Words: Iona McLean (she/her)
Every symptom is treated separately from the sickness, as though the suffering of the planet is not something we should internalise, as if it is not our own. I walked home that night, my chest tight with every breath, as if the trees had vanished and oxygen was nullified
Rugged concrete stretches beneath me, uncomfortable underfoot, while cars whirl in the distance, and tufts of wilted grass weave between unending grey paths; a pitiful substitute for luscious green spaces. The leaves are turning as they should with the weather; the seasons aren’t as vibrant or obvious as they used to be, but the trees are still holding up their end of the bargain – crimson and golden as always. A hint of familiarity persists, despite the fact that I miss the world I grew up in; a state of limerence between me and the version of reality I had become accustomed to. Summers that lasted forever, daylight that lingered long into the night, and hands perpetually covered in dusty mud from clambering all over my neighbour’s tree-lined garden. Now my Scottish summers consist of flocking to the park as soon as the rain clouds clear, scrambling for a spot to drink cheap prosecco, and basking in bursts of stifling 28-degree – heat but always making sure to leave before 6 p.m., as a light cardigan isn’t cutting it once the wind shows up.
The changes in environment used to usher in a gust of seasonal depression, but now it lingers year-round; it feels stickier, like an itch I can’t scratch or a constantly pulverising headache as I think about my earth. I fear I may be stuck in the cycle of grief – or something worse. Last summer was definitely where it began. I vividly recall sitting outside the pub with my friend Maya; she was complaining about how the heat had completely fucked up her Kerastraight treatment – she was going to shave her head, ‘No!’, she was going to move to Iceland. I’m not sure how any of these things would actually solve the issue of intense heat for literally anybody but her, and I also wasn’t sure that her forfeiting her chemical straightening was exactly the biggest issue I took away from the conversation. I remember watching her fan herself with a napkin and thinking how strange it was that none of us mentioned the concerning heat itself – only how it inconvenienced us.
It was such an oddly blaring disconnect, it was where the gap in my mind began to close, where the dots began to connect themselves, intertwining my reality with a wider one. The cycle of grief began; I remember fretting over that conversation for days – it lingered like a rancidity riddled hyper-realistic dream that ruins your week. Every symptom is treated separately from the sickness, as though the suffering of the planet is not something we should internalise, as if it is not our own. I walked home that night, my chest tight with every breath, as if the trees had vanished and oxygen was nullified.
Ever since, the dots have begun to connect, and symptoms of our destruction are more apparent in everyday life. People pace the halls of my university looking for better signal, restless like an animal waiting for its turn to perform at the menagerie – scrolling, refreshing, swiping. Are they stuck in the first stage of grief: denial? Or are they experiencing our own form of “zoochosis”? Our own gilded cages aren’t made from gold, but rather lithium, that we have ravaged the beauty of the earth to find. Our lives seem to be curated exhibits of consumption. Somewhere between the modern and the natural, we have forgotten how to simply be.
Sometimes I think my body remembers better than my mind ever could – when I’m barefoot on a patch of grass, when I let the sand fall from between my fingers, something in me unclenches, my heartbeats become more synchronous, scents more intense, colours more vivid. For a second, the constant static of notifications, the zipping of traffic – it all freezes. I inhale, and I feel connected, interwoven, one with my home. Not the concrete walls and wooden floors I rest my head on, but the one we all share – the one that connects us more deeply than anything else. These tiny moments somehow feel illicit, as though I’ve stolen them from a society that tries to automate everything: relationships, knowledge, laughter, and art.
Maybe the grief I feel is not for the earth, but rather for other people. Instinct is traded for A.I, wonder for convenience. We outsource our curiosity, our memories, and yet the earth still keeps trying to reach us – a bird’s nest tucked into scaffolding, a fox dashing down the street at 2 a.m. I find hope in that: in nature’s refusal to vanish. After all, it doesn’t need our permission. We are only visitors to this world. We were all born with a golden ticket to paradise – one we continually take for granted.
