This is the story of how the Earth learned to breathe, and like all the best stories, it is full of magic.
Not the magic of wands or spells, but an older magic, woven into the roots of trees, the crash of ocean waves, the sigh of the wind through the mountains. It is the magic of life itself, of things that grow and things that fall, of a great and endless cycle, of the grand and the spectacularly small.
It is the story of stardust. A special sort—brilliant in its many ways and deeply taken for granted (like most brilliant things are).
It is the story of carbon—restless and boundless.
Once upon a time, (which is to say, before anyone was around to count things), the Earth, being practical, devised a way to keep everything moving, everything breathing, everything alive. It plucked carbon from the air, the water, the stone, and stitched it into the very fabric of being. With it, the green things drank in sunlight, and water, and spun it into sweets. And as they reveled in their brilliance, they whispered oxygen back into the sky like a secret shared between old friends.
And friends (of a sort) they would have.
Along came creatures through great chemical coincidence, the green things found themselves sharing the land with creatures burdened with an extraordinary inconvenience. To live, they must—on varied occasions—nibble on the green things.
And thus, the carbon passed from green things to creatures, creatures to sky. From the sky, the green things and stardust would find themselves reunited. A quiet understanding, a gentle reciprocity.
On and on it went, from the emerald leaves of forests, the shimmering bones of tiny sea creatures, the swirling currents of the deep.
“You will take, and you will give,” the Earth seemed to hum. “And in doing so, you will live.”
When a creatures’ time was done—when their bones rested in the soil and their spirits joined the wind—the Earth gathered them close, tucking them away beneath layers of rock and time, pulled down by the slow weight of soil, or the deep dreaming of the ocean, to be locked away for a new day that may never come. From some of their remains (assuming they were reasonably within reach) new life would bloom. The trees stretched their roots into the past, drinking in the memories of all that had come before, spinning them once more into leaves, into blossoms, and into food for more creatures yet to come.
It was an elegant thing, this cycle. A fair and careful balance. The Earth, being practical, did not like waste.
And then, one day, a peculiar kind of creature arrived.
Soft-skinned, two-legged, not too terribly strong or fast, but terribly, wonderfully clever. Too clever, perhaps. It wandered and wondered, built and burned, and, in time (a tricky little thing of which there is an endless supply and yet never enough), it learned to dig.
Deep beneath the surface, hidden in stone and shadow, it found the old carbon. The ghosts of ancient forests, the memories of creatures long turned to dust. And like a child with a box of forgotten wonders retrieved from a dark closet, it pulled them out, one by one, setting them aflame to power gadgets and gizmos of use and of none, never stopping to ask if they were meant to stay buried.
For a time, the Earth could abide. The Earth, being practical, prefers balance. The trees and the seas held what they could, but eventually, the Atlasian burden became too great—the green things too few.
The sky thickened, heavy with the breath of the past. Yet, they continued to burn. Our versatile friend carbon, it turns out, had other surprises in store. The heat, once free to wander the cosmos, circled back, trapped beneath the carbon’s growing weight of the air like a bird flown through an open window, unable to find their way out.
The seas began to stretch their fingers across over the edges of the land. The storms grew restless. The balance wavered. Still, they continued to burn.
Some (as some always do) began to take notice. They begged others would too. Still, they continued to burn.
Soon, the Earth too began to cry out.
Still, they continued to burn.
Many began to fear they were running out of time.
But time is a tricky little thing, of which there is an endless supply and yet never enough.
It all comes down to how it is used.
Now, those peculiar creatures must be clever once more. They must learn again what the forests and grasses, the coral and plankton, have always known—that to take is to owe. That the Earth must breathe freely.
They must let forests grow tall again, let grasslands whisper to the wind, let the soil drink deep, and let the creatures both grand and spectacularly small return home. They must spin new spells—ones of science and sunlight, of old wisdom and new dreams.
They must remember that the Earth is alive.
And if they listen—truly listen—they may still hear the hum of the living world beneath their feet.
You Can Support The Wild Life for as little as $1 per month
Support The Wild Life for as little as $1 per month
I started The Wild Life in January 2017 after finishing my degree in wildlife biology, and it’s incredible to see how much has evolved over the past seven years—both in my own journey and in this project. There are so many exciting ideas and projects in the works, and I can’t wait to share them with you. Whether you’ve been here from the start or just discovered The Wild Life, thank you for being part of this adventure.
