If you’re interested in rewilding—the practice of restoring and protecting wild places and the many species who call those wild places home — the podcast Rewilding the World with Ben Goldsmith is incredible. Ben speaks to some of the most influential people behind the most exciting and dramatic rewilding projects across the globe including Turkey, the Balkans, Chile, Argentina, Africa’s Sahel, India, England, Scotland, the UK, Spain, Portugal, Western North America, Kazakhstan, Saudi Arabia, the Sinai peninsula, Transylvania, Carpathia, Romania, and the Great Plains of the U.S. (What a list!)
Not only has this podcast further ignited my passion for rewilding and the promise it holds to make this a healthier, more sustainable world for all beings, but it’s also grown my list of places to travel to, my reading list, and my desire to care for wild places in any and every way I can. In a world that’s often dark and difficult, rewilding is a bright light of hope and joy that shows us what’s possible when we realize we are a part of nature, not apart from nature.
Right now there are 20 episodes to enjoy, and Ben will be back again with a fresh set of episodes in early 2024. I’m so grateful for his efforts and the work being done by all of his inspiring guests.
My view on the train to Bristol, UK. Photo by Christa Avampato.
It is the season of soft things. Warm tea. Thick blankets. Crackling fires. Cozy sweaters. Candle light. Woollen socks. Hugs. Laughter. Kindness. Whispers. Dreams. The world seems especially hard right now, with sharp edges that cut and harm. I find myself craving comfort, ease, and quiet. Seeking out people who exude warmth, welcome, and joy.
Our world, especially our working world, often demands structure and immutable processes. Too often telling us what is and has been must continue to be. This relentless beat can make me tired and worn. It’s in these moments that I remind myself the value of flexibility, the ability to bend so we don’t break.
We so often prize efficiency and abhor redundancy, until we recognize that nature in all her glorious wisdom has survived and thrived for nearly 4 billion years because of her integrated systems that are stronger than the sum of the parts, with pieces that back up one another so that as a united whole they can weather the storms, accommodate change, and retain balance, even and especially in crisis. And there are always storms, and change, and crises.
Nature built herself to flex, to make room, to expect the unexpected, to support. What if that became our goal, for ourselves, our organizations, our government, our world? How then might be change, grow, evolve, and be? I suspect that in this season of soft things, I may find answers to those questions by the time the light of spring returns.
I’m deep into the work of my University of Cambridge dissertation. The more I learn, the more questions I have. I’m sitting at my laptop, looking at the research and also monitoring the news. Where do I begin with all of the problems, pain, and promise in the world? How can I make a difference?
I close my laptop and go to the forest, where I always go when I don’t know what to do. My forest is Prospect Park in Brooklyn. The ginko trees are putting on a show—my favorite kind of gold. Walking there among the crunchy colorful leaves on the forest floor, the autumn sun on my face, breathing in the cool dry air, I think of Rilke and his beautiful quote about living the questions in the book Letters to a Young Poet.
“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” ~Rainer Maria Rilke
Maybe the point of my dissertation is not to find an answer, but instead to find a way to ask powerful questions that help readers live into answers of their own making and choosing. Maybe I’ve been trying to make my dissertation a solution when what’s really needed is a mirror, using stories to reflect individual truths back to people who haven’t yet seen them on their own, to help them stand in the power they don’t know they have to shape the world in a way where everyone brings their gifts and resources to the table and uses them to collaboratively to win together.
This is how a forest operates, the flora and fauna sharing with and caring for one another, each taking what they need and giving what they have. Diversity is celebrated, and necessary for health. Abundance is created through deep cooperation. Imagine a human society like that. Maybe I’ve found an answer after all.
Look at your hands. Coupled with your mind and heart, your hands, joined with mine and with people across the globe, have the power to save the world. We can choose to be the artificers of our own bright and bountiful future.
Today we have a once-in-human-existence opportunity — the chance to create a healthy, vibrant, sustainable world for all beings. And not just for our children and grandchildren, but for ourselves and all beings alive right now.
The 2023 National Climate Assessment released Tuesday in the U.S. lays out the dire possibilities from global warming. It also shows that collectively we have all the knowledge, money, and creativity we need to halt emissions that cause global warming. There is proof the solutions work. Climate solutions are being deployed nationwide in every region and annual emissions dropped 12% from 2013–2019. We need them to drop much more but this is progress.
The one remaining hold out is us. Do we have the will to save ourselves and life on Earth?
“How much more the world warms depends on the choices societies make today,” states the report. “The future is in human hands.”
The report is hefty and so is the opportunity before us. Let’s not waste it.
For weeks I’ve thought about what my framework might be. Finally, I’ve found a perfect fit: the layers of a forest — soil, understory, vinelayer, midstory, understory, and atmosphere. As a biomimicry scientist and storyteller, this model fits my passions for building my life inspired by nature’s wisdom and the power of story to shift hearts, minds, and actions. It’s fitting that the word “story” is present in the layers of this incredible ecosystem that fosters life.
Soil — home of the earthly nutrients that give rise to the forest This is what I read, see, hear, feel, and experience that feeds into my imagination and creativity. This houses my personal history, my core memories from the time I was a child to the present day. In that way the soil and what feeds me is always changing and evolving.
Understory — seedlings and saplings that will be the forest’s future This is where I constantly cultivate new ideas, interests, and connections. Not all of them will mature but they all teach me something. I’m always learning, growing, evolving, and living my life spherically, in many different directions. Here my imagination and creativity have no limits.
Vinelayer — connects the forest from soil to canopy These are the throughlines of my life and work: nature, stories, and business. These are my vines that run through my work and feed my creativity, and the use of resources that make my creative work possible to share with the world.
Midstory — made up of diverse shrubs and young trees This is yesterday’s understory, the ideas and relationships that began there that have emerged as those that I’ll cultivate and nurture to their fullest potential.
Overstory — the top layer of mature tree crowns that connect to form the canopy This is where the ideas I’ve nurtured have come to fruition and reached their full potential. The books I write. The products I create. The relationships that are core to my community. This is also where I fully connect to the wider world, and where the exchange of ideas and perspectives happens.
Atmosphere — with the nutrients from the soil, the atmosphere’s sunlight, air, and rain allow a forest to be sustainable and create an ecosystem where other beings can also thrive For me, this is the love, care, concern, and support I receive from my community and the wider world. Just as the sunlight, air, and rain pour down through the forest and back into the soil to create a full loop, love nurtures my spirit, refills my cup, and allows me to continue my work. Just like a forest, my work also involves nurturing the lives and work of others.
I ran the few blocks to Prospect Park for my morning run. On the way, I passed one of my neighbors who was sitting in a chair in her front yard. She had her eyes closed, face up to the sun, with her bare feet sinking into the ground.
“Morning, Marta,” I said.
“Hi dear,” she replied. “Just feeling my roots.”
As I ran through the park taking in all the reds, golds, and oranges of the leaves, I thought about Marta’s comment. We all have roots — where we live, where we work, in the communities and with the people whom we spend time with. It made me think about the value of connections, and how those connections form a kind of life journey and path as we carve our way in the world. It reminded me how strong roots take time to cultivate, how that work is mostly hidden from sight, and may appear like we aren’t making any progress.
But the progress of building our roots may be the most important progress we make because everything else we are and do comes from them. It’s our roots that sustain us, as people and professionals. They are what remains when everything else falls away. They help us grow, transform, and heal. They help us weather the tough times and flourish when the light returns. And it does always return, eventually.
The world is a difficult place right now in so many ways. Perhaps as difficult a place as we’ve ever seen. I’m finding hope in fostering my roots, in deepening my relationships, and rededicating myself to my community, in my city, in my work, and in all the places where I find points of connection. I hope that you are able to find this, too.
Photos of Prospect Park, Brooklyn. Taken by Christa Avampato on October 25, 2023.
“I just want to live life all the way through. That is all.” ~Nan Shepherd
On my morning run in Prospect Park, I caught my first glimpse of autumn, my favorite season, one of catch and release, color and darkness, change and preservation, our two halves becoming whole. Trees changing and losing their leaves have so much to teach us about how we live and work. Biomimicry in action.
Deciduous trees let go of their leaves to survive the winter and live to see the next spring: it conserves energy and water, and allows wind to blow through the branches, putting less strain on the tree during winter storms.
In this next season of life, what will you do and what will you let go of so you can arrive in the next season rested and ready when the light and warmth return?
I am taking a little time every day to read place-based books about nature and landscape by people like Nan Shepherd and Robert Macfarlane who go out into the natural world and take it all in.
I am letting go of always thinking 10 ten steps ahead. Some amount of planning is necessary, but sometimes I get so caught up in the future that I don’t fully appreciate and learn from the now. So I’m going to make a conscious effort to love and be exactly where I am each day.
What about you? What will you do? What will you let go of?
“If I don’t work, I don’t eat so I have to be out here, even when there’s a flood.” This was a quote from a NYC delivery worker on the news during the September 29th, 2023 flash floods. His electric bike failed in the knee-deep water. He was pushing it against the current to deliver food.
NYC now has the largest income gap of any large city in the country — the top 20% make 53 times more than the bottom 20%. We’re failing our people with no social safety net, no protection from climate hardship, and few pathways out of their circumstances. City workers often live in temporary shelter and public housing because they don’t earn enough to make rent but residency is often required for their jobs.
This city is run by service workers. They are the lifeblood that keeps the city moving. Failing them will cause the city to crumble.
We also have the migrant crisis. Right now at the U.S.-Mexico border, the city is distributing these fliers:
I cried reading it. This has been the city of dreams for decades. Now it is the city of dreams only for those who are already of means. That cannot continue.
New York is a city of immigrants. It always has been. They enrich and enliven the social and economic fabric on which this city’s creativity thrives. Without them, we lose who we are and what we stand for.
The economics and business side of my brain spends the bulk of my waking hours thinking about how to support New Yorkers, present and future. How do we boost the economy and provide opportunity to everyone who wants to be a New Yorker? How do we rebuild this city, not just for the privileged few but for all the huddled masses yearning to be free so that everyone wins together?
The historian and storyteller side of my brain always sifts the sands of the past to see what I can find and use. As the late great John Lewis, who was at one time a New Yorker and is one of my greatest inspirations, often said, “We must make a way out of no way.”
That’s just a start of how NYC can work with nature so that everyone is cared for. There are dozens of other solutions that are relatively low-cost, efficient, and proven to clean the air, water, and land—benefits that benefit every resident, visitor, and commuter.
This doesn’t have to be a concrete jungle. It can be a green, verdant, healthy, thriving place for all beings who want to be New Yorkers. It’s going to take a massive mobilization, and the relentless pursuit to match needs with resources to transform our challenges into opportunities. We have to do this work, and we have to do it now while we still have time. I’m tired of a dirty, flooded, and unequal New York. Aren’t you? I love this city. I love New Yorkers. And I want us to do better. We have to do better, and we can—together.
South Brooklyn during Friday’s floods. Photo by Christa Avampato.
A river flowed from Prospect Park through my neighborhood in South Slope, Brooklyn on Friday when we were pummeled with 7+ inches of rain in ~12 hours. I didn’t realize NYC’s floods were international news until I started getting messages from friends outside the country. With over 13 inches of rain in September, this is the 2nd wettest September since NYC began keeping weather records in 1920.
I took this photo of the flooding from my apartment at 8am. As I watched the water gushing through the streets, I thought about a conversation I had with my friend, Alex MacLennan, almost a decade ago. He told me the climate models then predicted the western half of the US would grow increasingly drier and hotter while the eastern half would be regularly flooded. How right they were.
NYC is an archipelago that sits mostly at sea-level surrounded by brackish water with the busiest shipping port in the US. Though it looms large on the national and international stages as a financial, cultural, political, and media capital, area-wise it’s small and easily overwhelmed by water.
It is, in many ways, a climate disaster waiting to happen. It’s the mostly densely populated city in the U.S. with nearly 28,000 people per square mile and has the largest population with almost 9 million people, more than double the size of the next largest city. The population doubles during the workday with as many commuters as residents. It’s also a city of hard surfaces (though we have 7 million trees and the tree canopy covers 21% of the city). Aged infrastructure and a subterranean subway that is 100+ years old further compound threats from flash flooding, coastal storms, and sea level rise. Flooding here is a crisis that must be urgently and unrelentingly addressed.
The country and world can’t afford to lose New York. While some strides have been made to protect the city from climate change, it’s not nearly enough. But all that may be changing, and fast.
These floods will become more frequent and intense in the coming years. We have to mitigate and adapt at the same time with nature-based solutions like biophilic architecture, mangroves, reefs, rooftop farms, and the transformation of vacant lots into bioswales. They are proven, efficient, and relatively inexpensive solutions. I hope the work at Governor’s Island can make these ideas realities.
Like all investments, nature-based solutions take time to create and scale. We have no more time to waste. We have to get started now, and it’s my hope that I can do my part to push this work forward.
In the last 13 years, the U.S. has used 1.5 trillion gallons of water for fracking. That’s the amount of water used annually by the state of Texas with a population of nearly 30 million people. It’s a triple whammy against the planet by America — the emissions created by these fossil fuels, the extensive use of water to complete fracking exercises to get those fossil fuels out of the ground, and the immense damage done to ecosystems by fracking, a process that creates vast amounts of wastewater, emits greenhouse gases such as methane, releases toxic air pollutants and generates noise, destroys animal and plant habitats, causes species decline, disrupts animal migrations, and degrades land.
I used to be grateful that he was in the climate conversation. Now, I’m disappointed by yet another prominent scientist who has gone off-the-rails and is ignoring science. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Maybe it’s desperation at the dire state of the planet.
This is what I know to be true — the wisdom of nature far exceeds any wisdom of any human who has ever lived. To claim otherwise, is the height of ignorance and arrogance. It’s dangerous to listen to someone who puts himself above nature, especially when he has one of the highest personal carbon footprints in the world and the health of the natural world underpins half of global GDP (~$40 trillion).
Nature knows how to create conditions conducive to life. The human track record on supporting life, including our own, is abysmal. I’m banking on nature’s wisdom every single day. She’s an ally, not an adversary, and we must listen and respect her before it’s too late. Nature made our existence possible.
Human ingenuity, while offering many gifts, has given us climate change, fracking, and perhaps the recipe for our own extinction. The most ingenious actions humans could take now are to listen to and learn from nature, and work with her, not against her. She’s ready to play ball. She always has been. The question now is, are we?
Christa Avampato 