Category: Labor and Working

The New Republic

My Garden Was My Refuge. Then Climate Change Came for It.

Melody Schreiber – December 11, 2023

When I first set out to report on climate change, I was convinced I knew what to do: I needed to show how climate change was going to be personal and deeply connected to our lives. People are selfish—or, put another way, strongly motivated by what affects us personally. The more intimately I could tie climate change to our well-being, I reasoned, the more driven we would be to change course.

So, eight years ago, I trundled off to the UN climate change conference known as COP21 in search of ways global warming was poised to affect our everyday lives, especially the threats to our mental health and the emergence of infectious diseases. I discovered, of course, that these close connections weren’t theoretical or futuristic; our lives were already being disrupted. And I realized that people already care plenty about climate change; a majority of Americans believe climate change is a threat, and one in 10 Americans are showing signs of climate anxiety. It’s just hard to know what to do about it, and sometimes our actions seem too insignificant to make a difference. Without action, we feel helpless. The problem looms ever more immense, and we start tuning out.

In 2023, for instance, we reached temperatures of 1.5 degrees Celsius over pre-industrial levels for a record number of days—about one-third of the year. Scientists are warning that the planet is close to crossing five tipping points, with three more on the horizon.

The news comes amid the malicious obstructionism of this year’s conference, COP28. The state oil company of the United Arab Emirates has been privy to emails to and from the COP28 office. The conference president and head of that company, Sultan Al Jaber, who has used the event to push more oil trades, said there is “no science” behind phasing out fossil fuels to stop warming. It’s not just the leaders of COP pushing a pro-hydrocarbon agenda; four times more fossil-fuel lobbyists than ever before have descended on this year’s summit.

I don’t always know anymore how to get anxious people to tune into these kinds of stories, because I struggle myself. Evidence of our rapidly changing world and the failures of our leaders to do anything about it are everywhere, all the time, and nothing I do seems to stop it. A few years ago, I started to go the other direction—to dissociate from it. It was too big to process. The problems felt too immense and thus too far removed from my life.

The summer of 2020 was a particularly low point for me. The pandemic kept us home even as racial violence brought us out to the streets; wildfires and storms battered our neighborhoods even as the Trump administration exited the landmark Paris agreement; a heated presidential election grew increasingly chaotic and nerve-wracking. But most earth-shattering for me, my youngest brother died.

I felt surrounded by death, and I wanted more life. So I started collecting plants. I knew I was probably setting myself up for failure. I’d never been able to keep a plant alive for very long. I was probably going to get attached to yet another thing only to watch it die. (Like I said: a low place.)

Even so, I signed up for a plant subscription box, like a Wine of the Month club, that would start me off with something hard to kill and teach me how to care for it. Plants arrived every month. Some of them died, but most of them lived. A friend gave me a prayer plant; another gave me an amaryllis. Plants became a way to connect with friends in a tenuous time; they gave us something happy to talk about.

I started reading about native species, and how easy they are to maintain because they are perfectly adapted to my environment. (This summer, in the midst of drought, I didn’t need water my garden once.) I planted rows of phlox, goldenrod, asters; one of the most serene and accomplished moments of my year was spent watching a hummingbird bury its head amid the flowers of a turtlehead plant.

I knew my garden wouldn’t solve the biodiversity crisis, stop overdevelopment, or save pollinators single-handedly. But I could build those pollinators a little corner, offer a little respite for them and for me. I could do this small thing imperfectly, and I could keep striving to do it better.

I was, perhaps, too successful with my new gardening hobby. Now I have dozens of native species in my front yard, and (if you’re my husband, you can stop reading now) about 150 houseplants.

I learned to frequent native plant sales and local seed swaps, instead of buying plants at commercial nurseries that frequently use powerful insecticides and contribute to the spread of invasive species and plant diseases, which can further destabilize ecosystems. I started paying attention to what was happening outside my window, focusing on first and last frosts, on temperature highs and lows, on precipitation reports. I thought hard about when to bring plants outside for summer and inside for winter; I hustled to move them when strong storms swept the Doppler.

That’s why I noticed when the new U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Hardiness Map, which I’d never heard of before I started this hobby, was updated for the first time in more than a decade. USDA hardiness zones are based on average annual minimum winter temperature and can help people figure out which plants will or won’t survive and thrive in their location.  

Because I’ve been paying closer attention to the vagaries of my local weather, I wasn’t surprised to learn from the recent update that my zone has changed from 7a to 7b, meaning the winter average minimum has risen from 0 to 5 degrees Fahrenheit, to 5 to 10 degrees. These changes may seem small, but they make a huge difference with plants—and pollinators—needing exact temperatures and conditions to grow. Before I got into plants, I might have assumed warmer temperatures would simply expand the number of plants I could grow in my area, but it’s not that simple, particularly if the trend continues: these changes are being accompanied, for instance, by hotter and wetter summers in the region. What will that mean for pollination, seed dispersal, growing times, or the spread of plant pathogens? What about the species needing a certain number of winter “chill hours” in order to germinate and grow?

My area isn’t alone. About half the country moved into a warmer zone with this change. It’s part of a decades-long trend of warming temperatures across the nation that could disrupt both ecosystems and agriculture.

The news brought the specter of climate change into a passion project that was supposed to serve as a refuge. I braced myself for it to feel hopeless now, too. But surprisingly, given my original fears of failure when getting into plants, this news didn’t break my spirit.  I do wonder what my garden will look like in 10 or 20 or 50 years, and which species will make it through the gauntlet ahead. But at some point in the past few years, I’ve stopped worrying about killing every plant I cultivate. 

Instead, this change makes me think about climate in a new way. It’s something I can feel every day. I can push my hands into the earth; I can smell the flowers blooming in the yard, even now, in December. I now understand the way a small change in temperature or frost patterns can disrupt an entire crop. Plants have connected me in practical, daily, intimate ways to the earth and its changes—giving those changes a new significance, a deeper understanding, and simultaneously grounding my experience of nature in something calming, soul-nourishing, and refreshingly distant from the hard work of processing news, analyzing policy, and taking action. Plants also open up space for any backyard gardener to have conversations about the hyper-local effects of this crisis—conversations that can drive further change.

It’s a lesson I’m clinging to as the overwhelming reality of the climate crisis splashes across headlines this week, courtesy of COP28. Now, I’m searching out the sometimes-smaller but no less important wins at the conference: a new deal for a loss and damage fund; Colombia joining a the Fossil Fuel Nonproliferation Treaty; a bigger push to fund sustainable agriculture; and the possibility, though faint, of the newest agreement spelling out the end to fossil fuels. Despite the glacial pace of policy change, the steps we take in our own lives, though small and incremental, can transform our experience of the world around us. And before you know it, you have a life filled with new growth.

I came to gardening because I was mourning. Mourning, in a largely abstract way, the millions dead from pandemics, wildfires, storms. Mourning, in a painfully specific way, my baby brother, who was supposed to be an inextricable part of my future until the day he left it.

When we mourn, we sit with our loss. We let it weigh on us with its full heft. We examine the dearly held beliefs of how we thought these lives of ours would go, what we’d hoped to do, and we undergo a swift and shattering reorientation of those hopes and dreams. When we mourn, philosopher and author Thomas Attig writes, we “relearn” the world. Mourning is a painful and absolutely crucial process of reacting to a new reality and continuing, despite and because of that pain, to inhabit that reality.

There is a plant that reminds me of my brother: a Hoya kerrii, a vining plant with thick, heart-shaped leaves. I was nervous to acquire it—I’ve grown less precious about killing plants, but if this one were to die on my watch, it would be a pointed blow. But I screwed up my courage and posted a query in a gardening group, expecting to buy a small propagation or seedling. Instead, I ended up with a monster with thick vines as tall as I am, one of the largest plants in my collection, a plant that I instantly fell in love with because of its very wildness and abundance. Taking care of it feels like taking care of my brother; and, in the meditative time spent nurturing, it has begun to feel like he is taking care of me.

It’s a small thing, watering these plants and watching them grow leaf by leaf. But that’s how actions are. If you’d told me when I received my first plant in the mail that my collection would grow to 150, I would’ve laughed at you—and perhaps I would have failed in my new hobby, because of the pressure to do too much too fast. In the face of seemingly impossible goals, it’s hard to know where to start. So I went plant by plant, caring for whatever I had the capacity to care for.

Somehow, my desperate instinct in 2020, my Hail-Mary pass with plants, was right. Surrounding myself with life keeps death—and dread, and despair, and immobility—at bay. Plants make you stop, slow down, and care for each one. It’s an antidote to the crushing immensity of the big picture. It’s a radical act of joy.

Independent

‘His curiosity is unbounded’: What it’s like to work with David Attenborough at 97

Ellie Harrison – December 11, 2023

Thirty-six years ago, when Mike Gunton joined the BBC’s Natural History Unit as a keen young producer at the start of his career, he was told that he’d be working on David Attenborough’s last-ever programme. It was The Trials of Life, a study in animal behaviour, and Attenborough, in his sixties then, thought it was time to stop. “Well, that seems hilarious now,” says Gunton. “I don’t know how many series he’s done since, but it must be 20 at least. Long may it last.”

The pair have worked together for almost four decades – Gunton is now 66 and Attenborough 97 – and their latest project is Planet Earth III, which airs its final episode tonight. Just like its two predecessors, which were broadcast in 2006 and 2016, the series has shown us spectacular stories from across the animal kingdom – from a minutes-old ostrich hatchling searching for its mother in the Namib desert to a group of courageous seals driving away great white sharks off the coast of South Africa. But a new element to the show, and one that is increasingly present in Attenborough’s other programmes, is its message: this series is all about how animals are being forced to adapt, to survive the challenges they face in a world changed by humans.

“I’ve done a lot of shows in my life,” says Gunton, “but this is definitely a really important one. It still feels like we’re getting the Planet Earth tingle, in that it’s giving us wonderful stuff about nature, but we’re also saying something about being sensitive to how heavily we tread on our planet.” Planet Earth III certainly demonstrates our negative impact on animal life (turtles on Australia’s Raine Island, for example, are dying en masse as temperatures rise). Yet it also shows how we are innovating to make things better (while the right whale was hunted to near extinction 40 years ago, a ban on commercial whaling has restored numbers to around 12,000). “It’s a very intriguing time to be observing the natural world at the moment, and it’s slightly worrying as well. But there are parts of it that make you hopeful, and that has to be reflected in the programmes.”

In some ways, a lot has changed since Gunton and Attenborough started working together. Attenborough was not a fan of drones when they first arrived on the scene. They would constantly malfunction, and he would have to do countless takes walking through a meadow or a jungle as the camera on the drone zoomed off to reveal him on location. “He’s now a convert, and he absolutely thinks the drone is the key, the breakthrough, in the perspective it can give you on what happens in nature,” says Gunton. The advances in technology have been huge over the decades. “He is astounded by the leap we have taken in the way we use robotic cameras,” Gunton adds. “We can take audiences beyond where the human eye can.”

If somebody ever asked me, ‘What are your memories of him?’, one of the top things I would say is us rolling around laughing, sometimes about the absurdity of the world and the absurdity of what we do

In other ways, nothing has changed at all. Attenborough has always had “a penchant for bird courtship” stories on his shows, and he always will. “There’s a sequence in Planet Earth III with the tragopan, which is a very strange bird that lives in China and has a very complex and bizarre courtship display,” says Gunton. “I think it’s never been filmed in the wild. And of all the things that we showed David, it was that which made his eyes light up.” And Attenborough has always been “hilarious”, says Gunton. “If somebody ever asked me, ‘What are your memories of him?’, one of the top things I would say is us rolling around laughing, sometimes about the absurdity of the world and the absurdity of what we do. He’s a brilliant raconteur.”

So is Gunton. We far-exceed our time slot on Zoom and I can tell he would happily tell stories about his and Attenborough’s adventures for hours (I hear about him sending Attenborough into battle with warrior-like termites Nigeria, and the pair of them sitting, surrounded by butterflies in Kent’s Downe Bank nature reserve). Gunton didn’t always think he would go into natural history – he initially wanted to be a social documentary filmmaker – but during his time as a zoology student at the University of Bristol, a palaeontology professor took him under his wing and he became an “obsessive” student. After going to Cambridge to do a PhD in zoology, he returned to Bristol to work at the BBC’s Natural History Unit, where he is now creative director.

He says that, over the years, Attenborough’s “curiosity has absolutely continued to be unbounded”. When Gunton visits Attenborough’s house in Richmond, “there’ll be a stack of books on the piano that he’s reading, working his way through. He’ll say, ‘Have you read this? Have you seen this?’ It’s that kind of constant scholarship. He’s so busy. It’s bonkers. He’s away at this event and that event and at some library here, and the energy is astonishing.”

He tells me a story to prove the point. During the filming of The Green Planet, which came out last year, there was a sequence where Attenborough was presenting from a rowing boat on a lake in Croatia. Gunton, three decades Attenborough’s junior, was meant to be doing most of the rowing when the cameras weren’t rolling, but Attenborough wasn’t having any of it. He jumped into the rowing seat at the first opportunity. “I’ll row. No, no, I’ll do it. I’ll do it,” Gunton remembers him insisting. “We started getting competitive because he was a rower at university [in Cambridge] and so was I. I was saying, ‘Look, come on, I’m a rower.’ He said, ‘No, we could row just as well as you row.’ So, as a 94-year-old, he basically rowed that boat about a mile, and it was a big heavy boat. Working with him in his nineties is not that hard, because he can do almost anything.”

While Attenborough tends to go out in the field less and less these days, Gunton says his influence on the series goes far beyond his narration. “This has been his format, ever since he made Life on Earth [in 1979]. So these shows are effectively modifying or twiddling around the edges of that format, with his DNA there all the time.” Gunton says that with every shot, every storyline in the series, he’s thinking, “How is this going to be told by David?” He will bounce ideas off Attenborough, too, and seek his advice on trickier scenes.

Attenborough is the right man to ask. He has been the single biggest influence on nature programming in, well, forever. His playful storytelling has had us gripped by the antics of everything from spindly weeds in the ground to tiny sea angels in the ocean. Seeing nature in this awe-inspiring way has taught us all about the wonders of the world and the need to protect them. And many others – most recently Morgan Freeman, who presented the inferior Life on Our Planet on Netflix – have failed to replicate his magic.

The last time Attenborough properly went out on location on a series, doing hardcore expeditions, was for The Green Planet. “We went to Costa Rica and across America and to [its] deserts,” says Gunton. “And we went to just outside the Arctic Circle in Finland, and to Croatia. He loved it. Beforehand, we were talking about how many days we’d have, and we said, you know, maybe three weeks or something in total. And his daughter was there, who he works with a lot, and she said, ‘Look, you’ve got to be careful, don’t do too many days.’ And when she nipped out to go and make us a cup of tea, he turned to me and whispered, ‘Actually, let’s do another couple of days!’ That sums him up, actually. He was 94.”

Gunton struggles to envisage a future without Attenborough guiding us through the natural world. “Forty years ago, I was a new boy at the Natural History Unit,” he says. “And they said, ‘Of course, this is David’s last series, so we ought to be thinking about who’s going to take over.’ And that is something that people have been talking about ever since. I think it’s one of those things where we cross that bridge when we come to it, but at the moment, he seems to be going on six cylinders.”

He laughs as he admits he “cheekily” asked Attenborough if he’ll ever retire. Attenborough’s response? “I don’t know what that word means.”

The final episode of ‘Planet Earth III’ will air at 6.20pm on BBC One on Sunday 10 December