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Have you ever stood in a place you love and sensed something missing, without being able to say what?
Author and journalist Jason Dove Mark has a name for why that happens: the great getting used to. Scientists call it shifting baseline syndrome. Each generation accepts the world it first noticed as normal, so the losses that came before never register as losses.
Jason and I talk about his new book, The Earth Said Remember Me, and the four practices he offers as an antidote: go outside, bear witness, make a record, and pass it on. We start in my own backyard with the western monarchs of Pacific Grove, then travel to Wisconsin lake ice, Pacific Northwest salmon stories, and a fire-red sky over the Bay Area.
In this episode
If we can learn to see slow loss, we can learn to see slow recovery too. The assignment is simple. Go stand somewhere you love, pay attention, write down what you see, and tell somebody about it.
Links & Resources
Who pays when the price on the shelf doesn't cover the cost of growing the food? Brenda Huerta, Senior Advisor for Climate and Environment at Fairtrade International, joins Earthbound to talk about what a label on a banana can promise, what it can never promise, and why the farmers who contributed least to the climate crisis stand on the most exposed ground.
Brenda grew up in Mexico, where farming has long meant more than food production. From the milpa to cocoa agroforests in Ghana, she brings that view to her work translating between smallholder farmers and the companies that buy from them. She is also refreshingly honest about what a certification scheme can and can’t do.
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Ask Brenda what she loves most about her work, and she doesn’t cite a statistic. She says she knows, by first and last name, the farmers the work reaches. Somebody pays for that cheap banana. Knowing who is a start.
LinksIn the 1960s, schoolchildren practiced for the end of the world by hiding under their desks. Sixty years later, the desks are virtual, and the apocalypse has company.
In this solo episode, host Thomas Schueneman reads a short essay from Thinking Out Loud, his column in the Global Warming Is Real newsletter. After nearly twenty years of warning about climate change, he watches artificial intelligence arrive to steal climate’s existential thunder. Then he takes the joke seriously enough to follow it somewhere useful, to the question beneath both crises: is our wisdom keeping pace with the complexity we keep building?
In this episode
Hope, Tom suggests, begins when we stop fooling ourselves, and that cuts both ways. The danger is real. So is our capacity to answer it. The way out isn't a better hiding place. It's climbing out from under the desk, long enough to imagine something better.
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What if human thought isn’t separate from nature, but Earth’s newest ecosystem?
Anne Riley spent more than 30 years in accounting, high tech, and banking before walking away from a system built on one goal: maximize profit at all costs. Her book, The Human Idea: Earth’s Newest Ecosystem, starts inside a single cell and builds outward to us. Life runs in nested layers, DNA to cell to body to colony, all bound by one rule. Do what you need, but don’t harm your neighbor. Humans run the same design one layer up, built from ideas. The difference is choice. Our rules are whatever we decide, and a bad idea spreads as easily as a good one.
In this conversation
Riley calls herself a super introvert and the wrong person to spread her own theory. Some people tell her it will never work. Others ask when we start.
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Maya Lilly builds documentaries around one question: what makes a story move somebody to act?
She trained at Juilliard, ran an environmental club there called the Juilliard Greens, then took an environmental studies degree and moved to Hollywood on purpose. The plan was to learn what the industry does well and either get climate storytelling inside it or carry the techniques back to organizers. She did both. She is now a lead producer for The Years Project.
Her definition of a story is narrow and very old. Somebody has a problem, confronts it, and overcomes it. What the arc does, she says, is lift the veil on a run of events that would otherwise feel unconnected.
That reorders the work. Instead of finishing a film and attaching an impact campaign to the end, she goes to communities that already have a campaign and builds the film in service of it. In East Palestine, Ohio, her first question to residents was what do you need. In Cancer Alley, she points to Sharon Lavigne, who confronted the petrochemical industry with one simple sentence.
She argues the other side has won by hammering simple narratives, while her own side has often explained complex issues poorly. Her team’s working question is how to keep the film from going wonky, how, in doing so, they might swap “anthropocentric” or “greenhouse gas emissions” for something much simpler: pollution. She pushes funders too. One told her proudly that its overhead is only ten percent. Some of that, she said, needs to be for better communications.
We also get into Ishmael, deep ecology, and the consequences of an economy built with little consideration for the ecology that underpins it. And we end in the water, with a twenty-minute swim to a platform in Jamaica and hundreds of jellyfish that let her pass. She looked them up later. There were so many because the ocean is warming.
“Storytelling for me is like looking through a little peephole into a wider room. So often what I’m trying to do is find the smaller story that shows the bigger story within it.” · Maya Lilly
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The harbor master in Monterey once told me the ocean is confused. Scientists have a name for part of it: shifting baseline syndrome, where each generation inherits a diminished ocean and calls it normal. The loss happens underwater, unwitnessed.
Andrew Lewin has built a career on making it visible. A marine biologist who started in marine protected areas, he now hosts How to Protect the Ocean and runs the Speak Up for Blue podcast network. His guiding lesson, borrowed from Randy Olson: scientists speak to the brain, but people are moved through the gut. Tell someone we have passed 1.5 degrees and they nod. Tell them about the basement that flooded twice and the insurance that will not cover it, and you have their attention.
We talk about the state of the ocean and the state of the argument. The UN plastics treaty, still unfinished, still shadowed by industry lobbyists. The High Seas Treaty, now in force, and the distance between coming into force and being enforced. Deep-sea mining, and what a vacuum three thousand meters down would mean for animals that navigate by sound.
And we talk about apathy. Lewin traces the industry's argument from denial, to reassurance, to something stranger: yes it is real, no there is nothing to be done, so carry on. They are banking on apathy, he says. Which makes exhaustion not a side effect of the crisis but a product of it.
He finds his optimism in the long game, and in what the late Wallace J. Nichols called blue mind, the ocean's effect on our own. Worry less about the degrees, he suggests, and get people back to the water. You do not defend what you never loved.
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Takeaways
What can one person actually do about problems as vast as climate change, racism, or inequality? For most of us, the honest answer feels like: not much. That sense of powerlessness is exactly what philosophers Michael Brownstein and Alex Madva set out to dismantle.
In this episode, Tom talks with the co-authors of Somebody Should Do Something (written with Daniel Kelly) about the trap of either/or thinking, the false choice between fixing ourselves and fixing the system. The truth, they argue, is both/and. Our personal choices and our collective structures are woven together, and the most powerful thing any of us can do is act in ways that draw others in.
Along the way: why the personal carbon footprint was a fossil-fuel PR invention, how the “Crying Indian” ad shifted blame from industry to individuals, what the NRA and the temperance movement understood about identity, and the startling fact that most Americans badly underestimate how many of their neighbors want climate action. It’s a conversation about social influence, honest hope, and the roles each of us already plays.
If you’ve ever thought somebody should do something, this one is for you. It turns out that somebody is us.
Links & Resources
What is more addictive than fentanyl, cocaine, or heroin? Evan Jaqua’s answer is power. And once people have it, they will do almost anything to keep it.
This is a solo episode, a short essay built around the ideas of Evan Jaqua and the Solutions Party, the political reform organization he founded. The interview tape didn’t meet the bar for broadcast, so I took his thinking and ran it through my own. I hope to have Evan back for a clean recording. For now, it’s just you and me.
The throughline is power, and the strange double life the word leads. In physics, power is the flow of energy, the capacity to do work. In politics, it is the capacity to influence, coerce, and control. Jaqua’s argument is that nearly all of our social dysfunction, from energy policy to corruption, runs downstream of one addiction: the lust for that second kind of power.
Energy is where the two meanings meet. Fossil fuels are scarce, contested, and easy to hoard, which is exactly why they translate so cleanly into political control. Sunlight asks no one’s permission. As Bill McKibben puts it, none of the ninety-three million miles light travels to reach us passes through the Strait of Hormuz.
The Solutions Party’s first move is disarmingly simple: eliminate re-election, and sever the link between holding power and seeking more of it. Abundant, decentralized energy severs that link everywhere else.
We have the means. We are standing in them. What we lack is the will to stop guarding the old fire.
Links and Resources
Thanks to these sonic contributors
Environment War 4 by mensageirocs -- https://freesound.org/s/232644/ -- License: Attribution NonCommercial 3.0
winter forest 125 PM 240125_0644 by klankbeeld -- https://freesound.org/s/726466/ -- License: Attribution 4.0
A conversation with David Beckemeyer
We are a storytelling species. Long before we had data, we had narrative. But in a media environment engineered to trigger our most primitive threat responses, even the most compelling story struggles to find its audience. The amygdala doesn’t care about nuance. It cares about survival.
So how do we talk about climate change to people who aren’t already in the room?
David Beckemeyer has spent years studying that question, not from a climate angle, but from within the outrage machine itself. As host of Outrage Overload and a researcher with the Connors Institute, David brings together scientists, psychologists, and civic thinkers to examine why we get so worked up, and what we can actually do about it.
In this conversation, we get into the psychology behind why facts so often fail to move people, even when the stakes couldn’t be higher. We talk about naive realism, the quiet assumption that because you’ve looked at the evidence and reached a conclusion, everyone else should too. We talk about solution aversion, how people unconsciously shift their position on a problem based on whether the proposed solutions feel ideologically threatening. And we talk about the movable middle, the people who aren’t loud, aren’t on your feed, but are out there, and listening.
The conversation also moves into territory that surprised me. Deliberation versus debate, and why one almost never works. The role of storytelling in reaching people across tribal lines. And a genuinely hopeful data point from Texas, of all places, about what’s possible when people engage with trade-offs honestly rather than defensively.
This is not a climate episode in the conventional sense. It’s a conversation about the human wiring that shapes every climate conversation we try to have. And if you’ve ever felt like you were talking and not being heard, I think you’ll find something useful here.
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What if the problem isn’t that the people with the most power don’t care? What if it’s that they’ve lost the capacity to?
That’s the question at the center of Diana Colleen’s debut novel, They Could Be Saviors. A group of the world’s wealthiest men is kidnapped and brought to a facility where they’re offered a choice: undergo psychedelic-assisted therapy, or stay put indefinitely. It sounds far-fetched. Spend a few minutes with the headlines, and it starts to feel less like science fiction and more like a thought experiment we should have started a long time ago.
Diana is an author, a trained psychedelic therapy facilitator, and a self-described democratic socialist. In 2018, she hit rock bottom and found her way to an underground facilitator who, she says, saved her life. That experience is the bedrock of her novel.
The book frames the billionaire class not as villainy but as pathology. A taker mentality writ large, scaled across centuries and obscene accumulations of capital. But it’s also an argument for reconnection. These men are still human beings. They’ve had trauma. They can change, if something happens to shake them loose from the story they’ve been telling themselves. That’s where the psychedelics come in.
We talked about the carbon footprint myth, the corrosive design of social media addiction, the feminist architecture of the story, and what any of us can actually do right now. Your voice, Diana says, is your power.
And then she told a story about a barista having a bad day, and how one small act of kindness ripples outward in ways we can’t always see. It sounds small. But it’s also how the world turns.
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