Savor the World

A Manifesto for Heartbreaking Times

By Lisa Bennett

Forget saving the world. We need to savor it.

To fall deeply, madly in love with it again.

Perhaps we begin by remembering what first hooked us. A beloved animal. A favorite swimming hole. A glimpse of the night sky, undiluted by artificial light. The sense of being daunted by the scale of a rockface, canyon, or thunderous waterfall during a childhood trip to a national park. The friend who made us laugh. Or dreams of climbing a snowy mountaintop, trekking along a volcanic landscape, or putting on a snorkel and flippers and having our mind blown by the numberless creatures beneath the surface of the ocean.

Remembering, though, is only the beginning.

Next comes reconnecting with what delights, moves, and stirs us now.

Today. In this very moment.

A dog’s irrepressible enthusiasm. A child’s bright, curious, innocent eyes. That human being who seems to have been placed on this planet for us to love. The kindness a stranger shows someone in need. Seeing the first Daffodils blossom in spring. A shooting star. A favorite book or painting. The moon in the dark night sky, casting the light that has been a beacon for generations before us and will continue to be one for generations to come.

This is about giving ourselves permission—to savor the world wholeheartedly, without embarrassment or an ounce of restraint because someone may think us naïve.

Because someone may say, don’t you know what is happening? Don’t you know about all the crises we face? Haven’t you read the news? Haven’t you absorbed the risks and dangers? All the reasons to grieve and fear and fight for change? Don’t you know, for goodness’ sake, we are in a polycrisis?

To this voice, real or imagined, we must say: Of course, I know. And that is why I savor the world. Not only because it is my birthright, not only because it makes life worth living, but because savoring the world is how we save it.

 Saving the world, after all, does not come from setting out to do so, with furrowed brow, a sack of worry, fear, or despair tossed over our shoulder.

That is a stressful, exhausting, and ultimately debilitating way to live.

And how not? There is an impossibly vast chasm between the crushing challenges of our age and the limited capacity we feel as mere human beings who are briefly passing through and often distracted by needs and desires wholly unrelated to saving anything beyond ourselves.

In this, we are like ants caught under the hovering foot of a bear: a predicament that can only produce a desire to run—toward the many great problems of our time, or away from them.

One road leads to burnout. The other to disengagement. Neither helps us do what we long to do: care, do our part, give something back in return for the extraordinary gift of life we have been given to live on this inarguably majestic planet, spinning in a vast universe of universes—and do this, despite the blinding challenges of the moment.

It is not the mission to save the world but to savor it that strengthens and sustains us.

Savoring the world also helps us and others more naturally want to safeguard it, or more reasonably some part of it: the bees in our backyard or a distant rainforest, the spider in our bedroom, the rabbit caught in a trap, the coral reefs, the climate, the child in need. 

Once upon a time, we all knew the wisdom of savoring the world. It came to us naturally. This love of life, in the context of these perilous times, drove some of us to commit, explicitly or implicitly, to “save the world.” But that is not our work to do. That puts the proverbial cart before the horse.

 Our work is to savor first, trusting that what follows will lead us down a healthier path than burnout or disengagement, and it will give us staying power.

So, take it in. Tattoo it on your arm. Put it to music. Emblazon it like skywriting before your eyes for you and all to remember: We save what we savor.