Stuckness, in the in-between
In Devon this year, the transition from Summer to Autumn has felt unusual. After the exceptionally hot, dry months of July and August, we expected September to bring the familiar onset of some wet and windy weather. But no, the sun continued to shine, and now, in October, a severe drought has been declared in Devon.
The sea is still warm enough for regular swims, and I am only just beginning to reach for extra layers as the evenings draw in:
This all might seem like positives, yet I am feeling unsettled, struggling to know how to respond to what is happening, and I find myself feeling increasingly stuck and scared for the future.
So, during the week I ventured out to spend some time in nature, hoping to lift my spirits.
At this time of the year, taking a walk can rejuvenate me. I find comfort in noticing the seasonal changes, slowing down and savouring the warmth of the end-of-summer sun, which feels all the more precious as the days shorten.
I walked along the Becka Brook, which winds through a valley strewn with huge granite boulders, surrounded by a rare temperate rainforest. I was looking for the famous 70ft high waterfall, Becky Falls. Although keenly aware that there had been very little rain recently, I was shocked by what I found. Instead of the powerful cascade I had experienced here before, just a trickle of water emerged from the top of the waterfall, dwindling into even smaller cascades as it descended over the rocks.
The great granite boulders were dry and some had lost the familiar covering of moss.
I soon immersed myself in taking some photos, trying to capture the 'sense of the place' and the new atmosphere. I lay down to shoot through the soft green moss. I was keenly aware that these images of Becky Falls were so different to those that were usually taken in this famous beauty spot. The absence of water suddenly seemed to represent the wider climate catastrophe. I wondered how much the prolonged lack of rain and the warmer temperatures might be impacting upon this delicate ecosystem. What changes were already taking place?
My concerns were amplified by some news I had been reading about the state of the planet. A recent report in Scientific American, highlighted that seven of the 16 markers used to monitor Earth's climate, including sea-level rise and melting sea ice, had reached record extremes.
As William J. Ripple and his colleagues explain in their 2026 State of the Climate report, Earth's life support systems are being pushed beyond stable limits, with changes unfolding faster than our ability to respond. Human activities, such as burning fossil fuels, are driving this change. .
And yet this week the UK Government has approved the opening of Jackdaw gas field in the North Sea for production. At a time when we should be accelerating the transition away from fossil fuels, this decision risks undermining our climate commitments and weakening the UK's credibility as a leader in tackling the climate crisis. It also risks diverting attention and investment from the wider changes our society so urgently needs.
It is hard not to feel disheartened by the disconnect between what we know about the causes of climate breakdown and the decisions that are taken in our name. The report points to oppportunities to avoid some of the worst outcomes. We are not without choices.
I have also been finding some comfort in the work of Agnes Becker. In her recent article Moving from Climate Grief to a More Loving World, she encourages us to acknowledge our grief and sadness about what is happening to our world, whilst also imagining a more loving world and taking action to help bring it about. She writes
"Walking into the wild with a lens of wonder and joy will leave you open to moments of magic and enchantment that will deepen your love for life on earth."
These words resonated with me as I walked through Becky Falls. Our love of the natural world makes experiencing its deterioration so painful. But maybe that love can also sustain us in protecting it. We need to make space for our grief, but we also need to exercise our imaginations. What might a more loving, just and ecologically healthy world look like? How could we live differently, and what would it take to create communities in which people and nature can flourish together?
This is the kind of future that Rob Hopkins encourages us to imagine: not simply a slightly less damaging version of the world we have now, but something more hopeful, generous and life-affirming.
Agnes also reminds us that we are not alone. We are connected to our ancestors and to the generation yet to come. Our actions matter as they will shape the world for those who will follow us. Research by Epel and colleagues (2025) suggests that community engagement, collective action, education, and participation in local climate solutions can help foster a greater sense of agency, resilience, and hope. Small actions, when multiplied across communities and institutions, can contribute to broader societal change and strengthen support for climate mitigation and adaptation.
There are also reasons to believe that change on larger scale remains possible. Advances in renewable energy, battery storage and ecosystem restoration, offer practical ways to reduce emissions and restore damaged landscapes. We need to seek out others who share our concerns, find ways to work together and be proactive in shaping the future we want for our children and grandchildren. We cannot do everything, but we can each do something, and we can do far more together than we can alone.
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