It was 1985, I was thirty-five, a new volunteer with RESULTS, an advocacy organization committed to ending hunger and poverty. I jumped in feet first, determined to make a difference, though I knew nothing about poverty, Congress or how a bill was passed. Something I couldn’t name was driving me to be a change agent in the world.
I’m not having an easy time of it. And I don’t even live in Houston or Florida or Mexico or Montana. This climate change work takes its toll.
I just read an article about climate change in New York Magazine by David Wallace-Wells. He begins like this; “It is, I promise, worse than you think.”
On long drives, in the days before seat belts, my mom would put the seats down in the back of the station wagon, lay the suitcases out flat, cover them with blankets and pillows, and the four of us kids, lulled by the absolute darkness and motion of the car, would sleep curled up like puppies.