Who doesn't like to wake up on a summer day when the weather is fine? ME!
Oh, I exaggerate. Yes, I get up and repeat my mantra, "Another lovely day!" as I open the window blinds to let in the sunshine. And I thank our Maker that I'm here to see the sky and the trees and the forest and feel the breeze and marvel at an eagle soaring overhead. We are so lucky to live here and it has been an ideal summer. But inside, I am screaming, "Why doesn't it RAIN?!?!"
We got back to BC after 20 years away with the memory in my brain from when we lived here, once upon a time, when ALL IT DID WAS RAIN. Relentless, soggy days that only subsided in August when the sun would come out for one whole lunar phase, and then it would rain again. I loved that drippy climate. This is the Rain Forest after all. Or it used to be. We haven't had significant precip since May.
"There's been a change in the weather. There's been a change in the sea," goes the old song, "From now on there'll be a change in me." That change in on our formerly "Wet Coast" is the stark reality of climate change and I'm freaking out about it.
I had heard about "eco-anxiety" and so I looked it up on the internet. It's a thing. Health professionals are reporting an alarming increase in cases of climate change-induced angst. Seems I am not alone. Perhaps you have it, too. A lot of people are in deep despair over how to save the planet, reporting to their therapists utter frustration over the lack of action at the highest levels (where it might count for something); panic-striken that we will all soon be toast. Not the cheeriest of thoughts! (Sorry to be Debbie Downer in my "humour" blog.)
The majority of articles on the subject of How to Overcome Your anxiety About Climate Change, repeat the same prescription over and over again. You'll feel better if you take action in your own little corner, they say. Drive less. Eat only plants. Take shorter showers. Recycle. Give up plastic. Blah, Blah, Blah. All good things, but not much help to calming the frantic among us.
I already have OCD about recycling. I switched from grocery store plastic bags to reusable, mesh bags for gathering veg and fruit. I am a friend to bees. The Mr. and I are even talking about replacing our lawn with an eco-friendly landscape.
Even with all that, there's only so much a person can do. Bamboo toothbrushes, for example? Just too goofy.
But some action is better than none. Right? Have these activities reduced my nerves about Nature? No!
That's the thing. These small measures seem so insignificant when the Amazon is burning, the glaciers are melting, and the Western Red Cedar forest here in BC is slowly dying. Again, sorry to be such a bummer.
But wait! One article I read did give me some hope. The take-away from it is this: A.) accept the human condition that we will all be dust one day. Seriously, this is a comforting thought in the "live for today, because who knows about tomorrow" context. And, B.) pursue an environmental initiative that makes sense to you. You could become an activist, like that impressive teenager from Sweden. Or you could aggressively lobby politicians. Or, this caught my attention: you could make art.
How can that help, you ask? Here's how: focussing on art-making brings you into the present (thus relieving the anxiety) so you become conscious of the beautiful day — or the rain, whenever it comes. And, this is where it gets interesting, your art might speak to someone else.
Here's a great example: when I was in Fine Arts at university in the 90s, my printmaking professor said that her work was about our relationship with nature, particularly at the intersection of art and science. An amazing installation she did in a gallery rotunda consisted of hundreds of large lithographs on paper, hung from the high atrium ceiling right down to the floor, totally surrounding the viewer, fixed only by the top edges so that they fluttered and activated the space. The images depicted the myriad microscopic organisms that live in soil. Invisible to us except under powerful microscopes, these wondrous, tiny beings were brought to our attention by her art. It opened my eyes. I have never looked at "dirt" in the same way again — everything is teeming with life.
So, the weather has changed, and so has the sea, but "the change in me" is trying once again to face the blank canvas. And to stay in the present, aware, absorbing what is all around and still beautiful. And when I moan about dying trees, the Mr. points out to me, "Yeah, but look at the ones that are alive."
