Dear community,
A couple of weeks ago, a chill creeped into the Puget Sound lowlands, introducing a transition to early fall. With the temperature shift came smoky, hazy air from the wildfires burning in the North Cascades and British Columbia. To me, the cool weather and smoke eerily mirrored my inner landscape since the Lāhainā fire on Maui.
Observing the Lāhainā fire from afar was painful and complex. Lāhainā was the first place I ever visited in Hawaiʻi, and my experience led me to move there for graduate school. I lived on Oʻahu for two and half years as a white settler and student, learning about and being humbled by the culture and people I met. Witnessing what has unfolded, I feel deep grief and unsettled rage about what we know to be true. Colonialism and extractive capitalism have degraded much of the land, water, and ecosystems, leading to conditions ripe for catastrophe. Amidst the ruins of the fire, these forces still persist.
The other night, I dreamt that I was in a group of volunteers bringing lunch to Lāhainā residents who had lost everything in the fire. I saw in their faces both heaviness from grief and exhaustion and resolve from strength, community, and tenacity of spirit. I felt the impression of a seemingly mundane moment like sharing a meal turned deeply meaningful. I woke up wondering, What’s next? What now?
For Lāhainā residents, and arguably all of Hawaiʻi, it’s a long and unknown journey through healing and rebuilding. We have yet to see how well or poorly the government will support the process, and whether they will honor Native Hawaiian demands for self-determination in the recovery, including some calls for restoring Lāhainā to its original wetland ecosystem. We may not know for some time all the ways that the opportunistic weed of disaster capitalism is digging its twisted roots deeper into the newly disturbed soil. And, while we maintain focus on Lāhainā, we also might ask: what comes next for those of us who bear witness and are engaged from afar? After we donate, after we raise awareness in our own communities, after we grieve, then what’s next? These questions are important because they shape our futures, both individually and collectively.
There is a concept in psychology called posttraumatic growth to describe the positive change in a person's in sense of self, relationships, and outlook on life that can occur after they experience trauma. Although the term itself emerged in the 1990s, the concept of such improvement through healing from personal and/or collective trauma is not new, but rather a long-held phenomenon in cultures around the world, as Tedeschi, Park, and Calhoun (1998) point out. As these authors describe, “traumas call into question the basic assumptions about one’s future and how to move toward that future…[and] the devastation of loss provides an opportunity to build a new, superior life structure almost from scratch.”
Simply put, any experiences that people identify as traumatic at personal and collective scales require healing to metabolize what has gotten stuck inside. Within the context of safety and support, the healing process can often generate new perspective and insights about who we are, who we want to be moving forward, and how we want to change for the better.
There is no doubt that there will be significant change for Lāhainā and its residents, which I hope involves the repair, restoration, and self-determination that is called for. As we hold sight on the vision of justice for Lāhainā and Native Hawaiians at large, we also can inquire within ourselves as witnesses and potentially contributors: how might we grow too? Secondary climate trauma can occur when witnessing or contributing to harm inflicted on other people, beings, and places in a traumatic event or series of events (as I’ve written about previously). Therefore, all of us who have visited Hawaiʻi, lived there, or merely heard about the fire and its aftermath on social media or the news, all of us might experience posttraumatic growth. I sit wondering what that growth will be. What are people learning about this? How will that change them? How will it change how they live and contribute to the transformation of this world?
In politicized somatics, transformation involves having a commitment to change and creating more choices for us to take action toward that commitment. Creating more choices requires slowing down time. In our current news and media landscape, the attention has already shifted as quickly as the winds shift. I often hear from clients that the pace of the world is too fast. When things move too quickly, the body uses its well-worn pathways to keep up. Choosing to do something different means clearing a new path that goes through unknown terrain, which is next to impossible amidst the frenzy. So how do we slow down enough to create more choices (paths) for ourselves? This is where embodied, intentional practices like meditation, mindfulness, centering, and similar practices are immensely helpful because they help us practice slowing down, noticing sensation, and focusing our attention.
Of course, transforming political ecological systems is not simply achieved by more people meditating and feeling for sensation. Politicized somatics is about taking action internally and externally. We hold that while we need to work for systemic change toward justice and sustainability, we need to do that work on all scales of the system, including ourselves as some of the fundamental building blocks. I believe it is a wise moment to pause and devote at least some of our energy toward the question of “What’s next?” and wait patiently, attentively, and lovingly for the answers that surface from our guts and our hearts.
As always, your reflections, questions, and thoughts are welcome.
Warmly,
Em Wright
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