I’m an old man but unwise. I’m old by most measures throughout human history but wisdom isn’t an inalienable attribute of age. I’m an old man with more questions, fewer answers, and less certainty than my youth.
I’ve grown old more by chance than design. There was no plan, no strategy, no goal. There was only Joseph Conrad’s wistful phrase: “To see! To see!—that is the craving of the sailor, as of the rest of blind humanity.”
I was drawn to the edge of things—the edge of society, the edge of relationships, the edge of the world. I’ve lived in the desert, in the mountains, on a remote shore. I’ve been so long at sea I could smell fresh water a hundred miles from shore. I’ve done what I pleased without knowing what I wanted.
I’m here because my parents believed the end of the world justified their faith. Our actions as a nation, a culture, a species have fulfilled that faith. We have remade the world in our own image and now the mirrored reflection terrifies us. My face is also reflected and terrifying.
I’m here because I need the self-discipline necessary to look deeply into that reflection and speak the truth, as much as I can manage, without hope of salvation or forgiveness or even reprieve, to speak against the madness without hope of eliciting sanity.
But mostly I’m here because of heartache for the loss of beauty, the exquisite delicacy and detail that is being gutted as humanity collapses into madness and despair, burning the world down around us. I’m here because of the heartache of unrealized potential and promises never met and sanctity scarified for greed by men who should have known better, been better. I’m here because there seems no wisdom in our wise men, no remembrance from our elders, no reminder of our identity, our inmost selves and our rooted obligations.
I don’t know if the madness can be stayed, if the world can be saved from ourselves. It doesn’t matter whether I succeed or fail or even how the difference is measured. What matters is that I speak with all the strength and honesty in me and when that’s exhausted, find more. What matters is that my voice be among those raised in defense of the beauty and diversity we’re wasting indiscriminately. What matters is that my heart grow stronger even while it’s broken.
That’s why I’m here.
*Written as the introductory assignment: Taft, Cynthia. 21W.730-3 Writing and the Environment, Spring 2005. (Massachusetts Institute of Technology: MIT OpenCourseWare), http://ocw.mit.edu (Accessed 31 Dec, 2012). License: Creative Commons BY-NC-SA