death – Meera Subramanian

Out of Order

February 4, 2025 By meerasub Leave a Comment

graffiti of girl being lifted by heart balloons

{latest Substack…}

Sentiments can be lost in translation, but also found. I’m out of the US but its mess spreads across the globe like its carbon emissions. The absolute least of it is was sitting in a cafe eating tortilla española and cringing as our new old president declared Spain is a BRICS nation (it isn’t). The most of it is hearing from friends and family about direct impacts: jobs lost, projects frozen, students with questionable immigration status disappeared. Last week, I stood with an Austrian woman and when the subject of our state of affairs came up, both of us speechless about the chaos the 47th has unleashed in a baker’s dozen worth of days, she said, of the country or the man, I’m not sure, that it’s “out of order.”

“Yes, yes! That’s the perfect phrase,” I exclaimed. “I’m going to use that.” And so here we are.

As I walked home afterwards, a woman alone, after midnight, feeling totally safe on the streets of Bilbao even as I walked through a group of a dozen men (oh, the sweet relief of not having cortisol continually coursing through one’s body; consider the whales; consider immigrants now being rounded up), I tumbled the phrase “out of order” around in mind. Out of order can mean broken, nonfunctional. It can indicate an experience of tumult and bedlam. It can also mean when someone steps of out of line, and acts in ways that are socially, ethically, morally improper. With the Austrian woman’s three words, she’d spoken a triple entendre.

To process this moment, I’m alternating between Jeff Sharlet’s Scenes from a Slow Civil War and Katharine Hayhoe’s Talking Climate, somehow finding solace in simultaneously recognizing how bad things are and how good they could be. Be? Maybe? Ayana Elizabeth Johnson reminds us to act locally. My form of protest is to dig deeper into my FRONTIERS fellowship work based at BC3, trying to understand all the dynamics at play in the efforts to shift our energy systems to cleaner forms of wind and solar, something that will continue to happen regardless of the white man in the White House. It’s led me to encouraging conversations about agrivoltaics in France and energy companies that build in community funds voluntarily, but also to a recurring and troubling story of conflict—a chasm between the rural and urban populations of the world—identical to what I’ve experienced in America, especially when I reported on conservative perceptions of climate change for Inside Climate News. I also attended an event, La Agenda Climática en La Nueva Legislatura Europa y su Impacto en Euskadi, The Climate Agenda in the New European Legislature and its impact in Basque Country. And we were right back to the impacts of the global shift to the far right. A sense of nervousness, geopolitics shaky, and the hope that energy independence in the form of renewables can be a part of regional security strategies.

panel discussion on climate and politics

Sweet dreams & flying machines…

There was also, last week, the horror over DC skies. Someone I love deeply and dearly has lost someone they love deeply and dearly in the unspeakable plane crash that ended in the Potomoc. She asked me for hard-won advice, knowing I have lost friends, this one, and this one, and others. Words fail, but I say something about letting the grief come when it will, to not fight it, to let it wash over you when it appears urgent and unexpected, even months, years, down the road of recovery. No, not recovery. Something else. Love and loss burnished into your being. But now the grief is immediate, and the only thing to do is take the unbidden reminder that life is short, precious. Love big. Hold loved ones close. Tell them. This is the other way we can act locally, in our most intimate lives.

As I’m exploring this new place, I’m searching for slivers of joy amid all this grief and allowing myself moments to recognize them. I found one, as the sun broke through the relentless clouds of Bilbao, of the news, on Friday afternoon, when I finally made it up Etxebarri Parkea. Once a factory site that has been transformed into a park overlooking the city, its tall smokestack is a reminder of what once was. There was a pond created to support birds and critters, and a skate park for humans to play.

When I walked by the skate park, I noticed two men on skateboards, then I noticed that one was much, much older than the other. I was intrigued. Circled around the park and returned to watch him as he made a smooth steady run across the shallow end. Then, as the younger skater was leaving, the older one recruited him to help him summit the last lip of his run. “Come help me,” he said. “Stand here, with one foot here and the other there, and then when I come up, take my hand.” The young man did exactly as told. They tried it 5-6 times, and the older man never quite made it. Except that, well, he’s already made it, right?

I took a picture of them both, then handed my phone to Nico, the 26-year-old German so he can forward it to himself. And Juanjo is telling us he’s famous. “Google me!” he instructed, and indeed there he is on YouTube and TikTok. He is 87 years old, older than ages of the young skater and me, combined. Some lives are unfairly cut short. Others are long, and embraced by the bodies that contain them.

Journalists & writers friends, take note…

For rising juniors and seniors pursuing journalism, consider applying to the Opening Doors, a new initiative aimed at increasing diversity in public media newsrooms. The two-year program will provide skills training, mentorship, and paid internships for ten BIPOC journalism students, with a focus on science, health, and economics reporting. Apply here.
The Uproot Project Fellowship offers funding to seven journalists to pursue reporting projects over the course of a year. Fellows will receive up to $2,000 to cover travel and other reporting expenses for their fellowship project. Learn more about the Uproot Project Fellowship and find this year’s application here. Deadline: 11:59pm on March 1, 2025
And to connect with poets who are using their art to face the climate crisis, check out the Hellbender Gathering of Poets, run by my friend and Sewanee colleague Nickole Brown. They’re gearing up for a fall gathering and having inspiring events along the way.
The Matthew Power Literary Reporting Award is a grant of $12,500 to support the work of a promising early-career nonfiction writer on a story that uncovers truths about the human condition. Matt was one of those dear friends we lost way too early. Deadline: Feb. 19

Take care, friends. Take care of each other.

[Read more…]

apologia

September 27, 2022 By meerasub Leave a Comment

Mourning Dove by Meera Subramanian

In homage to Barry Lopez and Amanda Stronza. And the flying creatures.

The familiar thud on the kitchen glass, but louder, heavier. When I look up, I still see small gray feathers suspended in the air. The stickers that help birds see the glass we like to look through, which I found through the American Bird Conservatory, have helped. The thuds have diminished this season, even as we’re in the thick of migration. I suspect that one of the raptors I’m so enamored of was in pursuit of this dove, frantic, flying fast, until the air became glass and she was downed. Other strikes this year were just stuns. Five minutes later, and the feathers lifted the life back into the sky, airborne again. Not this time.

In the summer of 2021, I had great plans to attend the The Art of Mending show at the Brick House Museum in Kennebunk, Maine. Covid thwarted the plans again and again. I watched the video of exhibition, glad for it, at least. The show was curated by Scott and Nancy Nash of the Illustration Institute / @illustration_institute. They’re friends. (Scott designed the gorgeous logo of RESP for us.) They’re the kind of friends you see once or twice a year and hours pass in an instant, so enlivened and wide-ranging is the conversation. They told us about the show when it was still in the planning stages. In these times when it can feel like too much is broken or breaking, they sought out those who were focused on repair.

From Apologia by Barry Lopez, with woodcuts by Robin Eschner

One of the people they found was Dr. Amanda Stronza / @amandastronza, an anthropologist, conservationist and photographer in Austin, Texas whom they’d come across on Instagram when she started honoring the dead animals she discovered in her meanderings. She created memorials with the flowers, cones, seeds, leaves and whatever natural bits she found around the lifeless body. I took it today as inspiration. It seemed the right thing to do, when I lifted the dove from below the window and carried her to the edge of the yard.

Amanda, in turn, was inspired by Barry Lopez, who wrote about his tendency to stop when he sees roadkill and remove the body. “I carry each one away from the tarmac into a cover of grass or brush out of decency,” he writes in his short book Apologia. “Who are these animals, their lights gone out? What journeys have fallen apart here?”

A journey fell apart here today. More than one. It’s likely there’s a mate nearby, a mourning dove in mourning, their broods fledged but their bond still strong. The hawks won’t come back for their quarry, but perhaps she’ll be sustenance for someone else, a scavenger furry or six-legged, the cycle continuing.

to be a human body, in flint, mi

October 10, 2018 By meerasub Leave a Comment

We have a ten-minute break from talking about #climatechange at the #SEJ2018 conference in Flint, MI, and I walk outside seeking air. I find a heavy police presence, notice the Flint River is right there, wander over. See cops on the water’s edge, along with a scuba diver gearing up. I ask an older black man on my right what happened. He says a man drowned a few days ago and they’re looking for the body. A younger white man, tattoos on his neck, comes up on my left, and I ask him, too.

“It was my friend. Tripping on acid the other night and he thought he could walk on water.”

Oh.

He’d been walking on some object that was floating, and then he slipped in. Couldn’t get out. Vanished below the water.

“I’m sorry,” I say. He’s stoic.

“Just another one down in Flint,” he says.

“Why?” I ask him.

“I dunno, drugs,” he says, shrugs. I’m silent.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” I say again, putting my hand on his arm. I’m utterly lacking. He says thanks.

Back in I go to the old building that was once a Sheraton and now is a conference center just this side of shabby to talk about carbon and climate and journalism in a windowless room. A couple hours later I go back out. I take a photo of the river, lazy & brown, framed by trees whose leaves are blushing red. I leave out of the frame the medical examiner, bent over the body of the 32-year old man who, the tattooed man had told me, left behind a twin brother. Somewhere, the twin that remains is walking through the city, solo for the first time since the moment of conception.

letting gravity win

October 4, 2010 By Meera 4 Comments

"Luis and the Balloons" by Thomas Hawk

I have a new piece up on Killing the Buddha this morning, on death and life and that time in between. It’s also about flying houses and balloons and dogs and chocolate.

Read the whole thing here.