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environment
The Hawk at the Edge of Doing and Being
I suspect this hawk has never once felt the nag of the question, “What can I do?” Not about the climate crisis. Perhaps not about anything. What to do is something other animals seem to know innately and intimately, or perhaps don't need to know at all.
May 05, 2026
I live in the very heart of Atlanta, Georgia, affectionately called the "city in a forest." From my desk, where I work most days, I look out onto a stand of trees. Right at canopy height, it is the perfect view for getting distracted, especially by our resident red-tailed hawk, who is strikingly visible in the loose thatching of bare winter limbs.
Sudden squirrel scatter, and she alights on the branch of a maple tree to scan for potential prey. Her fleet perch and keen watch, her grandeur of feather and hunt—it breaks through the primacy of my screen and shakes me from the fathomless digital world. Interruption gladly received.
Each time the hawk stops through these trees, I am struck by the sudden proximity of a taloned huntress to me, encased in my condo-version of captivity. More than once, I have grabbed my phone to quickly frame the hawk and catch ill-focused evidence that I too am alert and alive. Enraptured by a raptor, I have "Slacked" the flattened scene to my colleagues: “Afternoon visitor!” With a feather and a heart emoji afterword. (As if icons in miniature could limn her.)
But I am struck by another proximity, too, between what the hawk does and who the hawk seems to be. Her doingness and her beingness are so close as to become one.
What might open up for us if we shift the question ever so slightly—from What can I do? to Who can I be? Or, Who am I already?
I suspect this hawk has never once felt the nag of the question, “What can I do?” Not about the climate crisis. Perhaps not about anything. What to do is something other animals seem to know innately and intimately, or perhaps don't need to know at all.
Evolution has made things more complicated for us Homo sapiens, who ponder and puzzle. As essayist and author Margaret Renkl writes, "Every living thing—every bird and mammal and reptile and amphibian, every tree and shrub and flower and moss—is pursuing its own vital purpose, a purpose that sets my human concerns in a larger context." As I watch the hawk's wings lift and lower and propel her back into the air, I marvel and muse whether life itself might offer another way in.
What might open up for us if we shift the question ever so slightly—from What can I do? to Who can I be? Or, Who am I already?
The hawk, like all of us existing on this planet, is an inheritor of a 3.8-billion-year history: From single-celled organisms to plants and vertebrates, life has continued to move forward toward more life, overcoming unthinkable odds. Weighty and unwavering and in so many ways impenetrable—this dynamic defines Earth as a living planet. When we think about a hive of honeybees gathering their ingredients from flowers, or black corals siphoning plankton over centuries, or the sudden emergence of mushrooms from a shrouded fungal network, we can see this dynamic in action. Even kudzu offers testimony with its rampant return, however unwelcome, each spring.
Who can we be? One thing we already are: an expression of Earth's life force, right here, right now, made possible by a series of miracles that have blossomed over eons. This is true simply by virtue of breathing.
Life force unfurls through each of us in such beautifully different ways. We explore the unknown and document our discoveries. We design new things and give them form. We expose what's ruptured and source the means to mend it. We reflect, wonder, and imagine. We craft stories and art and shows. We make ritual. We convene people and foster conversation and collaboration. We care for one another. We strategize, organize, and orchestrate. We engineer and implement. We manage the details. We show up, stand up, and speak up. We share wisdom and tell jokes. We cook and sing and clean and plant and build and nap. And all of that is just the briefest inventory of human beings' doings.
There are things we do that are so wholly connected with who we are—that spring up from within us in such an organic way—that the space between our doing and our being shrinks or even vanishes. In those moments, our small expression of the vast life force we've inherited and embody is especially effervescent. We may find ourselves buzzing, flowing, or sensing a particular warmth. We may be especially porous and focused both.
It is a radical act to believe in our ability to thrive, both individually and as a planet, by being who we are.
I imagine this is how the hawk might feel as she swoops into the circle of life. It's how I wish many more of us to feel as we take wing to heal the climate crisis.
In Climate Wayfinding, we think of the ways we each express life force as our unique talents, gifts, or superpowers—all of which are so very needed in this era of change. Two lenses help illuminate them: authentic power and deep joy.
Authentic power is something that rises up from within us—internal and genuine, not gained at others' expense or expended upon them. It's a feeling of ability, capacity, strength, weight, energy, vigor. It aligns what swells within us with how we move in the world.
Deep joy is a feeling of great pleasure, happiness, delight, exhilaration, radiance, bliss. It, too, rises from within and spills out, intermingling with the world around us. It is often the emotional glow of meaning or connection. Joy may also feel out of place in the face of the climate crisis. Who are we to taste joy when so much is hurting? But joy is all the more necessary, and all the more holy, in difficult times.
As Dr. Robin Wall Kimmerer writes in Braiding Sweetgrass: "Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I choose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the Earth gives me daily and I must return the gift."
In my own experience, moving at the nexus of authentic power and deep joy might be our closest approximation to life force itself. When I have strayed far into zones of not-power and not-joy—most often for employment or another hard-tugging should—I have found myself in struggle, disconnection, and even depression. Stubborn is the soul, intent on a space where it belongs.
It is a radical act to believe in our ability to thrive, both individually and as a planet, by being who we are. I mean radical in the fullest sense: from the root, fundamental, and far-reaching. A person anchored and aglow—that is the kind of revolutionary that's called for in this time.
Looking inward to shape our outward contributions—this, I think, is a form of courage. When we refuse to lose touch with our sources of authentic power and deep joy, and when we dare to center them somehow in our lives, we reach toward calling. Whether loudly or in a whisper, these things summon us, insisting that our lives can be alive—sprouting and blooming, swooping and flying high—and that we can be part of making it so.
Just now, the red-tailed hawk draws my eye. It's a beautiful, bewitching thing to behold a being in the fullness of herself. But I realize, watching her in motion, that I am rapt by more than the solitary bird. At the edges of the self, there is a zone, almost an aura, of arising. We find there, at the periphery, a space populated by all that is emergent with, and only with, the world around us.
For the hawk, that emergent edge exists in the remarkable everyday interplay of hunger and wing and wind. And perhaps it is so for all of us, along our own edges, as we muster skill and strength for a planet in want, in wish.
Perhaps you, too, can feel the vibration at the eager verge of doingness and beingness and the wide, long, insistent breath of life.
This piece was adapted from Climate Wayfinding: Healing Ourselves and the Planet We Call Home by Katharine K. Wilkinson (Andrews McMeel, 2026). Used with permission of the publisher. Do not republish.
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Clearing the Ground Beneath Our Feet: Why Demining Is the Ultimate Environmental Act
This Earth Month, as we reflect on the power we hold, we should recognize that some of the most profound acts of environmental stewardship begin not with planting or preservation, but with making the ground safe enough to stand on.
Apr 29, 2026
During the 1960s, America was deep in the throes of the US War in Vietnam. In addition to student protests of the war, there were also “teach-ins”—gatherings that questioned not just the war, but the systems behind it, on campuses all across the country. This anti-war movement inspired the start of another; the fight for environmental protection, giving birth to Earth Month in 1970.
Earth Month is not only a moment of reflection about sustainability and the protection of the environment; it is a test of what we choose to do with what we know. This year’s theme, “Our Power, Our Planet,” asks us to consider where power truly lives. In Laos and Ukraine, the answer is clear: It lives in the land and its people.
Land feeds families and shapes culture. It determines whether a child grows up with stability or scarcity. In Laos, more than 70% of the population depends on agriculture. Golden green glutinous, or “sticky,” rice fields stretch across the country, joined by cassava, coffee, and vegetables that sustain both households and local markets. In Ukraine, fertile black soil has long made the country a cornerstone of the global food system, feeding more than 400 million people through exports of wheat, corn, barley, and sunflower seed.
In both countries, the land carries a hidden burden.
Safe land means farmers can plant without fear, invest in their futures, and pass on their livelihoods to the next generation.
Between 1964 and 1973, the US dropped at least 2.5 million tons of ordnance on Laos, with nearly a third failing to detonate. Today, unexploded ordnance litters every province, leaving a quarter of villages affected. Fertile ground is laced with danger.
Ukraine is now becoming all too familiar with this reality. Over four years into Russia’s full-scale invasion, over a quarter of its land is estimated to be contaminated with explosive remnants of war. Just like in Laos, their legacy will endure for generations.
For farmers, this threat is daily life.
In Ukraine, images circulate of tractors moving steadily through fields under gray skies, in rain, even under fire. There is a kind of grim humor in the idea that farmers will cultivate their land no matter the obstacle. Beneath the dark humor of those internet memes is a gritty determination to survive.
In Laos, that risk has been a constant for decades.
Mae Tao Seesom was just in her early 20s during the war in Laos. She remembers having to hide in caves to avoid danger. Unable to farm their land, she and fellow villagers had to harvest what grew in the forest.
Decades after the war, in 2019, Mae Tao Seesom was cooking for her grandchildren when a cluster bomb exploded under her fire. Luckily, no one was injured. This time.
In Ukraine, Oksana Lukiyanchuk’s newly inherited farm is only 35 kilometers from the front lines; she moved to her own farm in 2021 to generate a livelihood for her young family and a legacy to pass on to her newborn son. Only months later, Russia invaded.
The war has drained her workforce; she now works her land with just one hired hand. Under constant threat of drones, Oksana continues to build her business; as a fifth-generation farmer, her ties to the soil here keep her from leaving. This sense of belonging emanates widely among Ukrainian farmers, and is the reason many continue to risk everything to grow on these front lines.
What lies beneath the soil does more than threaten lives; it constrains entire economies.
In Laos, farmers often avoid deep plowing or expanding irrigation for fear of what they might uncover. The result is lower yields and lost potential. Infrastructure—from roads to schools to clinics—cannot move forward without clearance. Decades after the last bombs fell, vast areas of land remain unused.
Ukraine now stands at the beginning of a similar economic struggle. Agriculture is one of its largest sectors, with consequences far beyond its borders. Smaller farms face labor shortages as workers are drawn into military service. Larger producers race to maintain supply chains under constant disruption.
Yet, this is not a story of helplessness. It is a story of leadership.
In Laos, unexploded ordnance clearance has become a national priority, embedded in its development strategy and backed by decades of commitment. Progress has been steady: Casualties have declined, and more land is made safe each year. National institutions, international organizations, and local communities work in concert, ensuring that clearance efforts reach those most in need.
In Ukraine, that same sense of urgency has taken root with remarkable speed. Organizations like Fondation Suisse de Déminage hire hundreds of explosive ordnance risk educators to meet farm staff where they are—at farmers markets, in schools, and on their land—to ensure everyone living in hazardous areas knows the threat of these weapons. As the country develops new landmine technology, this risk education saves lives now, and will remain necessary for decades on.
While the risks of demining are immediate, so are the returns.
Safe land means farmers can plant without fear, invest in their futures, and pass on their livelihoods to the next generation. It allows roads to be built, markets to grow, and communities to thrive. It restores not only productivity, but dignity.
This is why demining is not simply a humanitarian effort. It is one of the most direct and effective investments in development. It strengthens food systems, reduces poverty, and builds resilience all at once.
It is also achievable.
The experience of Laos shows that progress, while gradual, is real. With sustained commitment, improved technology, and strong partnerships, contamination can be reduced, lives can be saved, and land can be returned to those who depend on it.
Ukraine’s future is not yet written. But the path ahead is clearer because others have walked it before.
If land is life, then clearing land is renewal.
This Earth Month, as we reflect on the power we hold, we should recognize that some of the most profound acts of environmental stewardship begin not with planting or preservation, but with making the ground safe enough to stand on.
In Laos and Ukraine, that work is already underway—unceasingly, by the people, and with extraordinary courage.
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Green Groups Sue Trump to Stop 'Exceptionally Risky' Deep-Water Drilling Project in Gulf of Mexico
"Ultra-deep-water drilling is ultradangerous, full stop," said an attorney with the Center for Biological Diversity.
Apr 20, 2026
Determined to prevent a "sequel" to the worst oil spill in US history, BP's deadly Deepwater Horizon disaster in the Gulf of Mexico in 2010, six environmental protection groups on Monday sued the Trump administration over what they said was its illegal approval of the British fossil fuel giant's $5 billion plan to drill in the body of water's lowest depths off the coast of Louisiana.
BP has boasted that its planned Kaskida oil field is a "world-class project that reflects decades of technological innovation," but environmental legal firm Earthjustice argued that the company has failed to prove its has the "experience, expertise, and certified equipment to conduct safe drilling under extreme conditions" in waters deeper than 5,600 feet, where opponents of the plan say extreme pressure and temperatures will make a blowout and oil spill more likely than they'd be in a typical drilling project.
A "loss of well control" was blamed for the Deepwater Horizon explosion and spill that killed 11 people, harmed and killed more than 100,000 birds and marine animals as well as untold numbers of fish, and devastated local economies—and that type of accident is 6-7 times more likely in an ultra-deep drilling project like Kaskida, according to Earthjustice.
The organization wrote in a regulatory filing last year when it was trying to block the project that "deep-water and ultra-deep-water oil spills and accidents are also much more difficult to respond to and contain.”
"BP did not show in its proposals that it will have the necessary containment capabilities in case the company needs to stop a blown-out well from spilling 4.5 million barrels of oil or more across the Gulf."
The group is representing Healthy Gulf, Turtle Island Restoration Network, Habitat Recovery Project, Sierra Club, and Center for Biological Diversity in the lawsuit, which argues that President Donald Trump's Interior Department adopted in its environmental analysis of Kaskida a severe underestimation—by about half a million barrels of oil—of what a worst-case scenario oil spill would look like.
"BP did not show in its proposals that it will have the necessary containment capabilities in case the company needs to stop a blown-out well from spilling 4.5 million barrels of oil or more across the Gulf," said Earthjustice.
Rachel Mathews, a senior attorney with the Center for Biological Diversity, said it was "appalling that the Trump administration has authorized this deep-water drilling project without having information critical to preventing harm to marine life."
“This will put Rice’s whales, sea turtles, and other Gulf wildlife at terrible risk," said Mathews. "Ultra-deep-water drilling is ultradangerous, full stop.”
The Bureau of Ocean Energy Management's (BOEM) approval of the Kaskida project was preceded by several industry-friendly actions by the Trump administration, including a meeting last month of the federal Endangered Species Committee, which voted to exempt fossil fuel companies from following policies intended to protect endangered species in the Gulf. Advocates argued that the decision was made illegally because the panel is required to meet publicly.
The administration has also proposed weakening "well control" rules for offshore drilling operations, and the White House is consolidating the BOEM and the Bureau of Safety and Environmental Enforcement—two agencies that were intentionally separated following the Deepwater Horizon disaster after an investigative commission found that conflicts of interest were created when they acted as one regulatory agency.
“Kaskida is emblematic of a new era in offshore oil extraction: corporate hoarding of risky, ultra-deep water leases in an attempt to monopolize the future of oil production, with little to no oversight from the Trump administration. We, as citizens of the Gulf South, are not standing for it,” said Martha Collins, executive director of Healthy Gulf. “BP has shown how they handle oil spills on this anniversary of the Deepwater Horizon disaster—their risky drilling and inexperience at this great depth will ensure their continued legacy of the Gulf never being the same again.”
Despite the fact that the Trump administration has taken numerous actions to ramp up oil and gas production—as the US already produces record amounts of fossil fuels—those measures are doing little to reduce oil prices, noted Earthjustice.
“Offshore drilling is one of the riskiest kinds of oil extraction, but the Trump administration is ignoring the law to allow Big Oil CEOs to endanger coastal communities for the sake of corporate profit,” said Devorah Ancel, senior attorney at Sierra Club’s Environmental Law Program. “This permit would allow BP to develop multiple ultra-deep high-pressure wells, which is already exceptionally risky, and with BP’s track record in the Gulf, coastal ecosystems face extraordinary danger. We’re suing the Trump administration to ensure the coastal communities that would suffer the consequences of BP’s actions get their day in court.”
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