One True Sentence

 I recently read a report from someone who'd seen a indigo bunting. I never have and I wonder if I ever will. My thoughts trailed off into our poor air quality and growing water problems, starving children and drone warfare, and I wonder, have we all grown too numb to care?

Here in Michigan, for the past two summers we have been under frequest air quality alerts due to wildfires in Canada. Because of drought and heat, these promise to continue and worsen. We grow numb to the gunmetal skies and the misty fog that isn't normal. 

(The Mighty Mac shrouded in smoke)

Four days ago I was outside and noticed that the sky was clear blue, crystal clean to the horizon, and a light bulb went off. This is what it's supposed to look like. That quickly my brain had accepted the gray pollutant-laden air as normal. We are an adaptable species. We adapt to polluted waters, floating fish, and reports of starving children without hearing any of it. We resort to the comfort of word puzzles on our phones and numbing television, the literal burying-of-heads in the sand and hope someone else will make it all better. Slap a Band-Aid on it.

I'm struggling with a work in progress centering around amphibian loss in a polluted world, a world that needs help but those with deep pockets don't care. I'm not a Rom-Com writer. I can't write fantasy, or comic. I think of the  Hemmingway quote "Write one true sentence". That's harder than it sounds. Slow down, think, and write one true thing. It could take all day. A week. But, as Jim Harrison said "Good art doesn't specialize in cheap solutions." Couldn't the same be said for good air? Good water? Good schools and good health?

I think of all the trees I've planted without acknowledging the fact that I will never see them grow to their fullest beauty, never sit under their shade,  but maybe my children will. Maybe a small niece or nephew will. Maybe that's an iota of compensation for not leaving the world better than how we found it. 

But back to this manuscript where I'm stuck on page 216. What do I do with these people? How do I make a reader care? I go back to my opening sentence and change it every time. Self-doubt creeps in like an imp on the stairs. Today I will stay off page 1 and work on page 217.