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.
Did you hear the one about the guy who drilled a big hole in his lower level ship stateroom till it filled with water? When asked by his outraged shipmates why he did it, he replied, “This is my room, I paid for it, I can do whatever I want.” The ship sank.
We are, all of us, on that ship.
Just when I thought we were making tracks. Every time I stretch, I discover there’s more stretch to go. It’s one thing to swallow my pride and listen attentively to people I don’t expect to agree with.
Driving through Beverly Hills yesterday, a large metal sculpture on the median strip caught my eye. From several blocks away, it looked to be a perfect red circle mounted against a white backdrop.
Imagine. It’s July 4, 1776. You live in Philadelphia. You’re twenty-five. You hang with Betsy Ross, who is 24, Alex Hamilton, 21 and Tom Jefferson, 33. It’s an exciting time, it’s a wild ride. You have a vision for a new form of government. Like Abe would later say—of the people, by the people and for the people.