When February Feels Like May

And a 2/29 lecture on climate anxiety.

Dear One Reading This,

The world is failing.

I can feel despair in the trees. I felt it last week at Serenbe, a purposeful community outside Atlanta where I was teaching. Young sweet gums with their winged stems marched across the slopes in memory of ancient deciduous forests now so long gone that the stumps themselves had crumbled into the ground.

At the start of a path around a lake at Serenbe someone had cut a few sapling sweet gums and left them lying on the ground. The clean horizontal cuts were telltale, although the reason for the trees’ demise wasn’t obvious.

My sadness is bottomless. Long ago I wept when a mulberry tree I loved was cut. I was in college then. I still feel how I crumbled as I watched the old giving tree severed at the root, thundering to the ground.

*

I feel in the world a lack of care. The bricks in the walkway at the general store were chipping away. The parking lot was divided by old railroad ties and piles of large brown rocks. A fire hydrant out by the road had been pushed over by a large vehicle. The guest cottage where I was staying was surrounded by at least five metal shipping containers, the kind people buy for storage units.

In my cottage everything worked. The soap in the bathroom ran out but I was able to find a new bar in a cabinet.

*

The week was lovely. The sixteen writers—seventeen counting me—created a tight and meaningful space to create and listen. We ate together. We breathed together. We walked a labyrinth together. I will miss them.

*

On Friday evening I arrived home right at dusk, which is now closer to 7 than 6, meaning that we are moving again toward longer days, swinging in the cradle of the earth. I fed the horses, who were shocked to see me. I could tell by their faces and the way they stood, hooves together, that they were glad I was home.

I parked my car. It has not moved from where I left it.

Since Friday the weather has been lovely. Sunny. Cool. No mosquitoes.

The lines of daffodils bordering the driveway into the farm are in full yellow bloom. Carolina jessamine fills the treetops in the woods with yellow wildflowers. The reddened maples brighten our gray-brown wetlands. I saw the first hot-pink azalea bloom yesterday out in front of the house.

But this should not be happening in the traditionally frigid month of February. The days should not be this hot. I walk the trails in short sleeves, already keeping to the shade, feeling the heat of summer.

And in the near distance I hear loggers. One of my neighbors is logging again. Someone is always cutting something down. Last week I heard a young woman say, in reference to a forest being cut, that it was being “repurposed.”

*

Stitched through spring! beauty! bright flowers! the garden! greening! is the knowledge that February is the new May. We are in the wrong calendar month. I want to skip forward, the way I do when I can’t get my bank statement to balance, to accept the new figure and move on.

We have one more day of this lovely should-be-freezing month, February, my favorite of all months.

Leap Day is tomorrow. I want a three-month leap, so we can begin anew, to let this, since it feels like May, be May.

I want the logging to end.

Honestly, I want a reset of the entire planet, to start again, with our places fresh and whole, our forests undestroyed, extinct species returned. Human numbers low, developments undone, factories unbuilt. Coal back in the ground, mountaintops back on their mountains. Glaciers unmelting, sea levels unrising. The seasons back in their places, temperatures back in their ranges.

*

Since I turned 62 earlier this month, on my mind is one thing. Given the sadness of the world, what is next for me?

Three things are more important than everything else. They are the driving forces of my life.

A. Saving land.

B. Planting trees.

C. Taking action on the climate.

*

I know that’s why you are here, reading this with me. You want to hear me say this, the exact thing that you are feeling, that you know to be true. I recognize you as a kindred spirit.

The world is failing. No one is immune. We are failing the world.

*

I like it when I decide to walk in the mornings. Don't you?

I like it when my body is strong and works well. I like it when I don’t eat sugar and my glucose level stays regulated and the daffodils are blooming because spring is opening its see-through curtains. I like getting enough sleep. I like when there’s no war. I like when food is plentiful, easy to grow. I like it when everyone seems happy, when things are going well. I like when there’s a place for the poets.

I like it when February feels like February.

Carolina jessamine

Farm Report

My husband Raven has been clearing out winter crops from the garden. He purchased spring seedlings—more cabbage, more broccoli, more lettuce, three kinds of peppers—and has planted them.

Ten pounds of potatoes have been cut into chunks (each with at least one eye) and planted six inches deep in the warming ground.

We’re still eating cabbages, collards, kale, carrots, beets, rutabagas, turnips, and arugula from the garden. It’s in such good shape because we hired Jeannette Boyer to get it in shape last fall, and she did a great job with that.

Our old LeConte pear is leafing out.

The new pup is six months old and 100 pounds. He loves to pull laundry down off the line. So far he’s ripped only one item, a bandanna, but already I’m trying to figure out how to preserve the laundry. We also still have to keep our shoes put away. His mission in life is to remove the insoles from all shoes left untended.

We’re getting eggs again, sometimes ten a day.

A Barred Plymouth Rock on the farm. Photo by Crumbstarz.

Phenology Calendar

Blooming—Carolina jessamine, red maple, wild plum, violets.

Interacting—Eastern bluebirds, yellow-pumped warblers, flycatchers.

Relaxing—the deer are engaging in their familial behaviors. This morning I counted four of them along the northern treeline. One was a yearling.

Mooning—the waning moon has put soft and beautiful colors in the night sky.

Sabbatical

I won’t be teaching courses, online or in person, for the next few months. I won’t be doing the Sunday writing sessions. I’m on sabbatical in order to finish a book on the craft of writing. It will be out by summer, and then I’ll spend some time trying to make sure that the people who want it can find it. It’s a hellabook that I’ve been working on for at least a decade. If you love writing that will change your life and change the world, the book will be for you. I’m trying to include everything I’ve learned about craft, with some of the basics of mystery-seeking as well. At this point there’s no place to order or even pre-order the book, and when that becomes available, you’ll be the first to know. I thank you so much for your support, your care, and your love.

What I’m Reading

Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less, by Greg McKeown

Quotes from the Book

A non-essentialist thinks almost everything is essential.

An essentialist thinks almost everything is nonessential.

If you don’t prioritize your life, someone else will.

If it isn’t a clear yes, then it’s a clear no.

Greg McKeown

How to Cope With Climate Anxiety

Tomorrow night Britt Wray will be speaking at Western University in Canada. You are able to attend online via Zoom, although you’ll need to register.

Britt is a ground-breaking researcher and a growing voice around the mental health effects of climate change.

Thursday Feb 29 - 5-7pm Eastern - Free

In “How to Cope with Climate Anxiety” Britt discusses the emotional and existential effects of living in a warming world—and how we can get through this together. Anxieties surrounding the climate crisis can cause us to burn out, give up, and question deeply personal decisions like whether to have children. Working through these anxieties can unlock a deep capacity to act on climate issues.

Register for the free lecture here.

Photo by Crumbstarz.