The Good News

My son has been studying fire. He comes home from school with wide eyes, his small body full of pride. “I learned how to build a safe fire,” he tells us. I can picture the scene: the group of four and five year-olds gathered with their teachers out in the frosted world, carefully placing pieces of wood, learning how to safely maintain the flames and warmth. I imagine my son’s delight, his body especially straight, his head high as he worked. He likes to help, to feel connected with others in shared purpose. The sense of responsibility would have been particularly thrilling. 

It was a cold week, with the type of winter wind that cuts through clothing and nips at exposed cheeks. I thrilled at the plummeting temperatures, bundling up to stride with the dog between trees to the edge of the ocean where the water pushed bits of ice towards the shore. Watching the movement of freezing waves is a mesmerizing activity, and I would stand, transfixed, until I suddenly remembered that I was due soon at school pick-up. Tearing my eyes away, I’d race back through the trees, listening as swaying branches and trunks crackled in the frigid air. 

“I wish I could spend all day walking out in the world,” I say to my husband one evening. My mind goes to my children and their days spent learning under the open sky. I think of my own childhood: out the door as early as possible and back inside only when absolutely necessary for food, warmth, or dinner time. 

A podcast I often turn towards explores anxiety. I listen as an expert talks about our disconnect from the natural world and the over-valuing of the left side of our brains as a consequence of days spent in front of computers and spreadsheets, behind desks. 

After I drop off my children in the morning, I head to work, much of which takes place in front of a computer. And yet, through that screen connections are formed to people both near and far who are called to climate work through a strong love of the world. The delineations are not clear: screens = bad, wandering outside = good. 

As I work, I imagine my son and his classmates building their daily fire. I glance towards my phone, awaiting news from a dear childhood friend whose home is threatened by the fires raging around Los Angeles. The irony of my son’s fire study during this particular week is not lost on me. Images pour in of landscapes and neighborhoods destroyed and I think of the creatures, human and nonhuman alike. I think of the fear and our desire to make sense and meaning. Some turn to blame, others, to ways to help. 

It’s no secret that we like to feel in-control. I see my son’s young pride when he experiences moments of power, of efficacy. My daughter, like her mother, is drawn towards attempting a sense of control through her intellect, through what she can know and communicate. 

It is impossible these days, however, to both pay attention and maintain this illusion of control. One year ago, I sat at my computer working on climate solutions while rising tides tore coastal infrastructure from the rocky shorelines here in Maine. This year, it is wildfires in Los Angeles. In between…well, there are not enough words to capture the swirl of events that we would not choose that still unfold every day, everywhere. 

I know we have agency. I see this agency expressed daily in my work supporting community-driven responses to climate change, many of them extremely creative, all of them grounded in collaborative efforts grown from humble beginnings. I hope these expressions of agency build in a beautiful tumble to rise and meet the invitation extended within the harsher moments. 

And, as I walk the frigid shoreline, I feel my heart returning, over and over again, to love. For all the uncertainty, for all that I cannot control, I know this much to be true: I love this world. For all the harsh realities, beauty still unfolds in overwhelming measure. I see it everywhere and something about this explosion of beauty interwoven with, or despite, the harshness makes the beauty all the more precious and tender. 

I think, as I walk, about tenderness. As we turned the calendar to 2025, I felt as though the year was tugging me forward despite my own tremendous resistance to particular aspects of what assuredly lies ahead. I felt deeply that I must prepare, must somehow ground myself in a resource that would not deplete despite all that is coming. But how?

I’m sure I am not alone in this quest for a source that can feed not just resilience, not just resistance, but creative manifestation of something different, of a world of kindness. Assuredly, we will each find our own answer, but, for now, mine has come wrapped up in this contemplation of tenderness. I’ve started to look for it everywhere, gathering tender, beautiful moments like my son gathers treasures along the low tide line. After all, there is real power in attention. And while questions swirl as we enter the weeks ahead, one answer is clear to me: I must not forget the beauty, the tender love for the world, the good news. 

And so I will be walking, with these words from Thich Nhat Hahn ringing in my being:

The Good News

The good news
they do not print.
The good news
we do print.
We have a special edition every moment
that we need you to read.
The good news is that you are alive
and the linden tree is still there
standing firm in the harsh winter.
The good news is that you have wonderful eyes
to touch the blue sky.
The good news is that
your child is there before you,
and your arms are available.
Hugging is possible.

They print only what is wrong.
Look at each of our special editions.
We always offer the things that are not wrong.
We want you to benefit from them
and help protect them.
The dandelion is there by the sidewalk,
smiling its wondrous smile,
singing the song of eternity.
Lo! You have ears capable of hearing it.
Bow your head.
Listen to her.
Leave behind your world of sorrow
and preoccupation
and get free.
The latest good news
is that you can do it.