When I think of grass under my toes, grass between my toes, in an instant I am seven or eight years old, walking barefoot early on a June morning to my grandfather’s guest cottage at our home in Maine. Even in June, the dew is crisp, the ground chilly, my mother ready to scold me for not wearing shoes.

Yet by July my feet would be so calloused from driveway gravel and rocky shores that I would hardly notice.

I sought my grandfather at dawn, ready for a day’s adventure: fishing, out in the boat, a swim at the lake, or more prosaic tasks, chores, shopping, fixing, or tidying up. My grandfather was my best friend, and he gifted me endless joy, pride in honest labor, vision practical as well as profound.

I could talk for hours about our antics. My grandfather had come of age in the Great Depression, already poor and then even poorer; he quit school at 14 to support his family, and then fought in World War II, against the Japanese in the Pacific.

Not much of a childhood, and so with later success, he was happy to have his over again with mine, a genuine sense of freedom to explore and enjoy the world.

While in retrospect I realize my grandfather was probably as much of an introvert as I am, he also gave me a sense of self that would enable me to build connections with others that brought meaning, with genuine depth, with shared inspiration and love.

Today’s bard, Walt Whitman, says, “He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.”

Destroy the teacher.

Not exactly patricide (I hope) but independence, skill that surpasses, genius that eclipses, innovation that brings obsolescence, respectful remembrance rather than rigid reverence. What I hope for all of you, truly.

Yet I fear we may already have done far too much to destroy that great teacher, the grass and the earth.

Those Maine summers have grown longer and hotter, the dew far less crisp, the winters shorter and less cold. Once assured, lakes may no longer freeze for ice skating.

In my own brief life, our climate emergency has accelerated closer and closer to catastrophe.

I’m not naïve to how industrialization has alleviated poverty and made possible a once unthinkable quality of life for billions of people—a macrocosm of the prosperity and renewal my grandfather experienced.

Yet consumption without purpose defies the beauty of those connections we ought to nurture, with others and with the earth, the greater value of relationships created rather than goods exchanged. Reciprocity rewards more than profit, a moderate prosperity for all.

If you all wish to enjoy the same future that proved so fulfilling to my grandfather, you will need to take drastic and immediate action to tackle the crisis of global warming that will more than anything shape the world in your lifetime.

Yet I’m confident you can find the same joy, the same irreverence and creativity, even in the face of such an ominous reality.

My grandfather taught me to lick the spoon when making a cake, he gave root to my love of travel, he never took himself too seriously. Yet he had a sense of integrity, a practical virtue, and a deep appreciation for work done well. He taught me how to save, and how to indulge; he taught me to laugh, and how to hold someone in pain.

So, I urge you, as you listen today, as you contemplate a world of such vast possibility: destroy the teacher, yes, though ensure she is there again and again for future generations, an endless renewal and expansion of opportunity, dew still crisp.