“Oh, the tree of life is growing

Where the spirit never dies

And the bright light of salvation shines

In dark and empty skies”

—Bob Dylan

There is a tree. It grows across metaphors and cosmologies, sciences and religions. In Nordic mythology it is called Yggdrasil, the world tree whose roots reach into the underworld, trunk forms the axis mundi of the Earth, and branches extend into the heavens. In biology, the tree of life is a conceptual model for mapping and understanding the evolution of all life. Whichever way you look at it, the tree connects us all. It is our past, our present, and our future.

Like many of you, I suspect, I woke up feeling devastated on Wednesday morning at the news that convicted felon, serial abuser, and aspiring autocrat Donald Trump would, once again, be our president in the United States. I’m afraid for my community and every other that stands to have its rights stripped away. And while his victory is harrowing for many reasons, most present in my mind has been what it means for the climate crisis—and by extension, the tree of life.

The latest Living Planet Report estimated that average world wildlife populations have declined by 73% since 1970. Another found that more than a third of all tree species are now at risk of extinction. The metaphorical and biological tree of life is in peril, and we owe it everything we have to protect as much of it as we can, because it is the very axis of this world. These were the stakes before the election, and they remain so after. In other words, the work continues. 

The etymology of the word “radical” comes from “radix” meaning “root.” As Angela Davis once said, “radical simply means grasping things at the root.” For me, at this moment, that means regrounding ourselves in our purpose. Rather than turning on each other, let’s refocus on what needs to be done. Just as Yyggdrasil’s roots reach into the nether realms, we can draw strength from and allow ourselves to be radicalized by the pain we feel now, and let it motivate us to act.

Over the last few days, a number of people have asked me what happens now. I will tell you what I told them: We don’t get to give up. Giving up is a privilege. It assumes that there is another choice for this planet. The United States is responsible, cumulatively, for more emissions than any other country in history—and that will only worsen under Trump. We owe it to the rest of the world to continue doing everything we can to protect as much as we can. 

That includes humanity and also extends far beyond it. I think not only of our species, but of the countless others that have unfurled from the tree of life who are threatened by climate change and ecocide as much as, if not more, than we are. We owe it to each other, and we also owe it to them. A world where abundant biodiversity is allowed to thrive is what my branches will always reach toward. 

There is a tree. Its roots reach into the dark and limbs into the light, its body the axis in between. It has yielded you and me, everyone you have ever known and never will: every life you have touched and that has touched yours, every person regardless of place and politics. Every plant that found a way to emerge through a crack in a concrete ceiling, every bird whose wordless song woke you on a too-warm November morning as if to say, we’re still here.