Love in the Time of Climate Change (11 page)

“
You
can't go back?” Jesse said, grimacing. “What about me? I'm stuck forever with this god-awful image seared forever in my brain of you lying in a lake of yogis, your boat's paddle sticking straight up, front and center, for the whole world to see. Once again, thanks to you, I'm scarred for life. More fodder, and money, for my therapist.”

I took another hit and closed my eyes, forbidding The Issue or meditation leaders or even middle-school science teachers from interfering with the breath. And desperately, desperately willing myself to stop paddling against the goddamn wind, to stop drowning or sinking or even treading water and just be one with the breath and the lake.

Only this time without the hard-on.

I
HAD REPLIED TO AN E-MAIL
from Nurture Earth, a retreat center in one of the Berkshire towns that offers a variety of programs on pressing environmental and social justice topics. They were promoting an evening of “climate action through spiritual awareness.” While generally not one to jump on the New Age bandwagon (I usually run the other way, screaming) I was intrigued. The facilitator looked interesting, the price was right, a scrumptious vegetarian buffet was promised prepared by “The Mistress of Berkshire Vegan Chefs,” and, once again, I was dateless on a Saturday night.

After considerable bribery (cleaning the toilet—
yuck
—for the next three weeks), I got Jesse on board. He was, as he put it, “in between” women and had nothing better to do. Not exactly a ringing endorsement—but, hey, I didn't want to go it alone.

A drive through the Berkshires on an early October afternoon is absolutely stunning. We puttered along on Route 9 through the center of Williamsburg, up the big
winding hill through Goshen and into the cute-as-a-button town of Cummington. One can see why all those damn leaf peepers trek hours from Boston and New York City, in fact from all over the world, to witness Western Massachusetts in all its autumnal glory.

Once, a few years ago, a Cadillac with New Jersey license plates stopped beside me in downtown Glenfield.

“Where are the leaves?” the driver barked, her accent unmistakable, from her open car window. Two cameras dangled from her neck; she had a video cam in one hand, a cigarette and the steering wheel in the other while the big car idled away.

“Excuse me?” I asked

“Where do I go for the leaves?” she squawked.

She was parked under perhaps the most beautiful red maple tree in the Connecticut River Valley. It was at its absolute height of brilliant fall foliage. Reminiscent of a Thomas Cole or Albert Bierstadt painting from the Hudson River School of landscape artists, the sun streamed in and detailed each lobed leaf in perfect redness. At that very moment it was hard to picture any tree, anywhere, more spectacular than that one red maple.

I picked up one of the fallen leaves and solemnly handed it to her.

“Ma'am,” I said, choking back fake tears. “You have just run over the very last one!” Then I silently walked away.

Kabam!
Take that, New Joisy!

We drove to Nurture Earth on just such a day. Blue, blue sky, glorious leaves, ideal temperature. It just didn't get any better.

When we turned down the long, winding road into the conference center, Jesse perked up.

Women. Beautiful women. Long, flowing, flowery dresses and skirts, red maple leaves tucked in their black and auburn and golden hair. It was a spectacular sight.

“This could work!” Jesse said as he checked his nose
for creepy crawlies in the rearview mirror. We parked and followed the throngs to the building's entrance.

“Hi!” I said to the women at the door. “We registered for the program.”

They looked back at us awkwardly, exchanging perplexed glances with each other.

“Hmm … there seems to be some confusion. You are …?”

“Casey,” I said, “And friend.”

“And you're here for …?”

“Climate action through spiritual awareness. The workshop this evening.”

“Well, ahh …” There was a long pause. “There seems to be a bit of a mix up. You see, tonight's event is …”

She was interrupted by a burst of bustle and I was practically tackled from behind.

“Casey! What the hell are you doing here?”

It was an old friend from a sister community college. A wonderfully quirky colleague who taught social action and environmental studies. She was a whirlwind of energy and hope and faith and good work. A great role model for me.

And a very out lesbian.

Smothered in her embrace I managed to catch my breath enough to reply.

“Becca, how are you?”

“Fabulous!”

“Here for the program?”

“Of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world. And you?”

“As well,” I said, and introduced Jesse.

Rebecca laughed out loud, an open mouthed hurrah of a laugh that turned heads and brought smiles.

I was confused. She was always an ode to joy but, even for her, this was a little over the top.

“Well, well, well,” she snorted. “Just like you. Don't move. Let me see what I can do.”

She turned and sashayed away, leaving Jesse and me, somewhat perplexed.

The greeters at the door were dealing with other women and left us standing to the side.

As I watched folks enter and get settled, it dawned on me—they were all women. We were the only guys there. Just us two. This was clearly a dude-free gathering.

“Fabulous,” Jesse whispered. “These women are friggin' gorgeous. And no competition!”

“Christ,” I groaned, scrunching my shoulders and massaging my temples, waiting for Becca's return.

She bounced back with a twinkle in her eye.

“Didn't read the fine print, now did we?” she said, grinning that marvelous grin.

“Excuse me? Fine print?”

She held out the flyer. Prominently displayed on the bottom, in big, bold font, clearly not to be missed, was “THIS IS A WOMAN-CENTERED EVENT.”

“Whoops,” I replied sheepishly.

“Androgynous names will get you anywhere, you sneak! Look,” Becca said. “This program is seriously underenrolled. I can vouch for you. These are my people. Hang out in the car and let me see what I can do.”

We slunk back to the vehicle. Jesse reached into the glove compartment.

“Put the fucking joint away!” I admonished him. “It's bizarre enough as it is without you getting high.”

He took a hit and passed it to me.

“Only one,” I said, drawing the smoke in deeply.

Twenty minutes later, happily stoned, we were dreamily watching leaves flutter in the wind. The Roommate was on a roll, contemplating why it was that all the nice women were lesbians. Becca tapped at our window.

“Sorry it took so long,” she said. “But good news—the sense of the group is wonderfully inclusive. If you're still into it, you're welcome with open arms.”

She took a sniff in the air. “Shit. You two are a trip!”

An apt remark, given that the rest of the evening was just that.

Activity #1: Introductions and a loud “Hurrah!” from the group as we stumbled in.

“Our token men!” one shouted.

“Oh my god! How did they know?” Jesse whispered.

“Token, not tokin',” I whispered back.

Activity #2: The best buffet ever. Scrumpdillyumptious feast of local food and vegan fare fit for queens and two interloping kings. Straight out of gourmet heaven. With our marijuana-fueled cases of the munchies reaching a resounding crescendo, our complete inability to even moderately restrain ourselves was ridiculously apparent. Some of the women looked on in obvious horror, some gasped in delight, but all but the most oblivious must have felt a wave of awe watching two human bodies consume such a vast quantity of food in so short a period of time.

There was not a crumb, not a single morsel, that was not, by far, THE MOST DELICIOUS FOOD EVER EATEN BY A HUMAN BEING!

While scheduled as a time for introductions and sharing, the few words coming out of my mouth consisted mostly of “mmmppphhhh” and a barely audible “Excuse me while I get
even more
!” Jesse left twice to go the bathroom so he could create additional room for the feeding frenzy.

Much to his relief, and mine, the toilet remained, miraculously, unclogged.

Activity #3: Drumming and venting. In a tight-knit circle we beat and pounded away on drums; congas, bongos, an African drum known as a
djembe
, a Native American hoop drum. My hands and fingers were beings unto themselves, alive and powerful. We wailed, chanted, groaned, and cried out against the injustice of a world burning up, against corporations that put profits over people and the
rest of creation, against the apathy and ignorance that paralyze so many of our sisters and brothers.

At one point Becca leapt up, spun into the center of the circle and twirled and whirled her way round and round as drums cried and mantras called forth kindred spirits to help put an end to the madness.

Activity #3: Lecture and discussion facilitated by a speaker vibrant and compelling. Much of her talk centered on an eco-feminist philosophical paradigm arguing that ecosystem abuse and exploitation was deeply rooted in misogynistic practices and androcentricity.

She passionately argued that men viewed nature the way men viewed women—as inferior, as lacking intrinsic worth, as ripe for the plucking. Rape was rape, whether of women or of the world's resources. The need to bring equality to the sexes was as important as bringing equality to the rest of creation. Perhaps the second could not be done without the first.

As we were the only guys, this could have been insanely awkward and visibly uncomfortable for us. Thankfully, it wasn't. In a large part thanks to Becca, the group had embraced us as kindred spirits.

“Nature is not a foe to be conquered but a lover to be revered!” the speaker thundered.

“Yes!” we cried.

“Mother Earth is not a demon to be exorcised but our home to be nurtured.”

“Yes!”

“Change the relationships between men and women. Change the relationships between humans and the earth!”

“Yes!”

I was transfixed. Mesmerized. Never had I felt my estrogen levels so high. The woman in me was bursting forth. My penis felt oddly out of place. I reached down and massaged my breasts, surprised that they hadn't become engorged and enlarged.

Jesse was on the verge of tears. I reached out and held his hand.

Activity #5: Action steps. In small groups we sat around and brainstormed ways to save the world. Marches, letters to the editor, civil disobedience, boycotts, divestment, education, education, education—the list went on and on. Fabulous, tangible must-do lists.

Activity #6: More drumming! More venting! Dancing, chanting, singing! Raging against the machine!

Activity #7: Dessert! Yes!

And then it was over. Goodbyes and goddess bless and thank yous. We walked to the car, alive and thoughtful. I felt higher than I had when we had walked in the second time.

“How'd you two stoners do?” Becca asked as we were getting ready to pull out.

Mildly embarrassed, I stopped the car, opened the door, and gave her a huge hug.

“It was a wonderful evening.” I gushed. “Absolutely wonderful!”

Jesse nodded.

“Thank you so much for making it happen.”

“Hey, no worries. Next time there's a guy only event, count me in,” she said, smiling. .

“Don't hold your breath,” sighed Jesse. “Guys don't do shit like this. We're too …”

“Fucked up!” I finished.

“That's the spirit!” said Becca, slapping me on the back. “Keep that attitude up and we really will fry in hell on earth!”

“No, no, no!” Jesse sputtered. “That's not what we meant. It's just that, you know, guys are, well …”

“Fucked up,” Becca finished.

“Exactly.”

“Well, you guys are working on it. Be the change you want to see. And do yourselves a favor, will you?”

“Anything.” I replied.

“Next time, read the fine print!”

“Are you kidding me? And miss something like this?”

Becca laughed once more, that raucous, life-affirming, celebratory laugh, and pounded the back of the car as we drove away delightfully soothed and comforted by the fact that we were not alone.