Time, it seems, is moving in strange ways for many of us. A colleague recently said, “mourning, reckoning and activism all seem to require different speeds,” and I’m grateful to her for that. I’ve often thought that the “gear-shift” between my paid work and the unpaid beautiful work of mothering feels like a rusty old manual car that I don’t quite understand how to drive. Lurch. Clunk. Add to that combination of work and parenting the immanent collapse of the world one was raised in, and there is a lot more grit than just clunky gears.
The thing is, the world isn’t changing: our illusions about “the west” are finally being pulled down, and with it, our perceptions of time.
When I was last able to visit the UK, where I lived for nearly 18 years, and which I consider (in confusing and complex ways) my home, one of my oldest and dearest poetry friends was in the midst of a family difficulty outside the scope of their usual experience. When Mick was 80, his sister, Quaker activist Gaie Delap, had been imprisoned for action against climate change. At the time of my visit, Mick and the rest of the family was in the midst of getting her case into the media as much as possible, because Gaie was supposed to have a tag fitted that allowed her to be in home detention, but for months, a tag could allegedly not be found.
The point is, the UK government spent time and money imprisoning a 78-year-old woman trying to protest against governmental failures around climate change, because her heart is breaking for her grandchildren. And the government would rather put her in prison than do a damn thing to curtail climate change.
Sitting across from Mick and crying with him about his sister who was in prison, who was suffering ill effects to her mental and physical health due to the conditions there, was humbling for many reasons. Here were the elders I was longing for, the intergenerational grieving and fighting for justice that I’d been wondering about. I love that many people in their generation are fighting, and moreover – psychologically and perhaps spiritually more important – I appreciate their acknowledgment of the pain and suffering that is impacting us all. They are suffering it, too, and they are also fighting. They are grieving, openly. There is solidarity in that.
I, and many of us from inherited Puritanical backgrounds, are not taught to express grief. Stoicism was upheld as much more laudable, but we’ve learned, often the hard way, that damming the river only causes it to burst the banks somewhere further downstream. Think of this generationally. As writer-activist adrienne maree brown writes: “This palpable, active, ongoing grief is a non-negotiable part of this period of immense change. Grief is one of the most beautiful and difficult ways we love. As we grieve we feel our humanity and connection to each other.” Solidarity in grief creates connection, community and spirit, that keeps us going. There are many cultures and communities that have been doing this long before I began to realise it, but I’m grateful to come to it, finally.
Importantly, acknowledging the interconnected collapse and brutality of western settler-colonialism, capitalism, the military-industrial complex, genocide and climate change does not mean an individual has to feel like it is their fault. Yes, we can do better. We can always “fail better”, as Beckett writes. But the tricky bit here is that if one feels it is their fault, they often react antagonistically – they pull back. They shut down; don’t want to talk about it: “it’s not my fault”. Instead, I suggest we all grieve. Find others with whom it is safe to grieve. As Joshua Schrei says in The Emerald podcast, sit with your neighbour and breathe, together. Feelings of reactivity create severance. But, looking at Joanna Macy’s writing, grief is an integral part of activism. So is gratitude. Think of a set of scales, perhaps: grief on one side, gratitude on the other. Activism sits in the middle.
And what is activism, we might ask? It’s taken me a while to understand that it comes in many forms. I hope, in some small way, this writing is activism. The millions of people out on the streets, across the world, civilians marching, together, waving flags and protecting their neighbours, or speaking out in support of people across the world whom they’ve never met: this is also activism. And grief. Sitting with your friend, or your mother, or your neighbour, and grieving. The time it takes will ebb and flow in unfamiliar ways: allow it. Feeling the pain and complexity, together – that is activism, too.
