I'm learning to live with my climate change anxiety by making friends with Mother Nature

This is a First Person column by Becca Griffin, an artist and performer living in Prince Edward Island. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

After one of my first swims of the season, on a new-to-me beach close to the house my partner and I started renting back in February, I stood wrapped in a towel at the archway of trees leading me back on the path through the field and home again. 

On impulse, child-like wonder stopped me in my tracks.

With one foot on the rickety little steps that would lift me from sand to clay, I looked up and noticed the leaves of a cluster of birch trees rustling in the breeze. Then I heard them… my intuition, my imagination.

They sang, "These trees are applauding you, Becca." And suddenly, all of those stirring leaves became Mother Nature's tiny green hands, growing louder with each gust, giving me a standing ovation for taking the plunge fairly early on in the season.

I bowed and curtsied my towel, soaking in the attention as if I'd just performed the most beautiful aria. After this game of pretend with the trees, I continued on home feeling as though I were a character in the cosmos, Rebecca of Bunbury if you will, believing this to be my own personal L.M. Montgomery chapter.

But my relationship with Mother Nature isn't always so pure or simple.

Lately, I find myself increasingly grappling with the weight of climate change. I feel the fear of the unknown, I experience the dread of what's to come — for myself, for my family, for my community. 

Will we have a roof over our heads? Will we be forced from our home by a hurricane or some other extreme weather event? Where would we even go if such a disaster occurred?

These are only a few examples of the way my thoughts unfold, one anxious question after another.

But I find I am often able to quiet the worry by just sitting outside, slowly breathing, kneading those thoughts out of my mind.

It's important for me to understand that what really scares me is Mother Nature's fury, her might. And by acknowledging that, I'm also acknowledging that it's out of my control. This allows me to move through how I'm feeling in tandem with her.

When the lights go out, the wind is howling — why not make mournful music with her? When she's pouring down buckets and I'm stuck waiting it out — why not cry with her?

Much like Anne Shirley, I have a knack for being present with Mother Nature on a breezy, sunshiny day. I believe it is my challenge to bring that presence into her scarier moments, too.