The hottest summer ever

And a eulogy for a pond.

I recently attended an inspiring online lecture hosted by the Less Lawn More Life Challenge by Brad Lancaster, the author of the Rainwater Harvesting for Drylands series. I was surprised at how inspiring I found it. Lancaster’s suggestions felt doable and didn’t require huge investment. His enthusiasm and expertise were infectious. It was a much needed reminder to keep writing and communicating about a different way of doing things—both here in this newsletter and in my other writing–even when I’m feeling down. This essay ended up feeling more personal than I had initially imagined, so I’ve tucked it behind the paywall.

New York City hitting record highs. My phone pulsing with flash flood warnings. The lake by my parents’ house as hot as a kiddie pool left out in the sun. The ocean a delightful and yet terrifyingly warm temperature. Pictures of hundred-year-old trees toppled in Philadelphia during a rain bomb. A shard of pink-tinged sunlight on the floor: Wildfire smoke in the air. The sun setting an amped up smoked salmon hue in a hazy grey sky. The wind howling at night, but no rain. Stinging eyes and throats. The replacement air filters all out of stock.

This summer climate change is woven into the fabric of every day. Much of it you might not notice: If you hadn’t spent your whole life swimming in the Atlantic, you might not feel the shock. Children do not know that the days when camp has to be held inside because it’s too hot to play are a new phenomena. Who but a few pay attention to how the wind has changed? We’re like the proverbial frog being slowly boiled alive. And yet, there are times when it all comes into sharp, heartbreaking focus.

This essay was inspired by another moment where the climate crisis cut straight to me, but this week in the Northeast and Canada, the smoke is impossible to ignore. My son asking, “Were there days like this when you were a kid,” stung more than the smoke in my eyes. I had to tell him that no, there had not.