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1964

Abstract

It’s not cold enough for late October.Third, our kitty doesn’t want to be out here. It’s too smoky. He knows something is up. We human beings often hide from our senses or hide our own instincts from ourselves. This is how people are able to deny we are in crisis, but animals and plants cannot.We are able to put on the television, and distract ourselves to a greater, more filtered, controlled air, atmosphere.The fourth little dent in the chest is the haze. Clear nights are gorgeous here, and although we have had a few over the summer, you can no longer count on seeing the stars, and asking the Greek gods up there for inspiration or advice.<h2 id="4b76">Health, despair, and keeping hope alive</h2>Obviously, whether your mental ailment is denial, fighting over the midterms, being assaulted by climate grief, or just mourning the lost yesterdays we shall never see again, it’s tough. Physical health is more and more challenging, as air quality across the west exacerbates any respiratory, or opportunistic viruses, or parasites.I am also aware of floods, hurricanes, extinctions, wars, economy, supply chains— and well — everything that you are.Yet, I have hope.I am not a techno-optimist. I am not a psycho-social optimist. I am not a let’s ‘shower this whole thing with more rainbows and sunshiny faces’ type of optimist. I am not an optimist about the greed and consumption that got us here. I am not a “youth can save us” optimist. Or world leadership.What does that leave? I am an ‘all-of-the-above’, and if EVERYBODY does all they can optimist. Yes, we need technology, education, and innovation. Yes, we need to adjust our consumption not to sacrifice, but to value what is real and connecting. Yes, we need some positive hope, but not denial. Yes, we need more from our leaders # Options and politicians. Yes, we must drive out the rascals who bristle at unreasonable demands such as the very idea of having a sustainably habitable planet. Yes, we need the young, but also the old. We need left, right, center, and breathing people. The idea of blame game and in-fighting smells as bad as these dead molecules wafting through my lungs.We do not need all eight billion people to activate daily, but we do need them to care.<h2 id="bc39">The scorching truth is we are vulnerable</h2>Like all people, when the smoke is bad and I can no longer view the incredible geologic beauty, wild diversity, and healing resilience of nature in the Cascades, I am heartbroken.Yet, as a mental health professional, I know this warning pain is for a good reason. Doubt also can be a constant companion, as being skeptical, especially about your own belief system, is drilled into me like a safe hollow for a squirrel or bird to hide in during a controlled burn.The truth is, I do not know how we will survive. If we heat it up and really feedback loop our way to hell here, I do not know when, or how many sapiens will be left to rebuild our part.If you are like me, you feel all kinds of feelings, from furious to sad, from nauseous to shortness of breath. There is fear. There is hope.I do know my heart suffers for the suffering, which at this point, is still mostly borne by the forests, grasslands, and inhabitants. In that they are more powerless than us, I grieve for that. I only hope we can begin to appreciate we are not separate from them as much as we think.The loss of the land I grew up in is heavy. The searing pain of the smoke and heat comes and goes. But I humbly ask for your support, patience, compassion, understanding, and more, as I hope I can offer all of mine to all of you — all of us — who are hurting.</article></body>

The Fire Smoke Is Bad And I Got Depressed

My husband has respiratory issues, and we all feel the heat of the days we all are living in now

ROARING RIVERS

Formerly Very Unpopular Strong Opinions Blog by Christyl Rivers

Fire in the hole

Check out a wildfire, fire weather map of the Pacific Northwest today.

There is a growing hole in my heart. Every night, as we prepare to be ready for bed we have a routine. Turn off devices. Check kitty food and water. Brush teeth. Take Kitty cat out for potty. Look at the stars. Get chilled. Come back inside.

The first heart gouge comes in the inhalation of smoke. Smoke has come and gone for weeks and weeks. Little to no rain. The acrid smell stings the eyes, bites the tongue, tastes like death, and shortens our breath.

In fact, I know that what we are breathing is the particulate matter of dead trees, their inhabitants, their microcosms, and their macrocosms. In short, we inhale the beautiful and abundant life we once knew as the Pacific Northwest.

The second little drill-hole to the heart involves knowing it should be cooler than it is. It’s late October. I grew up near here; I Layered so many sweaters and coats over my Halloween fairy and/or witch costume, I was probably mistaken for the Stay Puft marshmallow.

It’s not cold enough for late October.

Third, our kitty doesn’t want to be out here. It’s too smoky. He knows something is up. We human beings often hide from our senses or hide our own instincts from ourselves. This is how people are able to deny we are in crisis, but animals and plants cannot.

We are able to put on the television, and distract ourselves to a greater, more filtered, controlled air, atmosphere.

The fourth little dent in the chest is the haze. Clear nights are gorgeous here, and although we have had a few over the summer, you can no longer count on seeing the stars, and asking the Greek gods up there for inspiration or advice.

Health, despair, and keeping hope alive

Obviously, whether your mental ailment is denial, fighting over the midterms, being assaulted by climate grief, or just mourning the lost yesterdays we shall never see again, it’s tough. Physical health is more and more challenging, as air quality across the west exacerbates any respiratory, or opportunistic viruses, or parasites.

I am also aware of floods, hurricanes, extinctions, wars, economy, supply chains— and well — everything that you are.

Yet, I have hope.

I am not a techno-optimist. I am not a psycho-social optimist. I am not a let’s ‘shower this whole thing with more rainbows and sunshiny faces’ type of optimist. I am not an optimist about the greed and consumption that got us here. I am not a “youth can save us” optimist. Or world leadership.

What does that leave? I am an ‘all-of-the-above’, and if EVERYBODY does all they can optimist. Yes, we need technology, education, and innovation. Yes, we need to adjust our consumption not to sacrifice, but to value what is real and connecting. Yes, we need some positive hope, but not denial. Yes, we need more from our leaders and politicians. Yes, we must drive out the rascals who bristle at unreasonable demands such as the very idea of having a sustainably habitable planet. Yes, we need the young, but also the old. We need left, right, center, and breathing people. The idea of blame game and in-fighting smells as bad as these dead molecules wafting through my lungs.

We do not need all eight billion people to activate daily, but we do need them to care.

The scorching truth is we are vulnerable

Like all people, when the smoke is bad and I can no longer view the incredible geologic beauty, wild diversity, and healing resilience of nature in the Cascades, I am heartbroken.

Yet, as a mental health professional, I know this warning pain is for a good reason. Doubt also can be a constant companion, as being skeptical, especially about your own belief system, is drilled into me like a safe hollow for a squirrel or bird to hide in during a controlled burn.

The truth is, I do not know how we will survive. If we heat it up and really feedback loop our way to hell here, I do not know when, or how many sapiens will be left to rebuild our part.

If you are like me, you feel all kinds of feelings, from furious to sad, from nauseous to shortness of breath. There is fear. There is hope.

I do know my heart suffers for the suffering, which at this point, is still mostly borne by the forests, grasslands, and inhabitants. In that they are more powerless than us, I grieve for that. I only hope we can begin to appreciate we are not separate from them as much as we think.

The loss of the land I grew up in is heavy. The searing pain of the smoke and heat comes and goes. But I humbly ask for your support, patience, compassion, understanding, and more, as I hope I can offer all of mine to all of you — all of us — who are hurting.