A moment in my sit spot: A season of grief
Photo credit: Pixabay
It is cold and damp today. Much the same as every day this week, really. The difference is, although there is certainly the promise of rain (with a sky that looks like a jar full of cotton balls), it is not currently raining. Instead, the city is glazed in ambient light delivered by a muted sun.
For some moments, I watch in fascination as bronzed leaves dance lethargically in a seemingly careless breeze. They flit this way and that and I find myself envious of their experience. This sort of synchronous gliding, as if the air was textured enough to walk on—and wouldn’t I love to, with the grace of a ballet dancer, pas de chat through the sky on my toes!
Now, when I look over the world of my sit spot, I see more than just leaves dancing. Like an ensemble cast, the local environment moves to some unknown (at least to me) symphony. The wind, the conductor, instructs not only leaves, but branches, blades of grass, bushes, the water that makes up puddles in the street. Indeed, not even I am exempt from this. My hair, a nest of brown waves and twists, is also swept up in this music. It is a reminder to me that I am a part of, not separate, from this world. It is a grateful reminder—just like these moments are bathed in gratitude. It is a prompt to take a moment and pause; to breathe. And these beings—the more than human—are just as much teachers as my human ones.
So, what did they have to teach me today? An age-old lesson, for sure. One, that, I require constant reminders of. Especially around this time of year.
Regarding the world through the eyes of other.
It is such an interesting time of year. When I say this, what I mean is, just as Spring is somewhat the herald of new life and growth, I feel the fall to be a celebration of death. A reminder of the impermanence of life or the cyclical nature of all things. So, I take a moment to see it mirrored in my natural surroundings.
The sidewalks remain splattered with leaves. Now, their colour is closer to a reddish-brown rather than the vibrancy often seen at the beginning of fall. The tree directly in front of me resembles ground zero of some sort of explosion, as leaves are haloed around the base of the trunk. Yet, there remains a handful of leaves continuing to cling on to their branches. Not quite ready for change. Not quite ready to let go and free fall. I can relate to this. There is no telling where they will end up if they let go.
The wind is up, it brushes through branches like the teeth of a fine-toothed comb. It whispers a promise to each leaf in turn. A promise of adventure. One final adventure before it finds its final resting place. This could mean falling straight to the ground and nestling amongst hundreds of other fallen brethren. Or, somewhere entirely different. Somewhere far off. Far away. Somewhere new. The trick is the choice of the two is not open for discussion. Such is the spontaneity of life. What choice is available is simple, however. You (in this case the leaves), can choose to stay in the world that you know by continuing to cling on to the branch that grew you. Or you can choose to leave it. Jump into the void of the unknown. Only one way—like those leaves—will lead to new growth.
Let me gather my thoughts.
So, in this case, loss, although sad and worthy of tears and sadness, also leads to growth and new life. These leaves will die, but the memory of them will encourage new growth. There is praise in that, which is why grief and praise go hand in hand.
To further dismantle this thought, loved ones that I have lost are gone, and my sorrow—like the fall—requires space to reflect. I am allowed a season of grief, just as all the seasonal life around me requires this transitory time.
To deconstruct again further, these thoughts, as environmental communicators, it is not about turning away from the sorrows of our world (loss of habitat, excessive deforestation etc.). It is actually about looking at and acknowledging those losses—mourning them. Using the above as an example, acknowledging and making space for what we have lost is really the only way that we can turn a loss-frame into a grain-frame. Like yin and yang, we must accept the darkness to fully enjoy the light or, as Marilyn Krysl said, “The moon knowns that if you deny the dark, you make a mockery of the light.”
Not bad insight for a handful of leaves, eh?
Mallory,
I really appreciate that quick turn at the end, where you bring the science (loss frame to gain frame) into your observations of the world. Allowing what we observe in the world (such as at our sit spots) to inform our understanding of the science humanizes our work in a way that reporting data can rarely capture. And here, with the recognition of the relationship between grief and gratitude I suspect you are coming to one of the key levers in climate action, that it is difficult to fight for what you don’t notice or aren’t aware of, or can’t feel (as Kimmerer constantly reminds us). So the question becomes, how can we help people pay attention? How can we help them bear witness?
Thanks,
Shandell
Mallory – I love your insight about wind making us feel a part of nature. I don’t think I ever feel quite so alive as when the wind is whipping through my hair.