THE WINGS OF HERONS
CONSTELLATION PROJ E C T
We are witnessing a world changing beyond hope. Bless us and bless our children. Wash their sweet bodies with snow. Place our hands on the pulse of a dying lake. Watch the wings of herons burst into flames.
.epoh dnoyeb gnignahc dlrow a gnissentiw era eW .nerdlihc ruo sselb dna su sselB .wons htiw seidob teews rieht hsaW .ekal gniyd a fo eslup eht no sdnah ruo ecalP .semafl otni tsrub snoreh fo sgniw eht hctaW
THE WINGS OF HERONS
Volume I, Number I 2022
CP
CONTENTS I
BELIEVE
Terry Tempest Williams
II
A STORY OF NOW Samuel S. Myers
III
THE TIME OF STARS Charles M. Stang
BELIEVE
Terry Tempest Williams
Summer 2021 If I were to scream “Fire! Fire!” in the middle of Harvard Square, would I be arrested on the grounds of creating panic in a public space through a false statement? If I yelled “Fire!” anywhere in the American West today, I would be met in a flash with shovels carried by volunteers with water hoses planted in shallow creeks ready to subdue the flames. Our desert hamlet of Castle Valley located between red rock mesas and sandstone towers in southeastern Utah can now be described as living inside a blast furnace. Temperatures have topped 100 degrees most of the summer, peaking at 114 degrees Fahrenheit. Our volunteer fire department was called to three fires this past week – one ignited by sparks from an axe, another by an overheated jeep engine, and a
third fire caused by a man grinding metal that lit up grasses on his farm. And last month, close to 10,000 acres burned 20 miles south of us in the La Sal National Forest due to a campfire left unattended ignited by winds. For weeks, we watched pyrocumulus clouds rise above the 12,000-foot peaks like atomic explosions. At night, flames crested Haystack Mountain creating a red-orange horizon in darkness. It became a Rothko painting as my vision blurred with smoke. Our world is burning. Our world is in drought. Our world is being carried away by flash floods with rivers running black from cinders and ash. And the Colorado River is running a deeper red from eroding sandstone walls if it is running at all. Climate collapse is no longer our future, it is right here, right now. To live in the American Southwest is to witness the trauma and terror of this flaming moment. I can burn grasses with my stare. We can no longer see the stars.
We are not alone. Friends in Portland and Seattle faced temperatures of 115 degrees. On July 10, 2021, the New York Times reported: “Heat Wave Kills Marine Wildlife en Masse.” The article reads: “Dead mussels and clams coated rocks in the Pacific Northwest, their shells gaping open as if they’d been boiled. Sea stars were baked to death. Sockeye salmon swam sluggishly in an overheated Washington river, prompting wildlife officials to truck them to cooler areas. “It just feels like one of those postapocalyptic movies,” said Christopher Harley, a marine biologist at the University of British Columbia who studies the effects of climate change on coastal marine ecosystems. Numbers have now reached a death toll of over one billion animals from this summer’s prolonged heat waves creating along the Pacific Coast. In Kim Stanley Robinson’s epic novel, The Ministry for the Future, published in 2020, the opening chapter describes a deadly heat wave in India. The old and the young perish first.
Thousands of people flee to the nearby lake expecting relief. Instead, they drink the water that is body temperature and are poached. His story of climate collapse through the lens of science fiction reads like hard journalism. Set in 2025, Robinson’s characters, caught in the web of extreme weather, chant “They knew, they knew, they knew and did nothing.” We know, we know, we know and are doing little. “The climate crisis is the test of our times,” said John Kerry, Special Presidential Envoy for Climate in London on July 20, 2021. “And while some may still believe it is unfolding in slow motion – No! – This test is now as acute and existential as any previous one.” He went on to say, “It’s about protecting and preserving the fragile world that we share, it’s about understanding that it costs more not to respond to the climate crisis than it does to respond, and it is without exaggeration about survival.” Kerry closed with an urgent plea to “heal and to rebuild a shattered world.” For as long as I have a memory, Great Salt Lake has been the place where the sun sank into a
liquid horizon of blazing colors. For millennia, it has been a flashing mirror calling millions of migrating birds home to touch down on its saline waters and feed on brine shrimp, a place to rest and nest on the emerald wetlands that border the inland sea. In 1987, I witnessed the lake level peak at 4212’ above sea level. Its reach was historic. For as far as I could see – water – a liquid hand covering land the size of Delaware and Rhode Island combined. In July, 2021, I witnessed Great Salt Lake’s historic low: 4190’ above sea level. Standing on the causeway to Antelope Island looking northwest, it is a horizon of salt. Great Salt Lake is evaporating before our eyes leaving a salt-encrusted, foul-smelling lake bottom laced with toxic chemicals from the industries that have mined the lake for decades. If Great Salt Lake dies, the impact on migrating birds in the western hemisphere will be catastrophic. The Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge, 77,000 acres of critical wetland habitat to over 330 species of birds, is an expansive marsh on
the margins of Great Salt Lake that sparkles and sings. No longer. I witnessed bone-dry canals bordered by brittle reeds and rushes. The long blue lanes of water teeming with western grebes, ruddy ducks and redheads, cinnamon teals and pintails that flowed into generous ponds where avocets and stilts foraged in the shallows have been replaced by sun-baked, drought-cracked playas. The long-billed marsh wrens dancing in the cattails with rasping voices mixing with the buzz of insects were nowhere to be seen. There is no refuge – only a brutal silence of all that is missing. Shock makes tears impossible. We did find open water with a horizon of white pelicans animating the landscape. Small concentrations of Franklin and California gulls dotted the edges of the fractured mud flats. The gulls were joined by white-faced ibises and herons, great blue and black-crowned night herons standing stoically in the narrow veins of water. A double-crested cormorant standing on a weathered post with outstretched wings became a black crucifix against a darkening sky.
As a writer, I cannot convey the heat of the sorrow that rushed into my heart as one who has been raised and buoyed up by Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge. I know my life through the lives of these birds. It is a profound disorientation. Where are the birds? Where am I? Where are we in this moment of drought and despair? The birds are mute. We who live among them are speaking. I want honest conversations that do not end on the obligatory hopeful note. We do not get to sing that song anymore. There is a real world and it is dying. Death is becoming familiar territory. Our natural touchstones of joy will deliver us to heartbreak. Each of us will be forced to face the loss of the place that brought us to life – to stand with grief as our companion when the roar of Victoria Falls stops, or the tree we thought would outlive us dies, or the spring leks of strutting grouse become silent. The place of our innocence is gone. Even if
Great Salt Lake floods in the future, we will re-member how we felt in the exposure of drought. The extinction of the Panamanian golden frog will be final as was the last passenger pigeon. Whether we believe it or not, rapid change is upon us. I am searching for grace. If the facts don’t matter anymore and misinformation does; if we fail to listen to the Indigenous wisdom of First Nations and remain unmoved toward another way of being in right relationship to the Earth; and the stories and statistics that scientists are bringing to us do not stir us to action on behalf of a living world that is suffering – and if the lives of our children and the future of their children’s children are not first in our minds and thwarting the easy sleep of our privilege, then the question must be asked: Are we too dead to the world to feel alive? Believe the long-legged birds who are circling above us desperately looking for water. Believe the forests that are burning whose surviving trees will later stand as sentinels, charred witnesses to animal bodies reduced to ash. Believe in flash
floods roaring through burnt canyons gathering debris in rivers running black in the desert even in times of drought. Believe Great Salt Lake is retreating in plain sight, leaving what’s left to the dust devils whipping up clouds of chemicals resting on the dry lakebed as we inhale the toxic world we have created. Believe in the once shimmering bodies of water on the horizon that are now nothing more than a mirage made of heat waves death-dancing on the salt flats. Believe in the silences. Before we can save this world we are losing, we must first learn how to savor what remains. This is more than an ecological crisis or a political crisis – it is a spiritual one. The Earth will survive us. We are the ones being baptized by fire.
Winter 2022 A meteor shower is reported in the wee hours of morning. We are told by astronomers that on January 2 and 3 during the New Moon, we can expect to encounter the Quadrantid meteors that “appear to fan out from a spot in the night sky midway between the Big Dipper’s handle and the four stars marking the head of Draco, the dragon.” I will be watching – believing that 2022 will offer more luminary moments where we choose to focus on what endures rather than what is being lost – like flashes of light in the night sparked by the disintegrating bodies of asteroids burning up as they meet Earth’s atmosphere. We are seized by paradox. In Castle Valley, we are neighbors with fire and ice. Last summer, our bodies were burning and blistered. This winter, the desert is lit with snow scorched bright. Across state lines, a galloping fire raced with 100 mph winds across a dry-grass community in Colorado, consuming close to a thousand homes on New Year’s Eve. The unfathomable
is now the familiar. Great Salt Lake was named “Utahn of the Year” with 800 square miles of chemical-laced lakebed now exposed. We now exist in the company of strangeness where the eye of a hurricane splits in two – no reprieve is to be found as the blind storm wildly obliterates all in its deadly path; while the double vision of glaciers shows us one view of retreat in the quiet of mountains and another view of thundering ice shelves collapsing into the seas. Etel Adnan, the Lebanese poet who died on November 14, 2021, wrote “To look at the sea is to become what one is.” Rising, pulling back, a minus-tide rushing forward, standing waves in a fluid body remade daily. I feel this way about stars. To look at the stars is to become what one is. The sparkling energy radiating outward from a single star seen from Earth has already been extinguished eons ago. It now reaches us as a disembodied memory of light. Who knows where we are or who we are or what we are becoming? Here is what I do know: Hope left me this year – it blew up in a blaze of despair – with
sparks fleeing into the night vanquished by the void. What I am learning as I let go of safe thinking is that there is something deeper than hope. I look upward to a force field of galaxies, some close like the Milky Way arching over us, while others are beyond our comprehension as a nursery for stars. I want not to feel the distances, but a closeness as I engage in dialogue each month with the fullness of the Moon. For me, the night sky of stars is no longer a longing to be elsewhere, but a return to Earth with my feet on the ground and a commitment to live differently. My vow to not look away is married with my belief in what came before us, all that is with us now, and what will follow – this trust is part of our evolving selves, as we confront our compliciity in the destruction of our planet. If we dare to feel the weight of this truth on our hearts, we may come to the light-actions necessary to live up to this “soul-making” moment. Science has not moved us. Politics has divided us. But the stories we tell as witnesses to the world
that is becoming – call them our “Weather Reports” – are akin to the experience of poetry – complex, urgent, and capable of calling us home to the places we love and those we will grieve. Etel Adnan’s prescient lines from her book, Premonition create a found poem: I give you my word, as I have nothing else to give you. It did not rain this year. Our skins are dry. Our hearts too. Therefore, we better start watering our memories. The Earth is no more – where she started. One has to be barefoot to absorb her pulse. Apprenticeship. What a joy to stand close to origins. We are witnessing a world changing beyond hope. Bless us and bless our children. Wash their sweet bodies with snow. Place our hands on the pulse of a dying lake. Watch the wings of herons burst into flames. Believe.
A STORY OF NOW Samuel S. Myers
I want to tell you a story.
Once upon a time, a breathtakingly beautiful planet wrapped in swirling patterns of blue and green and white, traveled through vast, dark space, a perfect distance from its warming sun to give birth to an explosion of millions of forms of wild, improbable, interconnected and unimaginably beautiful life. Late in the pulse of declining and emerging species, a newcomer arrived, neither particularly fast nor fierce but with an exceptionally large and complex brain, and began to separate itself from the others. Like all life forms, we early humans began to mobilize resources to support our needs. But our ingenuity in doing this exceeded any species the planet had ever known. Mastering tools, harnessing fire, developing agriculture and domesticating animals, we started to appropriate the rest of Nature for ourselves. Somewhere along the way, we began to
tell ourselves a story of human exceptionalism – that we are separate from Nature, and that the rest of the natural world is ours for the taking. Individuals and entire cultures with stories and ways of life that emphasized living in harmony with Nature and protecting the web of life were marginalized, ignored, or destroyed. Late in the story, we discovered the nearly boundless energy stored in the fossil remains of previous life forms. When coupled with internal combustion engines, burning these fossil fuels exponentially amplified our ability to transform landscapes, develop new products and technologies, mine minerals from deep in the ground and sea, fell forests, expand agriculture and food production, transport people and products, and extend fishing to the remotest reaches of the ocean. In less than a century, we became the dominant force shaping Earth’s biophysical conditions. Our inventions and discoveries allowed most of humanity to experience stunning improvements in education, wealth, and health. Global adult literacy doubled from 1940 to 2015. The percentage of people living in extreme poverty
fell from 62% to 10% in 65 years, despite a nearly three-fold increase in the global human population during that time. Average global life expectancy rose from 46 years to 72 years. But the same extraordinary technological and scientific developments that fueled these unimaginable improvements in human development over the course of a single lifetime also accelerated the dismantling of our planet’s natural systems. In removing ourselves from Nature, we allowed our collective activities to become extreme. To feed ourselves each year we claim 40% of the world’s land surface for croplands and pastures. We appropriate half the accessible fresh water, mostly to irrigate our crops. We have dammed over 60% of the world’s rivers and cut down half the temperate and tropical forests. The pollution from our enterprises contaminates air, water, and soil at a global scale and is driving accelerating climate change. Of the total mass of mammals on Earth today, 36% is human beings. 60% is domesticated livestock. 4% is wild mammals. Two-thirds of the birds, reptiles, amphibians, fishes, and mammals that used to
share the planet with us are gone. A million species face extinction, many within decades. In pursuit of our ambitions, all of Nature has become collateral damage. We are not disconnected from the rest of the natural world. Planetary health is a rapidly growing transdisciplinary field and social movement focused on understanding and addressing the human health impacts of our degradation of natural systems. Planetary health research teaches us that our dismantling of Nature has become an urgent threat to our own health and wellbeing. A rapidly changing climate; loss of biodiversity; pollution of air, water, and soil; deforestation and other land use changes; and scarcity of fresh water and arable land are interacting to affect the foundations of human wellbeing: the quality and quantity of food we can produce, the quality of air we breathe and water we drink, our exposure to infectious diseases and extreme weather events, even the habitability of the places many of us live. Every dimension of human health is affected: from nutrition to infectious disease exposure, from
non-communicable diseases to mental health. The enormous health gains we have achieved over the last several decades are now threatened by our own transformation of Nature’s systems. Nor are the health burdens distributed evenly or fairly. When warming causes malaria to move up into the East African highlands, the poorest families who cannot purchase bed nets are most vulnerable. When pollinating insects decline and crop yields fall, the wealthy can afford to purchase fresh fruits and vegetables while the poor suffer higher rates of heart disease, stroke, and certain cancers because of decreased consumption of these foods. When extreme weather and crop failures drive people from their homes, the wealthy are insulated while the poor suffer. Consumption patterns and value systems of the wealthiest people on Earth are putting the poorest people and future generations in harm’s way. This is where we find ourselves. Our cleverness may be our undoing. The scale of our collective ability to manipulate Nature imperils our future and that of all life on Earth. As we awaken to the fierce urgency of this
moment, we recognize that our only path forward requires deep, rapid, structural change in how we live and a global commitment to reversing our degradation of Earth’s natural systems. Our coming to understand this moment holds enormous promise. Looking out across the domains of global food systems, energy systems, manufacturing and the circular economy, urban design, and green chemistry we find a rich landscape of solutions. We can imagine a world, a hundred years from now, where the human population has stabilized as a result of educating girls, creating economic opportunities for women, and providing access to contraception for couples who want it. A world in which we have extended today’s remarkable gains in renewable energy technology and moved to a post-combustion energy system. A world where we are producing food and manufactured goods with dramatically reduced ecological inputs. And a world where most of us are living in cities that have been designed to optimize physical, mental, and cultural health, while allowing Nature to regenerate. In this world, each passing decade
would offer more breathing room to the rest of the biosphere. The moment we face calls for more than rapid innovation in our technologies and practices. Underneath the ecological crisis we have created, and the global health crisis that it is precipitating, is a spiritual crisis. We have allowed our myth of human exceptionalism to create a rupture between humanity and the natural world we depend on. The reverence and awe that most of us feel toward Nature have lost their authority in guiding our decisions. We will need to weave a new fabric with threads from Indigenous knowledges, the world’s faith traditions, literature, and the arts that reasserts our spiritual connection to the natural world. Our story of human exceptionalism, of extraction, domination, scarcity, and ultimately extinction will need to give way to new stories and values of interdependence, equity, abundance, regeneration and renaissance. Let us seek out these stories, share them with each other, offer their light up into the night sky to form new constellations out of which we can
make meaning and answer the only question that matters: How shall we live? We find ourselves actors in one of history’s greatest dramas. A lone species with an outsized talent for bending the natural world toward our will, spinning through space on a stunning but fragile planet. The same complex brain that has subjugated much of Nature toward our desires is bringing us news that the state of natural systems and the wellbeing of humanity cannot remain disconnected. People around the world are suffering; the wild, miraculous tapestry of life is coming unwoven, we are walking a charred path toward extinction. A million years of biological evolution and thousands of years of social evolution have brought us to this: can we change? As we awaken to this moment, can we rise to its requirements? Can we find the humility, the compassion, and the courage to acknowledge the need for a different path and collectively embrace it? A hundred years from now, looking back on this moment, could this be our story? Once upon a time, on a stunningly beautiful planet,
a very young species with a very large brain woke up to find itself imperiled by its own narrow self-conception and shortsightedness. And with eyes opened, it charted a new course in which selfishness gave way to collectivism, domination and extraction gave way to regeneration, and extinction gave way to renaissance. The story of now remains unwritten. How shall we write it?
THE TIME OF STARS Charles M. Stang
I recently spent a week in the Maine woods
with my family, in a “dark” zone far from any light pollution. Twice during our week in the woods we had a thickly luminous night sky. I love the stars, and I know a few constellations by name. But I am largely dumbfounded when I crane my neck to gape at them: I do not understand their movements, the order of their slow dance across the sky over the course of a year. For me they are neither heralds, nor guides, nor storytellers. I am illiterate in their presence: I cannot read them, interpret them, or live by them. Having eyes, I do not see. And yet they are enough present and intimate that I long to see them as they deserve to be seen. A “constellation” is a collection of stars, an arrangement of points of light. Embedded therein is one of Latin’s two words for “star”: stella. The other is sider, from which we get the verb “consider.” To consider means to look at or to
think carefully about something, but at root it means to gaze at the stars. So too with our verb “desire,” which derives from Latin desiderare. To desire is to wish or to long for something, as if in staring at a star we register an absence and long for something lost. But why should that be? Why should stars awaken longing in us? I went into the woods with such questions in my mind and on my heart. I brought with me a sure guide, an old friend: Plato. In his dialogue the Timaeus, the eponymous character declares that if we had never seen any stars, we would never have learned of numbers or of time, which together have opened “the path to inquiry into the nature of the universe.” He goes further: the god who created us and the world gave us eyes so that we might observe the movements of the stars and the other heavenly bodies. There is a deep “kinship” between us and the stars, and between our respective movements. But whereas our souls’ movements are disturbed, the stars’ “universal orbits are undisturbed.” By staring at the stars and learning their rhythmic whence and whither, we “stabilize the straying
revolutions within ourselves.” Our sense of sight was designed for precisely this: that we learn to dance to the music of time, the time of stars. How is it that we are the stars’ kin? Timaeus explains that the creator fashioned from the same primordial stew an equal number of souls and stars, and assigned each soul to a star. When those souls were given bodies, and mortal lives to live on this earth, they could choose to pursue a just or an unjust life. Whoever lived a just life “would at the end return to his dwelling place in his companion star, to live a life of happiness that agreed with his character.” Not only is there a kinship between our souls’ movements and the stars’, then, but we each have a “companion” or “kindred” star. Does this help explain why our verb for longing derives from the word “star”? Do we look to the skies longing to behold, and to be held by, our long lost stellar or sidereal siblings? All this is a myth, a “likely tale” or a “probable story,” Timaeus admits. Of what use are such myths to us today, when we know so much more about the nature of the universe, including
ourselves and the stars? But do we know so much more? Look at what our knowledge has wrought: our night skies washed out by the light of our own making. Fewer and fewer of us can even see the stars, never mind contemplate them. We are content to let an elite and learned group – astronomers – do our stargazing for us. But how many astronomers spend their nights craning their necks and gaping at an open sky? I hazard to guess that, like the rest of us, they have been forced instead to gaze at the pixelated light of computer screens for endless hours. We have all exchanged the play of darkness and light in our night skies for a simulacrum. And if Timaeus is right that we have eyes only that we might see the stars, then this exchange has come at an incalculable cost: our souls’ movements will remain disordered, and our thinking and our longing, our minds and our hearts, will suffer. Mine certainly do. My colleague Sam Myers, of the Planetary Health Alliance, has bravely said that in this global collapse of natural systems we are facing as much as anything “a spiritual crisis,” and
that “our myth of human exceptionalism” must “give way to new stories and values of interdependence.” Perhaps some of the new stories could be very old, as old as Timaeus’s, or even older. Not that Plato doesn’t have anything to answer for: many have argued that his valuing the eternal realm of being “there” more than our temporal world of becoming “here” has had a wretched legacy in the West and those parts of the globe colonized by it and its stories. But Plato also has Timaeus insist that the universe is “a truly living thing,” of which all other living things are a part; that the body of the universe is beautiful, blessed, and divine. Here then, a story of interdependence. Beloved astronomer Carl Sagan once famously said, “The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.” This is Timaeus’s old story, made new. And embedded therein is a story older than Timaeus’s: the story of self-knowledge. The imperative gnôthi seauton or “know yourself ” was inscribed in the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, and Plato often has Socrates quote it. Some
have worried, now and then, that the pursuit of self-knowledge amounts to little more than navel-gazing or Narcissism. But if Timaeus is right that the universe is a truly living thing, of which all living things are a part, and if he is right that there is some kinship between us and the stars, then self-knowledge is no solipsistic exercise. To know who you are you must literally look to the very edges of time and space – literally into the past, to starlight that has traveled light years, trillions of miles, to reach our eyes. And paradoxically, straining to see those edges we come to see that the stars are not so distant: while their light reaches our eyes from some unimaginable past, the stars are also inside us. They are our kin, and we theirs. To know this is to further not only our own, but also the universe’s self-knowledge. I return to the Maine woods next week. I won’t know my way among the stars any better than I did when I was there last. But I will have the chance to bathe again in darkness and see their light. I know it is a chance fewer and fewer of us have as our lights crowd out theirs. Call this
pursuit of self-knowledge my own “constellation project,” a dappled dance of presence and absence, distance and intimacy, communion and longing. Having eyes, I long to see. Longing is the beginning of all knowledge. *All citations from Plato’s Timaeus are from Donald J. Zeyl’s translation (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 2000).
Photographs by SHARON HARPER ©Sharon Harper, courtesy of the artist (in order of appearance in book)
Sunset (Middlesex, Vermont), 2012 Winter Solstice 21 December 2012 5:05 PM
La Palma, Canary Island, 2013 9 July 2013
One Month, Weather Permitting, 2009 Night Sky over Banff, Alberta September 12 – October 10, 2007 5 October 6 October
One Month, Weather Permitting, 2009 Night Sky over Banff, Alberta September 12 – October 10, 2007 12 September 13 September
Halsnøy, Norway, 2012
18 June 2012 10:05 PM and 18 June 2012 10:00 PM
THE CONSTELLATION PROJECT
terry tempest williams Writer-in-Residence Harvard Divinity School
samuel s. myers, md, mph
Director, Planetary Health Alliance Harvard TH Chan School of Public Health
charles m. stang
Director, Center for the Study of World Religions Harvard Divinity School Photographer
sharon harper Design consultants edward & lee riddell
Photographs by SHARON HARPER ©Sharon Harper, courtesy of the artist (in order of appearance)
Sunset (Middlesex, Vermont), 2012 Winter Solstice 21 December 2012 5:05 PM
La Palma, Canary Island, 2013 9 July 2013
One Month, Weather Permitting, 2009 Night Sky over Banff, Alberta September 12 – October 10, 2007 5 October 6 October
One Month, Weather Permitting, 2009 Night Sky over Banff, Alberta September 12 – October 10, 2007 12 September 13 September
Halsnøy, Norway, 2012
18 June 2012 10:05 PM and 18 June 2012 10:00 PM
THE CONSTELLATION PROJECT
terry tempest williams Writer-in-Residence Harvard Divinity School
samuel s. myers, md, mph
Director, Planetary Health Alliance Harvard TH Chan School of Public Health
diane l. moore
Director, Religion and Public Life Harvard Divinity School Photographs
sharon harper Design consultants
edward & lee riddell With gratitude
the betsy & jesse fink family foundation To learn more about The Constellation Project or view and share digital copies please visit: www.planetaryhealthalliance.org/the-constellation-project
©2022 The Constellation Project
CP