I’ve been stuck on the problem of climate change. I can’t not think about it. I find myself circling on the same ideas, fill odd hours of the night and conversations with empathetic friends.
Together we are holding the tragedy of what we do, and are. Holding my complicity in it. My inaction. Looking at the series of unfolding catastrophes that stretch from the the recent history history: the Pakistan flood, the fires across the West coast of the United States, the series of floods and droughts in Africa, and from these events, projecting into the unknown of the future. We know the trajectories, but not the specifics. It is immense. Overwhelmingly big.
I think through writing. The process of setting things in words on the page sparks new ideas. Perhaps, unexpected combinations will emerge. In sharing it might lead to conversations, but it’s enough to get the ideas out somewhere where they can rest.
At the core of this, is a deep yearning to be active. To be connected and in-community, to find a sense of shared activity in the face of the climate crisis. Faced with all of this overwhelming uncertainty, action feels like something to anchor myself too. For me, this writing is part of the process of shifting into that active mode.
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