One warm weekday a couple years ago, before my reusable-napkin-packing-days, I set out for a morning at the beach. I brought along the usual accessories: coffee, notebook, blanket—everything a writer in search of solitude (AKA, a good place to nap under the guise of sparking inspiration) might bring. I’d also gotten a pastry at a local café, which came along with a brown paper napkin. I set up camp, finished my snack, and low-and-behold—a nice big breeze washed over me, and sent that thin paper napkin bouncing like a tumbleweed.
Shit. In the few seconds I considered whether I should bring my belongings with me on the chase, the napkin was off—eluding its landfill destiny, bound for the mansions lining the bike path, surely there must be better days ahead.
Moments later, I was panting. Kicking up and tripping over imported sand on LA’s most cared-for beach. All thanks to a breeze brought in over the same coastal waters I’d seen my first dolphins glide through. The glossiest, most beautifully joyful dolphins—real life versions of those I’d done reports on in second grade, written stories on in fourth, spent my first Christmas in Los Angeles fawning over at 23—nearly in tears at the sight of them chasing our boat. I wasn’t about to let something happen to those waters, let alone be a source of it.
Now, I don’t know who might’ve seen me tripping across Manhattan Beach’s otherwise pristine shores that morning, and it could have been no one. Not only was I far from my own neighborhood on a slow morning, but a lot less people are paying attention than we tend to think. But my anxious, self-conscious brain knew that I’d never be shielded from judgment. I could give up, as if I were some jerk tossing a soda bottle out the window on the freeway, or I’d finally tackle this wispy thing floating in the summer breeze, and look like an idiot—though at least, an idiot who succeeded. No matter how I looked to people, I’d feel the same: foolish.
Off I went. Trudging through the sand, until I finally captured the damned thing, crumpled it, and tossed it in the nearest trash can—looking behind me as I made the trek back to my belongings, just in case.
***
I later told this story to a rare true ally—the one friend I’d made in LA that completely understood my inability to litter, if even by accident—to which she smiled and said, “I totally understand you not wanting trash to end up in the ocean.” She paused, then with a wince continued, “Not to crush you, buuut… Had you not chased down that napkin, it might’ve ended up in the ocean and dissolved in the water, rather than the landfill where it will have a much harder time breaking down.”
And that’s when I learned that landfills are actually so much worse than I thought—as they are not designed for biodegradation.
***
Thinking back, I didn’t know then, but that was exactly the kind of teaching moment I needed, the kind that we all need to experience constantly in order to grow in our commitment to the things we care about. An embarrassing 30 seconds on the beach led to a conversation which led to a lesson which led to research which led to a strengthened (yet ever evolving) understanding of waste and my connection to it, which led to a commitment to decreasing my waste, and therefore my consumption, which led to more conversations, which led to other people I’ve talked to questioning their own consumption, which led to more conversations and yeah, some more embarrassing moments, and more mistakes and more lessons learned and ultimately some pretty big change on my own part, and maybe even the parts of some of the people involved in those conversations along the way. It also led to a larger sense of urgency in sharing the things I do learn along the way—which I think is ultimately why I’m writing today.
It’s fascinating, I think, to reflect back on things we’ve learned and held on to, and how we came to learn those things, even if our understanding remains murky at times. And how, just by sharing the tiniest experiences, which seem so inconsequential, we arrive at new lessons, and so on. What I know now about the environment and human impact and climate change and, well, trash—is so minute—perhaps even more so than most people with such a strong attachment to the issues (I never did well in science class, ask anyone). It is so small. I am so small.
Yet the effect continues to ripple.
And everything else I experience and learn and share will too. And everything you do and learn and share. And on and on.
It’s easy to stay put inside our own heads and start to think we’ve done or tried or thought of everything, or that one way is right or there’s nowhere left to go. All we can really do is hope to be humbled again and again, by the enormity of what we don’t know.
It builds character, at the very least. In keeping with my newfound gratitude for every object, thank you, napkin.
(Technical note: The experience described in this piece would’ve gone differently at any other beach—here in Seattle, I would’ve chased it down and kept it until I found a compost bin. At others still, I may not have ever even found at trash can. How does anyone write a story involving the environment? The complexities are endless.)
Photo by Tamara Henzen
your two cents