It is another unseasonally warm February day, here in Mohkínstsis. The lawns outside have dry, blonde grass on display with no snow in sight. It's one of the warmest winters that I can recall. I'm writing this while looking outside my window to the leafless tree branches, tall and swaying across the street. The sky is so blue it became the city's slogan.

There's a lot that's unseasonal, isn't there? I'm sure you've noticed it. Our climate is changing—and I'm not talking about the weather, here.

I think about the delta, often. Not how much things are changing, but the rate at which the change is occurring. Not just the velocity, but the jerk. The snap, crackle, pop of it all. Like a bullet train starting, or a car sputtering.

We've become so accustomed and desensitized to the idea of "disruption," popularized by silicon valley unicorn startups, haven't we? Let me re-contextualize the idea for you.

There are far more correct ideas associated with the revolutionary change: In nature, the wildland fires releasing nutrients stored in the litter on the forest floor, or the antifragile and self-healing salamanders, planarian flatworms, and the African spiny mouse. The sea stars that can regrow entire arms, and in some species, grow a whole new body from just a portion of a severed limb. The immortal hydra, a freshwater creature that can regenerate its body and nervous system from tiny fragments in just a couple of days, continuously renewing all 100,000 of its cells every twenty days. The muscles and bones that strengthen when exposed to stress, the immune systems that grow more robust through controlled exposure to pathogens.

I do not think we have the language to articulate what is coming. The word "change" does not have the gravity to define how different things are going to be for us. There are colours we haven't seen, yet. How do we prepare?

We don't. And the funny thing is, we continue, anyways. I write my blog posts. I'm sure you go to your job or take care of others. I hope you have the time to crochet or solve puzzles or read, or any other hobby you enjoy. I hope you're nourished and hydrated, as best as you can be.

In my maladaptive daydreaming, looking at the blue sky instead of doing my work, I wonder how much longer do we have to continue as-is. Will there be a gradient of change or will there be a specific day—a particular tipping point?

If you don't mind me asking you a personal question, reader, what do you care about? What do you love? It's a common remark that we're a society so hyper-individual, so self-absorbed, and yet I don't know how examined a life really is.

We continue, but one day we will not be able to continue any longer. Are you prepared for this? People endure life-changing events every day, sure. We are so capable of adaptability, of settling in. Humanity is no different than water finding the shape of a puddle in the rain. Maybe this is from a lack of choice.

Perhaps these contemplative meditations I share are my way of trying to prepare. An anticipatory grief, unsure of the depth and breadth I will lose. But I will have loss, regardless. Whether it is the milquetoast loss we all universally have suffered throughout, or the incomprehensible new loss that will come with the sea change in front of us.

Regardless, I'm so appreciative of the fleeting present moment. Of being able to write this silly, nebulous open letter to you, for the time being. I could be spending my fragile and finite time doing anything, but the truth is I would rather be here. I would rather be writing to you. Connecting with you, in this small way two people can connect with text on a screen, never meeting in person. Maybe from another place and time, entirely. I hope you don't mind spending your time reading. I mean, I have written a lot, there is an archive you can sink your teeth into, if you so choose.

I read an article recently about an AI safety leader, who says the 'world is in peril' and quit his job to write poetry. He wants to be come invisible. Personally, I deeply understand this inclination. I've been writing poetry for more than half my life.

And wouldn't it be so wonderful if this was where we were all headed? If our shared oblivion turned out to be one of being invisible and writing poetry while the world changed in incomprehensible ways. To share warm herbal tea and colourful quilted blankets with one another.

Look, the warmth in the winter months is unavoidable, now. I wear my snapback instead of my toque outside. I think we're all forced to wear a lot of different hats in life. I think as I stare into the light of the new horizon, I'm going to try my best to be more mindful and intentional about what hat I'm wearing. To be deliberate with how I approach this brave new world. This world always needs more poetry, more tenderness. More warmth and honesty. More humility and more shared nourishment. More balm and salve. Always, always.