Neighbors, have you seen that tweet from earlier this year that goes, “I’m just trying to have a nice time despite knowing facts and information.”?
Sidebar: I’m still calling it Twitter and tweets. (X? Really?) Just like I still call Facebook, Facebook. Meta? Come the fuck on, Mark and Elon. Are billionaires, okay?
Facts and Information
The facts and information are that our planet is in a climate change spiral, and we are likely beyond the tipping points. A new study published in Nature on July 25th says that major ocean currents, like the Gulf Stream, could collapse by mid-century . . . or by 2025. You know—about a year and a half from now.
The ocean off the coast of Florida is 100° F. Scientists are there running “coral mass triage units,” where they are trying to save coral species in temperature-controlled aquariums until the water temperatures are safe for them again. This is to say nothing of the rising temperatures on land, which I’m pretty sure we’ve all noted this summer.
The other big “facts and information” are that humans have caused all this. A special interdisciplinary group of scientists called the “Anthropocene Working Group” has been working since 2009 to find enough evidence to call for a new geological period called the Anthropocene (“human” and “new” in Greek). In plain language, the Anthropocene is the point at which we started to harm our planet.
They found the evidence. At the bottom of a lake in Canada, where very clear sediment layers show the point, around 1950, when humans, as an Earth sciences professor on the team put it, “overwhelmed Earth systems.” (Anybody watched Oppenheimer yet?)
I could go on about all this, right? There’s a sixth mass extinction event occurring right now and forever chemicals in our water and microplastics literally everywhere (Anybody watched Barbie, yet?) . . . .
Afraid to Talk About It
I won’t go on, though, because the truth is that I am afraid to talk about our planet. Despite typically being outspoken about a myriad of issues that I see as harmful to us and our communities, I have rarely spoken up about the environmental crisis we are all facing. It’s not because I’m in denial.
Actually, I’m a staunch and long-time realist. For example, I don’t remember the first time I learned about climate change or understood all the implications of planetary destruction, but I do remember that 18 years ago, when my husband and I were starting to plan for our future, I told him I would not move to Southern California, in large part because I believed the water there would run out in our lifetimes, and I didn’t want us to add to those pressures.
If you are reading this and are also a Southern California resident, please know I am not finger pointing with that example.
Morally Hazardous Decisions
I used the SoCal example because it brings me to the first reason I am afraid to talk about our planet: We, the non-elite, not-ultra-wealthy, probably-not-heads-of-planet-trampling-multi-national-corporations, very-likely-not-leaders-of-globally-powerful-nations-responsible-for-making/enforcing-policy-and-law, individuals, are given only varying degrees of morally hazardous decisions when it comes to our effect on the planet.
I may have decided that not living in Southern California is the right thing regarding environmental impact for me, but I also still drive a gasoline-fueled car. Our housing complex doesn’t have charging stations for electric vehicles (which involve mining metals that have disastrous effects on ecosystems), and maybe folks in Southern California can’t afford to move (moving, by the way, has it’s own environmental impacts). See what I mean? Just varying degrees of morally hazardous decisions. There’s no high ground to be had.
With the exception of outright climate change denialists, some of whom engage in vice signaling their excesses, most of us do our best with very limited “worst and least worst” options. It feels awful, though, like that plastic bottle of coffee creamer (“I’m just trying to have a nice time . . .”) you bought will break down into the exact microplastics that poison the last damn fish in the ocean (“ . . . despite knowing facts and information.”).
I’m afraid to talk about our planet because we’re all morally “on the ledge,” which is precarious.
I’m so sensitive to that precarity because I, like most of you, am painfully aware that there’s no room left for infighting anymore. The hard truth is that we need strong solidarity and cooperation if we’re going to survive. Speaking of survival, I’m scared to say anything that may contribute to another person’s despair. On this moral ledge, we have at least some responsibility in helping others maintain their balance. You get it, right, that this whole paragraph is really just about community care?
Deborah Downer
I’m also afraid to be labeled the Debbie Downer. Remember the last time you felt social disapproval for bringing up a heavy topic at the wrong moment? Maybe you got the “thanks for killing the vibe” look and immediately regretted saying anything. Except, our heavy topic is a rapidly accelerating ecocide. No time, nor good vibe will ever be a match for the weightiness of our collective existence.
Maybe I’m afraid of something more than being a downer, though. Maybe I’m afraid in a more tragic way. Like, the way you aren’t supposed to talk openly about certain things in a dysfunctional family.
Grief
Here's the thing about the topics that aren’t supposed to be discussed openly in dysfunctional families; those topics are avoided because, at their core, is unspeakable grief.
Grief that feels treacherous. Grief that feels slippery. This is probably the biggest reason I’m afraid to talk about our planet. Grief.
Science tells us that avoiding our grief and suppressing negative emotions doesn’t help. It makes things worse. One NIH study showed that “ . . . over reliance on, avoidance strategies may prolong the acute grieving period and contribute to the development of Complicated Grief (CG), a serious and debilitating condition . . .”
Debilitation must be avoided. A brand-new Time magazine article by conservation psychologist (a psychologist who studies the reciprocal relationship between humans and nature), Susan Clayton, gets right at that fact. She points out that not sharing our grief is also communicating to others that there isn’t a problem. But since we all know there’s a problem, not talking about it can cause something called pluralistic ignorance, where people inaccurately believe that everyone else feels differently than they do. Considering it’s our collective existence on the line, not communicating our grief is dangerous.
(Also, considering the definition of a conservation psychologist . . . aren’t all Indigenous people conservation psychologists? Haven’t they been telling us forever that we aren’t a part of nature, we are nature?)
If we don’t take the time to acknowledge openly what we have lost/are losing, it’s going to be very fucking hard to take the next step: accepting what is and doing something about it. There are certainly powerful forces preventing unified action, but we’ve also skipped a step. We are drowning in environmental crisis information, but not taking any time to mourn the not-too-distant, actual drowning of our cities. Avoidance of the grief is causing paralysis.
Grief Relief
That’s not to say we can’t practice grief relief. Grief this big does require breaks. There is a difference between avoidance and occasional relief. Breaks are healthy.
Pause: An extremely profound illustration of grief, so intense that a person is required to seek temporary relief to survive it, is in Season 3 of the TV series, The Great. If you aren’t watching this show, do yourself a favor and watch. Don’t be fooled by the raunchy humor. Incredibly deep truth about the human condition is right underneath.
Remember how I said I am a staunch and long-time realist? The thing that helps me cope, that prevents me from completely sliding into denial, maybe disguised as an overly optimistic Polly Anna attitude, or destructive pessimism, is gallows humor. I take my grief breaks with memes like this:
Facing It Together
I wrote this whole note to you, Neighbors because I’m vulnerably hoping some of you are afraid to talk about our planet for the same or similar reasons. If we all know we’re scared to speak up, candidly sharing our grief may be easier, a burden I believe we are made to shoulder together.
Perhaps we can create a brave space where all the things we still have not explored here can be said:
Like, balancing the need for YOLO in the face of existential threat with the need to restructure our way of life dramatically. Nice times versus facts and information.
Or, how cruel and unforgiveably stupid we’ve been in ignoring Indigenous leaders, who have told us for generations, “we can’t eat money.”
Or, naming that devastating anguish in the center of our chests about what is already gone that we can no longer share with our children and how much more will be lost before our grandchildren are even born. (Should grandchildren be born? What’s the right answer? Nice times. Facts and information.)
Maybe we can safely cry together. Afterall, I’ve been using the word “planet” here, because I am too afraid to use the word we all I knew I meant . . . home.
One Small Thing (for 7/31/23): Do a little googling to identify and read about one Indigineous climate activist. Share information about that person’s leadership with another non-indigineous person in your life. We will not make our way through this without their knowledge, so it’s important to familarize ourselves with them and amplify their work. My share with all of you is Nemonte Nenquimo, a Waoroni Nation leader in Ecuador and co-founder of the Ceibo Alliance. Read one of her messages here.
What do you think? Is skipping grieving preventing acceptance and action? What do you think collective grieving about our environmental crisis would look like?
Beautifully written.
You have succinctly - and humorously - put into words my thoughts about the environment and how I go about my daily life. The fire pollution that drifted down from Canada and realizing that waters off of Florida's coasts are turning into a giant hot tub have scared me more than I cared to admit. Figuring out a way to help in my community feels like a much easier step in the right direction versus how to make change with a global impact. My first step - planting native plants for pollinators.