We bear witness to a migration of pain. We see it surface on the human body in marks and scars. We hear the gentle rise and fall of breath, the veil between the lifebound and the dying. Our stories glisten like a cut. Like the sun’s reflection on a glacier’s surface water. 

Rising temperatures injure our sense of balance. Our animal and plant kin pass away in their multitudes. How is it a time for regeneration? The soil is still in mourning. 

Isn't the garden in winter flourishing still? 

Through reflecting on the role of decay and healing in the regenerative process, we come to terms with a planet in crisis. Already steeped in these ill-effects, we must let go of what is lost and find nourishment and healing. 

There is no avoiding it. An innovator blind to the histories that have brought us to this point is bound to repeat cycles of the past, cycles of despair. 

We might view the acknowledgement of decay in the natural cycle and the necessity of communal healing as the winter season of regeneration. In the book Wintering, Katherine May says:

“Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through… Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible.”

In this crucible of winter, we find the seeds of renewal. The mycelial networks beneath our feet, invisible yet vast, teach us about resilience and interconnectedness. They remind us that regeneration is not always visible on the surface, but occurs in the quiet depths, in the spaces between breaths, in the pause between stories. As Rahel Könen put it in her essay ‘Imaginaries for Regeneration’, “Re–generating is …  a bringing-back, a renewal of something that feels lost, something on the verge of dying.” 

As we navigate these times of great change, let’s have healing be a kind of listening.