Episode 25: Lilac Love
Hi everyone, I hope you’re doing as well as you can be today. Our poem and episode this week discuss climate change anxiety, grief, outrage, sadness, frustration, and the myriad of emotions that come up when we’re worried about our planet. Most importantly, my hope for this episode is that it conveys the message that making space to feel nature’s pain is love, and love is the prerequisite for just about anything. Feeling this openly and outwardly is necessary—in the witnessing of climate change or any other loss of life—and not a sign that you’re not doing enough, fighting hard enough, or coping well enough. It’s a sign that you’re willing to be changed. And our willingness to be moved and changed is a powerful catalyst.
I’ll share it with you now:
Today I went for a long stroll
down a steep street—
I’d seen fresh-faced lilacs
here just last week.
Down the hill I walked past
their soft mauve, safe
in gardens, framing fences,
carefully cared for.
But, as if their smell—
which very well might be their soul—
could be rescued,
the ones I wished to breathe in were further
down down down
the same slope of cracked road,
across the street
from another type of plant—
one that smokes through a hole
in it’s headless cement neck
as thick as a giant’s—
and on the corner of a new street
labelled with whiteboards
guarded by bulldozers.
When I arrived, the darlings were dead—
brown paste on the sidewalk
mixed with construction gravel
damp from morning dew.
I just stood there, trying not to
let embarrassment overtake
the heartbreak
on my face
as people passed by me.
I took the deepest possible breath
hoping
to not only stifle a cry,
but to smell these lilacs
one last time.
My chest heaved the air—
we feel grief
when any life is cut short.
And then there is
anger, shame, loss, guilt,
hopelessness,
fatigue.
And I remember
that lilacs aren’t native to North America.
I feel this for a bit—
try to bite and chew it off
the insides of my cheeks—
having grown up
loving their purple ponytails
walling off
my grandmother’s neighbours.
But are they invasive
if they were brought here,
and then only ever fought
to survive,
be beautiful,
and smell heavenly?
I think of the top half of this road—
residential—
and the bottom half—
industrial—
and how now I must
climb climb climb
back up the pedway to the homes
with ceramic tinsel:
blue birds, turtles, and owls, nestled into
manicured, mowed lawns, silent and still.
It isn’t they who speak
these words
to their fleshy counterparts:
please come back
and spend time here—
we’re friends—
knowing they’re place holders
knowing these animals
may never return here.
This is so much more than focusing on
climate change initiatives
sustainable habits like recycling
composting consumerism
writing or calling legislators
reducing meat
growing vegetables and trees
changing commuting practices
donating
taking breaks from news feeds
finding supportive people
and even
spending time in nature.
It’s about remembering
our belonging with
the astonishing, dynamic, brilliant lives
with dialectical language, communication,
community, and full-body minds
whose multi-million-year-old child
is our habitable atmosphere—
our every breath.
We are their handiwork—
they are not decorative
doilies or green garnish
for our dinner plates.
And though it’s true
that when we fight for their life
we fight for our own,
flowers have fought for our life
more fervently and for much longer
than we have ever fought for theirs
and what that makes you feel,
even if just recognition
of their will to turn toward light,
is love.
And it’s always the first step anyway.
So feel it. Weep. It’s okay.
Breathe the words in. What do they make you feel or think? How did they connect with your senses? What colours or symbols did you notice? What meaning did you draw? Metaphors? Interpretations? Clarity? Messages?
