Thirty years later, environmentalist still calls for change

By John Flesher
Associated Press

Writer Stephanie Mills sits in her writing studio inrural Maple City, Mich. In her recently published book, "Epicurean Simplicity," Mills writes about the pleasures of living simply. Associated Press

"I am terribly saddened by the fact that the most humane thing for me to do is to have no children at all," college senior Stephanie Mills lamented in a commencement address that warned the human race was breeding itself to extinction and wrecking the environment.

The speech made national headlines, as did those of other rebellious 1969 graduates. But unlike many angry radicals who later joined the Establishment, Mills remained true to her cause.

More than three decades later, the author and activist is widely regarded as one of the environmental movement's leading intellects. And she's never had children.

In a new book, "Epicurean Simplicity," Mills again warns that today's fast-paced, money-chasing, consumerist lifestyle is damaging to nature and humanity. Still, her tone is mostly upbeat as she makes the case for a materially frugal yet spiritually rich existence in harmony with nature. It is, she asserts, a downright fun way to live.

"There's joy in nature, in contemplation. Having time to truly think, to truly observe the world, is incredibly enriching," she said in an interview at her home in rural northern Michigan.

Besides numerous magazine articles, Mills has written or edited five books and lectured widely at environmental conferences and universities. She has directed publications including Earth Times and CoEvolution Quarterly. In 1996, Utne Reader named her one of the world's leading visionaries.

"She's in the tradition of reporting about the connections between human life and natural values that goes back to Ralph Waldo Emerson," said Keith Schneider, former New York Times environmental writer and founder of the Michigan Land Use Institute.

Mills, 53, writes about many of the environmental issues debated in the media and government: air and water pollution, global warming, overpopulation and overuse of natural resources.

Yet in keeping with the "think globally, act locally" maxim, she does more than rail at corporations or prescribe laws to enact. She candidly discusses her own efforts at sustainable living, and admits to sometimes falling short.

"My way of life, austere though it may appear to the richer folk, is still ruinously exploitive of nature," Mills confesses in "Epicurean Simplicity." She drives a car — which pumps climate-altering carbon dioxide into the atmosphere — and buys products made with chemicals that harm wildlife.

Still, the book leaves no doubt that Mills treads softly on the earth — and believes others should, too.

It is by turns a memoir, diary and manifesto, calling to mind Thoreau's "Walden." The title pays tribute to Epicurus, a third-century Greek philosopher who felt the surest way to happiness was drawing pleasure from the simple and sensory.

If people could "learn to savor the goodness of little, everyday things, we could get more out of less and abandon our ruinous gluttony," Mills writes.

To illustrate the point, she weaves philosophical musings with tales of ordinary doings in the Michigan countryside: gardening, cross-country skiing, cooking for friends. She describes fixing a snack and settling into a chair for a long evening of watching a tree frog perched outside her window.

"This," she notes dryly, "is the kind of thing that people without television sets do."

Nor is there a computer, microwave, washer or dryer in her house, a modest but comfortable 720-square-foot structure nestled amid Scotch pines and hardwoods in Leelanau County. Mills heats with wood, but makes some concessions to modernity: electricity, indoor plumbing, a refrigerator and propane-fueled range.

A short walk away is her writing studio, a cramped hut packed with books, papers, mementos. The "desk" is an old door lying atop two filing cabinets. Among the tools of her trade: a manual typewriter so out of date that Mills must order ribbons from a supplier in St. Louis.

Her no-frills lifestyle "really provides substantial moral capital with which to express herself," said author Paul Hawken, who advocates environmentally friendly capitalism. "She's always been a seminal figure because she's walked her talk."

Born and raised in Phoenix, she attended Mills College, a liberal arts school for women in Oakland, Calif. (It wasn't named for anyone in her family.) She wrote a column for the student newspaper, edited the literary magazine and developed a passion for the environment.

As a senior, Mills was elected to deliver the commencement address — and didn't hold back. The promise of an eternally bright future in America, she declared, is "a cruel hoax."

"Mankind has spread across the face of the Earth like a great unthinking, unfeeling cancer. ... Our frontier spirit involves no reverence for any forms of life other than our own, and now we are even threatening ourselves with the ultimate disrespect of suicide."

The speech struck a nerve. The Los Angeles Times printed it, and Life magazine carried excerpts. The New York Times called it "perhaps the most anguished" of that year's valedictory addresses. Suddenly, Mills was in demand as a youthful spokeswoman for the ecology movement.

After 15 years as a writer and activist in the San Francisco Bay area, she moved to northern Michigan to join her husband-to-be. Mills developed a passion for the Upper Great Lakes region that outlasted her marriage, and settled into the countryside to begin her first book, "Whatever Happened to Ecology?"

She continued churning out books, articles and essays, never wavering from her core beliefs — including the crucial role that overpopulation plays in degrading nature. That's a big reason why she stands by her decision to remain childless.

Another is more practical: She admits to not being "the mothering type." Plenty of other people aren't either, she contends, yet have children because of social pressures.

"It would be interesting to see what kind of decisions people would make if we weren't in a patriarchal society that was making birth control ... and abortion harder and harder to come by."

Renouncing parenthood isn't the only way to simplify life and preserve the planet, Mills says. More important is rejecting certain beliefs deeply ingrained in American society — that money and possessions are the keys to happiness, and that bigger and newer mean better.

Admittedly, she says, such a fundamental turnabout in mainstream thinking will happen slowly if at all. In the meantime, a good first step is simply becoming more aware of nature and trying to learn from it.