The other night I dreamed I was some kind of warrior-poet, wandering up and down a mountain range like a madman, singing my head off without knowing the words …
Exciting at the time, and liberating to lose my head – though all the while telling myself there must be proper lyrics to go with this. The mountains would speak to me, they would reveal their ancient and magnificent secret, if only I could get the words right. Suddenly I knew my life depended on it. Things got intense. But the louder and more fiercely I sang, the less my language mattered. Before long I started screaming wildly – and woke up.
I recall it now as a dream about climate breakdown (more precisely: about my struggle to write something here about climate breakdown). Or about my potential for having a psychological microclimate crisis. I imagine millions of people are having dreams like this. Let’s call them visions. And let’s also consider them as stories flowing from a mysterious and distant region of time and space. To be clear, I’m saying this as a dream agnostic. Therapeutically, I don’t work a lot with dreams – it’s more a case of dreams working a lot with me. Our psyches come out to play constantly, and if you take life itself to be a dream, if you take yourself to be the dreamer of your reality, to be one of the exemplary dreamers of our collective dream, then I’m up for that as a psychotic possibility.
We radicalise our subjectivities, not by our thoughts but by our not quite having had them.
The evident urgency of climate breakdown can bring up and break down deeply rooted substrates in our seemingly separated psyches. There are things we like to get hold of together – objects, mostly, and facts, sometimes – and there are thought-droughts and thought-fires and thought-waters, which hold us. There are fleeting universes, which transfix us. We know the mountain range that holds our Earth-time attention now so magnificently is in cosmological time a flickering wave – making it even more magnificent, therefore, and utterly unholdable.
Because we are disrupted by what we hold onto, we become held by disruption. There is a form of ‘being held’ (a phrase therapists use a lot, mostly in a metaphysical sense), which is more like being considered, remembered, pondered. Climate anomalies hold our attention like a series of bad dreams. Your gripping nightmare is an extreme psychic weather event, almost unattended.
In this neurocloud, you and me, conversationalists of a type right now,
regarding each other’s immaterial presence respectfully enough.
Aroused by the frequency of looking around, even when we’re sitting still,
settling into the sensational silence of all that passes for thought.
We’re unsolid, anti-dense, semi-detached, forever under reconstruction,
sending elemental signals of therapeutically unscrewed awe.
The silent signal is ordinary, momentous breathing. Inspire, expire – simply attend and repeat. You’re breathed by this act of attending. Now, where to direct your inspired attention? If I could know everything there is to know about climate change, including all the latest scientific analyses and all the forecasting models and every wonky public argument and scholarly debate about the entire massive problem – the hyper-object, some say, of nightmarish proportions – how would I be acting differently? To have perfect and complete knowledge of everything would be to have no opinion at all. Your breath is not a matter of opinion. Keep breathing then, one by one, sigh by sigh, let’s be sure to keep breathing well – that’s good science and good mysticism right there.
Concentrate! Don’t concentrate! Your knowledge is no use until you’re free of it. The oldest philosophies say we already know profoundly what’s what but we scream and moan and forget about it all – even foregoing our own precious identities – at the orgasmic moment of ultimate truth. Climate justice, migrant justice, water justice, every kind of humane justice you can conceive of is brutally compromised by nature’s supreme amorality. We are not the keepers of the keys to the riddle of the cosmos, only agonised bodies in a puzzle of our own screwy design.
The crunch of science, like concussion or awful bloody facts,
grinding its way through our busy shopping brains so unpoetically.
Everything seems too much for us and never quite enough for us,
climbing down at last from the fat neurotic mountains of our minds.
Hard-wired like-mindedly, we generate this almighty hard-edged world,
forging its language within our worried skin and warrior bones.
Good therapy embodies us soulfully while scientific mysticism dematerialises us. There are no things, there is only thinging. This is the feeling of what happens, whether I’m awake or dreaming – and I act as if I know there’s a difference. The truly climactic part of sleeping is the waking up. What’s it like, that transitional momentary world when the waking mind simultaneously recalls and dissolves the dreaming mind’s visions? Sometimes I sense the beginning of a wild argument between the waker and the dreamer. A brilliant fight could break out for the rest of the day.
Jim recommends …
Handbook of Climate Psychology (available free): http://www.climatepsychologyalliance.org/handbook
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