But there is no golden task to complete. It’s too late to bring real winters back to the Midwest.
My kids may tell their kids, “When we were little we actually went sledding on snow,” just like I tell them about ice skating on a frozen pond.
It’s really sad to me. We are losing more than just snow and ice and hot chocolate; we’re losing more than we can appreciate. This feels like the part of the fairy tale where despair sets in and you accept that nothing will be the way it should be.
It’s hard to know how the climate change story will end. It’s hard to see any good way for this downer of a column to end, as well. That’s part of the point of fairy tales, however, and of the whole Advent season. How can this possibly end well?
Something beyond us is required. Something which is at once normal and unexpected. A faint flaring in the conscience. A small fire deep in the woods. A strange star moving across the night sky. And yet, something is required of us, also. The outcome of the story depends on our ability to recognize and respond to the light when it appears.
The old rhyme says:
Deep within the blackest night,
Steady, waiting for my sight,