The Words We Choose

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I have been giving myself a breather for the last six weeks, but it’s time to get back at it and I’m starting with the rare Wednesday post before getting back to the regularly scheduled early morning Sunday posts. I’ve trapped a new juvenile red-tailed hawk, and Dio the hawk is already generating stories and questions about what nature means to me. There are many posts to come this fall and winter.

I also want to let all my paid subscribers know that I have the 2025 “Best of” Written Bird Calendars in hand. And as promised in the perks for paid subscriptions, I would be honored to mail you a free calendar. I can think of NOTHING that would make me feel more connected and bring more joy to me than mailing out a batch of calendars this week! Please respond to this post with a mailing address and I’ll get one right out to you so you have something to actually enjoy receiving in your mailbox.

If you are not a paid subscriber, you are welcome to become one and get a calendar, but you can also click here and purchase one for $18.85 on Etsy with free shipping.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this essay that was published in our local daily newspapers last Sunday.

xx Rebecca

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Celebrating the beauty of nature and what remains unchanged through words and art is a path to preservation.

In 2005, philosopher Glenn Albrecht coined the term “solastalgia” to describe the emotional distress humans experience when their environment becomes unrecognizable in a negative way. I was drawn to this term when I discovered it and also saddened that there was a need for it. I have always struggled to explain the depth of this emotion. For me, it hasn’t just been the swap of open space for industry. It’s about how some of my most vibrant and joyful memories are anchored to places that no longer exist and therefore I cannot return to relive them.

I’ve watched the Inland Empire change dramatically in the last 30 years to the point of it being unrecognizable when compared to the memories of my early 20s.

As a young falconer, I roamed the Colton Dunes, the fallow vineyards of Ontario and the hills of coastal sage scrub throughout the region. I have deep memories of spotting numerous golden eagles, accidentally sending burrowing owls into flight and having a deep sense of all that is wild without a house or warehouse in sight. There are so many firsts in my life and unexpected moments of wild magic that now sit beneath rebar and concrete.

There is a scene in the movie “Grosse Pointe Blank” where Martin Blank, played by John Cusack, returns to his childhood home which in his absence has become an Ultimart. Panicking, he calls his reluctant therapist, Dr. Oatman for support. Oatman does not answer his phone. He and the audience listen together as Blank rages at Oatman’s answering machine that “You can never go home again, Oatman,” then he pauses and says, “but I guess you can shop there.”

Shopping at home does not dampen solastalgia. Solastalgia is described as being similar to homesickness, but instead of being geographically removed from the place you consider home, you remain there, no longer recognizing it and feeling the pang of loss. Albrecht is Australian and the Australian lens has high resolution. Increased frequency of heat waves, drought, floods, and devastating bushfires. It is ground zero for the loss of recognizable wilderness.

The massive Airport, Bridge and Line Fires we had in Southern California this fall brought this concept back to the front of my mind. Cal Fire is an amazing machine, and once we could all be relieved that the fires were contained, I found myself thinking about how hard it is to process such a great change to the landscape you love. The solastalgia being experienced by the folks in Wrightwood is no doubt an emotional burden on top of so many other burdens that come with wildfire recovery.

We can lean into solastalgia and mire ourselves in all that we are powerless to change, or we can lean into soliphilia, the flip side of having our solace stripped away. Soliphilia, defined by Albrecht, is solace secured, love of unity and solidarity. I believe this starts by celebrating what remains. It starts squarely in the hands of artists.

Art helps us see beauty through the minds of others, giving us a new entryway into wonders we may not have considered. Visual art is powerful because it shifts our mind’s eye, but writing is equally significant, and depending on the audience, can be even more impactful.

Words are powerful. They can be weaponized. They can foment fear. They can keep us up at night if we wish we would have used them more wisely. Or they can give us encouragement and hope.

Community. Connection. Wonder. Possibility. Those are the words we use when the people I work with at Rivers & Lands Conservancy talk about conservation, wild open spaces and endangered species. These are the words I find myself using when I talk about the surprisingly wild space in my front yard. So much habitat is gone, but my front yard and the wilderness that remains still have so much to give us.

Art generally does not lend itself well to spreading fear and disengagement. That is not where we sit as artists and writers. When we put our pens, pencils, and brushes to the page we think about what inspires us. We have a big role to play in what comes next and in a world so divided. I think our stories may very likely be the touch point that brings us all back together. What we celebrate is what we save, and I want to save so much.

Undoubtedly, I’ll continue to shop here, it’s convenient. Yet, I also want to find solace in my home.