“What if we stopped telling ourselves that stopping climate change will be hard and painful? What if we told ourselves it was easy? What if it was?” (Tickell [@solarpunk_girl], 2022).

Presently, narratives around climate change take many forms that often feel in conflict with each other. Climate change is seen both as the present culmination of centuries of ecologically disastrous decision-making and a still uncertain future of untold suffering. Its related environmental crises, spanning the globe, bond us in our shared experience of them yet separate us in their disproportionally felt effects. The way we view our own power in relation to the planet’s climate also appears contradictory. As Green (2021) writes, “We are at once powerful and not powerful enough. We are powerful enough to radically reshape the Earth’s climate and biodiversity, but not powerful enough to choose how we reshape them” (p. 6). This complexity around climate change can often become overwhelming, a feeling that “emerges from encounters with problems of an incomprehensible and possibly insurmountable scale, ones that do not just disable, but dissolve our sense of self” (Verlie, 2019, p. 755). Therefore, to effectively respond, we must expand our own framing around climate change, or in the words of Annie Dillard (1974), “We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what’s going on here” (p. 11). What better way to take this view than through storytelling? As we construct new climate narratives, we get to change the conditions of what we know is possible, allowing us to see that the seemingly contradictory nature of climate change is a problem of framing, not of humanity. By harnessing the power of storytelling, art, and imagination to tell hopeful yet possible narratives, we can expand our connections to each other and the world around us and begin to heal our environment in crisis.

Before discussing how we can find this path back to hope, it’s important to recognize the reality of our current situation and the difficult emotions that often come with it. Climate change has affected and continues to affect us deeply, and our environment is truly in crisis. In addition, many of those harmed the most by climate change—human and the more-than-human alike—may be excluded from public discourse on the issue. What Judith Butler (2004) refers to as “exclusionary conceptions of...what counts as a livable life and a grievable death” discounts the experience of Indigenous peoples, gender and sexual minorities, and other marginalized groups (as cited in Willox, 2012, p. 139). Willox (2012) expands on this perspective, stating that:

There are also non-human bodies that go unrecognized; yet, we… mourn for environmental bodies and for environmental degradation and destruction: the destruction of forests and farmlands, the devastation of landscapes for open-pit mining, the scarring of lands from tar sands projects, the levelling of mountain tops for mining, the pollution of rivers and lakes; the loss of forests from clear-cutting, the deaths of other creatures (beached whales, birds stuck in oil slicks, mass fish die-offs, and animals struck by vehicles, to name a few), the melting of ice caps, the permanent loss of biodiversity through human-induced extinction, and the changes in lands all over the world because of climatic shifts and variability. (p. 146)

When taken in as a whole, these realities may feel like too much to bear. However, we must also acknowledge that caring for the world and all its inhabitants is not a role intended for one individual. For the well-being of humans and the more-than-human, we must begin to expand how we bear the weight of this often-unrecognized grief and other intense emotions within our communities.

Climate change also introduces the aspect of time, as its effects have the potential to reverberate greatly while its solutions remain urgent. Beyond the mourning of other humans, living beings, and the land around us, Willox (2012) writes that, “Many people also reported experiencing a sense of anticipatory grieving for losses expected to come, but not yet arrived” (p. 140). As the window for limiting warming to 1.5°C to 2°C (2.7°F to 3.6°F) narrows, this has become especially poignant. While possible, as the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) reports, “Without immediate and deep emissions reductions across all sectors, limiting global warming to 1.5°C is beyond reach” (2022, p. 1). The press release continues, stating that:

In the scenarios we assessed, limiting warming to around 1.5°C (2.7°F) requires global greenhouse gas emissions to peak before 2025 at the latest, and be reduced by 43% by 2030; at the same time, methane would also need to be reduced by about a third. Even if we do this, it is almost inevitable that we will temporarily exceed this temperature threshold but could return to below it by the end of the century. (IPCC, 2022, p. 2)

This immediacy may result in frustration and guilt, as people feel their actions are ineffective while not knowing what more they can do or that they have “failed to be accountable” (Verlie, 2019, p. 755). When we account for these emotions, we can see the truth in the claim that climate inaction often arises not due to a lack of care, but because we care so much. From this perspective, we can see more clearly that an effective response to climate change must consider the emotional work that is required both individually and collectively.

To aid in this emotional work, art may play a key role. As Publicover et al. (2018) cite, “the environmental crisis is a cultural crisis, and… [the arts and humanities] thus play an important role in understanding its cultural dimensions” (p. 928). The art we create can be a powerful tool, helping us process our grief and alleviate our eco-anxiety as we connect with stories from fictional utopias to somber nonfiction. One example of art as a source of hope can be found in the Solarpunk artistic movement. Solarpunk is a genre that envisions a future in which humanity finds harmony between itself, technology, and nature. As Jae-Hee Bae describes, “Solarpunk embodies a deeper substrate of how humans identify themselves within the landscape of man-made & organic contexts” (personal communication, March 23, 2022). More than just optimism or confidence in the possibility of a bright future, Solarpunk art remains ‘punk’ in nature in its active rebellion against scarcity and hierarchy while simultaneously advocating for sustainability, diversity, and social justice (Solarpunk Community, n.d.). In this way, Solarpunk embraces an active version of hopefulness that recognizes the value in holding space for hope while remaining aware of the inevitable uncertainty of our future.

While hopeful stories are worth telling, they are not the only stories that we can or should tell. Hope is certainly a powerful force, nevertheless, these stories may be perceived negatively by those already deeply affected by our environmental crises and past injustices. Similarly, the stories we tell about climate change may appear to detract from the reality and immediacy of the situation as discussed previously. To remain hopeful within this context, it becomes critical that we leave space for mourning as we continue to learn to live with climate change and other crises. However, as Derrida (2001) describes mourning, “speaking is impossible, but so too would be silence or absence or a refusal to share one's sadness” (as cited in Willox, 2012, p. 157). While there are many ways to mourn, the human capacity for storytelling is unique in its ability to articulate our shared experiences and emotions when grief makes this communication difficult.

An example of storytelling used in this manner comes from author and political organizer Daniel Sherrell. As Sherrell (2021) opens his book, Warmth: Coming of Age at the End of Our World, “On April 14, 2018, a civil rights lawyer named David Buckel burned himself alive in Prospect Park” leaving behind a letter stating that his was an “early death by fossil fuels” (p. 1). Sherrell explores his own experience of this tragedy and shares his noticings of how society inevitably carried on after the event. Much like the death of Buckel, Wynn Bruce died on April 22 of 2022 after he set himself on fire outside the U.S. Supreme Court (Gabbatt, 2022). In reciting these events, we can leave space to feel their gravity and continue forward while recognizing the weight that we bring with us. Also, as in the work of Sherrell, storytelling enables us to share this grief across distance and time as the text resonates with its readers, showing us we need not go alone.

As seen in the examples of hopeful and grief-stricken stories, we can act on climate change and allow ourselves to heal by holding space for both hope and grief. Verlie (2019) writes that “To hope is to expend energy bearing worlds” by imagining what is “desirable and possible” while also “enduring… the pain that current and potential climate change engenders” (p. 757). He continues, stating that “mourning and hoping are understood to be complementary and entwined labours or responses (Ojala 2016; Cunsolo Willox 2012) that together ‘enable bodies to go on’ (Anderson 2006, 744) while ensuring that we make a difference in the world” (Verlie, 2019, p. 757). While it may initially feel as if we must choose either hope or grief, to truly make progress requires embracing both. This is yet another area art can be useful, as a tool for facilitating an expansive emotional connection to the crises we face. Through art, this false dichotomy can fall away, and one can begin to feel all there is to feel.

Not only can art create emotional involvement, but the shared experience of it can help bring climate change to the forefront of our cultures. As Bill McKibben (2005) asked in regard to climate change, “Where are the books? The plays? The goddamn operas?” (as cited in Volpe, 2018, p. 614). Since this question was posed, Volpe (2018) writes that many “new forms of climate-conscious art abound” (p. 615). From visual art, science fiction, music, and more, artists have created and communicated their own climate narratives. In one example, Grist (2020) explores what it means to live in a world where “Everything is treacherously bearable” (para. 2) through the short story The World is on Fire and You’re Out of Milk. In another case, the band “The 1975” begins their 2020 album Notes on a Conditional Form with a track featuring Greta Thunberg, stating in part, “So, we can no longer save the world by playing by the rules / Because the rules have to be changed / Everything needs to change, and it has to start today” (The 1975, 2020). Physically calling for this type of change, a neon sign by artist Lauren Bon reads “ARTISTS NEED TO CREATE ON THE SAME SCALE THAT SOCIETY HAS THE CAPACITY TO DESTROY” (Volpe, 2018, p. 615). While these examples are just a sampling of existing climate and environmental artwork, they show the way in which artists can convey the human and more-than-human aspects of climate change that cannot be expressed or felt through data alone. In this way, art can help us in expanding (and healing) the cultural aspects of our climate action.

One particular way to connect with our togetherness in relation to climate change is through music, especially when experienced communally. In a study on musicians’ perspectives toward music as a tool for environmental advocacy, Publicover et al. (2018) write that “Many of the participants incorporate audience participation into their shows, particularly communal singing, which can help induce inclusivity” (p. 931). In the words of cognitive psychologist Daniel Levitin:

When we sing [with others] … we’ve got to pay attention to what someone else is doing, coordinate our actions with theirs, and it really does pull us out of ourselves. And all of that activates a part of the frontal cortex that’s responsible for how you see yourself in the world, and whether you see yourself as part of a group or alone. And this is a powerful effect. The second thing … it releases oxytocin. This is the neurotransmitter … associated with social bonding … The oxytocin sets up this real bond and sense of trust and well-being towards the other person. (Levitin in radio interview, in Shapiro 2013, as cited in Publicover et al., 2018, p. 931)

In the process of singing together and growing our connections to others, even strangers, we can cultivate the trust we need to coordinate on larger scales. A similar effect can take place in another context—environmental protests. As artist Tara MacLean states, “When people are all singing ‘If we all stand on the road, they can’t arrest us all’, and chanting, chanting, chanting, and voices raised together – it’s so incredibly powerful” (as cited in Publicover et al., 2018, p. 932). In both of these situations, music serves as a strong tool to aid in overcoming the complex coordination challenges of stopping climate change.

As in the example of protest music and chants; storytelling, art, and imagination are also important political tools. In part, this is because the frames through which we understand our problems and movements are themselves creative. As Peter Block claims, “The willingness to own up to the fictional nature of our story is where the healing begins” (as cited in Villanueva, 2021). Beginning to reimagine the stories that are possible, we may also realize the nature of storytelling as a source of agency. Villanueva (2021) writes that “Much has been written about how colonizers rewrite the history of the places and the people they colonize. Part of keeping total control is staking a claim on the past. But colonizers also control the future. They control what is imaginable.” One area this aspect is apparent is in greenwashing carried out by fossil fuel companies. Referencing a recent study focused on clean energy claims made by big oil companies, Hernandez (2022) writes, “BP and Shell have vowed to reduce investments in fossil fuel extraction projects… [yet] they have increased acreage for new oil and gas exploration in recent years” and “researchers said they found no evidence that the companies were investing in clean energy at a scale that would allow them to shift away from fossil fuels” (para. 10). By reclaiming the power of imagination from those with vested interests in controlling the narrative, we can restore our collective agency for storytelling.

Choosing the types of stories we want to tell can be a highly influential decision. By making the choice to tell new stories over the ones that have kept us apart and caused so much suffering, we can continue making progress towards healing. Hermida Ramos (2020), while analyzing Becky Chambers’ hopeful science-fiction book The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet, states that “Storytelling is a form of creating and reclaiming symbolic spaces where marginalized narratives can be finally voiced in order to subvert and challenge the systems of inequality we have been forced to inhabit” (p. 32). Through these stories such as The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet or the Solarpunk narratives discussed before, we can not only uplift marginalized voices but better understand and be with each other’s differences. This characteristic of storytelling may create “spaces where senses of community, solidarity and a sense of ‘collective identity’ (2019, 16) can be fostered,” reducing feelings of isolation while strengthening our sense of self (Hermida Ramos, 2020, p. 32). Further, by breaking down boundaries of which stories are worthy of being told, we can use all kinds of stories to obtain sharper perceptions of the frames we each navigate the world by. From this understanding of storytelling as it intersects with “the ways in which we constitute, depict and repeat narratives about theoretical concepts matter” (Ilmonen, 2020, as cited in Hermida Ramos, 2020), we can see the utility of storytelling as “a tool of social revolution and systemic transformation.” The power of storytelling is political power, giving rise to activism through imagination. In recognizing this power, we can start to wield it for good while remaining cognizant of the care it deserves from us.

As much as new narratives for climate are essential, it must be acknowledged that they should not stand alone as a solution to our environment in crisis. While storytelling, art, and imagination can allow us to become more comfortable with climate change’s complexities and uncertainties, within that complexity we can see the need for a holistic approach to the problem. Likewise, embracing hope and grief will not make stopping climate change easier on their own, as both are themselves a continuous struggle we must face. Feeling resistance towards these topics may be typical, but this is exactly why they must be discussed at the forefront of our conversations. Chanda Prescod-Weinstein (2021) writes in The Disordered Cosmos, “I tend to be against a lot of things because so much of what goes on is simply not OK. But I want to have a vision for the future too, one that is flexible and understands… that impurity and imperfection are impossible to avoid” (p. 279). As Popova (2021) ponders:

But maybe—and that is what redeems and consecrates our finite human lives and our limited powers—within those parameters, there is space enough and spirit enough to resist what is poisonous to the ideological soil we call culture and persist in planting, for as long as we have to live and with as much generosity as we have to give, something lush and beautiful. That we might never live to see it bloom might just be okay. To have planted the seeds is satisfaction enough worth living for. (para. 9).

Telling stories and imagining possible futures are practices, and while they cannot resolve all of our struggles, they can be a necessary first step. Storytelling, art, and imagination provide us with the energy to stay in the fight, cultivate our joy and generosity for building something better, and help us learn to be okay in a world that isn’t.

Our environmental crises and the humans who have caused them are complex, and so are (and will be) the humans who can create the solutions we need. The planet we call home is a place of many interrelated complexities, yet we are especially suited for making sense of them. By focusing on climate change as a cultural crisis, we can begin to co-create culture-oriented solutions by tapping into our abilities of art and communication. Similarly, reconciling our emotions such as hope and grief with the ways we respond to the world around us can help aid in healing ourselves, the more-than-human, and the land we all rely on. These difficulties we face do not occur in isolation, making it especially important that we use our tools in service to everyone. Storytelling, art, and imagination are reflections of the ways we understand our place and connection to everything around us. All of us have the power to imagine brighter worlds and doing so together only amplifies our ability to create a new, inclusive narrative for our shared future. In giving these areas our care and attention; we can see that the stories we tell about ourselves are truly foundational for healing and facing the greatest challenges of our time.

About the Author

Hi, I’m Oliver, and I am an 18-year-old from Minnesota. As a 7-word bio, my passion is “cultivating collective imagination of humanity’s bright future.” You can find me building with the Dream DAO (dreamdao.xyz) or on Twitter @oliveryehlik.

Cover photo taken by me in July of 2021, showing a view of Exit Glacier in Alaska.

Further Reading

References

Dillard, A. (1974). Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Harper Perennial Modern Classics.

Gabbatt, A. (2022). US climate activist dies after setting himself on fire outside supreme court. The Guardian. Retrieved May 11, 2022, from www.theguardian.com/us-news/2022/apr/25/climate-activist-death-supreme-court-fire-washington

Green, J. (2021). The Anthropocene reviewed: Essays on a human-centered planet. Dutton.

Grist, R. A. (2020). The world is on fire and you're out of milk. Gutter. Retrieved May 9, 2022, from www.guttermag.co.uk/blog/the-world-is-on-fire-and-youre-out-of-milk

Hermida Ramos, B. (2020). Hope is the new punk: Politics of storytelling, queerness and marginalized communities in Becky Chambers' The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet. Association of Young Researchers on Anglophone Studies. Retrieved April 24, 2022, from asyras.org/hope-is-the-new-punk-politics-of-storytelling-queerness-and-marginalized-communities-in-becky-chambers-the-long-way-to-a-small-angry-planet/

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