I don’t know what to do

Yesterday I went to the climate vigil in town, joining with people all over the world to draw attention to the climate crisis during the COP26 gathering.

My placard said ‘I don’t know what to do’. This was the biggest truth I could find when I was planning my one public statement. I stood with my god-daughter, holding her placard that tried to sum up all her knowledge and thinking and worry. ‘The earth is not ours to burn’. Yet like many young people she feels it is hers to save. What an awful responsibility. I hope she took heart at seeing so many adults caring about it too.

Of course I have loads of ideas about what to do and I am regularly doing them. But right now and often I feel hopeless and helpless that anything will work. The systems that are holding us firmly to our trajectory towards environmental and social catastrophe are undented by COP26.

I thought my statement might speak to the many people who don’t know how to get involved in climate action because they feel so helpless. I also wanted to acknowledge that even though I don’t know what to do, I can turn up to a climate vigil and say so. That is at least doing something. I wanted to hold a place for the grief and confusion that most of us feel underneath all the courageous and determined action.

I was also interested in what response I would get. How many people would feel relieved that someone had named the truth of not really knowing? How many people would take me at face value and tell me their version of what to do?

I felt vulnerable standing there in my publicly confessed uncertainty. It wasn’t just on my placard, it was in my nervous system, on my face, in my heart. Being in a crowd of people and representing the voice of unguarded not knowing is a vulnerable thing.

The first response was from a stranger who said ‘I bet you are not the only one who feels like that’. His quiet understanding gave me strength. He got it, he understood. Another stranger picked me out of a big crowd of people with placards to say confidentially and carefully through his face mask, ‘good sign’. A friend approached me, ‘I don’t know what to do either’.

I felt understood, accompanied in my simple vulnerability. Speaking to a deeper seam of community experience. It is so hard to face and admit that we don’t know how to solve this problem. That our many ideas have so far not convinced enough people to turn this many layered problem around.

Across the crowd, another friend saw my placard and waved his in response, ‘if you care, go vegan’ He was so confident in his answer that he was standing on top of some piece of street furniture, like a stage above the rest of us. When I spoke to him later he had the grace and awareness to mock himself for the desire to tell others what to do and not really listen to the question (which wasn’t actually a question of course). I really get that. I want to do the same. I want everyone to do what I think is the right thing to do. It is such a relief to allow myself to feel that clear.

As I was leaving the high street after the vigil was over, another friend, who had seen my placard earlier, offered me a confident to do list. ‘Of course you know what to do’ she said. The list was all about lifestyle change, stop flying, don’t buy plastic, to be honest I couldn’t take it all in as I tried to brace for the impact of her certainty. Then she acknowledged that she is not actually that sure and suggested listening to the bigger picture astronomical science that shows us that the earth is doomed anyway in the end, it is just a matter of time. ‘That’s the only thing that comforts me’ she said. I know what she means. Sometimes I only find peace through acknowledging that we are going through an inevitable final stage of civilisation breakdown. All these things that I am angry about, all this crazy destructive self-defeating nonsense, they are all part of the picture. The inevitable consequence of thousands of years of seeing the earth as a commodity rather than our precious and connected home. It makes sense. Some comfort.

The most helpful responses to my sign were from the people who were able to say ‘yes, I am with you in this, I understand’ They heard the depth of unknowing, the grief of not having the final answer about what to do for the best. Of course I can think of ten thousand things to do. I think about very little else actually. I am not short of ideas about what needs doing. ‘I don’t know what to do’ isn’t a question. I don’t need anyone to tell me their version of what I should do. I am inviting a place for the grief of feeling that nothing I do is working, that I do not have the answer.

How is it for you to sit with someone else’s grief and uncertainty? To really accompany them in their feelings without trying to solve it for them; without trying to  answer a question that they are not asking.

How is it to sit with your own grief and helplessness? To allow the difficult-to-bear pain of being so small in the face of something so big and destructive. To allow others to see you in your vulnerability even if you do flinch. To invite them to join you in bearing this burden of deep care.

I have a feeling that truly powerful action is what emerges on the other side of this empathy for our own and each other’s grief. If we can stop ourselves from rushing in with answers and really allow ourselves to feel, then we can find wisdom for what is needed. That feels right to me but then again, I just don’t know anything really.