HOLD FAST
Love, loss, and an unbreakable bond in the face of unimaginable loss lead Wendy to discover healing approaches for personal grief and climate breakdown despair.
Chapter 12: Hold Fast Survivor Mission Approaches to Climate Grief
Click here to read Chapter 1 of Hold Fast
Love Poem for Climate Change
I am so full of words for you
I always have been.
Sometimes
when we were together
and you were asleep
I would whisper
“I love you”
As lightly as pollen
Now
After the moon has fallen
into the ocean
and the bees
have burned onto the sun
I hope sometimes
you still hear me say
“I love you”
In your dreams
Perhaps it is the voice
of a willow
Do you
remember
trees?
Charlie Petch
How the Hold Fast model for healing grief can support us in these troubled times
In Chapters 1 through 11, I explored my experiences as a widow and an injured survivor of a fatal car crash to illustrate how we can support healing by holding fast to a loved one who has died. In this chapter, I embody another identity: an environmental ethicist and activist experiencing the depths of climate distress. I’ve been aware of “climate change” for decades, but today, our climate breakdown crisis is much more severe than I had imagined. The United Nations (in September 2023) asked us to use the term “climate breakdown” rather than “climate change” to emphasize the urgency of the global predicament (see: https://press.un.org/en/2023/sgsm21926.doc.htm/). The spectrum of climate distress encompasses the loss of human, animal, and plant life, as well as ecosystems, communities, whole island nations, identities, beliefs, and lifestyles.
I confess that I’m struggling mightily to wrap my mind around climate breakdown. I agree with American writer, educator, conservationist, and activist Terry Tempest Williams said this: “The eyes of the future are looking back at us and they are praying for us to see beyond our own time.” Rising temperatures are causing heatwaves, melting ice caps, and rising sea levels, affecting the health of ecosystems, biodiversity, and weather patterns. I believe, as distinguished anthropologist, Jane Goodall reminds us, “You cannot get through a single day without having an impact on the world around you. What I do makes a difference, and I must decide what kind of difference I want to make.” This assignment terrifies me. (What if I get it wrong?) I want to be a good ancestor!
I resonate deeply with British biologist David Attenborough’s description of the natural world as “the greatest source of excitement; the greatest source of visual beauty; the greatest source of intellectual interest.” And American marine biologist Sylvia Earle’s words also touch me: “With every drop of water I drink, every breath I take, I’m connected to the sea, no matter where on Earth I live.” I’ve lived by the sea for most of my life and I’m shocked by the changes happening on my very doorstep here in downtown Vancouver. A recent king tide washed away my childhood swimming hole at Second Beach. Worldwide, changes in precipitation patterns are disrupting agriculture, water resources, and food security. Living in Canada, I’m acutely aware that thawing permafrost releases methane, a potent greenhouse gas that further accelerates climate breakdown. This vicious cycle demands our immediate attention and action.
I can see around me that people (me, included) are missing the simple joys of Nature—the vibrant colors of autumn, the soothing sound of rain on the roof, the crisp freshness of a winter morning—all now tainted by the specter of climate breakdown. We read about the loss of ecosystems teeming with life, the delicate balance of flora and fauna that once flourished effortlessly. And we miss the sense of security (however irrational it was) that comes from knowing that the world around us is stable and predictable. And amidst this longing, there’s also a deep-seated fear for the future, a gnawing uncertainty about what lies ahead and whether we’ll ever be able to reclaim what’s been lost.
Young people and climate distress
When I consider how we might heal climate distress, I realize that I must undertake my healing processes with an acceptance of one harsh, new reality: there is a clear intergenerational dimension to climate distress. For young people, eco-grief is often like other forms of grief. It’s about connections and love for the natural environment. Young people are currently suffering climate anxiety and distress at frightening levels. In my forties, fifties and sixties, I experienced the anger of my younger colleagues and friends who felt (understandably) that the Baby Boomers had locked them out of home ownership. Today, younger people have painful, new ways of feeling locked out of “home ownership.” Our earthly “home” is becoming inhabitable. And younger people, particular, are feeling deeply distressed as a result. Young people are grieving for Earth, changing their lifestyles, and they are at the forefront of demanding action.
Today, young people are speaking out about the increasing frequency and severity of climate-related events like extreme heat, floods, and wildfires. They are demanding change from leaders and are taking leadership roles. They seek knowledge about environmental challenges and sustainable practices to be empowered. I also see another significant societal shift. I was shocked to learn that, increasingly, young people are opting out of parenthood because of profound concerns about climate breakdown. This shift reflects a growing recognition of our Earth’s immense challenges and the intricate relationship between climate anxieties and reproductive decisions. Environmental concerns are critical in decisions about having fewer or no children.
The prospect of bringing children into a world plagued by environmental degradation, resource depletion, and uncertain futures weighs heavily on the minds of young people. Concerns about the ability to provide a safe and stable environment for future generations, coupled with doubts about the morality of procreation in a world facing existential threats, contribute to this trend.
Climate grief among young people is a complex emotional response to the escalating environmental crisis. It encompasses a range of feelings, including anxiety, fear, sadness, anger, and despair, triggered by witnessing the devastating impacts of climate change on ecosystems, communities, and prospects. This grief is compounded by a sense of powerlessness in the face of systemic inertia and inadequate responses from governments and institutions. Young people often experience a profound sense of loss for the natural world they grew up with and for the future they had envisioned, leading to existential questioning and feelings of hopelessness. Overall, climate grief among young people reflects not only personal sorrow for the loss of nature and a stable climate but also existential angst about the future of humanity and the Earth. It underscores the urgent need for meaningful action to address the climate crisis.
Climate grief is like mourning the loss of a dear friend, but on a much larger scale. It’s this overwhelming feeling of sadness and despair, almost like a heaviness in your chest, when we see the world around us changing in ways you never imagined. We miss the way things used to be—the familiar landscapes, the predictable seasons—and can’t help but feel a sense of longing for a world that feels like it’s slipping away. And I must acknowledge the emotional toll of climate breakdown on all generations. When I look at this information, harsh as it seems, it does remind me of our interconnectedness with Nature. I remember my sojourn in the tropical Australian bush. I remember the promises I made to the Earth during that intense period of self-reflection and re-alignment. We must act. I must act. And I must act for the Earth with compassion and foresight.
But how?
After losing Karl, I thought I knew grief, had befriended grief, and held grief close.
But this grief?
This massive grief?
The loss of all life?
Now I’m not so sure. When I confront the realities of climate breakdown, I feel the way I felt when Karl died suddenly eight years ago. And I still mourn for him, my sweet Beloved. And now, I mourn for the loss of Earth’s pristine environments and diverse ecosystems. Whether I’m grieving the loss of a loved one or grieving for the state of our Earth, I know that I must acknowledge and honor my feelings. And, as with my “survivor mission” following Karl’s death (to get a dangerous rural road repaired), I recognize the importance of action.
I am concluding that helping people deal with the complexities of climate distress must be my new “survivor mission.” Retirement is not an option.
My longstanding friend, Dr. Peter Hayes, MacArthur Fellow and Director of the Nautilus Institute in Berkeley, California, read this chapter in draft and offered comments that rang with truth for me. With his permission, I include these words from a wise environmentalist with a huge heart:
My faith lies in the power of networks. Everything is changing so nothing is impossible if we can envision a plausible pathway. Bottom-up individual and local solutions networked together form a set of global solutions that is invisible as a whole until it takes effect.
That process will continue until the species goes extinct or we come to terms with the finitude of Earth. It will occur rapidly if we trigger extinction with nuclear war and all that would follow. It will be slower but unstoppable if we induce more pandemics that disrupt problem solving. And while slower, it’s already massively upon us if we continue to assault the climate.
Meanwhile, as you say, Wendy, it is essential that we document what is being lost even as we grieve.
The first edition of this book, Stay Close: How to Heal from Grief and Stay Connected to One Who Has Died, was published as an eBook in 2020. In the intervening years, I came to understand that our experiences of personal grief are inextricably intertwined with climate grief. Thus, as well as re-editing the book about healing personal grief and updating many parts of it, I have added this chapter on how the Hold Fast healing model can be used to address climate grief.
Personal grief and climate grief.
All one grief.
Because we are facing up to climate breakdown and the realities of collapse, we may regard ourselves as emotional “survivors.” We are all on a survivor mission.
Here are some practices we could use, as survivors, to help us manage our collective climate grief.
Acceptance
Let us accept what we have lost regarding the stability and viability of all life on Earth. The time for denial has passed. We must avoid the bitter pill of accepting reality that led us further down our current path of global destruction. Now we must boldly face Earth’s present and the future. To do this requires a balancing act.
On the one hand, we must accept reality while we fight any tendency to deny it. On the other hand, we must resist the temptation to bury our feelings. We must stick with our feelings, however painful they might be. In this work, the only way out is through.
We may nurture an attitude of Acceptance and rest in that gentle Stopping Place in the following ways:
Staying informed
Continuously educating ourselves about the realities of climate breakdown can help us accept our Earth’s current state and its challenges. Acceptance doesn’t mean resignation. We must acknowledge the truth of our circumstances and find ways to move forward constructively. Sometimes, it may help to limit our media consumption, however. While it’s essential to stay informed about global environmental issues, consuming excessive media coverage of climate-related disasters can contribute to feelings of anxiety and hopelessness. Limiting our exposure to distressing news and balancing it with positive stories and solutions-oriented content will help us maintain a healthy mindset. Acceptance can also include accepting how much information we can handle at any time.
To foster acceptance, we must keep good company and trust reliable information sources. Most people trust environmental organizations more than government sources. Staying in touch with reliable sources of environmental information can lead us away from denial and strengthen acceptance of the realities of climate breakdown.
Gratitude
Even in despair, we must allow ourselves to continue to celebrate the beauty of the living Earth and work to protect what remains. Humans do have the right to be here on Earth, and we must not consider ourselves unwanted aliens. Our behavior needs attention, but our right to be here is inalienable.
Some ways to express our gratitude as survivors could include the following:
Forest bathing
Forest bathing, known formally by the Japanese phrase Shinrin-yoku, is practiced in many cultures, and presents a holistic approach to well-being by immersing individuals in the tranquil embrace of natural environments, particularly forests. This therapeutic practice offers a respite from the rigors of modern life and fosters relaxation and mental rejuvenation. Scientific research underscores its manifold benefits: stress alleviation, mood enhancement, bolstering the immune system through exposure to phytoncides, and augmentation of cognitive function. Moreover, forest bathing has been associated with physiological improvements such as lowered blood pressure and heart rate, that can contribute to cardiovascular health. It stands as a testament to the profound impact of Nature on human health and underscores the importance of preserving and embracing our natural surroundings for holistic wellness.
Nature-deficit disorder
Richard Louv is a renowned author who advocates for reconnecting people, especially children, with Nature. He is best known for coining the term “nature-deficit disorder” in his influential 2005 book, Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder. Louv argues that modern lifestyles characterized by excessive screen time, urbanization, and structured activities have led to a disconnection from the natural world, resulting in various negative consequences for physical, mental, and emotional health. His work emphasizes the importance of re-establishing a meaningful relationship with Nature for the well-being of individuals and the Earth. He advocates for initiatives that promote outdoor play, environmental education, and conservation efforts.
Nature is the great healer. Importantly, for healing, immersing ourselves in Nature’s beauty and intricacy can evoke a sense of gratitude for Earth’s resilience and generosity. Engaging in activities like hiking, gardening, or simply sitting quietly outdoors allows us to appreciate the interconnectedness of all life still with us and our role in preserving it. However, it’s essential to recognize that not everyone has equal access to outdoor spaces, particularly in marginalized communities. We must cooperate to ensure everyone has access to the healing benefits of Nature to reap the mental health benefits it offers and experience opportunities to express gratitude.
Incorporating ritual and practices to honor the Earth
Finding ways to experience the wonder and beauty of what remains on Earth and to honor it can deepen our connection to Earth. This work might include offering gifts to Earth, meditation, art therapy, planting trees, or other rituals that honor the living Earth.
Forgiveness
We have harmed the living Earth, the source of all life. Hard as it is, we must forgive humanity for its errors. Some ways to do this could include the following:
Learning from the past
Understanding the historical and systemic factors that have led to environmental degradation can help us release anger and resentment. By forgiving ourselves and others for past mistakes, we can let go, and focus on creating positive change and preventing further harm to the Earth. It’s important to be clear that forgiveness does not mean condoning the actions taken. It is one step on the path to action.
Mourning rituals
Just as we can express gratitude through ritual, we can also use it to mourn. Allowing ourselves to feel the sadness for all we have lost and why that has happened is a part of acceptance. It can also lead to forgiveness.
Engagement and Service: The core message of the Hold Fast model for healing climate grief
We must find and engage with our survivor mission and move forward in ways that promote the healing of the Earth.
The core message of the Hold Fast model for healing climate grief lives in the final component: Engagement. While we can benefit significantly from nurturing our acceptance, gratitude, and forgiveness, the truth is that what we need now is action. We need to address the first three components of the Hold Fast model before considering engaging in action. And then we absolutely must act.
The fact that we are alive now means two critical things.
First, we are survivors. And second, we must do something in this crisis.
A simple “engagement” exercise: One Earth Moment—An Invitation to Caring
As I’ve grappled with the complexities of climate crises and the realities of collapse, I’ve searched for ways to explain how we might start to reform our relationships with Earth. I’ve struggled to find a concise model that fits. So, I created one of my own. One Earth Moment (OEM) is a simple way of taking time out from our lives, to stop and listen to our hearts and the Earth. It’s an invitation to ask questions that invite an ethic of caring for Nature. Here’s a summary:
Curiosity: What’s happening to the Earth with climate breakdown? What are the likely causes? What role do humans play? What role am I playing? What outcomes can I expect from climate breakdown? How can I accept that my life depends on the health of the Earth?
Attention: What must I learn about climate breakdown to be an engaged citizen now?
Respect: What is the Earth? What is Nature? Why do some people capitalize these words? Where’s the “sacred” in all of this? How is all life sacred?
Investment: What must I learn to make a difference about climate breakdown? How can I choose wisely about my impacts? What’s the highest and best use of my life now to help the Earth and all its life? How can I use my actions to mitigate the effects of climate breakdown? What can I do now? Where do I start?
Nurturing: What can I do about the fear, anxiety, and grief I feel all around me about climate breakdown? How can I care for myself at this time? How can I care for other humans? How can I care for greater-than-human Nature? How can I experience the care that Earth offers back to humans during this time of climate breakdown?
Gratitude: How can I delight in Earth’s beauty and power even as I face the harsh realities of climate breakdown?
When we take One Earth Moment, we listen before we speak. In this simple ritual, we stop momentarily and consider the impacts of whatever activity we’re involved in on the living Earth. In this “time-out” period, we align our intentions with those of the living Earth. In that moment, we commit ourselves to engaging in activities to heal the Earth.
Here’s an image that captures our commitments in One Earth Moment:
When we take this opportunity to reflect on the health of the Earth, we acknowledge the dimensions of the climate emergency and the urgency of protecting Earth’s health. We accept that every initiative we take affects the health of the Earth. And we agree to work together to cooperate to enhance the health of the Earth.
This simple exercise can help us keep the importance of the flourishing of all life on Earth uppermost and ensure that as we search for “solutions,” we consistently return to the realities of climate breakdown and collapse. It also means that we must listen to the Earth (and those who speak for Earth) before we speak. American planning academic John Forester has reminded us for decades that listening must be the social policy of everyday life.
These types of activities can increase our engagement:
Building social cohesion
Strengthening bonds within our communities can provide a sense of belonging and mutual support in the face of the challenges of climate breakdown. Working together to build resilience and adapt to changing conditions can nurture a shared sense of purpose and solidarity. Finding companionship among those who share our concerns can be comforting and empowering. Joining local environmental groups or participating in online communities allows us to exchange ideas, resources, and encouragement. Having open and honest conversations about climate breakdown with friends, family, and colleagues can help normalize the discussion and inspire ourselves and others to act. Connecting with like-minded individuals and finding companionship can nurture a shared sense of purpose and solidarity.
Advocacy and activism
Taking proactive steps to advocate for sustainable practices and policies can help instill a sense of agency and purpose. Whether through grassroots activism, lobbying policymakers, or supporting eco-friendly initiatives, our actions contribute to the collective effort to protect our Earth.
Embracing Active Hope in the face of adversity
Following these steps can lead us to Active Hope: We must build our shared future. Fortunately, amid grief’s shadow, a glimmer of hope emerges—a fragile, delicate, active hope that can heal our hearts. Through resilience, adaptation, and a renewed sense of purpose, we discover that Active Hope has the power to transcend even in profound loss. Longtime Buddhist scholar, thought leader, and environmental activist, Joanna Macy, and Chris Johnstone have written a new edition of their book, Active Hope: How to Face the Mess We’re in with Unexpected Resilience and Power (2022). In it they offer concepts, exercises, and imagery to stir the pot of our psyches so we can “face the mess we are in” and rediscover our resilience and creativity.
However, suppose we’re struggling to feel hope, and feelings of climate distress and anxiety become overwhelming and interfere with our daily functioning. Then it’s essential to seek support from a mental health professional. Therapists trained in eco-psychology or trauma-informed care can provide guidance and therapeutic interventions tailored to address environmental-related anxiety and distress.
Active Hope shows us how individuals and communities can navigate feelings of despair and helplessness in the face of global challenges, particularly environmental crises. This concept involves acknowledging the reality of our challenges while maintaining a sense of agency and possibility for positive change. The authors emphasize the importance of taking meaningful action amid uncertainty and adversity.
This inspirational book offers a range of exercises, meditations, and reflective practices to help readers cultivate active hope and resilience. These practices draw on mindfulness, deep ecology, and systems thinking principles to foster connection with oneself, others, and the natural world. Active Hope offers a holistic approach to addressing environmental challenges by integrating inner work with outer action, whereby we can nurture a sense of community and solidarity and cultivate resilience and empowerment in uncertainty. These themes and practices can provide valuable insights and resources for individuals seeking to heal climate distress and anxiety.
Some key themes in the book relate directly to healing climate distress and anxiety:
The Work That Reconnects
This framework, developed by Joanna Macy, aims to help people engage with feelings about the state of the world and find empowerment through action. It consists of practices and exercises designed to reconnect individuals with their inner strength and capacity for resilience.
Four Dimensions of the Great Turning
Daylight, full of small dancing particles and the one great turning, our souls are dancing with you, without feet, they dance. Can you see them when I whisper in your ear? All day and night, music, a quiet, bright reedsong. If it fades, we fade.
—Rumi
Macy and Johnstone’ framework is designed for transitioning from an industrial growth society to a more sustainable and equitable way of life: the “Great Turning.” They explore four dimensions of this transition: holding actions (efforts to resist further harm), structural change (transforming systems and institutions), shifts in consciousness (changing cultural norms and values), and the creation of new paradigms (imagining and implementing alternative ways of living).
The Spiral of Active Hope
These authors also introduce the “Spiral of Active Hope,” a cyclical process that guides individuals through four stages: gratitude, honoring our pain for the world, seeing with new eyes, and going forth. This framework helps us navigate the emotional and psychological aspects of engaging with frightening environmental issues (such as climate breakdown) while maintaining a sense of purpose and resilience.
A wise friend who knows a lot about life and grief sent me this message today:
If we cannot as humans even manage to cooperate sufficiently to stop the needless destruction of human life, then grounds for optimism for our ability to work together for the good of the planet feel like a step too far.
It is beyond grief; it becomes a profound lack of trust in our own kind.
Perhaps we are not meant to survive?
Perhaps we are like lemmings—incapable of not falling over a cliff for whatever cosmic reason?
Within the context of our “success” lies our ending.
When it comes to climate breakdown, we face betrayal like a deep wall with no end.
There is no trodden pathway to be able to accept mass destruction. This is a unique state for us as human beings.
By contrast, another wise woman of the same generation (an environmental philosopher) demands that I not dare to “slip away”. “You cannot give up,” she exclaims. “Inaction is not an option.”
So, what can we do?
A few months ago, when I first allowed myself to confront the depths of the climate breakdown crisis, I was paralyzed following watching Michael Shaw’s powerful film, Living in the Time of Dying (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UftuDAkwM3I).
I only sit and stare out my window. I felt action was not worth it any longer. We’d missed the boat. The fate of Earth rested on my exhausted shoulders. And I had failed the Earth.
I felt it was now too late to save the Earth. I was frozen and powerless. Fortunately, my pessimistic and desperate feelings resolved as I realized the perils of inaction. Now, I firmly believe that inaction is not an option. Even if we cannot save the Earth, we can save ourselves, metaphorically, by putting our energies into healing the Earth and our relationships with Earth.
The Vancouver Heat Dome: My survivor mission
Vancouver, Canada, May 2023
Climatically, things are not well. The weather is crazy. 2023 was Vancouver’s coldest Spring on record. Too cold to sit outside—in mid-May! The wettest summer on record is now predicted for 2024. And today, a derecho event, a long-lived, fast-moving thunderstorm, caused widespread wind damage in Ontario. Like a tornado. Climate breakdown again!
My being trembles with despair.
When I was a young activist, we chanted Think global, act local. On principle, we agitated to prevent climate breakdown’s negative impacts. Now, I am reduced to adaptation. Does that matter? Will my small contribution be enough?
I reflect on the Before Times. In my working life as a community planner, I imagined myself as a bridge or a weaver. I combined community development and technical solutions. Making public housing safer for women. Or applying ecological design principles to parks and playgrounds while still making them fun for kids and restful for older people. I had a full life. I loved the interplay and the spaces in between. But that work ended six years ago with the car crash and Karl’s death, and I’ve faced some big challenges. Not the least was rebuilding my cognitive abilities and my confidence.
I’m surfing on my phone, aware that despair, my evil twin, is stalking me.
I stop to breathe. My friends say I sound stressed. Yep. The Earth is dying, and I feel guilty.
This bloody heat dome.
Poor, vulnerable, older people bore the brunt of it in 2022. It’s always that way: climate breakdown hits poor people hardest. In less than a week, nearly 700 people died in the province of British Columbia, most from heat stroke and heat exhaustion: nearly a 200% increase from the previous year.
I didn’t struggle much during that time. I had one bad night, like the hundreds I’d had in Australia. I used the old Aussie trick. Put a large beach towel on my bed. I soaked another towel and wrung it out. I aimed my fan at the bed and lay down with the wet towel on top of me. I slept for several hours.
If 700 people died, what happened with our emergency services? Swamped! Completely swamped by emergency calls. The emergency services collapsed. Totally! They sent taxis to collect sick people. A fire inspector told me about one desperate family who pushed their grandfather in a wheelbarrow to the local fire station. He died of heat stroke en route.
I turn back to my phone. I must do something.
On the Web, I find two clever suggestions from the City of Vancouver: (1) turn apartment lobbies and lounges into temporary cool rooms for older or vulnerable tenants; and (2) install sprinklers and portable misting outside building entrances. Excellent! I’ll start with the cool room idea. I live in an un-airconditioned 1947 concrete building. Perfect! I bet my neighbors won’t schlepp four blocks to our only “official” cooling center in the community center (whose opening hours are not published anywhere). Anyway, the City advises we should not go outdoors to seek relief during a heat alert.
I think my fragile neighbors would prefer to stay home. Older people can be funny old birds. I bet some will feel shy or hesitant about showing up at a cooling center, even if they know what and where it is. I imagine one older person musing something like this:
What should I expect at the cooling center? What should I wear? What do I need to bring? Do I need special permission to get in? How long can I stay? Do I have to pay? Do I need to prove I live nearby? Do they have bathrooms there? Will I be safe with so many strangers around? Can I sleep there? What about my purse, my medicines, my dentures, my walker, my cane? Can I bring my cat?
I turn back to active hope and review my view, values, and steps. I decide the secret is to stay home and help each other. Care for each other. Soon, I’m dreaming in Technicolor: a cool room for our 65 tenants with a misting spray outside the front door. My partner Chris and I measure the spacious lobby: 370 square feet. I send the floor plan to the fire inspector, a spirited young woman with dark, sparking eyes. She inspects the lobby in my apartment building and gives my temporary cool room an enthusiastic thumbs up. Her senior officers love the idea, too. Currently, it has only two armchairs. No other furniture. She claims that a dozen more chairs will be fine. She’ll make a sign with the permitted occupancy level that we can post. We have a large industrial fan and deck chairs on our rooftop.
No problems with fire egress because we have five ground-floor exits. And to cool us down more, we can stand under a patio misting system that can be easily installed outside our lobby’s front door. (Cost: $28, delivered.)
I’m dreaming in Surround Sound now, imagining old folks sitting around, chatting, laughing, supporting each other, and sharing. Cold drinks, pizza, games… I’ve brought my music system and a cooler. We are sitting together, sharing our fears about what’s happening with our erratic weather. The room sparkles with laughter. We wander in and out of the cool misting spray outside the front door.
My building superintendent, Andy, is a gem of a thoughtful man who eagerly supports my idea. He nods and gives me his laconic grin, and I know we can pull this off together. “Head office must decide, of course,” Andy reminds me. So, I email the property manager in the downtown City office. He’s very senior in this large family-run company with nearly 40 rental properties in metropolitan Vancouver.
That manager refuses.
Point blank.
He spoke to his insurer. My cool room is much too high-risk to even consider for a millisecond. It’s a risk-management nightmare. He has nothing but dire prognostications. Seeing activity in our lobby, homeless people could wander in from the street outside and hurt us, he says. Tenants congregating in our lobby could be trampled to death by their neighbors racing to the main door to escape a fire. (We have five ground-floor exits.) Such a gathering of hot bodies could become a COVID super-spreader event among my most vulnerable neighbors.
And worst of all: “What if someone dies seeking refuge in our cool room? Our company would be legally responsible.”
Later, he writes, “We are not a cooling center. Tenants must remain in their apartments during a heat dome.”
I try a couple of times. And fail. In the spring of the following year, I try again. But the senior manager’s position has hardened by now. Now, I’m worried about retribution.
(If I had a dollar for every risk-averse manager I’ve encountered in 50 years as a planner...)
And I keep trying. I play to my strengths as a community planner. I craft a list of simple “stay cool” guidelines for our tenants. Suggestions like putting ice on your pulse points, setting up a cross-breeze, and freezing your pajamas or a damp towel... If one person who reads them escapes a lonely, terrifying death, I’ll feel vindicated.
I email my tips to the senior property manager in the City office. He quickly replies:
I want to be clear that we are not authorizing you to share your draft notice with our tenants on our behalf, and we don’t intend on consulting you further regarding our notice. Please be advised that this company will not be taking a leadership role in any public health measures or recommendations for our tenants, as doing so would be highly inappropriate and irresponsible on our part.
We are not public health officials nor do we profess to have any expertise in the area.
We are property managers.
Initially, I’m stalled. I feel humiliated and angry. And powerless.
An uncomfortable conversation
Then, I have an uncomfortable conversation with myself.
Where am I coming from?
Where does my hesitancy originate?
Why do I fear that my climate breakdown activism is not good enough?
I remember my career as a community planner. Who cares about writing a few guidelines or encouraging a dozen overheated tenants to sit in a cool room for a few hours? That is not real work! Not real activism.
Blessedly, Rumi’s wise words interrupt my orgy of self-abnegation:
This talk is like stamping new coins. They pile up,
while the real work is being done outside
by someone digging in the ground.
Of course, the real work of climate breakdown is not talk. It’s action, however humble. Hopeful action. It’s about care, about digging in the ground of our lives: community. Sure, I face limits. And I must set my sights high. I must regain my hope. I must show up. I am a climate activist, so I must turn my back on fear and embrace active hope.
And when I look inside my heart, hope is precisely what I find.
This is Engagement. It’s just as valid a Stopping Place like Acceptance, Gratitude, and Forgiveness. It’s my humble service to the Mother.
I email Diane at my activist church. Of course, those wise, community-minded people agree to distribute my “stay cool” guidelines to a congregation overflowing with older folk. I can speak about them at the next meeting. Next stop: Angela at the Red Cross. Their “Friendly Calls” program will distribute them to isolated people. And Susan at the West End Seniors Network. They will publish my guidelines in their next newsletter. I’ve accomplished so much with only three phone calls!
I can go much deeper, much further … The editor of an activist weekly is eager to talk about cool rooms.
Before I can catch my breath, CBC Radio takes up the issue. I do two radio interviews with a prominent journalist about the cool room idea. This program has a wide reach and soon Vancouver Coastal Health and Fraser Health issue a bulletin to landlords and strata managers asking them to relax regulations to permit cool rooms in building lobbies. My Aussie friends chime in sympathetically, explaining to the Canadians how to stay cool in a hot place. Soon, LinkedIn, Facebook, and Twitter are buzzing about cool rooms and “stay cool” guidelines.
Maybe through this Engagement we will save lives after all. I know one thing: to make a difference in this time of collapse, we must understand what caring feels like.
I step away from my desk and walk to my living room window. It’s raining, of course. A vertical curtain of raindrops shimmers. I open the window and breathe in the damp air. Below me, my City sleeps. I breathe in hope. And hope breathes me.
As above, so below: balancing personal and global concerns in addressing climate grief
The phrase “as above, so below” popped into my head as I was completing this chapter. And it will not leave me alone! It reflects the interconnectedness of our individual experiences of personal grief for the loss of a loved one and the broader environmental challenges we face in this climate emergency. Just as environmental degradation affects various systems—air, water, land, and society—our emotions, social norms, and cultural values are intertwined with the pain of climate breakdown. This concept reminds us that our inner struggles often mirror the external world and vice versa.
As we proceed on our grief journey, we may discover parallels with the pain felt by our wounded Earth. As we navigate and rest within the four realms of Acceptance, Gratitude, Forgiveness, and Engagement within ourselves, we must also confront the complexities of climate distress with empathy, resilience, and determination. By acknowledging our sorrow and seeking purpose in our struggles, we can nurture a sense of hope and work towards a sustainable future for generations of all life to come.
When we recognize this connection, we understand the importance of addressing environmental and social factors in our quest for healing. We can contribute to a holistic approach to healing and resilience as we nurture connections with Nature, promote eco-friendly practices, advocate for policy changes, and support community efforts. As we embark on our newly conceived “hopeful” journeys of healing and transformation, may we find solace in our shared commitment to nurture and preserve the living Earth. Let us travel with open hearts on a journey that transcends the boundaries of sorrow and ushers in a narrative of healing, active hope, and a shared commitment to a better, more sustainable future—a future of deep caring for Nature. And may we find solace, build resilience, and stay close to all we love in the face of these challenging changes in our world.
As I become more adept at recognizing these connections, I understand the importance of addressing environmental and social factors in our quest for healing. By nurturing connections with Nature, promoting eco-friendly practices, advocating for policy changes, and supporting community efforts, all of us can contribute to an integrated approach to healing and resilience.
Hopefulness may not be enough
I want to be clear that hopefulness may not be enough to heal the Earth. In my lifetime, so many species have become extinct! There is no reassurance that homo sapiens can escape in this time of collapse. For my part, I’ve been trying to look in the face of grief, to confront its terrifying realities and experience it directly. I am working with others in an online “Collapse” support group to do this.
This week, one of the facilitators of the Collapse group, Michael, asks us: “What if I trusted grief?” His gentle question stops me in my tracks. I felt I had looked grief in the face, made friends with it, and moved on after Karl died eight years ago. I thought I trusted grief. But no, I have more work to do.
And I ask myself:
Who will I be without my loving Earth?
Who will I love if not my loving Earth?
I weep for hours after the online “Collapse” group ritual. And I write this passage as I reflect on my grief journey, my Hold Fast experience of staying connected to all I have lost:
If I trusted grief, I would remember and celebrate grief’s healing balm. In the river and afterward, grief held me in its arms, insulated me from the everyday, and allowed me to deepen and abandon any desire for shallowness. If I genuinely trusted grief, I would remember that my soul was forged into adulthood by my descent into grief’s depths.
Grief showered me with blessings and showed me friendship, tenderness, and compassion in the most unlikely places. Now, grief is offering me an opportunity to be my authentic, grown-up self. Grief is asking me to help another human being who is descending through layers of confusing and unimaginable loss.
If I trusted grief, I would trust myself to hold my loved one close, to tenderly support him as he experiences those losses. If I trusted grief, I would let him lean on me. I would be confident that my strength will suffice because I have been tempered in the forge of grief, strengthened in grief’s crucible. If I really trusted grief, I would release my anger. In its place, I would discover the gentlest compassion for my loved one who is losing aspects of life beyond his imagining...
If I trusted grief, I would trust my capacity to support another without being diminished myself. I would understand another’s grief and know it will replenish my spirit and give me the courage and energy to support them. If I truly, honestly, fully trusted grief, I would abandon my fear. I would see this new unfolding simply as part of life. I would embrace this opportunity and accept it as my karma. I have been preparing for this unfolding for the last eight years.
If I trusted grief, I surrender my resistance and welcome this new grief as my sacred trust.
Throughout history and in many cultures, we find descriptions of Earth as Mother. In the 1990s, as a doctoral student, I read everything I could find by Vandana Shiva. She is an Indian scholar, environmental activist, ecofeminist, and anti-globalization author. Shiva’s writings strongly influenced my thinking—and my feelings—about environmental protection. She says this about Mother Nature:
Nature has been a mother to us, and that’s the metaphor that’s used in all cultures. Earth is a mother. She gives us life. She takes us back into her womb. She holds us. She nourishes us. She’s our larger family. And that’s the metaphor of Gaia, the living Earth. She is our larger body. And just as we would respect our own Mother, we need to respect this larger body that supports us, that gives us life, that takes our breath back, and in the end, accepts us back.
If I trusted my grief, I’d travel with my climate distress to the four Stopping Places we’ve visited in this book. I’d rest deeply in Acceptance, reminding myself that life on Earth is in peril, and I am called, in my elderhood, to embody my understanding of an ethic of caring for Nature. I’d turn my back on denial and fight the temptation to collude with others in denial. I’d accept responsibility for what I and other humans have done to harm Earth.
Moving forward from that Stopping Place, I’d embrace Gratitude. It is ecstatic to sit at the edge of English Bay in downtown Vancouver and watch the seagulls swoop and a family of Canada geese march across the road, stopping traffic for blocks! I am so grateful to be alive. I am blessed that the Mother returned my life to me in 2016 when all seemed lost!
Moving further forward, I’d rest in Forgiveness. What a tricky undertaking that is! A massive challenge for all future beings will be to accept how we, their ancestors, harmed their home. How will they offer us their forgiveness? As I understand and try to be a good ancestor, I must inhabit the realms of Acceptance and Forgiveness.
Finally, I arrive at the realm of Engagement (or Service). Here, I am on familiar territory, crafting simple rituals to beckon the energies of acceptance, gratitude, and forgiveness and redirect them into service to the Mother. I bend to lift a small, round, grey stone from a pandanus basket on my coffee table. That basket was woven by an Aboriginal woman in Maningrida, in Australia’s Northern Territory. I tenderly hold it and pour into it the grief I’m learning to trust. It’s brimming with sorrow as I gently wash it in a glass bowl filled with clear water. That water brims with sorrow as I carefully dispose of it.
Then, I hold my stone in two hands and pour my acceptance, gratitude, forgiveness, and commitment to engagement and service into it. It warms as I hold it. Soon, it’s vibrating. I gently place it on my desk.
And then I pray:
Blessed Mother!
May we hold fast to our trust in grief. May we hold fast to each other. May we find solace in our shared commitment to nurture and preserve the living Earth for generations of all life. May we travel with open hearts on a journey that transcends the boundaries of sorrow and ushers in a new story of healing, active hope, and shared commitment to a future of deep caring for Earth.
May we easily find the Stopping Places we need to replenish our spirits.
And may we find solace, build resilience, and hold fast to all we love while we honor all we have lost.
I believe we will find our way to heal Earth if (and only if) we hold fast to the Mother. At the very least, we can heal our consciousness. I want to be conscious for whatever time I (and Earth) have left. I’m trying the best I can. I’m not giving up. Surrender is not an option. I’m here, committing myself to offer my last acts of service to the Mother. I’m here for Engagement.
There’s no stopping me now.
I hope this book will inspire you to heal grief in whatever form it manifests in your life and the lives of those you love. For my part, I’ll keep singing the climate blues in my outdoor voice.
Let’s sing together.
As a suggestion, here’s a song by the awe-inspiring Canadian folksinger, composer, and guiding spirit, Ferron. She’s my hero. Her song is called “The Cart.” Ferron sings exclusively in her outdoor voice:
If we are lives and souls to keep
If we are love, I hope we do not sleep
I hope we do not sleep
I hope we stay our ground
Hold fast to the Mother as she turns us ‘round.
‘Cause the cart is on a wheel
And the wheel is on a hill
And the hill is shifting sand
And inside these laws we stand
Hold fast to the Mother.
BUY HOLD FAST, BY WENDY SARKISSIAN
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