Ameen Wahba is an artist, musician, and student therapist-in-training in the Clinical Mental Health Counseling Master’s program at the University of Nebraska-Omaha. You can contact him at ameenwahba@gmail.com.

Solastalgia, Water Over White Stones
with Emily Hefeli, editor

On October 12th, I spent 6 hours riding my bike. I rode the Wabash Trace Nature Trail - an old train line that runs through ~60 miles of southwest Iowa. “Wabash” is an English version of the French name for the actual Wabash river east of Iowa in Indiana ("Ouabache"). French traders named the river after the Miami-Illinois word for the river, waapaahšiiki, meaning "it shines white", "pure white", or "water over white stones”. (Hay, 2008).

I biked to an old jail. I biked to a bar. I was quiet. I listened to the news. I listened to a book. I listened to music. I listened to myself moving. I was alone with my thoughts, outside of the occasional biker or runner, meeting me in isolation. Time moved as quickly as I did - I pushed, I took it easy, I honored my mood, my body, my mind, the day.

The primary factor that grounded my experience that day, other than my bike and myself, was the presence of the natural world - of plants, animals, and the processes of decay and growth that accompany it.

At this moment, spaces free from human manipulation are becoming fewer as space is made for increasing development and consumption. The psychological impacts of this loss of natural space are significant. Since this loss can be subtle, in that it may move through time incrementally, it can feel hard to point out a source.

Before I turned around, I was running through a schedule of my day and thinking about what time I should start heading in the opposite direction, an artifact of the thinking I attempted to leave behind. In that moment, I became aware of a large branch blocking my path - a perfect opportunity to turn around and move back toward the city. But something compelled me to lift my bike and cross over it. A desire to be in this natural world longer - to explore the extent of this old train line, an imprint of the human impulse to move themselves and their things.

I thought of what a friend of mine once said, “There is a way to flip your perspective while looking at the interstate.” When I drive, I tend to see the road ahead. But really, the forest that closes in on either side was there before; and has likely been there for some time. The road is encroaching on the forest, not the other way around.

Nature reinforces the sense of connectedness by virtue of being both individual, living units as well as one entity at the same time (like seeing the trees or the forest [or the road]).

The feeling of isolation, already prevalent in our culture prior to the global pandemic, is really an illusion that we are not connected to the world around us. When we live with nature, instead of opposed to it, the feeling of isolation, through no effort, disappears. By coming into nature, we find a space to recalibrate ourselves to the reality that we are connected. As we continue lose these sacred spaces to climate change and ecological depletion, naturally - grief emerges. The quality of air, the rhythm of seasons, not to mention the disastrous byproducts of climate change that impact daily living (e.g. increased illness, limited food supply, displacement of people and animals, and, ultimately, our extinction) are the felt impacts of our own behavior. Grief emerges from the place that has felt a sense of belonging and, in reflection of knowing that space, feels the absence. This sense of grief also extends to ourselves - our existence into the future. And in this, it becomes obvious how connected to the natural world we truly are.

Grief is a natural response to a loss of something loved.

The sense that we must hold both the grief that comes with knowing the earth is dying, and the knowledge that our individual and collective behavior dictates whether our species, and others, persist, is overwhelming. Through our energy output, whether it be financial, attentive, or otherwise, we support the continuation of dominant systems. By divesting this energy, we provide power to alternatives. Thankfully, in each moment, we have the option to choose new behaviors, holding governments, corporations, communities and ourselves accountable.

Ecological grief is unique in that loss is continual and, in many ways, reversible. We can never really return to a place where harm has not been caused. It is possible, though, as a species, to begin again with nature, to honor the land with sustainable behavior and a position of gratitude for what it provides for us - physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

During my bike ride, I experienced a range of feelings. I moved through distress as it bubbled up from a backlog, stored from living life in this world. I had silent smiling moments, thanking the sky, the trees, a bird, water moving. I was held by, what felt like, an accepting space. Like all things, that which comes must change. Although change is certain, we have power to shape what that change will look like. The first step to shaping this change is being aware of what is happening, both within and outside of ourselves, in this very moment. Once we honor reality as it is, and the feelings that arise as a result of touching a truth that may be painful, we make space to move freely toward a better world.

Hay, Jerry M (2008). Wabash River guide book. Indiana Waterways. ISBN 978-1-60585-215-7.

Ameen Wahba | Solastalgia, Water Over White Stones

950 S 10th Street #15, Omaha, NE 68108