“The most radical thing any of us can do at this time is to be fully present to what is happening in the world.”
Joanna Macy
Against the backdrop of ticking climate disruption, we slowly take off our masks and quickly try to respond to the realities of war. Our emotions, our physical strength, our patience, our relationships, as well as our wallets and our comfort are being tested. Where do we find resources and hope? Pain and wisdom run through our entire history, often like inseparable sisters.
We haven't even had time to accept the presence of environmental grief yet, and then came the grief of death, loneliness, and the emptying of life by such a big little virus. We haven't even completely taken the masks off our mouths yet, and tears are already flowing into them for the dead from Ukraine. Isn't it too much? Isn't it enough? Isn't it too much?
For a long time, Ukraine was on the edge of our attention. On the edge of Europe, on the edge of our interest, because on the edge of what our security and the warmth of Russian gas reached. The region has spilled into the center of our world, our attention. It is no longer a region, its voice can no longer be avoided. And those who find that voice foreign and unpleasant because it is incomprehensible and disturbing are speaking out again. That voice wants something from us. It wants attention and action. And to top it all off, compassion and deep reflection. It is no coincidence that these voices intertwine with voices that want to return to the Green Deal, a green challenge that is somehow meaningless now, in the context of war. We are not able to solve all the challenges at the same time. We have to choose. These voices resonate in each of us. They are unmistakable voices of the desire for certainty, security, for some degree of predictability of the shape of the future world and the shape of our lives in it. Because if we lose everything in one moment, what will we have to lean on?
Returning to environmental grief, to the topic of the climate crisis, to the sadness that our nature and our world are irreversibly changing, we can perhaps be surprised to note that a lot of work has already been done here. For decades, deep-sea ecologists have been digging up the graves of our certainties in a funereal way, so that we can say a ceremonial and profound farewell to them. They have called out just as intensely and just as hopelessly as those who have warned of various security risks that are gradually turning into risky, brutal and murderous acts. The same funereal work was done for us by the Tibetan sages in ancient times. They teach us to die to life and to dissolve the strength of the four elements that so tangibly and at the same time fleetingly hold our bodies together. But who would hear the strange prayers of helpless old men amid the rumble of Chinese tanks and the loudness of political speeches?
Joanna Macy, one of those deep ecologists who is in a state of departure due to her age, brought us the concept of the spiral of active hope. It is fundamentally very simple and draws inspiration from both the aforementioned Buddhism and systems thinking. And it is not just a concept, but rather a daily practice that cultivates active hope that is not based on naivety and neglect. It is an active hope that is as wide towards the world as the world can be. It is based on the fact that the degree of our strength is proportional to the degree of our sensitivity. In other words, it is a hope that calls for not overlooking the edges and forgotten regions. It is a hope that teaches us not to let anything just be, because with every harm I allow to be done to myself, I harm my sensitivity and ability to connect. The hope we are talking about here is based on a deep experience of sadness, rage, anger and helplessness. It can even be as deep as the universe itself. It is no coincidence that the following description of this necessary grief and regret is provided by a cultural historian and astrologer. Perhaps in his attempt to see the depth of history and the universe, Richard Tarnas is able to connect with words that would perhaps sound too apocalyptic or pathetic from the mouths of others:
"I believe there will be a fundamental experience of regret—and we know that this is a necessary element in the experience of death and rebirth—a long regret, a constant weeping, grief, and mourning. It will be a grief of masculinity for femininity; of men for women; of adults for what has happened to children; of the West for what is happening in every other part of the world; of Christianity for pagan and indigenous peoples, Jews and Muslims; of whites for people of color; of the wealthy for the poor; of human beings for animals and for all other forms of life. It will be our own grief for the shadow and for the ignorance in our relationship to others that plagues even the best of us, including our revered ancestors and teachers. It will be a fundamental metanoia, a self-transcendence, a radical sacrifice to make this transition happen.”.1Richard Tarnas, “Is the Modern Mind Undergoing a Rite of Passage?”. In: Prostor 86 review, June 2010, p. 119.
We have just recently experienced nights that, with their magnitude, remind us of the same story every year. And we don't have to be believers in the literal sense of the word not to feel that we can cry together for that small, lost, damned real and lonely person who somehow screwed up and still does, and who each of us is, and at the same time somehow feel the closeness of a person who does not ignore the signals and messages of the world. Who is somehow bigger, somehow more than just ourselves. Somehow beyond the boundaries of our bodies, beyond the edge of our own skin.
The text was originally written for the magazine Nový prostor.