I went to a Quaker shared lunch today. If you’ve never been to a Quaker shared lunch, this may not make sense to you; but this shared lunch was about as Quakerly an event as it is possible to get. The food was all vegetarian or vegan; there was plenty of quiche; there were as many puddings as there were mains. The only thing missing really was a pot of hummus. It was yummy (if you like vegetables); there was enough to go round (plus extra puddings for the Cowgirl and the Paleontologist, who, decidedly not liking vegetables, had not eaten very much up to that point); and there was a speaker afterwards. And, this being an event that was about as Quakerly as it is possible to get, the speaker was speaking about the climate crisis.

I had to twist the Paleontologist’s arm quite heavily (and yes, there might have been threats of surgically removing her headphones from around her neck involved) to get her to stay. She’s a mardy teenager these days, but mardy teenagers are passionate about climate change, right? I hoped this would be something she could get involved in, bringing a youthful view to the proceedings. She told me it would be boring, and she’d rather be doing her homework. Yes, I know that what she meant by that was definitely lying on her bed with her headphones still surgically attached and doing as little actual work as possible; but still. She was prepared to suggest homework in half term. That’s how little she wanted to listen.

I was wrong. She was right. It was boring. Not because the speaker didn’t know her stuff (she really did, despite being pushed on it in unexpected directions). Not because I don’t care about the subject. But because there was nothing new. Nothing I didn’t already know needed to happen. No moment of revelation. Just more of the “we should have been doing this for a really long time; we haven’t been; we really need to do it now.” And I, like everyone else in the room, had heard much of that before; had even said it to others plenty of times.

Coming home, frustrated but thoughtful, I asked the Vicar (who is not, on the whole, an inherently evil person) why, despite knowing all we know, he still eats meat. He told me a few reasons, some more valid than others, and then asked me why I don’t have a fully plant-based diet myself.

It shouldn’t have taken that, but it did. That’s what it took for me to look at myself and ask why I, not why they, keep acting this way. I quite like the Earth, in fairness. On balance, it’s nice that we’ve got it. Quite like London, and don’t want to see it all underwater. Quite like the sun and would love it if this rain could just stop. Quite like people, on the whole, and would rather we didn’t tear each other apart in a fight to the death for the resources we consume so excessively but that are, in fact, vital to our survival – water, clean air, food, little things like that. So why, for myself, do I not actually act in every way I can? Why do I see cheese as more vital than water; see flights as a right not a privilege; keep two cars even though we could probably go down to one these days? What is the disconnect between my conviction that action must happen, and my lack of action for myself?

Maybe it’s because I’m still waiting for the Hollywood moment, when the surly but inspired scientist gets called into the White House to explain everything, graciously accept the apologies for the mockery he has spent his life fielding that are now all that stands between humanity and annihilation, and saves the day and his marriage all at once. Maybe I’m just a people pleaser; I don’t want to be the one saying we can’t go on holiday; can’t eat chicken nuggets any more; can’t spend Christmas money in Primark. Maybe there are a wealth of complex reasons; or maybe I just don’t have the time, the energy, the personal resources to make the changes I know need to be made. I don’t know why that disconnect is there. But I suspect that until I – we – do, real action is going to hit stumbling blocks that all of us put down in our collective way, but none of us want to own.