What Would Emily Say?

by BARBARA LILES

Svalbard, October 2018

The sky was gray, the water dark, snow had begun to fall, and I still did not quite believe I was in a fjord in Svalbard, a Norwegian archipelago above the Arctic Circle. Gloved hand on the tiller, Kristin, our guide, carefully maneuvered the Zodiac through a mosaic of ice, most of it thin pancake ice, freshly formed on the surface, but also larger drift ice, some the size of small boats, blue ice, now laced with snow. No more than ten of us huddled in the Zodiac. Wearing fleece and down, we were quiet as the boat inched forward. Over the sound of the motor, the Norwegian place names rolled out beautifully in Kristin’s lilting accent. “This is Blomstrandbreen. The island is called Blomstrandholvoya. It used to be thought that it was a peninsula, but then the glacier receded. On some maps it is still a peninsula.” Kristin was matter-of-fact. Had she repeated these words too many times?

From the Zodiac we could see the calving face of the glacier. Lovely tall cathedral cliffs, a craggy wall of ice rising high above the water below. Even seen through snow, the blue was astonishing, frozen aquamarine and sapphire. We snapped photos and gazed reverently like worshipers before holy relics. Without context or comparisons, distances are deceiving, but even from the safety of a two-hundred-meter margin, glaciers loom. They calve often, huge sections breaking away from the stretching ice, falling quickly, crumbling into fjords. Sometimes, by the time the rumble of a calving reached us, the only visible sign was a soft cloud of collapsing ice. Then we waited for the time-lapsed wave, rippling out from the face, a mini tsunami. Water lapped against icebergs as they pitched and rocked and slowly melted.

The site of the Global Seed Vault, Svalbard was supposed to stay cold, but instead is experiencing wild swings in weather, heavy rains, melting permafrost, retreating glaciers: all portents of climate change. Glaciers cover 60 percent of the archipelago. Many are dynamic, surging and retreating over years, cupped in valleys, curving around sharp mountains. Yet they are retreating now at an unprecedented rate, exposing land not seen in thousands of years. Out of sight and mind of most of us, our fragile polar regions have become melting harbingers of a changing world.

I went to the Arctic as artist and witness on a two-week residency with The Arctic Circle’s Art and Science Expedition. Painters, photographers, dancers, and writers together on a tall ship, all struggling with the evidence of eminent calamity and eager to communicate our concerns about climate change through art. Each day we journeyed off the ship in the Zodiacs and explored. Our trusty guides watched over us, kick-ass young women with rifles—startling to city dwellers, but necessary in the land of polar bears. Not allowed to wander far, we still hiked to glaciers, wandered beaches, picked up trash, took too many photos.

In that starkly beautiful place, I felt I was traveling somehow out of time. Perhaps it was the Arctic sun sliding across the horizon, sinking lower every day, disorienting to those of us used to lower latitudes and a sundial sense of time. Or perhaps it was the lack of vegetation, as the growing season is short, the soil poor, almost nonexistent and lacking in nutrients. Instead, what is not covered in ice is rock and tundra, exposed like Earth’s basic building blocks. Dwarfed by glaciers thousands of years old, my own life seemed terribly short and insignificant.

For a companion on this Arctic adventure, I brought a puppet: a time-traveling Emily Dickinson. Initially, I made my Emily on a lark. Before we set sail, I visited a relative in Norway, who studied American literature, and there in her home was Emily Dickinson staring at me from a bookshelf, the cover a daguerreotype of a precocious young teen dressed in black. I remembered I had a doll’s head in my purse that reminded me of Emily—I tend to collect things: rocks, dice, seed pods, doll’s heads. In a sudden flurry of creativity, we made a puppet from a chopstick and scraps of fabric, recreating young Emily down to the lace around her throat. I would bring Emily to the Arctic.

As a writer among predominantly visual artists, I had wondered what I would do on this Arctic adventure; there is only so much journaling one can endure. But Emily in the Arctic was a project! On my belly, in the snow for a better angle, I photographed my puppet and imagined it viewing the Arctic with the mind and heart of Emily Dickinson. In this beyond time, it made sense that Emily was here, and to ask: What would Emily say about climate change, about the Arctic melting? Rereading her poems, I found many that seemed relevant, almost prescient.

I held a jewel in my fingers
And went to sleep.
The day was warm, and winds were prosy;
I said: “’T will keep.”

I woke and chid my honest fingers, —
The gem was gone;
And now an amethyst remembrance
Is all I own.

One of our most beloved poets, Emily Dickinson was well versed in science and natural history. Her poems are infused with flora and fauna, the natural progression of seasons, the geological expanse of time, the inevitability of death. Though Dickinson barely traveled far from home, she traveled widely in the geography of her imagination. I think, I hope, she would have understood the science and urgency of concern regarding a changing Arctic. So many of her poems both celebrate the natural world and reflect the pathos of mortality. Life is short, revel in it while you can, but be prepared to die.

The Arctic is beautiful, as is all our Earth. An Eden. Our home. But we face a warming climate, one that will change the world as we know it and challenge our ability as a species to adapt. Facing a future of floods, fires, extinctions, and death without despair is a spiritual challenge. Looking to Dickinson’s poems for solace and insight, I found joy and wonder in the shadow of eternity.

To venerate the simple days
Which lead the seasons by,
Needs but to remember
That from you or me
They may take the trifle
Termed mortality!

To invest existence with a stately air,
Needs but to remember
That the acorn there
Is the egg of forests
For the upper air!

I also found doubt, as Dickinson wrestled with faith and the religious issues of her times. Darwin and scientific discoveries of evolution challenged literal Biblical teachings as the Transcendentalists encouraged an individual experiential relationship with God. Belief and religion were under siege. Emily’s poems reflect these ideas as well as her personal distaste for organized religion. Dickinson gnaws at questions of faith, weighing the attention of God, pondering on the Resurrection and Heaven. I believe her poetry has such power because she laid her doubts bare. They are well-worded angst in the face of life and death.

This world is not conclusion;
A sequel stands beyond,
Invisible, as music,
But positive, as sound.
It beckons and it baffles;
Philosophies don’t know,
And through a riddle, at the last,
Sagacity must go.

My visit to Svalbard was sandwiched between my father’s and my brother’s deaths. My father died at ninety-four—a long life, though I would not say an easy one. He was an artist. A whole body of his work is about war and violence; none of it sold, and it is now stored in my sister’s basement. I think he would have understood my need to visit the Arctic, the desire to engage with the burning issues of our time. It still felt unreal that he was gone. My brother’s death at sixty-nine took us by surprise; he had kept his physical ailments from us and perhaps even from himself as he believed strongly in the power of positive thinking. Only a few years younger, I recognize I am on the downslide. Lives lived. Yet, compared to the glaciers that are dying on Svalbard, humans are evanescent, a spark in time. On a boat, in the Arctic, contemplating mortality, I found that realization strangely soothing.

Dickinson is known for her preoccupation with death. In poem after poem, she visited that threshold, grieving for those lost, ruminating on what lies beyond. It seemed fitting to bring her to the Arctic to gaze upon the melting glaciers and permafrost. Perhaps the end of an era. An epoch. She had a sense of the stretch of time. Because of the nature of the land, the Svalbard glaciers are young in glacier years, barely three or four thousand years old. But what do most of us know of the average lifespan of a glacier? What do we know of a glacier’s birth or demise? We scramble to learn and understand as they melt.

Faith is a fine invention
For gentlemen who see;
But microscopes are prudent
In an emergency!

One late afternoon in waning light, I went out with the sound artists on a silent Zodiac ride in the fjord. Instead of a staccato chorus of cameras clicking over the rumble of the motor, we stopped the boat and everyone dropped their waterproof microphones into the fjord or held them out towards the ice. Our guide cut the motor and we floated, everyone keeping as silent as possible. I shut my eyes and listened. The sounds of water took over, the volume rising as I focused. There are tides in fjords; I didn’t know if it was coming in or out, pulling or pushing, but the movement of water was almost boisterous as it lapped at icebergs. Occasionally there was a snap or crack or thump. This was Arctic music.

While listening, I had a strange epiphany. The rippling water sounded so . . . gleeful, so happy. What if it was? Happy! What if glaciers were excited to calve? What if they were ready to melt—to be done with being ice for thousands of years, to leave that frozen state and move on? What if they were thrilled to become water again, free to evaporate and travel in the atmosphere, turning to rain somewhere far away? Free! I found myself smiling, really smiling in imaginative empathy.

I know this idea is terribly anthropomorphic, but, as a writer, point of view is important. It hit me that perhaps we primarily care about glaciers as representatives of the status quo. Understandably, we care about ourselves. We mourn the loss of glaciers because of their beauty, but also because there is a narrow window of climate in which we, Homo sapiens, can survive, at least in the manner to which we are accustomed. Yet glaciers, Nature itself, have no need for us or our concern. They form and melt over millennia. Humans are a sigh, an itch, a miracle.

I tried sharing my new insights later and was met with nods and tight patronizing smiles. My companions had come to mourn, to witness, to be inspired, to find a way to use their art to spread the word: the Arctic is warming. And here I was babbling about happy icebergs. I am sure Emily would have understood. She gave voice to flowers and bees; why not give voice to glaciers?

My son, my still baby-faced child, who will not be happy at this description, just graduated from college with a degree in geology, a discipline with a long lens. Geologic time spans billions of years, eons, eras, epochs—the history of which can be read in rocks, the body Earth. In this historic timeline, dinosaurs are relatively recent and the span of time that humans have been on Earth is a tiny sliver.

What to do with this knowledge is a challenge. Most people, I presume, shrug it off, try not to think about time before humans and the dissonant repercussions. The present is so visceral. Looking back ten years, twenty, generations, is difficult enough; why should our sense of time and history stretch further? 

And yet, when we speak of climate change, we are asking people to do just that, to think a bit in geologic time. Across the planet, glaciers that formed tens of thousands of years ago are disappearing—in a breath, a sigh, a blink of an eye, geologically speaking. To really grasp the concept of a warming planet we must embrace science, an ecological understanding of weather and currents, of biological systems, the complexity of our planet. We are asked to acknowledge the power of Nature. There are those of us who refuse. Our hubris shows.

My son has spent years learning how to read the earth. Traveling with him is an education. He notices signs of ancient landslides, volcanic eruptions, floods and inundations. He knows the earth we live on is not a safe place, that it fundamentally exists independently of humans. We need this planet; it does not need us. In geologic time, we could easily go the way of the dinosaurs and soon be extinct.

As a parent, it breaks my heart that my child knows this. I am also in awe that he doesn’t hide from this knowledge, that he has somehow reconciled the fragility of humanity, of Homo sapiens’ life on Earth, with a commitment to living a life without despair. That he has done this without a strong belief in God or an afterlife just amazes me. If I dwell on it too long, I want to curl up in the fetal position or drink wine while playing solitaire, my personal choice of mind-numbing drugs. Or I change my point of view and imagine I am a happy iceberg melting.

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn
Indicative that suns go down;
The notice to the startled grass
That darkness is about to pass.

I almost didn’t go the Arctic. I am in my mid-sixties, out of shape, and prone to general grumpiness. It would be easy to pass the torch, to enjoy my waning years in myopic contentment. Why should I care about climate change? I will be dead before most of the real problems hit. But, hopefully, my children will be alive and then their children. I find that though I don’t always like people, I care about humanity, the crazy life force on this planet. I care about plants and animals, the junco in winter, the fir growing from seed, the orca searching for salmon. I can’t play solitaire without feeling guilty.

So I went to Svalbard. It could have been Alaska or Patagonia. The earth’s glaciers are melting, and we are losing time, acting complacent while our planet burns, leaving our children a spoiled legacy.

They know it. Around the world youth are marching, striking, protesting, demanding action. They are planting trees and gardens, advocating green energy and divestiture from fossil fuels. They understand the urgency—their future is at risk. As Greta Thunberg reminds us, “Our house is on fire.” They also recognize connections, between melting ice and rising seas, hot temperatures and global food shortages, warming oceans and dramatic weather. I like to think that Emily, a budding scientist, would be proud.

I feel for our youth; worry for the future of my son and daughter, future generations.  Change is coming. It will not be pleasant, and we should be prepared for loss—lots of loss. Hopefully, we can learn to adapt and appreciate what we have, work together for the common good, pay attention to bright moments, family, and love. Not bad advice for anytime, but especially in this period of change. 

Our house is on fire and I am afraid and heartbroken for the loss of Eden. Yet I am also, I must admit, a bit excited. We have a huge challenge ahead of us; I can feel the adrenaline rising. So much to do! And so much to learn. I am regularly amazed at new research and discoveries about our planet. Can we change course? Stop using fossil fuels? Revive the planet? What will it take? I am intellectually curious. 

After more than a week upon our barkentine, sailing at night or anchored in fjords, we docked at Ny-Ålesund, a small town on Spitsbergen, Svalbard’s largest island. Once a desolate site for coal mining, Ny-Ålesund now houses research institutes from countries around the world, most of them focused on environmental and earth sciences and climate. We disembarked in the dark, excited to see buildings and lights, and laughed at the wobbly reality of sea legs on snow.

The next morning, the sun rose at 9 a.m., the sky a cloudy blue gray. We were given a basic tour; then, strictly told not to go beyond signs that warned of bears and reminded that all doors are required to stay unlocked, just in case bears came into town, we were set free to wander. Ny-Ålesund is tiny, with only thirty or so winter residents, fifteen permanent research facilities, and various seasonal projects. The world’s northernmost post office, at 79 degrees, is in Ny-Ålesund, as is a tiny souvenir shop and a museum dedicated to the miners who lived and died in the surrounding hills. Painted different colors and designed functionally for the cold, the research facilities look like monopoly houses scattered below the hills. Just beyond the buildings loom giant radio telescopes. The town reeked of geekdom. My son would have loved the place.

We left in early afternoon as evening torched the sky, off to explore another glacier. The sun set about 5 p.m., a week later, at 3 p.m. By the end of October, there was no sun in Svalbard, and I was home, trying to make sense of my adventure. I had a slightly tattered Emily, starkly beautiful photos, new friends and insights into climate change, and an ache that was deeper than when I left. I read Emily’s poems and thought of the future and the past.

I know enough now about climate change that I struggle with pessimism. Yet, it is possible to be hopeful, knowing scientists in Ny-Ålesund and around the world are looking for answers to our melting ice, that politicians are meeting to plan for the future, that youth are protesting and artists witnessing. I do not believe science will save us; if we are to survive, it will take all of us working together. We may still have time.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all

Emily Dickinson must have known of the myth of Icarus, escaping from the Labyrinth, his wings made with wax melting as he flew too close to the sun. A hot sun. A deadly sun. A metaphor for pride, for hubris, for not recognizing limits. And yet Dickinson chose to bathe her feathers in hope, somehow looking to the bright side, seeing beauty instead of despair.

I grasp at feathers. I channel Emily.

All of Emily Dickinson’s poems included in this essay are excerpted from early editions of Dickinson’s work, edited by Mabel Loomis Todd and Thomas Wentworth Higginson, which are in the public domain.