In times that feel rife with upheaval, it is hard to know where to turn amidst the pervasive feelings of uncertainty and dread. For me, most of these challenging feelings directly stem from my awareness of the climate crisis and all its intersecting points of rupture. This crisis brings with it not only wildly intense pockets of “natural” disaster that wrack communities’ ability to survive and flourish, but also threatens a general breakdown of life as we know it. Climate change touches everything: our food systems, housing, water supplies, and social fabric. As we continue to collectively engage in the extractive systems that are at the root of climate change, so too do we accelerate our own unravelling. The center will not hold.  

I feel my heart break over and over again when I see large developments overtaking what was once wild land, or when beloved friends tell me how disconnected they feel from natural rhythms, not knowing how to find their way back. I feel my heart break when I can no longer hear birdsong, where once there was a symphony. 

Despite the fear and despair that this reality instills in me, I truly believe we are also living in a moment of precipice. Of potential. Of wild possibility. And it is at the edge of this New World Order where we can adamantly draw together, not only to survive the waves of climate-related disasters and systems breakdown, but to usher in the better ways of being that I believe we are all longing for. This is the transformative work that the climate movement needs, and it starts with how we depend upon one another, how we hold tight to the ties that bind.  

And it is at the edge of this New World Order where we can adamantly draw together, not only to survive the waves of climate-related disasters and systems breakdown, but to usher in the better ways of being that I believe we are all longing for.  

After Hurricane Helene, I called an organizational partner about an event we were supposed to co-host, as I had not been able to get in touch with her over email. I knew she lived around the Asheville area, but it had been several weeks since the hurricane hit, and I presumed, naively, that surely, life had regained enough normalcy that we could have a little tête-à-tête.  

 I was so wrong, and I felt utterly humbled in listening to her describe the disturbing, hopeful, sorrowful, awe-inspiring reality of how she and her neighbors, in present time, were trying to survive and rebuild in the aftermath of the storm.  

What has stayed most persistently with me from her story is how the threads between neighbors in her community were immediately pulled taut in efforts to help one another.  

What has stayed most persistently with me from her story is how the threads between neighbors in her community were immediately pulled taut in efforts to help one another. People showed up for each other. They went out of their way to help stranded neighbors who had lost power or who could not drive to get their medications. People shared resources. They shared their time. They asked what others needed, listened, and then went to work.  

It was almost as though the rules that had once governed – rules fraught with political difference, isolation, and economic disparity – no longer applied in this chaos, and that a new reality of care and interconnectedness had arisen in its place. It was not clean, and it was still complicated, but what I heard in her story was an example of a community practicing — out of necessity — a spirit of resilience, of love in action. And it is because of this story, and countless others that I have had the privilege to witness, that I cannot help but equate resiliency with a commitment to care.  

What if the ingredients we need to survive hardships are the same ingredients we need to flourish?  

What if we didn’t need a climate disaster to practice this new (or deeply remembered) way of being together? Perhaps the ingredients we need to survive hardships are the same ingredients we need to flourish? What if we choose to emphatically prioritize resiliency and care with those around us, not only in preparation, but as a means of starting to live into something different? 

Start holding the potlucks now. Start bringing folks together to teach the songs they know and cherish. Plant trees. Ask people what they need. Ask for what you need. Go out of your way. Take time that does not necessarily yield results beyond the deepening of relationships. Organize a meeting to craft a list of what meaningful acts of love might look like in your particular locality. Start building the constellation of care from that deep place of knowing that our well-beings — yours and mine — are inextricably bound. I offer this charge, not only as a preemptive measure to survive the hard times that are approaching and already here, but as a call to actualize the best versions of ourselves that will surely draw forth the love-based reality we so long for.  

Madeline Bugeau-Heartt is a guest writer for the Hopeful Neighborhood Project blog. She works for transformative spiritual leadership in a climate-changed world at The BTS Center (thebtscenter.org). Madeline also wears the hats of local organizer and theater maker in her home of Belfast, Maine.

If you want to read more about building a resilient neighborhood through love in action, check out How COVID Brought Out the Best in My Neighborhood – The Hopeful Neighborhood Project.