I checked the weather for tomorrow to prepare for my errands.
I smiled. It will be in the fifties for most of the day.
And then I remembered that it’s mid-November.
And nearly began to cry.
What's Snow?
I work with kids and teens who have never seen snow, or if they have, it was a collection of flurries that was gone by the next day.
They’ve never known the thrill of a snow day.
They don’t understand what it means to dream of a white Christmas or walk in a winter wonderland.
These are kids who would have been caught in huge snowstorms even thirty years ago.
And the fact that they might never have that experience makes my heart ache.
I grieve not just for the loss of snow, but for the loss of childhoods.
The Generation Gap
I could (and perhaps will) write an entire post on the inability for generations to understand one another and the hostility that people, especially Americans, seem to feel towards other generations.
However, one could argue that in the case of climate change, the younger generation's strong feelings are justified.
Two years ago, one of my middle schoolers was especially irritated with the world. He was watching the Ukraine war begin and the rainforest burn. As an eleven-year-old, he was truly struggling with how to live with that reality.
At first, I said, “Let the grown-ups worry about things like that,” but after the grown-ups didn’t respond well, that reassurance lost its potency. Finally, one day, I said the equivalent of, “But your generation will do better. You all will be able to change things that my generation couldn’t.”
He snapped, “But why should that be our responsibility? Why do older people just get to leave a mess for us to clean up?”
I commiserated with him. He was right; saving the planet shouldn’t be required of him any more than it’s required of the rest of us.
He’s grieving because he’s watching the world burn; I’m grieving because of the collective irresponsibility of adults placing this much pressure on a tween.
He’s not the only student I have who feels this way. Elementary, middle, and high school students are all angry that they’re inheriting a world filled with destruction.
And void of snow.
Nature and Self-Care
No one can claim ignorance as to how we can help the Earth. We’ve been told repeatedly what we should do as individuals, what countries should do, what corporations should do, what industries should do…
But after I’ve done all the things of which I’m capable, I walk away from that conversation. If I spent time worrying about whether world leaders would hold one another accountable on carbon emissions or industry leaders would take proactive steps, I wouldn’t have the cognitive and emotional resources to reassure my terrified teens.
Some people label my attitude as apathic or callous, but to me, it’s boundary-setting. I don’t worry about things over which I have zero control.
And yet… Those moments when I see it’s 55 degrees in November, when I remember that child rightfully snapping at me, when I think of kids who possibly will never witness snow… How can I cope with that?
My first option is to see the autumn leaves as a dark reminder of this reality. I can remember the beauty of being a child out of school for nearly two weeks due to a heavy snow in October, and I can become locked into the spiral that I am unlikely to experience that bliss again.
And that option definitely speaks to me, but it’s only depression disguised as nostalgia.
Conversely, I can go outside and appreciate that the leaves are no longer green, that the Earth is trying to continue its cycle, and that this is its own type of beauty. I can listen to the scampering squirrels and feel the cool air fill my lungs with possibility.
I can stretch, perhaps do a few minutes of gentle yoga, and find my balance.
Today, I chose the second option.
Other days, I might have visited the park or walked down a path close to my house that is rarely traveled. It’s not quite as formal as walking meditation, but it’s close enough for me.
It allows me to reconnect with nature.
To reunite with my breath.
To embrace the good that remains in the small, quiet moments.
Sometimes, I run down the paths like a small child, laughing and letting the dead leaves crunch beneath my feet. I apologize to the annoyed deer, thank the wind, and if a stranger sees me, I simply smile.
Because the protruding roots didn’t trip me.
The wildlife didn’t attack me.
And the sounds of humans didn’t interrupt me.
Nature let me stay awhile and share in its unconditional love.
Choosing (In)Action
Instead of going outside for a moment of mindfulness, I could have stayed inside and worked. Today was busy, and it begged for my attention.
But taking a break isn’t a weakness.
It’s finding those precious moments to refocus on glimmers.
And by taking those few minutes to refocus, to find my center, I haven’t shirked work. I’ve given myself the opportunity to have a good night, and to go to bed feeling better about the world.
By allowing myself that pause, I recharge enough to validate teenagers’ feelings when they’re scared, angry, or listless.
Sometimes we forget: Inaction is action.
Sometimes, I hear people call painting and gardening hobbies, or they dismiss yoga, hiking, and stretching as something extra that we allow ourselves to do. In the worst moments, they see meditation, writing, or collaging as a distraction or an excuse to ignore our responsibilities.
But none of that is true.
The truth is that these activities are how we cope with the world around us, and how we grow in our grief journeys. Whether the grief is from the loss of a loved one or because our kids may never see snow, it’s all grief.
And somatic activities can guide us through our wandering.
Practicing Together
LIGHT Movement offers a broad range of classes to help individuals connect with others and form a sense of community. Whether you find comfort in sketching, yoga, or hiking, you’ll likely find a group of people who find hope in that activity too.
On Saturday, December 21, 2024, LIGHT will host our second annual A Night to Illuminate Grief. This event brings people together, allowing us to experience a night of compassion and support.
It is a night full of glimmers.
Consider taking a break, and join us.
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