Protecting our sanctuaries: How we should frame climate action in the new year
My Northern California sanctuary recorded by my camera lens.
By Cora Haggarty
As night retreats into hiding and stars begin to dim, an eager sun casts an apricot hue across the morning sky. A new dawn rises. The marble mountains shine. Valley oak trees twinkle. Roosters celebrate. A new day! A new day! Wake up or you’ll miss the fun! I give in. Slowly, I drag myself out from under the comfort of my warm, quilted blanket and with scraggly hair, half-closed eyes, and a sluggish saunter (I’m not an early bird), I step outside to join the commotion.
But contrary to expectation, when I step outside, I am not swarmed by noise. Instead, I enjoy a brisk quietness that offers a warming sense of peace. I happily accept this feeling as I stand on top of a hill ornamented by my grandparents’ home in rural Northern California during my winter break. In front of me lies a vast valley of tall grass, trees, and a few barns that scatter the horizon. I imagine small field mice scavenging for nuts and seeds. Birds composing their evening renditions. Deers perfecting a majestic leap. The valley is simple yet bustling with a wide diversity of life. So much to learn, so much to see. Even the most simplistic of things hold the greatest of complexity as I’ve come to understand standing here.
I continue to take in the view. The valley is divided by a long, paved road—the Old Town Road, as some call it— that is etched with wooden and wired picket fences, separating the rural from the industrial. Rarely do cars travel on this road, and when they do, they leave as quickly as they arrived. I like it this way; when cars come, the quietness is disturbed and when they leave, I can hear the sparrows chirp and sing to their hearts’ content.
To my left and to my right, I am cornered by towering mountains that hold the most telling record of time. The tips of their peaks touch the cotton candy clouds that adorn the morning sky imaginatively. I feel honored to be in the presence of these mountains. Their monstrous size is humbling. Here, I am reminded of nature’s powerful and resilient ways––even in the most troubling of conditions, these mountains brave it all with a ferocious tenacity.
The morning view is spectacular. I stare in awe, awakened by the natural state of an awakening world. At this moment, I know that this sanctuary, right here, is one that I love dearly. It is a sanctuary that I cherish––in this moment and wherever I am in the world.
But suddenly, my stomach drops and my heart begins to flutter and beat at a faster pace. What will happen to this sanctuary in the future? Will I even be able to return to it? The thought scares me. I wonder, fearfully.
It’s true. The world is dying. Our Earth is becoming sicker and sicker with each increased carbon emission, deforested tree, polluted ecosystem, and uncontrolled corporation operating without a sense of morality or accountability. The places and homes that we know and love are crumbling at the expense of our greed and uncontrolled collective footprints. The climate crisis is real, it is growing, and it rapidly starting to devastate.
In my mind, I know that the climate crisis could devastate this sanctuary at its current rate. So much of Northern California has already been impacted by the effects of climate change through rapid wildfires and severe drought. Increased global temperatures continue to leave the air dry and vegetation vulnerable to even the weakest of sparks. What if the next wildfire hits this sanctuary? What if it falls to the dangers of the climate crisis? What if this morning view never looks the same again, this sanctuary ruined permanently? My mind wanders.
But my heart ponders a different story: couldn’t there be another way, a different reality? What if this sanctuary could be protected, after all?
As I face these questions, I realize maybe there could be. I believe it starts with framing our climate action in way that prioritizes protecting sanctuaries like this, ones that we cherish and connect with deeply. In ten, twenty, even fifty years, I want to return to my sanctuary in this valley and observe the quaint rural happenings and natural wonders. I want to wake up to the same morning view and experience nature in its undisturbed element. And so, I pledge to do what I can to protect the sanctuaries in nature that I love the most. And so should you.
As we enter a new year, now more than ever is the time we commit to fighting against the climate crisis. Make it your resolution. Picture a sanctuary in nature that matters most to you. Close your eyes and envision yourself there, breathing in the crisp air of that Sierra Nevada mountain top, hearing the waves crash alongside that Oahu shore, or seeing any auburn sunset for the first time anywhere in the world. Promise to yourself that you will do what you can to fight for it. These sanctuaries need our help and it’s time we answer their calls. Perhaps we will return to these sanctuaries in the future as they are at this moment. But only if we try and only if we act now. Do what you can. No matter the size or impact, at the end of the day, you fought for our world because you wanted to protect the sanctuaries in nature that matter most to you. And that’s all these sanctuaries can ask for – your help.
