The oil continues to spill. Here, I was thinking that by the time my op-ed got printed in USA Today, it would have been capped and we could move on to the next disaster. But, no. I write:

In the Gulf of Mexico, however, we may have found our infinite fount. This deep-water accident has no horizon. It isn’t an oil spill in the conventional sense, where a fixed amount of fuel escapes from the hull of a ship. When this rig sank, it left behind a severed umbilical cord that had tethered it to an oil borehole reaching deep into the earth’s crust a mile below the waves. We have tapped into something we quite literally can’t control.

And so I argue, that as Cape Cod succumbs to the an interrupted horizon in the form of the nation’s first off-shore wind farm, and oil fills the waters of the Gulf, that one byproduct of this could be that Americans start seeing their energy production for what it is — environmentally destructive and sometimes lethal, to humans and other forms of life. Everything, I repeat everything, comes at a cost, even the so-called green clean energies. Hybrid cars need batteries that need lithium mined in South America. Wind turbines kill birds. Conservation and consumption are the main issues, and if we can watch the meters rise and fall with our electrical use, see the turbine blades spinning on the horizon, kneel to separate sand from oil, if we can viscerally experience that power comes from somewhere other than the Land of Make Believe and West Virginia, a place most have never been and will never go, the better.

Read the whole piece here.

The oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico has engineers scrambling, environmentalists screaming through their tears, biologists getting their rubber gloves and cleaning supplies ready, the military finally being put to some good use, BP stockholders selling, fisherman learning how to be oil skimmers instead of shrimpers, and—over at Religion Dispatches, Peter Laarman asking, in “Our Lethal Lust for Money,” “Do we really even like the way we’re living?” It’s a Buddha-killing question. His inquiry inspired a few of my own.

What do you believe in? Do you believe that everything comes at a cost? How much are you willing to pay for a pound of shrimp? What about a gallon of gas? Two dollars? Five dollars? Ten dollars? Would you pay a bit more if you knew the goddamn safety valve would work to cap an underwater well in the unlikely event of an accident? Do you believe in rescue efforts, oil daubed from the wings of birds? Do you believe in science, the ability to sit upon the undulating waves and use remote controls to send robots a mile down with the goal of capping a well releasing thousands of barrels of crude oil per day? Do you think the rays of the sun can save us? Do you believe that Don Quixote really believed his windmills were anything but windmills? Do you believe that a broken soul can heal? A broken bayou? A broken planet? Do you think the planet is broken? Do you think it matters if humans as a species survive forever? If daughters no longer become mothers? Do you believe in wishes made with a coin toss? Do you believe in God? Who do you think is in control? Do you think anyone’s in control? Do you agree that we all have blood on our hands? Do you believe gravity is just another law that The Man invented to keep us down? Do you believe that blood is thicker than water? Oil lighter than love?

Tell me what you think over on Killing the Buddha.

I’ve been following the South Asian vulture decline for awhile now. In December, following an evaporating trail of vultures, I found myself wandering the sacred Parsi grounds in Mumbai that have been used for centuries to lay out the Parsi dead.

In a ritual so old it was described by Herodotus, Zoroastrians have laid out their dead atop Towers of Silence to be exposed to sun, sky and—most importantly—vultures. These massive harbingers of death with eight-foot wingspans once numbered in the millions across South Asia and could strip a corpse to the bone in hours. Yet their service has come to an abrupt end in the past decade as the vulture population plummeted due to a fatal reaction to a common painkiller given to the livestock and humans that the birds eventually feed upon. Ongoing habitat shrinkage has exacerbated the decline. With vultures virtually extinct, the Parsis are left struggling with the question of how to preserve traditions when modern forces conspire against them.

In an exploration of what it means to be faithful if the biological world stops cooperating, I wonder whether the only way for a faith to survive is to adapt. Read the entire piece here, at least for the next week, unless you’re a WSJ subscriber.

Last week on Killing the Buddha, I got all righteous and asked you to get off your fanny and do something about climate change. Today’s the day. 350.org has helped orchestrate something like 5,000 events from the Maldives to Mississippi as part of a Global Day of Climate Action. Up here at the Blue Mountain Center, we created an ice sculpture and proceeded to melt it in front of a flaming carbon-spewing fire. The final resulting video is the time lapse image in reverse. Keep the flames down. Bring the ice back. Aim for 350 — the quantity of carbon dioxide in parts per million that our atmosphere can handle before being significantly altered. We’re at 386 now. Check out the one-minute video and get the catchy tune stuck in your head, and then wander around and check out all the other, ahem, cool stuff that’s happening all around the globe.

From today’s post on Killing the Buddha…

In Denver last month, an association of interfaith clergy became advocates for action in the climate change debate. “Our thirst to consume the earth’s natural resources, and our reliance on old energy sources which emit greenhouse gases, has led us to a crisis both spiritual and environmental,” read the statement published in the Denver Post. “In view of this, for us as spiritual leaders to remain silent would be an abdication of our responsibilities.”

Statements from churches, kind of like statements from any organized entity or elected official, often tend to weigh heavy on the verbiage and grand statements and come in a little short on substance and action. But the Colorado men and women of the cloth are just one small manifestation of religious groups around the world that are becoming more engaged, through words and action both, in promoting ways to minimize the impact on a rapidly-changing atmosphere. They’re standing behind scientists, pressuring their lawmakers, making changes in their own lives and congregations, and connecting with those outside of their denominations in this new challenge that defies boundaries of any kind. The godly and the godless are all now in the same boat, and the waters are rising.

The fact that religious groups are standing up and speaking out about the climate shouldn’t be such a stretch, really. The questions that the prospect of climate change raise—from the percentage of impact that hinges on human behavior to what we should do about it—are fundamentally questions of responsibility. What, ultimately, falls within our job descriptions as inhabitants of the earth? Survival? Pursuit of happiness? Something in between? Answering these questions by drawing the lines (or erasing them) between self, community and God has long been the realm of religion. I, for one, am encouraged by the shift, the involvement that alters the focus to this life and our surroundings, that moves away from the short timer’s syndrome demonstrated by an all-to-recent administration.

One little group with great big ideas is helping to bring many of these ecologically aware religious groups together, from the Evangelical Environmental Network to the World Council of Churches to the Dalai Lama himself. All these groups and more are signing on with the newly-formed organization 350.org, started by Bill McKibben, a long-time environmental author and activist and energized by a determined and impossibly optimistic group of recent Middlebury College graduates who are traveling the world in an organizing ambush. The editors of Killing the Buddha were honored to share a mountain retreat space with McKibben and his 350.org crew during the summer as they sketched out and strategized ways to get the whole world involved in fighting for the protection of something as vital yet amorphous as our atmosphere, that thin shell of inhabitability that surrounds us.

To spread awareness and garner commitment from the global community about climate change, 350.org has organized an International Day of Climate Action taking place a week from today on October 24th. The goal is to set the stage for Copenhagen in December, when the United Nations will be meeting to hammer out a new global climate treaty. The hope is that grassroots pressure will result in an agreement that has teeth and legitimate support from the big players, including the recalcitrant US, while also encouraging sustainable development for the Southern Hemisphere countries that are still working on the survival end of the job description spectrum. Reaching out to communities of faith worldwide has been an integral part of the 350 campaign, which is doing everything from rousing swamis to plant trees in Nepal to inspiring Jews to read the story of Noah in a new light in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. And that endorsement from the World Council of Churches, which represents 560 million Christians across 349 denominations and church fellowships in more than 110 countries and territories…dare we mention the word movement?

Why 350? Scientists, including leading climatologist Jim Hansen, determined that the atmosphere can handle 350 parts per million of carbon dioxide before undergoing major changes that, while not ending all life on earth (although some of it), will alter it in incredibly troublesome ways. Hansen put it this way, presenting us with a choice: “If humanity wishes to preserve a planet similar to that on which civilization developed and to which life on Earth is adapted,” we need to bring the number down to 350. We’re just shy of 386 at the moment. Because there is a delayed reaction within the atmosphere to the carbon dioxide that we’ve been pumping out ever since we cleverly discovered how to transform ancient buried life forms into fuel for an industrial age, bringing the number down requires a decisive and rapid response. Like, yesterday

So dear senators, pleaded our Colorado reverends, pass the legislation that will support alternative energies so that someday soon they won’t seem so alternative. Help lead us wayward sheep—with grace and economy—away from our fossil-fuel dependent lifestyles that we think we can’t live without. Legislation is powerful. It can, in a moment, act out some higher aspect of our collective selves in a way that can last for generations. Global legislation even more so. It is changing your light bulbs times seven billion, and counting.

Let the statements keep coming, with their grandiose proclamations. “Right now our greatest responsibility is to undo the damage done by the introduction of fossil carbon dioxide into the atmosphere and climate system during the rise of human civilization…,” writes the Dalai Lama. “Buddhists, concerned people of the world and all people of good heart should be aware of this and act upon it.” We need grandiosity. And good hearts.

Let us draw from the old texts, reading them anew. Allah loveth not wasters, says the Qur’an, Let there be no change in the work wrought by Allah.

I think Allah wills it! And what about the Pope? Caritas in veritate, love in truth, says Pope Benedict XVI, when he reminds his followers that the Church has a responsibility towards creation, that to pollute is to sin

Like the statements, words can be weak, breathed to life only through belief and action. So act. Find your faith. Believe in something. Make a difference. Enact change. Don’t do anything, in the words of poet Wendell Berry’s Mad Farmer, that would disturb the sleep of a woman near to giving birth. Find your faith in the mustard seed, the acorn, the buffalo of the plain or the eagle of the sky, the singular God you love or the one who fears you into acts of goodness, the multiple gods that take the form of elephant or monkey or ten-headed deity. Find it in science and rationalism, in the void between the spinning atoms, the space between the double helix, the heliotropic reaching of the tendril towards the sun. Find it in the holy words written in the flowing script of Arabic or the staccato lines of Hebrew or the good King James English. Just find it, believe in something, and act on the belief. Every day, do something that takes you outside of your skin. Make do with less. Give of yourself. Maybe you go to 350.org and find an action near you to join next week, standing should-to-shoulder with someone else who is fumbling through this world and wants to make a difference, too. But whatever you do, abdicate not.

It’s been a rough day, full of dismal news and mashed up hopes, and my brother suggests I curl up with a book I love and a glass of wine. A book I love…. I scan my bookshelf, see that too many of these titles are still unread, jewels waiting to be discovered. But this, Wallace Stegner, yes, this I’ve read. This I’ve loved. Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs. I am flipping to page 207, to the Letter to Wendell Berry, when something breaks the rhythm of the passing pages. I turn back, pull it out. A boarding pass stub. I have no memory of where I got this book. It is just familiar, like I have always had it, though I haven’t. A United flight from Chicago O’Hare to Norfolk, Virginia on July 7. There is no year. Passenger’s name: BENEVILLE / CRAIG. He sat in 10F. An exit row.

Craig. Thudercraig. Many days have gone by, and I have not thought of him. My first lover after the big breakup. He reminded me how to laugh, pulled longing from my bones under the Christmas lights that twinkled from the roof of the bus he lived in. I’d never seen anything as sexy as his vas deferens in a bottle of formaldehyde on the shelf. When I asked, he said he’d been 80% sure. He stashed his boots under the defunct driver’s seat and the floor was covered with camping gear in a steady state of packing or unpacking, always coming and going as he went deeper into the Oregon woods to do forestry work.

There was a time when I couldn’t think of Craig without crumbling. We were lovers for two months, maybe three, until a hard conversation over a picnic by the river, when I told him I wanted someone whom he wasn’t. It was an honest conversation. And cruel, I know now. I have never been good at separating the two. It was a perfect sunny summer day, yet there was no wide Southern California smile. His eyes were clouded behind his thick glasses as he got up to go, the food I’d brought from my garden untouched. Six months later he was dead. He was a hundred feet up a tree on a government contract, using a chainsaw to make the softwood friendlier for woodpeckers when his best friend Mick heard his cry. There wasn’t anything they could do. So far out in the Oregon woods, the grand length of rope, intact, that had come spinning down with him lost in the ferns and huckleberries around his body. A knot that slipped. An oversight. A mistake that can’t be undone.

I am staring at the ticket stub, like some tap on the shoulder taking me back to a time of kisses and campfires, mud and big trees, broken guitar strings and PBRs, rivers and rafts, cider and song and sex and stars. Nobody gave a fuck about ambition. Work was what one did to cover the most basic expenses: beer and rent, the latter to be avoided if at all possible. Life was for play and touching and exploring and changing the way we inhabit the world. It was for experiencing vertical cliff faces at Joshua Tree and class five rapids from Idaho to New Mexico. I held onto his sleeping bag for a year before I could bear to wash out the smell of it – smoke and earth and delicious man – and pass it along as the donation it was supposed to be.

And Stegner’s book, now I remember. I picked it up from among his shelves, an appropriate taking, though I really wanted the little bottle that contained a piece of him. But it wasn’t mine to take, such a new friend, a recent lover who had kissed and run, a woman who still troubled him enough that he wasn’t speaking to me when he died. The weight I carry is heavier than gravity; it’s just that there’s no ground below to make it matter. That I have nearly forgotten, lost in a new life so far from the mud and fir trees, makes the breach as bad as the one on the banks of the river.

I turn the thick paper over. A black scanner bar is smeared across the top and below, it advises:

NOTICE

Please retain this stub and your ticket receipt as evidence of your journey.