Through my childhood and adolescence I was lucky enough to spend a few weeks every summer at my mother’s cottage. Situated on land belonging to the Anishinaabe, Haudenosaunee and Huron-Wendat, and a forty-minute drive from Kingston, Ontario, Knowlton Lake is located in the Cataraqui River watershed. A blue-roofed house with a screened in porch, set in a forest of red and mountain maple, white and paper birch, and black ash. Home to boreal and great horned owls, blue jays, and white-throated sparrows. Deer, beavers, black bears, chipmunks. The majesty of the Canadian Shield. Expanses of mica-studded rock reaching towards the determined horizon.
As kids, my older sister and I would run down the ravine to the lake with towels draped around our necks, swatting at mosquitoes and deer flies on each others backs. Home to trout, burbot and northern pike, the lake has a surface area of 182 hectares: a perfectly modest size. When we flung our legs off the dock into the water, banded killifish would come and nibble our toes. It was a place of timeless ballooning hours of imaginative play. As we grew older, forts and fairy circles were replaced by card games and books. Knowlton Lake grew with us, through us.
It remains my favourite place to read. There is no land line, cell reception, or Internet. You might receive a text message from the dock, if you’re lucky. Otherwise you have to walk to the end of the road where dirt turns to gravel to receive an email or log on to Instagram. As a preteen, teenager, and young adult, I’d bring a backpack full of books and devour each one, staying up late, interrupting my complete immersion only to dive in to the lukewarm lake or eat two ears of picked-that-morning corn. Time behaves differently when enveloped in paperbacks and Deciduous trees, when the loons signal dusk and the night is thick with Milky Way quiet.
This place is where I learned (in body and mind) that we are nature.
It feels like 36 C where I live (in Tkarón:to) today, sweat dripping down my belly while I’m sat in the garden, writing. It was close to 40 C in parts of the UK on Monday, and last weekend Portugal reached a record breaking 47 C. Meteorologists are describing it as a “heat apocalypse”. Railways are twisting predictable straight lines into contorted frowns. Roads are liquifying. Over a thousand people are dead.
Outlined in the most recent Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) report, "Limiting global warming to 1.5 C instead of 2 C could result in 420 million fewer people being frequently exposed to extreme heat waves and about 65 million fewer people being exposed to exceptional heat waves, assuming constant vulnerability." It’s hard to grasp these gargantuan numbers, but for some context, the entire population of Canada is 36.5 million people. Caroline Brouillette, who works for the Climate Action Network Canada told CBC, "There is no such thing as too late when it comes to climate change. Every tenth of a degree matters. There's a difference between something being extremely hard and something being impossible. Limiting warming to 1.5 C is a massive social and economic undertaking that we have to do."
Since springtime, I’ve spent many hours thinking about what is possible and feels impossible, and how my efforts might best serve this pivotal moment. I’m finally writing again, after months of confusing, shame-singed drought. While I am rooted in the belief that art is a galvanizing tool in collectively reimagining our future, the actuality of doing it can be gruelling and lonely. “Art is not neutral,” writes adrienne maree brown. “It either upholds or disrupts the status quo, advancing or regressing justice. We are living now inside the imagination of people who thought economic disparity and environmental destruction were acceptable costs for their power. It is our right and responsibility to write ourselves into the future.”
So, I return to the page, rewarding myself with a smoothie pop (recipe below) if I write at least five pages. Inspired by Ayana Elizabeth Johnson’s Climate Action Venn Diagram, writing remains the central element of my climate action. Perhaps you’re unsure where to put your outrage, heartbreak, or numbness over our current climate catastrophes. The resources shared here might help.
My family celebrated my sister’s 40th birthday this past weekend. There was lemon cake, a cheese plate, and naked children in a red kiddie pool. We are going to Knowlton Lake tomorrow, introducing these acres of heaven-on-earth to dear friends who are visiting. I haven’t been there in two years. I’m bringing a single book and my trusty spiral notebook. Returning to this place that I love, to the dragonflies and lake weeds, to myself through the ages. Reimagining amongst the birch’s papery skin, and the sounds of the next generation, laughing.
July’s five things
Healing: Gabrielle Gelderman’s bi-monthly climate grief circles.
Eating: 🥭 Mangoconut pops 🥥
In a blender, blend a cup of mango (fresh or frozen) with a can of full-fat coconut milk, a dash of salt, a sprinkle of cardamom, and maple syrup or honey to taste.
Fill popsicle molds (I have these), and freeze overnight.
Run mold under warm water to release pop, and enjoy!
Listening: Aborsh, a podcast about abortion in Canada by Rachel Cairns.
Reading: The Body Is Not An Apology by Sonya Renee Taylor.
Learning: Resmaa Menakem on creating an embodied antiracist culture on Talk Easy with Sam Fregoso.
If you don’t already know, I work as a creative consultant and editor, helping people shape and tell their stories. I have a few openings in the Fall!
Here’s what a client had to say about our work together. "Sasha is my creative fairy godmother. She has managed to do the impossible: inject joy and energy into the task of editing a large manuscript. I had come to a full stop with my project. I needed help and direction, and Sasha came to my rescue with gentle guidance, thoughtful questions, subtle prods, laughter and inspiration." If you or someone you know might be interested in working with me, you’ll find more information on my website and can reach out via the contact form.
Thank you! 🌞