, dry dirt by day kicking up into dust when dusk’s hot wind blows in. There is no grass. There is no rain. The cost of hay is through the barn roof. I cannot sustain things the way they are. And, too, if the fire ever does reach me, I do not have the skills or equipment to evacuate large livestock.

Acceptance fell upon me. I made the call I did not want to make. Yesterday, not for the first time, my friend Brandon the Cowboy came by and took some more of the animals to his ranch, where he is better equipped to care for them. Brandon knows these farewells crush me, even as I know the animals will be at least as happy with him as they were with me. To cheer me up he pulled out his phone and showed me a photo of a steer the size of a large dog.“This is Peppy,” he said. “He’s a mini and that’s as big as he’s going to get. I can bring him to you.”

I arrived home from work last night to a greatly thinned herd. I wondered how evening rounds would feel. They felt okay. I understood I had let go of a situation that was dragging me down. I found a wonderful solution. This was all good. And then I found, in a field, a wee little steer I took in with Beginner’s Mind. I could tell, when he saw me, he was doing the same. 

Brandon, My Hero.

NOTES:

Welcome newcomers! I seem to have picked up a ton of new subscribers over the past few days. I suspect this is thanks to a recommendation from my friend Sondra, who has just started posting her serial memoir, SPECIAL, on substack. I urge you to go check it out.

Please consider a paid subscription if you can. It’s $5 per month or $50 per year. All proceeds help me to keep these animals fed in this insane heat. If you’re not into paid subscriptions, you can still help by sharing this with others who might be interested. Thank you. 

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My next six-week writing memoir for women starts in September. Tuesdays 11 am - 1 pm at the ranch. $150. Email me to sign up.

Also beginning in September I’ll be offering a free bimonthly writing workshop at the Hampton Branch Library in Oak Hill. Everyone is welcome. This is formatted differently than ranch workshops. Still a lot of fun and a great way to jumpstart a writing practice. I’ll share a sign up link once I have one.

Seriously y’all—how are you dealing mentally with climate change? I hope you’ll comment below. 

Thanks for reading.