We all have to start somewhere, so maybe it’s ok to start at home, so long as we don’t stop there.
I sat down today (and yesterday, and the day before that, and also last week…) to write about trees, as I often do. Backyard trees, specifically ― part of my ongoing fascination with how we can reimagine private land as a public good in our cities. This shouldn’t have been a hard task for me to write about trees. I love trees, and I love writing! I have an outline for an essay. A series of notes I’ve been consistently jotting down between meetings and fieldwork. A stack of sources to follow up on. Policies and bylaws to link to. The pieces are all there to be written. I’ve even blocked out the time in my busy academic calendar (and re-blocked it, day after day, week after week, as I fail to complete my essay).
It’s just, I seem to be stuck. Not writing-block stuck, or out-of-ideas stuck. But rather, what-is-it-to-write-about-trees-as-the-world-burns stuck.
Every time I open my notes, fingers poised above my keyboard to compile my fragmented thoughts into sentences and paragraphs, I find my mind drifting back to the morning (or afternoon, or evening) news. To stories of worst-in-the-world air quality in typically clean Ontario cities. To texts from my friends in Toronto asking if it’s as apocalyptic outside in Montreal as it is there (not as I write this, but we’ve had our share of bad days recently, too). To Instagram stories and LinkedIn posts from colleagues in Ontario, New York, Minnesota, highlighting disconcertingly hazy orange skies.
I turn over in my mind the quote now superimposed repeatedly over photos of the courageous boat evacuation of Namaygoosisagagun First Nation as it burns: “Climate change will manifest as a series of disasters viewed through phones with footage that gets closer and closer to where you live until you’re the one filming it”. All of this against the backdrop of federal government cuts that decimate wildlife and flood tracking capacity, commitments to new Canadian pipelines (pipelines ― plural!), and claims from our Prime Minister that meeting climate targets is simply too expensive, too divisive.
These news stories and posts replay in my mind like reels on a social media feed I can’t stop doomscrolling. And so, I do not write about urban trees. I text my friend back – does she have a good air filter? ― and my Word document lingers, empty. I re-read a study on air pollution without meaning to. I glance at my half-dozen open tabs of Essay research, and instead of re-visiting them, I open a new tab and donate to disaster recovery efforts.
Eventually, I admit defeat and close my notes to try again another day.
Summer after summer, climate change looms larger. The phrase I so often repeat to my students, that “cities are on the front lines of climate change,” feels increasingly less academic and more visceral here in the oft-purported “climate haven” of Montreal. Years of academic knowledge on the state of the planet settle into my body as I breathe in smoke-filled city air on my commute. With this tangible sense of climate crisis hanging in the orange sky, it’s hard not to look to my notes on backyard trees, at my classes on urban ecology, at my field studies of biodiversity in the city, and simply think “this is all too small”. To think that maybe it’s just too little, too late. Who am I to think I can change this?
Because as it turns out, even environmental scholars – who should know better! – are not immune to the apathy, or perhaps more accurately the dissociation, that can take root when faced with repeated climate emergencies. Mentally detaching from the climate crisis (think: “there’s nothing I can do, so why bother”) serves as a form of self-protection in the face of the often-overwhelming fear and grief associated with a changing planet. Scientists noted these sentiments following Canada’s record-breaking 2023 wildfire season, and it’s exactly what I’ve been feeling this week as I sit down to write.
Deep down, I do have a strong conviction that what we do in cities matters. It’s why I research and teach urban ecology. It’s why I write for TNOC and give public talks to garden clubs and schools and churches (and basically anyone who will listen!).
It’s why I committed to years of weekly Zoom meetings to help produce the Global Roadmap on Urban Nature-based Solutions. Urban greening has very real and tangible benefits. Yet even alongside this knowledge of the tremendous benefits of nature, the truth remains that we can’t simply plant our way out of climate change. This is true broadly, and in cities too. And on hard days, it’s this glass-half-empty perspective that occasionally rises to the surface. Cities cover only a few percent of the earth’s surface. Why dedicate so much time and energy to something that is simply a drop in the ocean? Maybe it really is just too little, too late.
So rather than write about backyard trees, today, I decided to let myself sit with these dissociative thoughts. To lean into the perspective that the problems are simply too big to tackle, and ― hopefully, and there’s the important part ― to then write my way out of it. To answer the question for myself (and perhaps for you), if what I’m focusing on doesn’t feel like enough, why should I keep doing it anyway?
Here’s where I ended up.
First, trite as it sounds, doing something really is better than doing nothing. When faced with a poly crisis, inaction is a luxury that we simply cannot afford. In my teaching, research, and everyday life, I think back remarkably often to a quote from Dr. Kate Marvel, along the lines of “climate change isn’t a cliff we fall off, but a slope we slide down”. Similarly, I often turn to Katherine Hayhoe’s writing on whether we’re really doomed (spoiler ― we are not). So yes, sure, urban greening is only one solution among many, and a partial one at that. Yes, urban trees may offset just 10-20 percent of the extra heat expected with climate change. But 20% is a whole lot more than zero. Something is better than nothing. And it is precisely the kind of urban ecology research that I, my students, and colleagues are contributing to that can help place these trees where they matter most. As the IPCC reminds us, “Every bit of warming matters. Every year matters and every choice matters”. Who am I to disagree with some of the best minds on our planet when it comes to climate action?
So, I’ve re-convinced myself that we need to do something. But is my something (focusing on backyard trees, for example) really the right something? When I look out the window and see orange skies, there’s a piece of me that can’t help but think “maybe more of us should be studying fire”. Or flooding, or permafrost, or really, just [insert climate catastrophe of the day here]. Maybe my skills and time and research budget could be better allocated elsewhere, at a bigger problem.
Here’s where it helps to remind myself that every job is a climate job. Addressing climate change doesn’t demand that we all switch to working on what we perceive as the biggest problem of the day, but it does demand that we use our skills, energy, and enthusiasm in a way that moves the needle on the climate crisis. This adage is often applied outside of science ― those who work in business, in product development, in human resources all have a role to play in addressing climate change. But it’s true inside science too. Academic research can sometimes feel like an ever-narrowing funnel towards smaller and smaller pieces of the problem. But without each of these puzzle pieces, we won’t ever see the whole picture. There is no climate science silver bullet, just a lot of silver buckshot. We should each work on the pieces that we believe in, that make a difference, and that we have real expertise in. Researching urban greening is a skill set I’ve spent a decade developing, and there’s plenty of room to make a difference there while cheering on and spreading the good work of my fire-ecology colleagues.
Even more important than working on our individual pieces is the potential for scaling up. Here’s where I settled on what I find the most personally compelling reason to keep working on “backyard ecology” in hard times. Local action can inspire collective movements ― which is critical in a disconnected world. It’s true that a few square meters of garden or a handful of new trees are unlikely to make a dent in climate, biodiversity, or public health targets on their own. But multiply these small patches of land by tens of thousands per city, and suddenly the picture starts to shift. In addition to the (small, but measurable) ecological impact of these yards on our trees, bees, and migratory birds, my hope is that these individual spaces can serve as a catalyst for human connection. The more I work in individual yards with individual urban residents, the more people share their stories of the collective: of shifts in their relationship with nature, of conversations they’ve had with neighbours, of the environmental action committees they’ve joined.
I’m also reminded of the fact that most people understand the importance of climate change and want to do something, but underestimate how many others share this perspective. As Dr. Katharine Hayhoe writes, “our willingness to act is directly related to whether we think that action will make a difference. And whether we think our actions will make a difference depends on whether we think we’re acting alone, or whether we realize that many other people feel the same”. It’s not enough to care ourselves; building a sense of community is essential in response to major challenges. Climate dissociation, like I’ve been feeling this week, can be exacerbated by feelings of not being part of or connected to nature, or to others. So why not take our yards ― which are in some ways the most private of natural spaces, defined by literal fences erected between us and our neighbours ― and make those yards a place to start proclaiming: we’re not alone, we’re in this together. Planting a tree need not only be for its shade or infiltration or biodiversity value but can be a message to our community that we can each do something. A tree can be a conversation starter. A physical manifestation that urban resilience is built collectively. We all have to start somewhere, so maybe it’s ok to start at home, so long as we don’t stop there.
As I put down my (virtual) pen and look up from my kitchen table, the sky is still apocalyptic. Although I haven’t checked, I’m certain the news is still overwhelming. But after my afternoon reflections, I’m starting to feel a little more agency creep back in. Out the window, I see my thriving young Serviceberry tree and native plant garden, and remember that doing something is an antidote to apathy. I notice the box of field equipment recently taken down from this summer’s urban biodiversity monitoring; a reminder that we use the skills we have to contribute to the climate crisis. Then, I think about the dozens of generous Montreal residents who hosted that equipment for our lab in their own backyards – and start to dream about how a research project might help to build community. Right on cue, I see a text back from my Toronto friend, responding to my concerns about whether it’s all too little, too late. “We do our important work in the little box in front of us. It matters. It makes a difference”. In other words, every job is a climate job. This reminds me of a conversation I had with an undergraduate student recently about research pathways. I asked why they were interested in cities, with all the other opportunities a degree in ecology provides. Their explanation (lightly paraphrased) hit home: “It’s just, everything is so awful everywhere you look ― and people need something to do to help resolve the issues. Urban research can give them that something”. She was right. Every yard, every city, still has potential to be a little greener, a little more resilient, if we just keep doing the work that matters, together.
Carly Ziter
Montreal
