Charles Dickens was a darn good writer. Imagine reading A Christmas Carol for the first time—wowie! Thrills, chills, suspense, hilarity, and a villain you love to hate, until he becomes a hero you love to love. 

For years, I worked on an ambitious annual stage version of A Christmas Carol at a theatre in New England. Our script was an original adaptation that didn’t mess around with Dickens’ language, omitting just enough to keep the running time reasonable and get us out of any truly impractical special effects. The Ghost of Christmas Past did fly, though, and furniture moved magically, and a gravestone materialized out of thin air at the crucial, climactic moment. 

I knew I was making professional progress as long as I got a better title on Christmas Carol every year. I started as a stagehand, only responsible for moving props and sweeping up glitter during intermission, but I worked my way up the theatre food chain year by year through sound, lights, and stage managing, dozens of performances every December, and probably hundreds of rehearsals, when all was said and done. 

What I’m saying is, Dickens’ text is burned into some of my most deep-seated synapses, never to be erased. No doubt I’ll be muttering Belle’s, Fran’s, and Fred’s speeches from a wheelchair in a shadowy corner years from now, when petty details like my birthday and the name of my first pet have long since faded from my mind (…Another idol has displaced me, and if it can cheer and comfort you in times to come as I would have tried to do, I have no just cause to grieve… Father is ever so much kinder now… a bowl of Smoking Bishop Bob!). The words are rote enough in my mind now that they lose their meaning sometimes, but classics are classics because there’s always something new to be  found in them, if you look for it.

In a nostalgic and Christmassy mood this week, I watched one of the zillions of film versions of A Christmas Carol—the one with Patrick Stewart, magnificent as always, playing Scrooge. It’s easy to forget how good it is, how dazzling and formidable the language, how scary the ghosts, and heartbreaking the losses. And it’s easy to scoff at Dickens’ righteous indignation. Lighten up, dude! We’ve come a long way from coal scuttles and bedcurtains, and workhouses. 

But lo, I fear we have not come so very far at all. Consider the Ghost of Christmas Present, a merry, laughing giant so full of life that living things manifest themselves around him wherever he goes. He’s hiding shameful secrets, though, and his words gave me a new chill this year: 

Two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable… “They are Man’s… and they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all, beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it! Slander those who tell it ye! Admit that for your factious purposes, and make it worse! And bide the end!” 

I began to notice a creeping and distinctly uncomfortable sensation in my neck. We have different words now, but The Ghost of Christmas 2023 could make that very same speech. He might call the boy Propaganda, Conspiracy Theories, or Climate Denial. The girl might be Food Insecurity, or Medical Debt, or Refugee. We see them daily on our phones. They’re in detention centers on the southern border of the US. They’re standing in blood-spattered kibbutzim in Israel, and huddling in a landscape of unimaginable devastation in Gaza. They’re in subway station bomb shelters in Ukraine, and floating in the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Libya. We see them and we ask, Are there no refugee camps? And the asylum systems, are they still in operation? 

The jolly Ghost’s warning is more pressing today than it was 172 years ago. The magnitude of the threats to those clinging, beseeching children has only grown, while our collective wisdom and foresight seems as scant as pre-redemption Scrooge’s. Are we living out the doom that scared Scrooge into mending his ways? Denial, slander, and factiousness still drive political and personal choices large and small, and of course the Ghost was right: they’re tools for avoiding responsibility, and they make it worse. With 2023’s much more global perspective, it feels as if we may not have much longer to bide until the end, be it through climate change, war, or disease.

If we choose take a seasonal Victorian ghost story seriously—which apparently I do—there is hope for us yet, in all the good old cities, towns, and boroughs in the good old world. Scrooge mended his ways. He was intransigent, ignorant, willfully uncaring, and fully committed to being “a tight-fisted hand a the grindstone,” and yet a tiny, invisible ember of imagination and empathy still glowed deep, deep in his core. As he began to recognize that all people share the joy and suffering of being human, that tiny ember brightened and expanded until its light and warmth filled every part of him. He laughed instead of scowled; he gave instead of took; he saved Tiny Tim and he loved his nephew Fred. And he was happier than he’d ever dreamed he could be. 

If Scrooge can give that ember a chance, so can we. The end is not yet here. 

Maria Wood traveled throughout the country as production and tour manager for award-winning musician David Grover, with whom she co-founded a non-profit organization dedicated to enhancing education and fostering positive social change through music and music-making.  She returned to school mid-career, earning a BA in American Studies and a Certificate in Ethnomusicology from Smith College. More recently, she has written and taught on the meaning and impact of the musical Hamilton, served as Deputy Campaign Manager for congressional candidate Jesse Colvin and was Executive Director of Chestertown RiverArts. She lives in a multigenerational human/feline household in Chestertown. 

This is controversial: Maybe it’s time to rethink smoke detectors. Let me explain.

On a rainy evening after a long week not long ago, I had just settled down with a carb-heavy dinner and a soothing British period drama when an ominous chirrup shattered the quiet, and along with it any hope of a cozy tranquil night. OH NO! The pitiless call of a needy smoke alarm awoke a stabbing dread in my heart.

Thoughts of fire or suffocating from an unseen noxious gas never entered my mind. No, a far more terrifying fate was in store. My fears were confirmed moments later by another round of staccato chirps and then, even worse, a mocking silence. I sat in a hypervigilant state, heart pounding, pupils dilated, and nerves on edge, frozen in anticipation of the next aural assault, my sense of time kaleidoscoped by the waiting… the waiting… the waiting…

The moments ticked by, just long enough to con my nervous system into lowering its guard. Just as my pulse normalized and my focus returned to the rugged Yorkshire countryside and my warm, cheesy supper, BAM! As inexorable as death and taxes, three more laryngitic bleeps shrieked into the dark with sadistic glee and quieted before I could begin to suss out their point of origin. The source was almost certainly not where it belonged on the ceiling of a hall or bedroom inside the warm, dry house, where I could deal with it in good lighting. Oh no, this hazing ritual would have no such easy fix. How could I be so sure, you ask? Easy: our smoke detectors had long since been hastily dislocated from their proper locations, in incidents involving things like bacon or the fireplace flue.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not comfortable going commando vis a vis smoke detectors. Sparky the Fire Dog is embedded in my earliest neural pathways, so I’m fully aware it’s only a matter of time before we’re engulfed in flames. But life is to be lived, at least until the inferno, and this old world is stressful enough without earsplitting false alarms at breakfast time. Of course we had ripped the smoke detectors from the ceiling at some point, tossing them onto the porch, where the fresh air would make them Shut Up Already. Do I feel good about it? No. Has life been more peaceful since? It absolutely has.

A jilted smoke detector harbors a stunning level of narcissistic cruelty, expressed in a charming safety mechanism, used to demand attention when its battery is dying or it’s otherwise not in good working order. The system is, whenever a unit randomly decides it’s lonely, it emits a triplet of shrill, unignorable BLIPS, like an attention-seeking toddler chanting “Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. MomMomMom. Mom.” Only unlike a toddler, after those three cute but ear-splitting blips, it waits with malicious delight as you stare dumbly at the shards of your peace of mind scattered at your feet. Each chirp is just a fraction of a second long. The ear has no hope of identifying a location. The silent lull that follows is fiendishly timed to last just a few moments more than a human attention span. It’s kind of like playing a really slow game of Hot and Cold, but the only clue is “cold.” Ironically. It’s a system designed for torment.

So it’s a cold and rainy night, dark as a coal mine, and that alarm is getting its revenge. Frantically problem-solving, I get the brilliant idea to time the silent interval, so my echolocation powers can be at the ready for the next set of chirps. This strategy is successful as far as it goes, but it really just confirms that the device is indeed somewhere in the depths of the dark porch. When I try to home in on it, the sound just bounces around, sending me on a series of wild goose chases into damp and cobwebby corners.

“Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!” Move to the other side of the porch. Wait. Wait. Wait. Wait. Shiver. Cold droplets on my neck. Stare at the stopwatch. Wait. Ok… almost time… get ready… Ears on alert. NOW! “Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!” Dammit, it doesn’t sound any closer! Where is it coming from? It’s everywhere! Maybe in this damp cardboard box? Nope, just ancient weatherstripping and a socket wrench in there. Ugh. Ok, three steps in this direction. Wait. Wait. Shiver…

It’s quickly clear that this operation is doomed until daybreak. I resign myself to an evening of torture and, with the benefit of sunlight the next morning, I’m able to find the alarm. Unearthed from the bottom of a pile of old ping pong paddles and someday yard sale items, the unmuffled sound is eardrum-piercing. It chirps on, merry. Intermittent. Ruthless. I can’t just put it out in the trash barrel; it wouldn’t be fair to the neighbors, and is probably not environmentally responsible, so I google desperately for a customer service number. After I refuse to feed my contact info into yet another insidious database, the nice lady on the phone officially recommends that I “wrap it in a towel or something and maybe if you have a garage, put it out there until the battery dies.” FANTASTIC. (I don’t have a garage).

Could I take it to the fire department? Sparky the Fire Dog would definitely arrest me. Also, I’d have to either drive with that infernal noise in my car, or walk down the street carrying it in ignominy. I ruefully wrap the thing in a towel and leave it outside the back door, wishing it a swift and very painful death.

48 hours pass.

Suddenly the alarm SHRIEKS. LOUDER THAN EVER. PROLONGED SIREN-LIKE WAILS. It’s unconscionable, even wrapped in a towel and outdoors on the far side of the house. I fear Chestertonians showing up with pitchforks, so I google “Can you smash smoke detector with a hammer,” only to learn that even wanton violence might not stop the sound.

I try the 800 number again, and this time I get a much more self-assured weekday customer service professional. I’m a hollow husk of a person by now, so I cave and provide my phone number. I will receive spam calls until the end of time. I start to explain my dilemma, but Call Center Guy interrupts, telling me to slide the switch on the back of the device to “off,” as indicated on the back. Shockingly, I had tried that before I called the first time, because I can read and follow directions. CCG wants the model number, so I tiptoe outside to unwrap the alarm from the towel, which has been providing at least some degree of sound absorption. While I worry about my ears bleeding, CCG continues to ask questions. Finally, without his help, I discover that sliding the switch back into the ON position stops the shrieking. Naturally.

In the blessed quiet, CCG’s tone grows even more contemptuous. He says I need to vacuum the dust out of the device, insultingly (if accurately) insinuating that I haven’t kept up with  my proper monthly maintenance. It dawns on me that he’s trying to tell me how to keep this infernal contraption alive even though it’s clearly no longer trustworthy, and also will possibly lead to murder, or suicide, or both. I explain that I absolutely do not want to restore the unit’s ability to chirp. He says, “if you want to disable the alarm [unspoken: you dumb broad], you have to slide the switch all the way under the tab, but then you won’t be able to use it, ever again” [unspoken: you deserve to die in a fire]. “Awesome,” says I, immediately sliding the tab. CCG continues talking at me. I say “Thank you” and hang up.

So I guess we’re currently in violation of the Maryland law requiring smoke alarms with sealed, 10-year batteries on every level of the home, and we have been for a while now (since the last Bacon Incident, probably). I suppose we’ll need to replace the one I disabled and can’t use ever again. But let’s be honest. We’ll surely end up right back on the same merry-go-round. A system to let people know when smoke detectors need attention is a good idea, and I truly appreciate the good intentions behind it. But now that we see how works in the real world, it could maybe use some adjustment. How about coming up with a system for people who occasionally burn their breakfasts and would sprain a wrist trying to vacuum a device attached to the ceiling?

Maria Wood traveled throughout the country as production and tour manager for award-winning musician David Grover, with whom she co-founded a non-profit organization dedicated to enhancing education and fostering positive social change through music and music-making.  She returned to school mid-career, earning a BA in American Studies and a Certificate in Ethnomusicology from Smith College. More recently, she has written and taught on the meaning and impact of the musical Hamilton, served as Deputy Campaign Manager for congressional candidate Jesse Colvin and was Executive Director of Chestertown RiverArts. She lives in a multigenerational human/feline household in Chestertown. 

You’ve probably forgotten about the most recent climate change report because it came out in Olden Times, about three weeks ago. To refresh your memory, it carried the captivating title Synthesis Report of the Sixth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. From what I could tell, the “About” section is even more boring than the name, but I fell asleep halfway through reading it, so it might pick up toward the end. I recall something about “the assessment report of its three working groups, three special reports, a refinement to the methodology… zzzzzzzzzz…” 

Anyway, as a document, it does not fall short of its predecessors, in either the tone of dire urgency or the pleas for the world to pay attention for Pete’s sake and DO something, already. What I know about IPCC reports is: they seem to come out roughly every other day; they are written by scientists and bureaucrats, and probably scientific bureaucrats; and the message of each one is “EARTH PEOPLE: PLEASE CARE THAT THE PLANET IS BURNING AND LIFE AS WE KNOW CAN NEVER BE THE SAME.” Alas, comedic exaggeration falls flat, because the actual conclusions in the actual IPCC reports are truly dramatic, and yet astoundingly un-hyperbolic.

There is a helpful section called “Headline Statements,” designed for people seeking maximal panic with minimal scrolling, and for news reporters who’ve been given 30 seconds to explain meteorological catastrophe to a semi-attentive audience waiting to board an airplane. 

Skimming bullet points therein, one learns that “Human activities, principally through emissions of greenhouse gases, have unequivocally caused global warming,” a sentence both incredibly dull and frighteningly clear. That word unequivocally shows up so casually in the third clause, hitting you right between the eyes while you’re still groggy from the soothing non-specificity of what came before. 

Moving on, “Widespread and rapid changes in the atmosphere, ocean, cryosphere and biosphere have occurred.” I don’t know what a cryosphere is. I think Walt Disney might live there? But wow, the confidence this statement throws down! Widespread. Rapid. Have occurred.  As the kids say, we’ve um… fudged around with fossil fuels, and now we’re finding out. 

Confidence ratings, italicized and parenthetical, follow every assertion like a Greek chorus for scientist-slash-bureaucrats, the Oceanids of sea level rise, perhaps. “Climate change is a threat to human well-being and planetary health (very high confidence).” “There is a rapidly closing window of opportunity to secure a liveable and sustainable future for all (very high confidence).” “Ocean acidification (virtually certain), ocean deoxygenation (high confidence) and global mean sea level (virtually certain) will continue to increase in the 21st century, at rates dependent on future emissions.”

There’s an awful lot of certainty and confidence around some seriously high-stakes facts throughout this report. Having attended elementary school before the invention of STEM, I can’t claim to understand the technical details of causal linkages between things like emissions, acidification, deoxygenation, and climate change. Not being a magician, I can’t transform the global economy with a snap of my fingers in order to “achieve deep and sustained emissions reductions and secure a liveable and sustainable future for all” (high confidence). 

What I can tell you, though, is that having grown up in, on, and beside the Chester River, it’s plain to see the changes to the water, the land, the flora, and the fauna so abstrusely described by the scientist-slash-bureaucrats. Listen my children, and you shall hear of a time not so very long ago when the river did not encroach upon the land. It’s hard to believe, but High Street in Chestertown did not get its name because high tides regularly covered it. There used to be beaches on the shores of the river. One-hundred year floods only came around once a century or so. Raising houses, docks, and parking lots lest they need to be abandoned is not a time-honored Eastern Shore tradition. Don’t get me wrong, summer has always been hot, but there’s hot and then there’s what we have now. Now we have HOT hot. 

Sober, buttoned down people and institutions like the IPCC have been dialing up the dramatic language about the severity, urgency, and imminence of climate change for a long time, and people really do understand it better than they did even a few years ago. Maybe all these reports have made a difference. Or maybe it’s because it’s gotten so much more visible, so rapidly. It’s especially hard to avoid for those of us living in a place where the line between the water and the land has become more of a suggestion than a border, and where a bigger proportion of the economy is devoted to adaptation, mitigation, and emergency response every year.

I have a semi-obsessive habit of photographing the high tides as they shove the river into places where it really doesn’t belong A few years ago, I would traipse someplace like the foot of High Street or the Centreville Wharf for this purpose, and almost always be alone. If anyone else was around, they simply launched their boat or took their walk, apparently oblivious to the really big, ah… puddle in their way. Last week, however, I felt almost superfluous among the swarm of people documenting the waves washing inexorably over the deck. This is progress. 

Yet every time the IPCC drops a new truth bomb, it scarcely seems to make a splash. No wonder those poor scientists-slash-bureaucrats keep pushing the drama-meter higher. They must feel like they’re screaming into the abyss. It’s another iteration of the polycrisis I’ve written about in the past, but how can regular people possibly be expected to cope with climate change information? The systems are so complex and the changes needed are on such a massive scale, with so much global power and money at stake. We’re just trying to get through the day over here, and “Increased international cooperation including improved access to adequate financial resources, particularly for vulnerable regions, sectors and groups, and inclusive governance and coordinated policies” keeps slipping down the to-do list, below laundry, keeping track of grocery prices, staying updated on covid vaccines, and remembering when the new season of Ted Lasso comes out. 

At moments like these I like to turn to smart organizations and wise friends for real talk, no sugar-coating, perspective, and good advice, so I asked Darran White Tilghman, Director of Community Engagement at ShoreRivers for help. Unlike me, the folks at ShoreRivers do  understand science. They can sort out what individuals need to know and point us toward what we can do. 

Darran’s message helped rouse me from my jargon-induced slumber. She says:

“There is plenty of cause for grief and anger in the latest IPCC report, but it is so important not to give in to despondency and doom. The future isn’t written yet; we are writing it every day. Let’s make the story we write one of stubborn hope and joy. Put that hope into action by planting a native tree or River-Friendly Yard, by insisting that all sectors embrace the climate solutions that already exist, by sharing your love of our waterways and lands with a young person. There is still time to act, and if we act together we will create a shared future we want to inhabit.”

I believe in the truth of this message (very high confidence), and so does the IPCC. Even while dialing up the urgency, the scientists-slash-bureaucrats insist that “multiple, feasible and effective options are available,” and not just that, but that the solutions that will reduce emissions and slow global warming come with side benefits of reducing hunger, reducing poverty, and improving global health and overall societal well-being. Each of us has options for action, and if we come together even in small bands of neighbors or colleagues or friends, we have even more options. Let’s write that future—I’ll see you at the water’s blurry edge.

Maria Wood traveled throughout the country as production and tour manager for award-winning musician David Grover, with whom she co-founded a non-profit organization dedicated to enhancing education and fostering positive social change through music and music-making.  She returned to school mid-career, earning a BA in American Studies and a Certificate in Ethnomusicology from Smith College. More recently, she has written and taught on the meaning and impact of the musical Hamilton, served as Deputy Campaign Manager for congressional candidate Jesse Colvin and was Executive Director of Chestertown RiverArts. She lives in a multigenerational human/feline household in Chestertown. 

I’ve recently learned a new word that I wish we hadn’t needed: polycrisis, first offered by Edgar Morin and Anne Brigitte Kern in their 1999 book Terre-Patrie (Homeland). It describes the complex enmeshment of large scale problems that must be understood and tackled as interconnected parts of a whole rather than separate and independent issues. Unsurprisingly, it’s gained traction in recent years. Last week’s World Economic Forum pushed it squarely into 2023 buzzword territory.

Relatedly, Jacinda Ardern, Prime Minister of New Zealand, shook people up by announcing that she will not seek re-election in the fall, and furthermore that she will step down in just a few weeks. Like all world leaders, Ardern has been swept into the chaos of the polycrisis as it has ricocheted around the globe. She distinguished herself and won admiration with swift, compassionate, and decisive responses to multiple major crises, including the Christchurch mosque shootings, which were the first ideologically-motivated mass killings and by far the deadliest attack in New Zealand’s history.

At the helm of an island nation with over 3,000 melting glaciers, she’s confronted the escalating climate emergency. She focused her government’s attention on reducing child poverty, including food and housing insecurity. There’s also been the small matter of protecting New Zealanders from a global pandemic—interwoven with a vitriolic, sometimes violent backlash from those who apparently resented living in one of the only places in the world where life expectancy actually increased from 2020 to 2022.

New Zealand is also part of the larger global community, so in addition to the above, Ardern has led through multiple other intertwined crises, including the war in Ukraine, wobbly democracies around the world, an unpredictable global economy, high energy costs, supply chain disruptions, global food shortages, and refugee and human rights crises.

Announcing her resignation, Ardern said “I know there will be much discussion in the aftermath of this decision as to what the so-called “real” reason was. I can tell you that what I am sharing today is it. The only interesting angle that you will find is that after going on six years of some big challenges, I am human.”

She was correct about the widespread discussion; much initial speculation centered around her falling approval ratings. Mere moments after the news broke, talking heads theorized with knowing smirks that, waning in popularity, she was reluctant to face an uncertain re-election effort. I believe the Prime Minister’s explanation, which is simpler yet more complex. Her ‘surprise’ announcement wasn’t surprising to anyone paying attention to leaders of all kinds and at all levels—especially women—in recent years. She joins a strikingly high number of CEOs, college presidents, hospital executives, school principals, elected officials, and business owners who have made similar decisions. Their specific roles and stressors, and the scale and nature of the pressures upon them vary, but for many people in positions of responsibility, the equation of resources versus demands has become impossible to balance. For a lot of accomplished and ambitious people, the expectation to carry on with business as usual is no longer viable, or simply no longer worth the cost.

Such is the nature of the polycrisis: too immersive to perceive clearly; too entangled to unravel one thread at a time; too fast-paced and widespread for standard problem-solving methods. Danny Ralph, Professor of Operations Research at Cambridge University, notes “If you don’t have this word in your vocabulary you might think ‘Don’t worry, we’ll fix this problem and get back to normal.’” Normal was reasonably predictable seasonal patterns, an upward trend in average human life expectancy, and democratic leaders reliably  staying in power as long as, but not longer than, their electorally-secured terms in office.

The polycrisis resonates from the highest geopolitical and global business stratosphere to the grassrootsiest levels of community, family, and individual. The effect is burnout and exhaustion and a level of social and market dysfunction that the world is reluctant to acknowledge, much less fix.

It sounds serious because it is. When a shooting star at the pinnacle of her career like Jacinda Ardern needs a timeout, something has to change. But there was a lot about normal that was never optimal, and change can bring improvement, if we let it. Just as the polycrisis has begun to scare us into using energy more responsibly, it could begin to encourage systems and institutions to use human capital with a little more care.

We haven’t yet discovered how this might look. Preventing the demands of leadership from destroying our leaders’ ability to lead may be even more complex than saving the planet for future generations while protecting and supporting today’s population with today’s technology and resources.

We can’t answer these questions on an individual level. What we can do is accept the complexity, recognize the needs directly in front of us, and offer grace and compassion to each other. We can believe that, in Jacinda Ardern’s words, “you can be kind but strong, empathetic but decisive, optimistic but focused. And that you can be your own kind of leader – one who knows when it’s time to go.”