On October 17, 2006, my alarm clock woke me up very early at my home in western Massachusetts. I had to catch a morning flight to San Francisco where I was scheduled to speak at a fundraising event for Rainforest Action Network (RAN), a nonprofit organization that has convinced some of the world's most powerful corporations to change their policies toward cutting trees. I rolled out of bed, stumbled down the stairs, and filled the kettle with water for coffee. I glanced through the small window above the sink at the sun as it rose over the distant mountains, the dawning of a magnificent New England autumn day, one of the most brilliant I had ever witnessed. I set the kettle on the stove and, shaking off my drowsiness, ambled into the dining room and peered through the larger window there across the rolling fields at those vibrant mountains, the crimson sun, and the fiery foliage. A movement on a frost-covered knoll caught my eye. A flock of wild turkeys picked their way along the ridge. There must have been a hundred of them. Their silhouettes jerked forward, slowly, oddly, almost unnaturally, like cartoon parodies of prehistoric birds.
I checked the clock on the bookcase and, aware that I had dallied too long, headed for the shower. As I passed the radio I flicked it on to the local NPR station. Adjusting the water temperature, I thought about the speech I would give at the RAN event. I wanted to emphasize a point the organization's chairman, Jim Gollin, often makes—that we must work with the corporations, not against t hem, that the goal is not to end capitalism but to hold it to a higher standard. Then suddenly the words of the radio announcer caught my attention.
"Within less than a hundred years," she said, "all the maple trees— and the fall foliage—will be gone from Massachusetts. According to a recent scientific study, global warming will make our climate here similar to North Carolina's. So," she sighed, "enjoy this year's display. We may not have many more like it."
I stood there for a moment staring through the bathroom window. Outside, the old red maple next to the house bowed in the wind, its branches scrapping against the wall. The familiar sound now seemed foreboding, a death rattle. I felt absolutely devastated.
Later that day, while flying across the country, I kept thinking about the possibility that the New England fall would be relegated to history. I realized that the demise of autumnal foliage was not a "possibility"; it was a scientifically predictable occurrence. For the first time I could truly empathize with Eskimos as they silently watch the Arctic ice melting. And those Himalayan nomads I had met in Tibet who bemoaned the retreat of their glaciers. For years I had accepted the concept of global warming intellectually. But the idea that fall foliage, something I had grown up with, a symbol of my favorite time of year, was on the extinction list hit me hard.
Then I had another thought: Scientifically predictable occurrences do not need to happen. At least not the ones that are caused by us humans. We can stop them. Something I had said many times during my speeches came back to me: that to change the world we need to change the corporatocracy; we must stop allowing those few men to continue shaping our planet's destiny. We must halt their attack on the ice caps, glaciers, autumn spectacles—on our progeny.
Looking down through an airplane window at the United States of America, a land that generations of my ancestors toiled and fought for, I was struck by the fact that all the stories of EHMs and jackals in Asia, Latin America, the Middle East, and Africa are just that. Stories. They may evoke pride, anger, joy or sadness, but in the end they are simply stories about our past. Unless we choose to turn them into something more important. Unless they become lessons that motivate us to take action.
That day was pivotal for me. I had committed to writing a book that would inspire people to change the world. This book. I had completed drafts of all the sections except this final one, the crucial part. Up until that moment, my efforts had been impeded by doubt. I had a good idea of what I wanted to say, but not of the manner for expressing it. How, I asked myself, do you convince men and women who live comfortably to change a system that provides their comforts—even when they know about EHMs and jackals, when they understand that attached to their comforts are terrible price tags? Where do you find words to empower them to stand up to a force like the corporatocracy? How do you inspire them to take actions that will bend the corporations to the will of the people?
That day, as I flew from the East to the West Coast, reading articles and manuscripts I had brought with me, I realized that these are not new questions. Similar ones have been asked throughout history by everyone who has stood against oppression and for justice. Over the next few days, meeting with old friends and making new ones among the people who support RAN and its sister organizations, I came to understand that the key to answering those questions can be provided by the answers to four others.
The first question we must address deals with optimism, the possibility of achieving our goal. Are we in a position where we can actually hope to effect change? Assuming we become convinced that there are reasons for optimism, we move to the next question. Are we certain that we want change? The stories about EHMs, jackals, and suffering around the globe strike raw nerves, but now we demand absolute proof that our grievances justify the efforts change will demand. Third: Is there a unifying principle that will validate our efforts? We look to ascertain that we are not merely seeking to impose our moral, religious, or philosophical values on others but instead are intent on creating something of true and lasting universal benefit. And finally: What can we each do? You and I personally need to evaluate our talents and passions. What are our individual options and desires? How do they fit into the bigger picture?
In the following chapters, we will explore these questions in depth. We will rely on real- world responses—both historic and current—to answer them. We will talk with today's pioneers, men and women who themselves have asked these same questions, arrived at answers, and now are taking actions that will help each of us make our own decisions. We will examine approaches that have worked in the past and ones that are successful today. At times like these, it is important to be philosophical and to investigate the ethical implications of what we do; however, it is essential that we also apply ourselves in down-to-earth ways, ones that will result in concrete and lasting change.