Saving Us: A Climate Scientist’s Case for Hope and Healing in a Divided World, by Katherine Hayhoe

Nine percent of Americans are dismissive of climate change—they don’t believe it is even happening. By contrast, 58 percent are either alarmed or concerned about the problem, according to the Yale Program on Climate Change Communication. In the middle, 17 percent are cautious—they haven’t made up their minds.

Yet, the Dismissives take up much of the air in climate change discussions, airing their disdain with assurance whenever and wherever they can.

What to do about these people? Don’t try to convince them—you’re asking for defeat if you do, says Katherine Hayhoe in Saving Us: A Climate Scientists’s Case for Hope and Healing in a Divided World. Focus instead on those who might listen—the other 91 percent, she says, and she packs a book full of ideas of how to speak of climate change, to whom, when, and how.

This is a book as much about communication as it is about climate. Hayhoe provides us with plenty of facts to use, but she recommends we tell our stories rather than bombarding people with facts. Show what worries us, and why, and engage others by finding common ground in things we care about. It’s a book to keep on your bookshelf for reference when you’re not sure where to go next in the climate debate.

Specifically, she says:

• Start with something you have in common—gardening, knitting, hiking, cooking. Talk about how climate change is affecting the foods we grow, the pests we fight, the trails we hike. Then show what people are doing to fix this. Often, she says, you can find excellent examples and solutions—cutting food waste, electrifying public transport, supporting the use of solar power in poor nations that often grow our food. These improve the economy, clean up the air and water, and make our lives easier.

•Don’t shame. Look instead for common moral goalposts. Empathize with others. Hayhoe quotes social psychologist Jonathan Haidt:

If you really want to change someone’s mind in a moral or political matter, you’ll need to see things from that person’s angle as well as your own. Empathy is an antidote to righteousness.

• Social contagion is real and can be an asset and a liability. Misinformation can spread quickly. But so can good practices. Once somebody in a neighborhood gets solar panels, others follow, and soon you have a cluster. Same way with electric vehicles, low-water gardening, composting and just about anything we might do as individuals that can cause a ripple effect in our community.

• Talk about it. The Dismissives are often loud and insistent, whereas the rest of us don’t want to ruffle feathers. But, she says, you don’t need to be militant. Just tell your story—how climate change has affected you, and what’s you’ve chosen to do about. People listen to and remember stories. Facts turn them off or confuse them.

• Practice hope:

Real hope doesn’t usually come knocking on the door of our brains univited…. If we want to find it, we have to roll up our sleeves and go out and look for it. If we do, chances are we’ll find it. And then we have to practice it.

How? Search for and collect good news, success stories, inspiration. We can’t avoid the impacts of climate change—many are already here. But, she says:

The research I do is clear: it is not too late to avoid the most serious and dangerous impacts. Our choices will determine what happens….Together, we can save ourselves.

— Pat Prijatel

Walden on Wheels, by Ken Ilgunas

Walden on Wheels by Ken Ilgunas is many things. It’s a diatribe against student debt, an Alaskan adventure, a how-to on living simply, a reflection on the benefits of physical labor and liberal arts education, a tale of hitchhiking and characters encountered, a biting commentary on the typical American lifestyle and consumerism, and the documentation of a social experiment in which the author becomes an undercover van-dweller in order to obtain a master’s degree at Duke and come out debt-free. Also, it’s a glimpse inside the mind of a college-aged male as he comes of age and develops his voice as a writer, with a nod to Henry David Thoreau. 

Ken Ilgunas was raised in a caring, hard-working family in upstate New York. He did well in school and was both intellectual and athletic, but not particularly involved. He went off to college at the prescribed moment and earned a degree, but deeply regretted the amount of debt he incurred for it, without any palatable job prospects on the horizon. He felt victimized.  

Strapped by how much he owed and wanting to move forward on his own terms, he set out on a series of adventures in wild Alaska. There he lived very simply in exchange for room and board, and he did just about anything that was asked of him – washing dishes, leading tours, cleaning abandoned facilities – as long as he could shrink his debt with every check he sent home.  

Alaska was painfully lonely, with all his downtime spent on reading and one sketchy relationship, giving him space to clarify his thirst for education. His attention returned to college, but he knew he could not stomach the traditional costly living arrangement of grad school. Therefore, as a modern-day Thoreau might have done, he mustered all his spartan Alaskan training and went to the outskirts of campus to live deliberately in a cheap Ford Econoline van that he purchased on Craigslist and outfitted at Walmart. By day he was able to attend classes and use the campus facilities at the library and the gym; by night he cooked, slept, and studied in the van. In the end, he accomplished the goal of obtaining his master’s degree from Duke, debt-free. 

At the outset of his van-dwelling experiment, Ilgunas started a blog. In a series of posts during his two and a half years engaged in Liberal Studies at Duke, he wrote on practical and anecdotal topics such as “Dealing with the cold,” “What’s that smell?”, “So my mom knows about the van…”, “Of Mice and Ken,” and many more. When he was finally ready to tell all, he was able to pull content from these posts and write a coming out (of the van) story for his creative writing class. It made a big hit and he was encouraged to publish it, which he did in Salon magazine. From there he received nudges from publishers to consider writing a book, and he returned to Alaska to do that. He documented the publishing phase too, in posts called “To get a book deal, part 1” and “…part 2”.   

In response to the article, Duke gave him the honor of speaking at his graduation, but they also clarified their parking and transportation rules to officially ban van-dwellers from anywhere on campus henceforth. 

Like the book itself, the voice of Ken Ilgunas is many things. At times he comes off as smug, arrogant, and holier-than-thou. But when he isn’t ranting, he is also self-deprecating and sensitive. A good example of this can be seen in the exchange of e-mails with his friend, Josh, some of which he includes in the book. They contain all the profanity and trash-talk you might expect between two 20-something guys talking privately, but they also shared “politics, religion, worries, dreams, anything and everything… the more personal, the more self-admonishing – the stuff that a person feels most inclined to bottle up.” They were interested in jobs and women, but also with the Holocaust, Armenian genocide, the African American civil rights movement, the gay rights movement, poverty, the environment, and how “corrupt governments are empowered by a complacent citizenry.”  

Inadvertently, while he intended to document and share his adventures in nature and time in the van, what he also does is let the reader observe the nebulous period of growth from boy to man. At times he is downright eloquent. Describing his view of the aurora borealis, he wrote:

The sky lit up with spumes of reds, pinks, purples, and blues that swooped, twisted and curled into each other. There was no sense, no order, no logic to the aurora’s movement. It moved wildly and swiftly, changing into a different shape from one moment to the next. It was a glowing, throbbing, sashaying curtain of color, a Rorschach test that looked like whatever you wanted it to look like: a heavyset grizzly, a woman’s hips, a highway climbing hills. The aurora was a powwow of ancestral spirits – writhing apparitions, conjured from the depths of a village bonfire. It was a desert storm, a million individual particles of light whipping over dunes in patterns that no human mind could comprehend or computer generate. The aurora is alien and unworldly, but it does not frighten or flabberghast; it is a tranquilizer that sprinkles down onto its onlookers an opiate from the heavens. It puts you at ease. 

The fact that he did not set out to write a book with Walden on Wheels makes the whole feel a bit cobbled together. But he developed as a writer in the process, and the book did get national attention. He went on to use these skills to create a writer’s life for himself, satisfying his ongoing needs for freedom, adventure and study. His subsequent books are more focused and organized than the first, but still retain a great combination of experimentation, fact-finding and storytelling. 

In a 2009 blog post entitled “Thoreau’s Disciple,” Ilgunas wrote: “The ascetic who immerses himself in nature or embarks on a holy pilgrimage wishes to thrust himself into the very throes of life. In so doing, he leaves the tidy, formulaic and unwavering character of conventional life to plunge into the very breeding grounds of the authentic experience. By relying on our instincts and wits rather than on our wallets and families, we test ourselves, learn, grow; we can, in this way, reinvent our identities.” 

A gap year right out of high school might have been a less costly way to go and equally clarifying for Ken Ilgunas, but the journey that resulted in Walden on Wheels was an authentic ride worth living and sharing. It was also well worth the read. 

— Julie Feirer

Walk in a Relaxed Manner, by Joyce Rupp

I know Joyce Rupp a little because we’re both part of casual, ever-changing local writers’ group. She is a keen world traveler; I’m a stubbornly reluctant traveler. Once at a writer’s gathering, she took me aside to give me quiet advice about packing for a trip to Italy. I would describe her as elegant, yet sturdy. Reserved, yet kind and willing to share.

The fact that she did not plan to share her experience of walking the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, but meant it to be a very private pilgrimage for her own spiritual growth, is perhaps what makes the book feel so authentic and accessible. If she had walked all of September and most of October over five hundred miles of northern Spain knowing she was going to write a book at the end, surely she would have been shaping and filtering as she went. She would have been taking photos and making notes. Documenting. Planning. Instead, she kept a small, private, journal.

In her introduction she shares how her determination to keep her Camino experience private changed. In a moment of synchronicity after her return, right after she had expressed once again her determination not to write about it, she was confronted with Joseph Campbell’s—whom she admires—conviction that the returning pilgrim (hero) has an obligation to gift the community with an account of the journey.

And so she did.

In the Contents, she lists 25 life lessons she learned from the Camino: Go Prepared, Live in the Now, Experience Homelessness, etc. These lessons are learned from the cacophony of snores of fellow pilgrims, the beauty of the Pyrenees, and vineyards heavy with purple and green grapes. From blisters wrapped in duct tape, bathroom noises, poetry, and puddles of vomit. From a fox running through the chestnut trees and a cockroach swimming in the hot chocolate. From sharing scarce food, taking the time to watch ants, and finding fellow pilgrims who also love Barbara Kingsolver books.

From her privations and blessings, she feels what it means to be food insecure, to be suspected of being a shoplifter, to live without being clean as the homeless sometimes must do. From her exhaustion comes clarity. From a September 15 journal entry: Today I realized it has taken me many days of walking to finally reach a clearness inside that is allowing me to contemplate all I see. It was gradual—beginning with the magnificent grapes in the vineyards. Now I can look at this old bench I sit on, rusted green, bird poop, highway noise nearby, and I can be still inside. I can look at the shape of the bench, the holes, the patches of corrosion and “see” it with my “special eyes.” I need to “see” people’s faces more, to read the sacredness there, too.

Over the years, I’ve recommended and/or loaned this book to several people who are neither particularly spiritual nor adventurous, and it has been valued by all as a good and important read. As a reluctant traveler, I will never walk the Camino de Santiago de Compostela. But echoing Thoreau 😄 : I have travelled much in West Des Moines because of wonderful books like this. I’ve come to know we are all pilgrims, every day. And it is good to Embrace Beauty, Live in the Now, and Walk in a Relaxed Manner.

— Sharelle Moranville