If there is a lot, we take a lot; if there is a little, we take it all.
— Lyle Lewis, Racing to Extinction


|||  LOYALTY TO THE EARTH by ELISABETH ROBSON |||


We are captives of a story. This story tells us that more is better. More energy, more extraction, more growth, more things. That progress is measured in increase. That human ingenuity will always find a way to squeeze more out of the Earth, as if the Earth is infinite.

The same story tells us that we are the most intelligent species on Earth. That we are exceptional, and that we alone among species stand apart from the natural world. We believe we are exempt from biophysical laws.

Somewhere along the way, we convinced ourselves that we were different. That the laws binding every other living being did not apply to us. That while forests have limits, while aquifers run dry, while every species must live within the means of its land, we—uniquely, gloriously—could transcend such constraints.

Civilization is built on this illusion. The illusion that energy is something we produce, rather than something we extract. That resources are not finite, but merely waiting for human ingenuity to unlock them. That growth is inevitable and right, rather than an aberration that, unchecked, leads only to chaos and collapse.

But nature does not bargain. Nature does not recognize our economies, our technologies, our faith in progress, or the stories we tell ourselves about our own exceptionalism. The biophysical world has rules, and they are simple: You cannot take forever. You cannot burn forever. You cannot grow forever. You must give back at least as much as you take, or you will destroy your landbase, and thus, destroy yourselves.

And yet, we ignore these rules. We take and take and take some more, without giving anything back. The history of energy and materials and endless growth is not just a history of extraction—it is a history of refusal. Refusal to accept that we, like every other creature on Earth, are bound by limits. That there is a carrying capacity, and we have long overshot that capacity. That surplus today does not guarantee abundance tomorrow.

Even now, as the planet groans under the weight of our excess, we cling to the fantasy that we can engineer our way out of this. That a new energy source will save us, that better technology will allow us to keep consuming, that a “green” version of more is possible.

But there is no room for more. The forests have no room for another cut. The oceans have no room for our waste. The wildlife holocaust we have unleashed is accelerating. Earth herself is telling us no, if we’d only listen.

Other species listen when the land tells them enough. When the rains do not come, when the food grows scarce, they slow, they migrate, they adapt—or they die.

We fail to listen. We fail to understand. We build machines to extract the last of what remains. We burn through the natural world, turning the living into dead commodities as if we’re on a global murder spree. And we will not stop, because we believe we do not have to.

But we are not gods. We are not separate. We are not immune. And the laws of physics and biology will not bend for us. The story we’ve made up about ourselves is false.

The only choice left is whether we recognize this before it is forced upon us; whether we stop on our own terms, or whether the Earth—unmoved by our delusions—stops us instead.

This day and every day, stop and listen. The Earth is telling us loud and clear, there is no room for more. Undo the story of human supremacy, of infinite growth on a finite planet, and begin the work of less.

And when you’re on the brink of extinction and want to live for a while longer, the laws governing life might conceivably become relevant.
— Daniel Quinn, Ishmael



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