Notions of Companionship

By Jill Bliss

Each of us has a unique perspective and a responsibility to share our experience with others. These are some of my daily offerings via social media. Visual expressions of multiple lives I experience in the islands of the Salish Sea. This is the love and beauty I see in my home region, on our shared planet, in myself, in all of us—human and other. Wild joy of living and decay.

Other people confuse my solitude in these remote places for loneliness, but I am never alone. Places like these demand you expand your notion of companionship. Most of my daily companions are not human. Yet we are all here—interwoven, integrated, living together. 

The unnatural human systems of extreme individualism and separateness cannot take root here. They cannot be sustained. Out here I experience our world’s self-regulating system of which I am a (very small) part. I am a participant, but mostly I am here to learn by observation. I try to be as unobtrusive as possible, but I blunder often. I have so much to learn, still. 

jillbliss.com // @jill_bliss

Art for Antfarm

Portland artists and musicians are coming together to support AntFarm Youth Services with a fundraiser gallery show, art auction, and party at The Cleaners at Ace Hotel in Portland, OR.

Save the date,  Gallery opens at 1pm, party at 6pm with Live Music by Afterlife Revival, Luke Messimer and Billy Can Boys.

Event partners include Stargazer Farm, Ace Hotel Portland, Danner Boots, Tanner Goods, and Stay Wild Magazine.  Beer and Wine by Pabst and Buddha Kat Winery.

We are looking for artists to donate work for the show and auction.  Anyone is welcome. Paintings, prints, t shirts, buttons, anything is welcomed. Artists interested in submitting please sign up below.

Call to Artists

https://www.theicc.us/artforantfarm

Facebook Event

https://www.facebook.com/events/750717558431437/

It's Already Happening

Story and Photography by Greta Rybus // @gretarybus

The fishermen in the bustling fishing community Guet Ndar once dragged their boats for an hour across the sand before reaching the sea. Now the ocean laps at their front door and eats their homes in giant, crumbling gulps. Inland, in a little village called Takhembeut, the herders and farmers once relied on the rainy season’s punctuality, the timely arrival of just enough water to sustain crop and cattle.

The UN recognized Saint Louis, called Ndar by locals, as being the city most threatened by climate change in Africa. At the northernmost point of Senegal, Ndar hugs the Sahara and hovers on the edge of the Arabic and African worlds. The locals are knowledgeable about climate—being from the desert means paying close attention to the rains and to the seas. Even the younger workers have been in the fields or on the seas for many years, doing the work of their fathers or grandmothers who taught them to pay attention, notice change, and anticipate what comes next. 

The last few years have brought variables greater than anyone anticipated. Winds and waters have changed, causing coastal erosion along Senegal’s coast, made worse in Ndar by a botched canal project intended to slow the rising water. The rainy season is shorter and more erratic. The herders can no longer grow crops for their animals, and now shake seed pods from the trees to sustain their shrinking herds. The farmers grow just enough food for their families, and many have become the first in their lineage to supplement their work with odd jobs in the city. 

The Senegalese government is paying attention. They are building housing for the fishermen who are losing their homes to the sea. They are providing municipal water, enough to drink and bathe in, for the families who live inland. But this is not a problem caused by the Senegalese. It’s a problem larger than a people or a country. It is a problem caused by an anemic global response to climate change. It is caused by larger countries making policy and industrial decisions that impact global health. For those who rely directly on natural resources for survival, like the majority of Senegalese people, climate change will be a calamitous test and a catalyst for poverty worldwide.

“The waves of the sea were very strong, strong enough to cross over the protective wall and reach up to my house. My house was flooded. I changed the gate to the other side of the home, and put sand bags on the sea facing side.”

— Baye Sarr, fishing boat captain

“Coastal erosion is undoubtedly related to rising sea level. As a consequence of the relative rise in the temperature worldwide, the icecaps are melting, bringing about a rise in the ocean level. In low altitude areas, like Saint Louis, these phenomena cause an overflowing called marine flooding.”

— Abou Sy, climate change scientist and geographer

“Climate change is upsetting the balance of the seasons. However, even though some fishermen may feel reluctant to go out fishing when they notice that weather conditions are not suitable to catch a lot of fish, others go out anyway, since they don’t have another source of income. The seasons are no longer regular; the fishermen are experiencing this upside down weather day-in and day-out. Nowadays, they happen to go out under good weather conditions, but once they are in the middle of the ocean, strong winds and waves suddenly surround them, jeopardize their activities, and even put their lives in danger. In my opinion, climate change is to be blamed for this imbalance.”

— Boly Sarr, retired fishing captain

“Of course, I have seen homes falling into the ocean. We can cope with the climate conditions in this area because we were born and brought up here. We experienced all the changes that have happened over time. We cannot live outside the coastal area. If we relocate inland we won’t be able to adapt. We are just like fish in the water.”

— Ndiawar, community leader and retired fisherman

“Developed countries are the major greenhouse gases issuers and the main cause of climate change. In developing countries, people discuss climate change more and more because they are directly affected by its impact. The population is mainly made up of farmers, herders and fishermen, and they are most vulnerable to climate change. Climate change is increasing poverty. It is not the only cause of the poverty, but it is accelerating it. Unfortunately, we don’t have the choice but to adapt to a phenomenon we didn’t cause.”

— Abdou Sy, climate change scientist and geographer 

Super Bloom

Words by Ginger Boyd
@sleepyatfunerals

Photography by Tracy L Chandler
tracylchandler.com // @tracylchandler

The desert. You can probably imagine it pretty clearly—if not a specific desert, then just the idea of one. Dry, sandy, harsh, hot. Big sky. Tumbleweed. You can access the abstract idea immediately. A lone cactus, arms akimbo. That was my thought, anyway. Even though I’d never been to Death Valley, CA, I figured I knew what I’d find. The hottest and lowest point in North America, I get it. So when Tracy called me up inviting me on an impromptu road trip to Death Valley with Jenn and Hankey, I shrugged, “Why not?” They had heard about this thing called Super Bloom, where once a decade or so Death Valley becomes covered with wildflowers. My interest was piqued, but I wasn’t convinced. Covered with wildflowers? There would probably be a couple of daisies by the side of the road. Flowers or not, I’m always game for a road trip. So I freed up my weekend and we hit the road. As we drove, thick clouds began to roll in, and eventually, fat droplets pattered the windshield.

Driving to Death Valley has a bit of an unsettling feeling. Highway 14 cuts across the southernmost tip of the Sierra Nevada mountains and curves its way up to 4,000 feet without you ever really noticing. Then, without warning, the ground begins to drop beneath you and you seem to hurdle towards the valley, to 182 feet below sea level, in a matter of just a few miles. By the time we reached this unexpected roller coaster drop in the road, it was completely dark and the wind was howling. A few raindrops had turned into a proper storm, and even in our rugged adventure van, Tracy had to use all her might to keep the steering wheel straight. As we plunged into the valley, we passed smaller cars parked on the side of the road, unable to make it through the gushing water and huge rocks covering the roadway. The chatter had slowly died away, and the four of us just stared, eyes wide, trying to find the ground past where the road cut away. We seemed to dip lower and lower into blackness and, nearly blown away by the wind, we seriously considered turning back.

What kept us going was the seriousness of this damn van. I mean, if we can’t make it through this storm why did we take it in the first place? We would be fine, we assured each other, and figured now more than ever we’d have to see what the fuss was about with all these flowers.

We made it to our spot, went to bed early, and headed out before dawn the next morning. The rain had stopped, but the wind was so strong it was difficult to get out of the van. The heavy doors would slam shut right into you if you weren’t careful. When the sky began to gradually lighten, what we witnessed was unreal. The remnants of clouds from the previous night’s storm obscured the sunrise, leaving only streaks of purple, grey and blue to announce its arrival. The salt flats glowed blue and otherworldly. The sky, too big to really take in, was cut with two rainbows. We ran outward from the road into it—into this desert, out into this immense space—and allowed ourselves to be pelted by freezing, blow-you-over wind, hair whipping our faces. In that moment we realized we had no idea what this place was. This desert, this place so mythicized and so deeply ingrained our minds, was in fact further than anything we thought we knew about the world around us. Before we were even hungry for breakfast, the wind pushed the clouds across the sky and the sun was already quite high. It burned bright and golden on the flowers that erupted out of every corner and crevice of dry dust in that valley. The road glowed gold and everything was irrefutably alive.

According to the locals, the wildflowers in Death Valley bloom every year. But in order for these tiny, delicate beings to fight their way through the harshest landscape on Earth and not just survive, but take over the entire valley, something special has to happen. The rainfall in October and November has to be heavy and prolonged. More importantly, though, it’s the seeds. They’re out there, every year. Just waiting. Lying dormant until the conditions are just right. Then, they take their chance and they bloom … slowly at first, until the entire park has been painted with new colors. You might think you know the desert. Predictable, dry, barren, extreme. For all of Google. For all the books written about it. You have no fucking idea.