natural intelligence II

As I sit and write this, I am surrounded by the results of climate change staring me in the face. For most of my life, it’s been ingrained that “Climate change is coming” and “We need to change our ways”, “Reduce our carbon footprint”, “Stop so much consumerism”, that it almost felt like we had a chance.

But, right now, in this beautiful part of the English coast, we’ve witnessed mass destruction for the “carbon neutral” Sizewell C/D nuclear power plants – trees, hedges, huge swathes of lands, most of my daily walks have been utterly annihilated and cleared to make way for a relatively small building that will provide 3% of the country with clean power in about 20 years. One wonders if it will be too late then. The devastation is heartbreaking. Entire wildlife displaced - residents grew familiar with the sight of dead deer on the road; pushed from the forest and fields familiar to them, onto roads of speeding cars. There is nothing carbon neutral about the current situation; hundreds of diesel vehicles creating motorway-like scenes each morning and night; trucks, colossal HGVs, pipes drilled into sea and land, an impossible number of cranes, portable offices are installed only to disappear and reappear further along the coast. The earth here is heavy with people, vehicles, machinery, noise, the constant punch of piling. Swathes of green lushness have been replaced with mounds of earth, dust, sand and concrete.

Further along the coast, residents of the beautiful, small, picturesque village of Thorpeness have lost homes to immense erosion on a scale that was never predicted to happen so soon. An entire road fallen to the sea, people homeless, edges of roads now stark boundaries of cliff. These people have lived here for decades, part of a unique community, adoring the sea views, adding to the local environment, and appreciating nature in all its majesty. It seems impossible that the constant piling and construction of sea and land buildings has not sped up the rate of erosion. For nature is intertwined, both visibly and invisibly. The curves of the shoreline have shifted beyond recognition, and the rate of erosion is unimaginable; even the EDF fencing is hanging off edges of dunes that have disappeared since last winter.

Then, this week, the wildfire at Dunwich. It’s unimaginable that such a vital piece of biodiversity has been lost to flames, especially on such an extensive scale. It’s unbearable to think of the wildlife and habitats lost; hundreds of species; birds, insects, adders, snakes, deer, foxes, badgers, moles and so many more. It’s unbearably sad that such a thing should happen along this tiny stretch of coast which has already undergone so much suffering. Much of the wildlife displaced by the extensive construction for Sizewell would have moved toward Minsmere and Dunwich, only to have suffered or perished in the flames. Such loss is hard for a single heart to bear. This devastation will take decades, if not longer, to repair. And even though nature will repair and heal, as it always does, the entire situation feels bleak and tragic.

Currently, Suffolk (and other areas) is undergoing a hosepipe ban, yet Artificial Intelligence (AI) is rife. Every Google top result is AI generated with each relying on data chips generating immense heat that requires water to cool the system. A single search costs anywhere from 2 teaspoons to a small bottle of water, yet, we’re supposed to sit and watch the plants and trees near us suffer and die from dehydration while internet searches and LLMs usage is rife.

Little makes sense, and hope could dwindle.

There will be many who continue in denial, claiming we’ve always had heatwaves, that other countries have been dealing with such extremities forever. But this is England and we should not be battling wildfires here, nor should Spain and France. We aren’t equipped for continual heatwaves; our plants and wildlife are suffering.

And yet.

And yet there is hope. Maybe, just maybe this is the wake-up call we need.

We are in times of real change. Wildfires are spreading throughout our island and Europe. We read of floods, tsunamis, droughts, food scarcity, climate-related deaths and poverty. We live in unprecedented times, and it can feel overwhelming and scary.

Ignorance is bliss. Awareness is hell.

But hope is everywhere.

The huge dunes of relocated land around the Sizewell construction sites already have plants literally bursting through them. Plants and trees – some 300 years of age – were crudely hacked down and dragged miles from source, yet they are literally springing up through volcanic-sized mounds of dirt. Flowering plants blossom all over, so these once brown mounds of earth are now glorious hills scattered with yellow and purple wildflowers. Deer have moved into residents’ gardens, familiar with those who leave water at ground level, consuming the roses at bite height, nestling in the shadows of hedges until they’re stirred from slumber by our comings and goings. Squirrels and hedgehogs have shifted nearby; new additions to the local neighbourhood.

On the first night of the Dunwich fire, the fields surrounding Sizewell were full of hundreds of birds; they moved on before sun set, keen to steer clear from the plumes of smoke.

Conversations abound about the impact of the fires, erosion, construction of the power station; subjects people might not have had before this past week. People are asking questions and considering whether there are connections between the devastation, erosion and catastrophe in this part of the coast.  

Nature will find a way, but we need to face the uncomfortable truth that anything we do is everything we do, we are all connected, all together and that our actions affect everything. We are all part of a delicate ecosystem.

There must be a point when we consider whether all this consumerism, extensive travel and exploitation of the one habitable planet we have is actually necessary. At what point will we start to think of others, rather than ourselves? We’ve all been blinded by the influence of a select few rich people influencing us to buy more, by social media/marketing. Many of us work long hours in unfulfilling jobs, craving yet bigger houses, better cars, and more, more, more.

The disease of more is making our planet sick. If we keep demanding more, we will experience less.

There was a time – not so long ago – when this exploitation simply did not exist. Pre-industrialisation and fossil fuels, we simply didn’t have the luxuries we have come to take for granted. Our desire for more has absolutely caused the crises we now face globally; of wildfires, erosion, loss, extinction and more.

Yet the ancient wisdom of practices including Yoga and almost every ancient theory, practice, prayer or religion has taught us that change begins with just one single person. We can each make a difference. And most of such change begins with a small amount of hope.

After the utter heartbreaking realisation that we have been sold an unsustainable story of “more”, we can settle into the hope that each of us is willing to make small sacrifices for the whole.

Hope that we can be better, and that by being better, we can influence every family member, friend, colleague and any/everyone we know to be slightly better too. And whether it’s small acts like buying locally, consuming less energy, donating to the Dunwich National Trust fund, growing fruits and vegetables, feeding the local wildlife, planting more trees – I’m determined to do more, to care more, to keep my eyes and heart open, even when it’s painful to do so.

This Thursday morning, I took my doggies for a walk on the beach and witnessed the wildfires on the horizon. I couldn’t bring myself to take a photo of what I saw – it was too painful, raw and unbelievable. The entire horizon of Dunwich was on fire; both to the left and right of the Coastguard Cottage. Huge orange, angry flames surrounded every single part of the heath. I hadn’t known the fire had started the evening before, and as I stood and tried to fathom what I was witnessing, a passerby explained that it had been burning since the previous evening. We both stood and cried. Moved to tears, because in such moments we are reminded that we are part of nature, and nature is part of us.

It’s as if those tears cleared my vision. For months I’ve been trying to cope and live alongside the shifts and impact of the site of construction. It’s unbelievable how comforting denial can feel. We tell ourselves, “This is temporary. They’ll plant more trees and re-wild the area in a decade. It will all be back to normal”. We turn a blind eye to the fear-inducing speed at which the clifftops fell into the waves and find comfort that it was only one road; the remainder of Thorpeness won’t be hit for another 20 years. I found myself adoring the fact that huge herds of deer were coming to see us at night, plucking the berries from trees mere metres from the boundary of my garden. It was a privilege to have them so close, hearing them munching.

But deep down I knew none of this was true. I understood I was surviving by turning a blind eye, because the truth of the matter was just too painful. And I was witnessing the impact we, as humans, have caused on all these innocent life forms. The negative effect of my simple desire to flick a switch and receive light, to charge up a laptop and type words shared to the internet, to power a cooker and prepare a meal to nourish me, or purchase car fuel to take me to places swifter and further than my feet. All these simple conveniences that serve me to live more abundantly will have cost the planet, people, beings and entire interconnected ecosystem harm.

The planet cannot keep providing more. We can’t keep stripping the materials and expect this abundance of goods, materials, products, foods, drinks and plethora of choice to continue. And it’s down to us to take ownership and begin reducing our need for more.

We’re in this together.

We can fix it.

Anything we do is everything we do.