If you want to play the game of politics, here’s step one: Reduce everything to a linear political viewpoint: “right” or “left.” No matter how deep and large and complex that viewpoint is, politicize it, turn it into something that’s either right or wrong. It’s all about winning or losing.

Did U.S. Vice President Kamala Harris lean too far left? Oh gosh. Neither Liz Cheney nor Taylor Swift could save her.

I’m still immersed in my own recovery process—recovery from the election, of course. And yes, I’m feeling pain because “my side” lost, but my emotions are complicated by the fact that I didn’t really have a side in the election. It wasn’t simply that I was frustrated with the campaigns and claims of both major parties (the only ones that mattered, right?). I’ve apparently reached a point in my life where the entire political game feels problematic; it minimizes our world in a way I can no longer tolerate.

I feel the need to embrace and transcend this paradox: the reduction of our deepest values to a “cause,” which then frees us from actually having to honor those values and reduces the process to winning vs. losing.

How do we transcend our collective awareness beyond the artificial borders we’ve created? I ask this question not from some higher state of awareness, but from the middle of it all. How do we reach a collective state that isn’t competitive? How do we actually live our values rather than simply attempt to impose them—and in the process of doing so, oh so often, completely disregard and violate those values?

Suddenly I’m thinking about the good old Crusades, summarized thus by History.com: “The Crusades were a series of religious wars between Christians and Muslims started primarily to secure control of holy sites considered sacred by both groups. In all, eight major Crusade expeditions—varying in size, strength, and degree of success—occurred between 1096 and 1291. The costly, violent, and often ruthless conflicts enhanced the status of European Christians, making them major players in the fight for land in the Middle East.”

Now it’s all just history, which is the story we tell about ourselves from one war to the next. But, come on: “violent and often ruthless” battles to reclaim, good God, holy sites? Do unto others as you would have them do unto you? Actually, that biblical quote sums up the cost of war pretty precisely. But the paradox sits there like an open wound. Love thy neighbor, love thy enemy—but first you’re going to have to kill him. And his children. Charge!

I’m not saying all this simply to point a moral finger at the political leaders of the world. Rather, I feel the need to embrace and transcend this paradox: the reduction of our deepest values to a “cause,” which then frees us from actually having to honor those values and reduces the process to winning vs. losing. Apparently, we can’t have a cause without an enemy, or at least an inconvenience (Palestinians, for example), which... uh, needs to be eliminated.

It always seems to come down to this: some glaring irritation that stands in the way of the good we want to do. And yes, there are many pushbacks against this mindset—many people who, in defiance of the cynics, believe in, practice and, indeed, create loving and courageous approaches to conflict resolution. But such approaches cannot be reduced to simple stories of good vs. evil, and thus lack large social resonance.

So here I am, dealing with my own frustrations in the present moment—the ongoing genocide in Palestine that the U.S. funds, the possibility of President-elect Donald Trump’s increased militarization of our southern border, the ever-intensifying climate crisis, the ongoing possibility of nuclear war... and oh my God, it gets ever more insane. For that reason, I bring back a story I wrote about a decade ago, which remains close to my heart. It’s a small story: a single incident in the midst of the brutal civil war going on in South Sudan.

It involves the international peacekeeping NGO, Nonviolent Peaceforce, which had several of its members in the country to help facilitate communication between the various sides in the conflict. They were unarmed, of course, which gave them credibility and trust among the warring sides. As I wrote at the time:

Being unarmed doesn’t mean being disempowered. This is worth paying attention to. In South Sudan, unarmed, international peacekeepers have credibility. They stand above the local conflict, facilitating communication between the various sides but not taking sides themselves.

What happened was that armed men attacked a United Nations base on the perimeter of the city of Bor, where thousands of civilians had sought refuge. Two Nonviolence Peaceforce representatives found themselves in the middle of the chaos and took refuge inside a mud hut, which was occupied as well by four women and nine children. On three separate occasions, I noted, armed men came and ordered the peacekeepers out so they could kill the women and kids. The peacekeepers refused, holding up their Nonviolent Peaceforce IDs and saying they were unarmed. They were there to protect civilians and would not leave. After the third time, the armed men left for good.

Some 60 people were killed in the assault, but 13 precious lives were saved. As one of the peacekeepers said afterward: “I think if we had a gun we would have been shot immediately.”

The peacekeepers had had intense training in nonviolence and were able to keep their cool. They didn’t panic.

And, crucially, Nonviolent Peaceforce had credibility in South Sudan. They stood beyond the conflict. “We also had a humanitarian mandate,” one of the peacekeepers said. Being unarmed “opens the doors to look for solutions. If we were armed peacekeepers, the solution is you shoot back. Because we were unarmed, we could find other ways.”

This story transcends the moment of its occurrence. I wish I could multiply it by a million. All I can do is repeat: Being unarmed opens the door to look for solutions.

I’m one of the approximately 72 million people who voted for U.S. Vice President Kamala Harris, but this post is written for all my fellow Americans. When I awoke at 4:30 am on November 6 and learned the results of the election, including that my own district in Maine went for Donald Trump, I lay in bed and felt my heart racing. I noticed my harsh and brittle judgments. I experienced incomprehension, sorrow, and fear.

And then I went outside as the sky turned magenta. A loon cried mournfully. An eagle soared above my head. Unlike me, these other species had no idea what could befall them because of human decisions made the day before. But then I realized I couldn’t know the future myself. I had strong evidence to believe that the election results would speed the rate of global warming; reduce the minimal protections for other species; and erode the rights of many living in the U.S., but neither I, nor anyone else, knows the end of this story.

So I asked myself, “Now what?” and the answer for me was clear: Work harder. Work harder to transform systems that are unjust, unsustainable, and inhumane. Work harder at helping those at risk. And work harder to understand others’ perspectives so that bitterness and anger don’t eclipse curiosity and love and so that the persistent perception of “us and them” fades, even in my most private thoughts. I could think of no other way to build a future worthy of our capacity for good and where the dominant pronoun becomes we. We, the people. We, the inhabitants of Earth. We, the parts of ecosystems where all sentient life arises.

If we strive to be a campfire rather than a forest fire, we have a greater capacity to build coalitions that can make a positive difference.

My answer was “work harder” because I can; because I do not face the same risks as others; because, like everyone, I still have a part to play in the unfolding story; and because, as Joan Baez once said, “Action is the antidote to despair.”

What does “work harder” look like practically, especially for those of us who are not at particular risk? I offer the following image for how to work harder humanely and effectively whether we voted against this shift in our government, voted for it with concerns about its potential negative impacts, or didn’t vote at all.

Picture a clearing in the woods. There, in its center, is a glowing campfire, encircled by people drawn to its warmth and light. Now imagine what happens if too much fuel is added to that fire. Suddenly sparks fly and ignite a tree. The beautiful campfire transforms into a blazing forest fire, and everyone flees.

Metaphorically, we all have a fire inside of us. It is the fire of our passions, of love and hatred, joy and grief, empathy and fury. Some of us are more “fiery” than others, but no matter our nature, our internal fire impacts not just ourselves but also others around us. If we strive to be a campfire rather than a forest fire, we have a greater capacity to build coalitions that can make a positive difference. But at a time when many of our emotions are burning so hot, how can we be a campfire? One of the answers lies in determining the right kind and amount of fuel to consume.

What’s this metaphorical fuel? It’s the news and information to which we expose ourselves; the books and essays we read; the podcasts we listen to; the people we seek to learn from; the social media we peruse; and the communities of which we’re a part. We can ask ourselves if we are consuming the kinds of fuel that help us draw a range of people close so we are able to build healthy, collaborative communities to advance solutions to problems moving forward.

It’s possible that instead of drawing people toward us, they are fleeing because we are full of anger and doom, or, alternatively, because we are gloating and dismissive of others’ deep and legitimate fears. If we are fueling ourselves with media that inflames us, we may become less able to respond wisely. We may diminish opportunities to build bridges for positive action, and our potential for collaboration may go up in smoke.

For some, perhaps the conflagration has seared so deeply because we added so much fuel that we are now burnt out, reduced to embers, unable to contribute much at all. We may need to turn inward to regroup, knowing that before long we must rekindle ourselves.

If ever there was a time to tend our fire carefully, surely it is now. What we do at this moment matters. Even amid our strong emotions, it is imperative to focus on being a campfire and not let what others do or say determine how we behave, not only for the sake of others, but for our own sake, too.

Here are three steps we might take:

• To the greatest degree possible, strive to be a person who radiates warmth. There are many solutionary ways to build systems that are good for people, other species, and the environment, and communication across divides will be essential to build coalitions that temper potential inhumane and destructive outcomes. To do this, determine the best methods to calm your mind and strengthen your resolve. Warmth is not weak; it is not giving up or giving in. It is, rather, helpful in creating positive outcomes together.
• Avoid scrolling through hateful or gloating rhetoric, and for goodness sake, don’t share memes that fan the flames of outrage, name-calling, or boastfulness. Before you post or share anything, ask yourself if you are adding fuel that might be incendiary.
• Allow yourself to become as curious as possible about the perspectives of others. Whether you voted for Harris, Trump, a third party candidate, or no one, seek out the fuel of knowledge for the purpose of understanding. With understanding comes the possibility of finding common ground with your neighbors who voted differently than you, yet with whom you can still work for healthier, safer, more humane systems. There are solutions to problems that the great majority of us can agree upon.

Doing these things will not make everything OK. We face potentially catastrophic challenges and terrible suffering. It is not lost on me that fires are not just metaphors for this essay. In the last decade real forest fires have been raging with ever greater force and destruction largely because we’ve failed to take action to reduce carbon and methane emissions, something we could have done and still can do.

That said, not doing these things will make everything worse and, to double down on the fire metaphor, may burn bridges at precisely the time we most need to build them—with our neighbors, in our towns and cities, across the aisle in our state legislatures where cooperation and compromise often still occur, and as a nation of people who are mostly of goodwill and who share a desire for a future in which we and our descendants can flourish.

Whatever postures our country has projected to the world—shining city on a hill, leader of the free world, model of democracy, the indispensable nation, a rules-based order—all have crumbled like a house of cards. Our country’s failures, however, are deeper and older than the recent election.

The United Nations lowered the U.S. ranking to No. 41 among nations in 2022 due to the extreme gap between the rich and the rest and women’s loss of reproductive freedom. Elsewhere the U.S. ranks as a “flawed democracy” because of its severely fractured society. These ongoing societal failures feed a continuous decline in health, such that we now ranks 48th among 200 countries in life expectancy, while having the largest number by far of billionaires and millionaires compared with other wealthy countries. Corporate lobbies for the weapons industry, fossil fuels, pharmaceuticals, processed foods, etc. dictate our federal government’s priorities while 78% of U.S. people live paycheck to paycheck.

Blessed Is the Poor People’s Campaign: This national campaign in more than 45 states is organized around the needs and demands of the 140 million poor and low-income Americans. Its vision to restructure our society from the bottom up, recognizes “we must… deal with the interlocking injustices of systemic racism, poverty, ecological devastation, and the denial of healthcare, militarism, and the distorted moral narrative of religious nationalism that blames the poor instead of the systems that cause poverty.” Add sexism to that list of injustices.

Blessed is Fair Share Massachusetts, a coalition of labor unions and dozens of community and faith-based organizations that won passage of the Fair Share Amendment in 2022. The constitutional amendment has instituted a 4% surcharge on annual income over $1 million. In 2024 the $1.8 billion accrued from the tax on millionaires provides free school meals; free community college; and funds to invest in roads, bridges, and public transit.

In 1948, the United States signed the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR), which recognizes adequate housing as one cornerstone of the right to an adequate standard of living. All 27 European Union member states as well as Australia and South Africa institutionalized housing as a human right for their citizens while the United States has not. In every state except Oregon and Wyoming, it can be illegal to be homeless, essentially casting blame on 650,000 adults and over 2 million children for their poverty-stricken homelessness

Blessed is Rosie’s Place, a model to our country of woman-centered humanism. Much more than a shelter, it is a mecca and “a second chance for 12,000 poor and homeless women each year” in Boston. Rosie’s Place was founded on Easter Sunday 1974 in an abandoned supermarket, as the first shelter for women in the country. From providing meals and sanctuary from the streets, it grew into a multi-service community center that offers women emergency shelter and meals plus support and tools to rebuild their lives. Rosie’s offers a food pantry, ESOL classes, legal assistance, wellness care, one-on-one support, housing and job search services, and community outreach. Ninety percent of homeless women have suffered severe physical or sexual abuse at some time in their lives.

Blessed are the nearly 3,000 domestic violence shelters and groups organized throughout the U.S. to provide temporary shelter and help women rebuild their lives, offering legal assistance, counseling, educational opportunities, and multi-services for their children.

A recent Gallup Survey found that the U.S. ranks last among comparable nations in trust of their government and major institutions, including business leaders, journalists and reporters, the medical system, banks, public education, and organized religion—a plunge from top of the list nearly 20 years ago.

Blessed is Hands Across the Hills, a blue-state red-state seven-year effort formed after Donald Trump’s 2016 election to bring together progressive residents in western Massachusetts and more conservative residents of rural eastern Kentucky, for conversations and sometimes intense dialogues about their political and cultural differences. They disputed the idea “that we are hopelessly divided, as a myth sold to us by politicians and mass media, to hide our nation’s all-too-real inequalities.”

Blessed are the peacemakers across dozens of federal agencies, including the military and in communities throughout the country, who challenge, resist, resign, and refuse orders in our flawed hyper-militaristic government. Since the U.S.-enabled genocide in Gaza, more than 250 veterans and active-duty soldiers have become members, respectively, of About Face: Veterans Against the War, Feds for Peace, Service in Dissent, and A New Policy PAC. All have arisen from current and former federal employees aligned with the majority of Americans who want the Israeli-U.S. war on Gaza (now expanded to Lebanon and the West Bank) to end through diplomacy.

Blessed are those of the people, for the people, and by the people—beacons in a country sundered by militarism, rich privilege, origins in slavery and genocide of Native Americans, and persistent inequality for women.

In 2016 I believed this to be true: “Solo el pueblo salva al pueblo/ Only the people can save the people.” It’s the Latin American protest phrase recently used by communities recovering from devastating floods in Spain.

In that spirit, the day after Donald Trump’s first election, I made a pledge to myself (and a plea to others) to welcome difficult conversation, to “call in” rather than “call out,” and to trust the basic goodness of neighbors to bring us through the administration to a safer world of shared values, acceptance, and care.

But eight years later, contemplating another outrageous Trump ascendence, my faith has wavered. Although I still believe in people, we, alone, just don’t seem to be enough. So today, amid intersecting ecological, social, and political crises, I’d like to propose a different phrase: “Only the plants can save the people.”

Plants, on the other hand, are peaceful and apolitical—complex, adaptable, even sentient beings that began filling Earth’s atmosphere with oxygen 2 billion years before the first bipeds traversed soil on two feet.

Hear me out: Is it such a radical idea to suggest we might do well to look beyond human ingenuity alone, and instead toward the vast interconnectedness of species with whom we share the planet? The worldview that puts homo sapiens at the top of the decision-making ladder seems to have done little but entangle us in useless loops of struggle and defeat. Climate disaster has become just another thing many people now accept; a new normal that’s easier, bafflingly, than making any kind of structural shift to quell its root causes.

And yet, while humans doomscroll through paralysis, plants continue sequestering carbon, supporting biodiversity, cleaning the water and the air, and mitigating erosion. What might the world look like if we actually sought leadership, with renewed reverence and kinship, from the dirt beneath our feet?

In 2016 we’d learned to live with burning forests, but not a fire season that spans more than half the year. We knew about hurricanes, but inland folks never imagined the waters could come for them. Over the past eight years, we’ve seen MAGA amplify while biodiversity plummeted. Greenhouse gas levels rose while children in cages screamed for their families; floods, fires, and droughts accelerated while a global pandemic exacerbated suspicions and divisions. Temperatures ticked up as a racial justice reckoning raged and state-sanctioned military violence quashed peaceful protest on public streets and university campuses.

Plants, on the other hand, are peaceful and apolitical—complex, adaptable, even sentient beings that began filling Earth’s atmosphere with oxygen 2 billion years before the first bipeds traversed soil on two feet. The argument that they can save us isn’t a fairytale dream, but one based on real scientific scholarship, ecological principles, and the acceptance that humans are just one small part of a complex web of life on the planet. Native plants that have evolved in sync with insects and animals in specific bioregions are what will continue to support the trophic levels of all life, from insect to megafauna, on which our very existence as humans depends. This basic biological truth persists no matter how many billionaires claim we can technologize our way out of ecological collapse.

There is even evidence that nature can mend divisions between people. From Richard Louv’s Last Child in the Woods to more recent studies linking gardening to general well-being, we are learning “officially” what most people who come in from a walk in the woods or a dip in a sparkling lake have known for millennia: that time spent mingling with and caring for species outside the human realm is not only healing, but critical for our survival. Caring for the natural world can actually ameliorate all sorts of ailments, like loneliness, isolation, and depression—ills that may contribute to the surge of anger and loutishness that’s been plaguing our society.

Over the past eight years I’ve had two children, and I’ve watched them transform from furry, wriggling infants to curious kids who talk to plants and animals just as they talk to other humans. My son spent the morning of November 6 dancing around in pink bunny pajamas, feeding oatmeal to his stuffed animals. My work, now, is focused on preserving his joy while being honest about the fact that there’s been an almost 70% decline in species’ populations since I was his age. My daughter, who will spend her formative years in a country whose top officials don’t value her life, got on the bus to public school today, where she’ll be compelled to put her hand over her heart and recite the Pledge of Allegiance. My work, now, will be to teach her that “America” could stand for a promise of what’s to come; it could honor the billion-plus acres of thriving forest and prairie, the billions of birds and buffalo that fed its landscapes before colonizers arrived. “God” could stand for the spirit of the land that sustains us.

. My belief is that the plants can save the people; my hope is that we’ll let them.

This is not to suggest we turn our backs on other urgent struggles, like resisting authoritarianism and militarism, protecting human rights, stopping fossil fuel extraction, preserving our public education system, further democratizing healthcare access, and more. It does not mean we stop prioritizing the intergenerational solutions of climate justice communities hit first and worst by the ravages of these intersecting crises.

What it does mean is no one has to wait to get started. While those larger struggles persist, we can make change right away in our own homes and neighborhoods.

According to entomologist and Homegrown National Park founder Doug Tallamy, the American lawn (think bright green rectangle) took up close to 63,000 square miles as of 2021. That’s 63,000 square miles of “no vacancy” for the plant life that’s sustained us for millions of years; 63,000 square miles kept poisonously crisp with chemicals, mowers, and blowers. Those miles, almost the size of all our national parks added together, are currently acting not as the carbon sinks, watershed managers, and biodiversity regenerators they could be, but rather as a vast food desert for the insects and birds that critically transport energy within and across bioregions.

Luckily, transforming empty landscapes into regenerative ecosystems is something we can do without professional help or waiting for the next election. Volunteer networks, native plant landscaping companies, books, regional “how-to” guides, and do-it-yourself trial and error are all useful—critical, even—for beginning the vast rewilding needed to improve our environments and communities. A single milkweed plant in a pot won’t change the world, but in community, it’s a great start.

We might not have control over the next administration’s assault on the environment. But for now, what we can do is plant native plants on land that’s considered “private.” That could be three feet on your apartment’s fire escape, a 20x20 green lawn, a garden space in front of your small business, or replacing a tangle of invasives in your backyard. We have the power to change our relationship to the Earth; to do something good, simple and measurable; to reshape the landscapes of the future and transform them into bird-and-bee commons—now—without waiting for policy from above. And we can do it while forging relationships within our communities, getting outside and away from the manipulations of screens, reconnecting with our instincts, rebuilding alongside the species with whom we share the planet by digging our hands in dirt that knows no borders.

My hope is the despair many of us feel in the face of the next administration will not be met with more despair, or even with anger. My hope is we’ll collectively say “enough,” that we’ll recognize our shared worth and commonalities not only with each other, but with the other species around us. My belief is that the plants can save the people; my hope is that we’ll let them. And in reconnecting with our local landscapes, we can reconnect with each other, so that four years from now, the people will be able to save the people once again.