You know how some days you feel like you're flying high as the sky and others really put you down in the dumps? I'm not really sure what's happening right now, but I get the sense that people are waking up as mother nature speaks her truth. She's done playing games. And we're watching. We're working to survive the storm.
Recently, as I've spoken with friends and family about the woes of tumultuous weather and the toll it's taking on our farmers out here in West Central Minnesota, for the first time I've noticed that about 90% of people respond in the same way: "it's not weird, Emily, it's climate change." For the first time in my life do I feel like I am no longer the minority in not only believing - but knowing - this to be true. I've known about climate change since I was just a little kid. We started talking about it when I was in the 4th grade. Yet I always felt like this little bubble in my little hippie town, constantly at odds with the majority around me.
Today things look and feel different, as the rhetoric around what's happening with the weather is no longer about what's causing things to happen, but how to adapt. We've moved into adaptation phase, which in many ways makes my heart ache, but also means that a lot more people are willing to put money behind doing the right thing when it comes to taking action.
Which brings me to this notion of what it feels like when mother nature heaves. You know that feeling when you puke and your whole body convulses and you just want it to be over? Sometimes it lasts for so long that the next day your entire abdomen is sore from all the work of spewing out whatever didn't belong in there. What's happening now feels like a giant heave. There's been all of these things sort of mixing around and stewing - like when you take a couple of medications that don't mix together - you start to feel the rumbling, and you know it's not going to end well.
I feel like I felt the rumbling since I first started learning about what climate change could look like at its worst. No one ever talked about what it would feel like to be surrounded by death. They just talked about wildfires and tsunamis and flooding and excessive heat. Combine the two, and you've got a recipe for systems change.
It's a bit challenging, though, when the systems that we build weren't designed for change. In many ways, mother nature wants to spur us on to the next chapter in the evolution of our species as mankind. Yet so many of us are holding on to what was, which makes it hard for whatever greatness is on its way.
I write with a heavy heart today in honor of all those who we have lost. Because new systems must be built from what came before it. New knowledge must build on that which came before it. I write in honor of all of those who are in the process of leaving the current body they are in, moving into some other form, universe, life, whatever you believe in. All of those who will die in the coming minutes, months, and years. I write not having one single person in my immediate friend or family circle pass away from COVID-19, yet feeling the mourning and grieving all around me. I write in honor of the farmers out there who put their heart and soul and love and gratitude into the seeds they sow, and watch their plants get washed away, burnt by chemicals, bolt to seed, and damaged by hail. I feel your pain deep within me, even if I may not have experienced it myself.
I think they might call that empathy...haha or maybe I'm just learning to tap into my feminine side, but whatever the case, I want you to know that you are not alone. There are so many of us out there who are experiencing the same casualties - of plants, of loved ones - and we're fighting the pain, too.
We're taking deep breaths and wiping away tears and getting up in the morning to put our passion into another day. We're smiling harder than we ever have because we're not sure when someone is going to make us laugh that hard again. We're savoring every. Last. Golden moment. Because they're not to be taken for granted.
I've done a lot over the last year or so to build up my own support systems. I meditate daily, I have a pretty decent exercise routine, I fill my free time with inspiring podcasts and read books about topics that motivate me to do great things in the world. But not every day is a good day. I have an amazing boyfriend who reminds me of this with the calmness and sincerity and kindness that only comes from having lived through a lot of shitty days. And then experienced great ones right after. I am so grateful for his reminder that I don't have to be perfect. I shouldn't be. And neither should anyone around me. In fact, we are all perfect in our imperfections.
In a call I was on today the speaker shared a story about her experiences running a business and being the strong, successful leader she thought everyone expected her to be. In the process, she avoided facing the grief and loss of identity that came from relocating so often, losing family, and not having a real sense of place. She said something that made me break into tears, because I don't think I tell it to myself often enough - "It's okay to not be okay." I write this because I want you to know it, too. To feel it so deeply within yourself that you feel the same sense of relief that I did when I heard those words. The expectation of happiness and fulfillment 24/7 isn't realistic, and it isn't real. Be kind to yourself, in every way you can, no matter what forces may feel like they're tearing you apart.
I promise you, there is something amazing on the other side. You just have to have faith that it's there.
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