By Johanna Bergmark

When I was a kid, I became aware of the fact that the world would eventually end. I kept imagining the planet exploding, which troubled me deeply. However hard I tried, I couldn’t let go of this image of me and all I’d ever known disappearing in the snap of a finger. Adults attempted to calm me, reassuring me this was a thing of a most distant future. Twenty years have passed, and as I lie on a hard single bed, fully naked, cooling my body with an ice cube, that future feels closer than ever before.

It’s early July and my London lease has just ended. I’ve fled to Spain. The plan is to spend a week here alone to practice slowing down and being present. Friends and family keep sending me screenshots of weather reports and articles declaring the emerging heat wave in Southern Europe. They remind me of the importance of hydrating properly, of being cautious of my salt intake, of being tempted too many times by the Sangria Jugs each restaurant offers for the same price as a pint back home.

The room I’ve rented is facing South, and although it’s already 40 degrees Celsius outside I’m almost certain it’s even hotter in here. The irony is palpable but in a desperate attempt to cool the room down, I open the small refrigerator and face the dusty fan towards it. I take cold showers at least three times a day. One night, when the lady next door is out, I finally dare to break the house rules and sneak a long-haired Aussie into my room. The morning after I ask, somewhat surprised, if he’s already been for a swim. It turns out his brown curls are just wet from sweat. 

Then it's mid-July and I’m in Berlin. The whole open-air crowd has tried to escape the very sudden heavy rain. Apparently, there is a new pattern of these unforeseen showers. More often than before, overfull rain clouds suddenly fill the sky – sometimes accompanied by thunder clouds – and open themselves on the world. Everyone has curled up under the limited area of the roof. We share cigarettes and know that it is soon to pass. Just a few minutes later, there will be a spotless blue sky and the only proof they were ever there is the inches of water the ground is unable to absorb.

One woman is still dancing, alone, her soaked denim set looks heavy, and her hair is covering her face, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes are closed, her arms in the air, but her face expresses sorrow. I don’t really know her; we spoke briefly earlier. She is Greek and her childhood home was burnt to the ground just a couple of days before.

Then it’s the end of July. I’ve joined my family for a few days in our house up in the north of Sweden. I’ve spent a lot of winters here but haven’t come back in the summer for many years. I notice nature looks different. The trees are reaching higher and higher up the formerly bare mountain tops. I don’t make the connection, but my mother explains it’s due to the fact the winters are getting shorter. In a few years, there will be no naked mountain tops left. If the gulf stream does not break before that point, of course, which would turn the Scandinavian countries into nothing but an everlasting land of winter. My brother jokes that we need to get our driver's licenses sorted so we won’t be dependent on anyone else the day the climate war breaks out and we need to flee. I can’t laugh. 

***

To worry is in my DNA. Whilst friends of mine describe their anxiety as stress or sadness, mine always manifests itself in worry. Climate change, its consequences, and that image of the world exploding have always been in the back of my mind. It's been twenty years since I came to realise there will be an end to our world, and the future I was told would be billions or trillions of years away is somehow becoming a reality right now.

Humans are experts at closing our eyes and ignoring the things happening to others, but not ourselves. This is why our own heartbreak might trouble us more than an earthquake across the ocean, or why we manage to feel sorry for ourselves for losing a career opportunity while people are literally experiencing war. We are self-centred by nature. We prioritise ourselves and our short-term happiness over sustaining our planet.

However, we’ve gotten to a point where being selfish and caring for the planet will soon be the same thing. In a world where we cannot live, we cannot worry about a lost lover or experience a quarter-life crisis. Eventually, we’ll be forced to adapt to the planet, but why not start now, while we might still have the slightest chance to slow things down? A day will come when we cannot separate ourselves from the world we live in – a day when we understand we’re part of it. 

So, with each seashell I collect walking on the beach, I care. With each flower he smilingly puts behind my ear, I care. I care for the water whispering secrets as I dive beneath the surface. Just as I care for the mountains towering on the horizon. And I no longer believe that the ability to care for planet Earth is a matter of intelligence, but the ability to feel as being part of it.