Hope is in the timeline
I want to write about hope. I've missed the submission date for one writing competition, asking for a piece on the subject. It’s no surprise I missed my time. It’s only when I sit down to write that I realise it’s no small feat to do hope any justice. Not right now. Perhaps not by me. I’d describe it as a noble theme; broad, open-ended enough. I would not describe myself as hope-less. And yet, I find myself grappling for a firm hold.
Where is my hope?
Do I have courage?
Am I resilient enough?
Is it a prerequisite to be these things in order to write about them?
I make my notes and attempt to reconcile a story, I’m unable to arrive at any kind of beginning with these questions unanswered. And it feels too late to un-ask them. Not right now, as opposed to the now of any story I might write. In this now, it feels like essential work to explore hope, and with 7.7 billion other people living in these same times, I can’t be the only one who thinks so.
How do you write from the deep end? I wonder how long I’ve been here. Busy; parenting, working, making ends meet. My hopes each day are that my children smile, that the week goes smoothly. Hopes, as opposed to hope itself. Hopes aren’t a given, they’re something you work hard towards bringing about. Why should hope be any different? How often do we spend time establishing a broader sense of hope, not only in our lives, but in the world we’re born to witness? My week goes as smoothly as it can without that time spent. For the first time in a long time, writing has made me keenly aware of the larger picture that extends beyond the peripherals of my one, small, busy life, by turning my attention towards it, all at once. Hope isn’t a given either. There are things we need to address. Together. I’ve always been inclined to consider the worst case scenario. So here I’ll begin;
with the scenario, that is.
At the time of writing this, the world looks horrible; oppression, attacks, a backlash - tenfold. Tens of thousands of lives lost to violence and slaughter; some found, and others buried beneath rubble. None of it necessary, none of it looking very hopeful. It occurs to me that words which would never be used so frequently have become some of the most heard words across the globe in only a few months;
rubble
martyrs
bulldozed
We’ve watched schools, hospitals, civilian homes, even aid trucks get bombed. These are crimes against humanity, and yet, they continue.
And we continue watching.
Children make up a large portion of those suffering, slowly dying, or dead. Killed, actually. Because words are important here. It occurs to me that words which we so desperately need to hear are becoming infrequent, and uncomfortable to speak. Words like;
hope
courage
resilience
At the time of writing this, the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) has already issued its “final warning” to humanity, expecting global temperatures to exceed 1.5 Celsius in the early 2030s (Guardian, March 2023).
That is, in six years time. My son will be twelve, my daughter turning ten. I myself will not even have broached forty. Our governments and their big corps will be the ones who ignored the warning signs right up until breaking point, leaving current generations hogtied by unsustainable ways of living. Our future generations will be the ones who have to live with, or clean up, the mess - to whatever point that is possible.
UN secretary-general António Guterres reportedly tells us that the IPCC report released on 21st March 2023 is “a how-to guide to defuse the climate time-bomb.”
He says, “It is a survival guide for humanity.”
In a world of bombs, the Earth itself becomes one.
Around this same time I read an article online, coauthored by Frank Jotzo and Mark Howden. They open with;
“The world is in deep trouble on climate change,”
and then,
“But if we really put our shoulder to the wheel we can turn things around.”
I respect that they are suggesting hope. But I can’t feel it just yet. I need to see it to believe it. This article was written a year ago, and we’ve not seen much change. I can only assure you that I make a diligent effort to avoid unchecked cynicism, though I know that may be hard for you to believe from someone who considers the worst case scenario first. But hope rests on the choices and policies made by those same governments, and the willingness of those same big corps to abide, once - or, if - they figure that ignorance costs more than any deal. ‘The wheel’ they speak of is Progress, and I’m not convinced anything can stop that yet. We take to the streets, and the wheel keeps turning. If we block traffic to make a point, it is us that they blame.
For interrupting the wheel.
“It's increasingly clear that vulnerable people in developing countries — who have generally contributed little to greenhouse gas emissions — are often disproportionately affected by climate change,” Jotzo and Howden write.
And later,
“But success in reducing emissions has been demonstrated.”
Just not enough. No where near enough. And certainly not in the countries most affected. Despite their repeated attempts at lightening the mood, for lack of a better term, it remains clear that we should be putting more shoulder to the wheel, less of a reluctant pinky toe.
At the time of writing this, 25 million people have been displaced, starving, riddled with disease and utterly neglected in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Slaves, including children, have been observed coated in toxic waste to mine for cobalt, a ‘precious’ mineral required to perpetuate the hungry growth of technology; electric vehicles, smartphones, laptops (like the one I am writing on), lithium-ion batteries, etc. Without cobalt, we wouldn’t have these prized objects. Progress has gotten us to the point where life without our things is more unbearable than learning of the blatant disregard for human lives. Notably, Black and Brown lives.
It is uncomfortable to consider that we’ve posted #BlackLivesMatter on a smartphone made from the very stuff that perpetuates the violence inflicted upon them, because of our demand. We buy electric vehicles because we have been sold the saviour-side of the story; we’re doing good for the Earth, the place we want to protect at all costs. But we exclude the parts of the Earth that collapse into itself, taking millions of lives with it, stealing people’s homes and enslaving their children, so that we might feel better about our contribution to the longevity of the Earth, and ‘its people’; us -
but not them.
This is the hogtie. And we’ve been sold it. I don’t blame you, nor myself.
It’s a fact that the term carbon footprint was doctored by one well-known fossil fuel company, intended to make the individual consumer feel responsible for the choking of the Earth and its people. In doing so, they continue to evade higher standards, proper accountability measures, and taxes.
But this is not our loop hole. We can speak of hope, courage and resilience when we need confirmation of our own existence, and in the same heart fold to apathy when it comes to the existence of others. We can forget our humanity, when it suits us. And boy, does it suit us. Inanimate objects, money included, take precedence over animate, human lives every single day.
Stay with me.
I know this is not what you had in mind. You want hope, courage and resilience, not a lack thereof. Remember, we’ve started in the deep end, and if I hope one thing, it is that we walk our way back to the start together. I’d have more courage if you’re with me. Resilience should be a shared endeavour, where possible. I need you to believe it is possible.
In her essay Why I Write (1976), Joan Didion tells us that she writes “entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.” Whilst I’d never claim to be worthy of the literary Olympus where I imagine Didion rests in peace, I do strive for the same ends. This is what I fear, having to ask myself questions like;
Where is my hope?
Do I have courage?
Am I resilient enough?
And not being ready with the answer.
This is not easy reading. Have you read Didion? In that same essay she admits that “setting words on paper is the tactic of a secret bully, an invasion, an imposition of the writer’s sensibility on the reader’s most private space.”
So, I understand I’ve approached you, unsuspecting. But how unsuspecting were you, really? We have the same devices, access to the same news and live-streamed carnage, which is more of an invasion and imposition than I could ever type. We may hold different political opinions and concerns; but this here is “what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means” to me.
Perhaps an introduction is overdue.
At the time of writing this, I am thirty-one, and I have to pause to think every time I state my age. My son was born six days before my birthday in 2017, and in the newborn, new-mother haze I lost my birthday that year. I’ve been unable to firm my grasp around what age I am since, but I’m of the millennial generation, despite feeling untethered to it. Having become a mother at the tender age of twenty-four (very soon to be twenty-five, the year I lose track), I’m a part of a very small percentage of millennials in our culture who had kids young, if at all. Gina Rushton, who writes with the kind of clarity that pierces my inner thoughts, says, “I’m not a Gen Z climate activist, I am just another Millennial woman who has been guilty of berating herself for considering bringing a child into a climate crisis.
But something is shifting.”
This opinion article was published 27th March 2022. Four years, six months and ten days after the birth of my son. That long ago, pre-parenthood, I wasn’t as aware of the threat climate change could have on my decision to choose this path. Four years, six months and ten days ago I was focussed solely on the oceanic blue eyes my son was born with, and has kept, despite neither my partner nor I having eyes of this colour, nor vibrancy.
I remember hope here in the timeline. The signs of early Spring remind me every year. As soon as an open window welcomes in the jasmine, suddenly the possibilities of elation, of my own-ness, and of my capacity for excruciating love become as poignant as the distinct smell of my son’s scalp.
Mine.
Bittersweet, like arriving back home to our Tempe house near the river, carrying my new baby across its tiled threshold for the first time. Courageous, like choosing the path of parenthood so young. Resilient, like learning solitude when your friends’ early-twenties continue on, uninterrupted by hefty responsibility and sleep deprivation.
At the time of writing this, I have two children. My daughter was due to be born on the doorstep of the pandemic, necessitating a move to Melbourne to be near family, lest we be isolated from support once the borders closed. Leaving our then-home in Helensburgh was the hardest move we’ve had to make. If I want to talk about hope, I come back to our time there. Hope was in the smell of eucalyptus every morning, knowing this was exactly where I needed to be.
Away.
Away from the city.
At the time of writing this, I highlight the following paragraph and find myself flagging it with the question, Why is this relevant?
and I answer myself;
I want to go back to a time where I felt hopeful
I want to try and touch it
I want to remember how good it feels
This is the paragraph:
Hope was in the pair of resident black cockatoos who would call out every morning, seven a.m. Hope was in kind neighbours who would mow our front lawn, and being invited to hot summer BBQs. Hope was in the way my son’s little legs struggled to keep up with him, hurtling through the bush, running towards the simple joy of tossing pebbles into a waterfall. Hope arrived with the beginnings of that second baby, making herself known to me a few short months after moving there, to our home among the gumtrees. These aren’t huge, explosive moments that take my breath away, like bombs, bulldozers and children like my own being killed inconsequently. The heartbrokenness I feel holding my daughter to sleep each night from just witnessing this - and from a very removed place of safety - is insurmountable to the displacement and violence that leaves other babies lifeless in their mothers’ arms. It makes no sense, in theory, that freshly mowed lawns, pebbles and birds should bring me hope, when the enormity of humanity’s disorder sends shockwaves so vast they ripple out to my children’s bedsides.
And yet, it’s undeniable. Hope is there.
What I’m feeling is distinct; there is guilt in me, for being unable to craft a story that brings much-needed hope to an audience; what does this say about me as a mother, parenting two children from a position of hope-hesitance? Simultaneously, when I find hope in the smallest of places, guilt is there again. How could I allow myself this detail, when the bigger picture looms so large in importance? Memory is so small, standing beside the now.
We left and moved to Melbourne. It took courage to leave, to move back into a city, one we’d never lived in before. It took resilience to unpack our belongings and make a home, thirty-six weeks pregnant, with the threat of the Unknown lording itself over everyone. Distrust was everywhere. We were exhausted; my son wouldn’t go to sleep at night, he resisted, we resisted. There was enough uncertainty at that time to split the world in two, and it did. We moved to be close to family, and were then instructed to stay away from one another. The year 2020 brought a sudden frequency of lesser-heard words then, too;
isolate
quarantine
sanitise
Instructions that made us question our decision. My daughter was born. I questioned my capacity to handle it all, in all it’s all-ness.
But I found solid ground one morning when, making a cup of tea, I heard a familiar call through the window. Thinking at first I’d imagined it, a second call had me racing into the backyard to find a flock of black cockatoos flying over our house, the inner west of Melbourne of all places. Solid ground, only then. This was my confirmation; I was where I needed to be.
I’m learning I’m someone who needs confirmation within myself; to see it in me to believe it is there.
So I can remember hope, you see. It is there.
In the timeline.
In the past.
In the same article, Rushton asks her readers, “How do we let ourselves imagine any future without being overpowered by despair or manipulated by hope?”
It’s the future that stops me in my tracks. Prevents me from finding closure before the submission date. There is so much to take stock of, so much to prepare my children for, too much for me to swallow. I’m not overpowered by despair, but I feel it’s pull. It wants me to let go of your hand, abandon our search, beckoning me to resignation. Some days this is tempting, because it is easier. Lawns, pebbles and birds are too small for the future, I hear myself say. Surely it is not enough.
“Optimism, after all, might be a luxury good – hope is harder to find when you are trying to protect your family from fire or flood – but resignation, too, can be an indulgence, enjoyed by the luckiest.” Rushton sees the nuance of our predicament; the difficulty in finding a comfortable enough fence to sit on. But I am done with fences. What I am learning as I write, is that I am not a cynic, and I am not an optimist, and I do not sit on any fence. I am another, third kind of thing; I am connected.
Connected to the pain and suffering we witness, feeling that pain deeply within myself; as rage, guilt, shame, helplessness. But not hopelessness. I feel that pain seated deeply in my humanity. I hold my children, breathing softly in my arms, and feel only what I can imagine is felt by those mothers whispering final words to their babies’ bodies. I seek connection, and I’ll voice this pain with others, won’t harbour it. I say it aloud. I write, or I try. I am connected to an earth that offers every one I know and do not know a home, and I am heartbroken by her collapse, because I can’t deny that her collapse is our own. Governments and their big corps would have us believing it's our individual choices that make all the difference; the decisions we make as consumers, rather than the loudness of our collective voices, the severity of our hope. There is no plan B, the Gen Z climate activists would say. I don’t know what Millennials would say. I say, we want it to stop. We’re walking this together, aren’t we?
I find connection in the smell of eucalyptus, the same way I find connection when I read Didion; to witness the beauty, intelligence and heart there, knowing all those things don’t disappear in the face of violence and betrayal, but can be hard to soften to when the world is ablaze. Knowing resilience is a shared endeavour, because I can’t do this without you, and you can’t do this without me. Because sometimes I need your hope, and you need mine, and sometimes we need the cockatoos. Robin Wall Kimmerer might crystallise my sentiments best, in her book Braiding Sweetgrass (2013), when she reminds us that “Even a wounded world is feeding us. Even a wounded world holds us, giving us moments of wonder and joy. I chose joy over despair. Not because I have my head in the sand, but because joy is what the earth gives me daily and I must return the gift.”
I am trying to return the gift.
At the time of writing this, my grandfather dies. I am raw, grieving. I consider him my first ever best friend, actually. There was a time as a girl where he was my person. That little girl is heartbroken he is gone, because
I witnessed his beauty, intelligence and heart.
In the face of his loss, big Me can soften to the memory of all his time with me, all the treasures he taught me. There is hope in the timeline, and it isn’t at its end yet, even though his might be. I see that now, and I take the confirmation.
At the time of writing this, I’m scared I might be too much of a wet blanket, berating myself. I project myself into the future to consider whether or not I have the gumption to withstand the worst case scenario, and I find something that has the whiff of hope. I’m following it. Maybe I am an angsty Millennial, but moreover I am a loving parent to two children I vow to raise hopeful. Hope lies in time spent being their person. I want them to witness my beauty, intelligence and heart, where they will to see their own reflection. I want them to have cockatoos, and I want them to speak up when there is pain, because there will be pain. There will be more unsuspected words that frequent our mouths, words that I can’t predict. I can’t protect them from whatever comes but, just as surely, I won’t resign. Being a parent in a climate crisis, whilst witnessing mass death, war, slavery, and pandemics is, in and of itself, the epitome of resilience. It’s only my outer sheath that stays hard. There are so many things to keep me soft inside, like my deep capacity to care, despite the pain of it all, in all it’s all-ness.
I asked myself,
Where is my hope?
Do I have courage?
Am I resilient enough?
Didion closes her essay, Why I Write, succinctly.
“Let me tell you one thing about why writers write: had I known the answer to any of these questions I would never have needed to write a novel.”
My hardness is my resilience. My softness is my hope. My courage is the alchemy of the two. More of it exists. And yours does too. If I’d known the answers to my questions, I’d never have bothered to write about hope, but we could all do with the reminder that, with work and attention, hope is found in the details of our timeline.