More than 20 years ago, I attended my first town “visioning” workshop in the Upper Delaware. To kick off the conversation, we were asked to share what we found special about our lives in the area. One woman began shyly but gathered eloquence as she described getting up before sunup each day to make her morning coffee and step out onto her deck, sitting quietly as the lake came to life with birdsong, the gentle lapping of the waves and the dawn light hitting the tops of the trees. 

I’m sure I wasn’t the only person in the room who had cherished similar experiences, because several of us got a little choked up. Then she said something I found devastating. As best I can remember, it went something like this: “I know I will lose this—we will all lose this kind of experience of nature and quiet. Development will come, and I guess that’s progress.” A few people nodded in sympathetic agreement.

It was shattering. The implied acceptance of impending loss confused and saddened me. As I thought about it in the days that followed, I realized I needed to understand more about this fatalistic state of mind. I learned that mental health practitioners have developed words that might describe what that melancholy lady was feeling. One is “solastalgia,” which describes the grief we feel when we lose natural environments that are important to us. Another term, “eco-anxiety,” describes the feeling of worry or dread about possible future losses, which we can experience even while we are enjoying a beloved place. The first experience is lived and the second is anticipated; both involve feelings of hopelessness and lack of agency. Most descriptions stress that this worldwide phenomenon is not part of a mental health disorder but rather reflects a natural response to real events and environmental threats.

I also learned that loneliness can be a factor. In their multi-year opinion research about climate change, the Yale Program on Climate Change Communications has found that many people who are pessimistic about climate change and other environmental issues rarely attempt to discuss their environmental worries, and they consistently underestimate the level of concern their friends and neighbors are feeling. Fed by fear in our politically fractured world, this sense of social isolation encourages the feeling that we are powerless to defend what we care about. 

That long-ago discussion changed my outlook and my life. It certainly inspired me to get involved, to speak up and to keep educating myself about the underlying science and the civic processes that allow us to be proactive. One of the most important of these processes is the creation of a comprehensive plan (aka “master plan”) for our communities, a periodic ritual in both New York and Pennsylvania. In New York, local governments are encouraged to develop or revise their comprehensive plans every 10 years, following guidelines established by the NYS Department of State. In Pennsylvania, both townships and counties prepare comprehensive plans under the auspices of the Pennsylvania Department of Community and Economic Development, using guidelines in the Pennsylvania Municipalities Planning Code, and these plans look ahead 20 years. In both states, the plans articulate locally appropriate strategies for addressing housing and transportation needs, the identification and protection of natural resources, goals for economic development, and provisions for water supplies, wastewater management and other essential services. These goals and strategies form the rationale for land use regulation, zoning code and other local laws and policies that affect quality of life for the town’s residents, who provide their input in a series of community workshops, discussions and surveys.

Over the past two years, I’ve had the particularly rewarding experience of working with an all-volunteer comprehensive plan committee and other diligent community members in my town, all of whom brought extraordinary community knowledge—town history, family histories and past efforts—as well as particular expertise and perspectives on natural resources, water and wastewater issues, real estate and business development. They also brought generosity, open-mindedness and humor to the process, a willingness to listen and work for consensus, and formidable research skills.

The public stepped up as well, discussing potentially thorny issues with care and respect. The session on community values and how they translate into practical policies that nurture our quality of life was robust and inspiring. What emerged was a clear shared understanding that environmental health and economic resiliency are intertwined, and that the qualities of rural, small-town life that we treasure are community attributes that will help us face current and future challenges. In many planning exercises, there’s the wonky answer and the one that comes from the heart; bliss is when they coincide. This year, my neighbors taught me once again that our faith in each other is our greatest strength.