Flow State

[Carles Rabada via Unsplash]

“I’ve never had writer’s block. I don’t believe in it because… if I hear that I would freeze—I’m a block. But you can always keep your hand moving…”  

- Natalie Goldberg

**

March is “runoff season” in Utah, when temperatures warm and mountain snow begins to melt. Mountains act as natural water towers, capturing and storing water during the winter months, and releasing it for downstream use in the spring. In this arid state where only 3% of land surface is near enough to a water source to be habitable, the importance of snowpack to Utah’s people, economy, and ecology cannot be overstated.

Whereas rain tends to run off quickly and is difficult to capture and use, snow percolates into the ground slowly, where it replenishes rivers and reservoirs gradually throughout the summer, when demand is greatest. For that reason, Bryce Canyon National Park scientist Rhiannon Garrard tells me, “Maintaining a heavy seasonal snowpack is the best way to maintain a strong groundwater supply.” Utah receives approximately 95% of its water from snowfall. Without this steady, reliable source, modern life here would not be possible. Utah is also the fastest growing state in the country, and water—for irrigation, drinking, commercial/industrial use, and recreation—will be its key to a secure future.

How much snow arrives each year is unpredictable, though, and climate change is increasing that unpredictability. Worldwide, mountains are warming more quickly than the global average, and are among the most rapidly changing ecosystems. There have been recent high snowfall winters, but the overall trend is downward. The scientific literature is clear:

"In the last century, climate warming has been linked to precipitation phase shifts from snowfall to rainfall, decreases in peak snow water equivalent (SWE), earlier snowmelt onset, and shorter snow cover duration. These changes have likely reduced the ability of mountain snowpacks to store water as snow."

“The largest decreases of around 10% per decade are seen in the river basins of the southwestern USA…”

“[I]t is virtually certain (>99% probability) that human emissions have contributed to the observed pattern of March snowpack trends..."

This winter, the Escalante basin is at 38% of normal, a condition the Division of Water Resources calls "concerning". We appear headed for drought.

The natural reaction to all this is a combination of anguish, anxiety, and helplessness that has come to be known as “climate grief”. It describes a kind of paralysis, a feeling of being locked up, frozen by the overwhelming weight and finality of witnessing widespread irreversible environmental devastation. Every day, the warning signs grow louder, and we are flooded with more bad news. Now that many symptoms are unmistakable, we’re told by experts that it’s probably too late to avoid the worst outcomes. Not that our leaders seem intent on addressing the problem, anyway.

When Wide Hollow Reservoir runs low in late summer, and pondweed lies in scuzzy black heaps, crisping in the sun, city government might enforce strict water-saving measures, but they do not acknowledge that such measures are becoming more frequent, and more severe. They use the word drought but never climate change, which remains a signifier of “eco freaks”. Despite my best efforts at optimism, therefore, I too sometimes find myself overcome with distress, struggling to keep my head above water.

For the past few years my outlet has been writing. It helps me escape from doom and gloom, process my feelings, and tap into a deeper well of support and inspiration. Art, by its very nature, is an expression of hope. Creating it, appreciating it, is a means of reasserting some measure of control. It’s sometimes hard to find the mood for creativity when my energy could be directed toward something more “useful”. So on those rare occasions when my grief thaws and inspiration beckons, I’m increasingly drawn to drop everything and make the most of it.

**

The term “flow” was coined by Hungarian-American psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, who described it as "the mental state in which a person performing some activity is fully immersed in a feeling of energized focus, full involvement, and enjoyment in the process of the activity.” Also known as being “in the zone”, or “in the groove”, flow is characterized by complete focus and absorption in a task or activity, and a resulting transformation in one's sense of time. It’s a state of pleasurable, concentrated ease when we effortlessly achieve our highest potential, and usually comes about when we are engaged in a task for which, by dint of skill, talent, or disposition, we are perfectly suited.

In his seminal 1990 book Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience, Csikszentmihalyi described what he calls the “flow channel”, or sweet spot between tasks that are too easy and too hard, when flow arises. Too easy and we become bored; too hard and we get frustrated—both outcomes urge us to avert our attention and seek something more rewarding. But when that crucial balance is struck, “Time flies. Every action, movement, and thought follows inevitably from the previous one, like playing jazz. Your whole being is involved, and you're using your skills to the utmost."

One of the most common ways flow arises is through strenuous physical exertion or coordination such as athletics and dancing, during which a group of people seem to merge into a single intuitive unit. The feeling is also well-known to artists—musicians or painters, for instance, who get so lost in their work that they forget to eat or drink. For me, hiking or running are reliable routes to flow, but sometimes even a thoroughly engrossing conversation is enough to bring upon mind-melding transcendence.

Flow, Csikszentmihalyi notes, can be a coping mechanism for stress and anxiety. Productively pursuing a form of leisure that matches one's skill set is intrinsically rewarding and results in a sense of accomplishment and – more importantly – agency. When we feel we have mastery over even a tiny corner of the universe, other burdens seem lighter and more manageable. When I write about my own climate grief, I dredge up hidden feelings and associations, complex layers of thought and emotion that sometimes surprise me. Writing helps me to see a little more clearly, to understand more deeply. I might not be doing much in the way of halting carbon emissions (especially while using the computer), but I always have the distinct feeling of making progress toward another kind of solution—finding a way to live with it, and myself.

**

Like any natural process, writing goes through cycles. There are times when I’m firing on all cylinders, ideas streaming through me like a manic torrent that I can’t capture fast enough. Other times I’m lethargic, and try (and try, and try), but it stubbornly resists my every effort. (Digital distractions are flow-killers.) This agonizing state of affairs can last weeks. I’ve learned not to force it. Its season will come around again.

Part of living in the desert, after all, is coming to terms with scarcity. My existence here is as precarious and as that of the fish, otters, and foxes; only a few bad winters away from crisis.

"...many of the world’s most populous basins are hovering on the precipice of rapid snow declines..."

"Across the western United States, snow water equivalent declines of ~25% are expected by 2050.”

"The potential for persistent low-to-no snow to disrupt the [western United States] water system is substantial, potentially even catastrophic."

Climate change is an unbelievably complex, highly technical problem. Solving it will require nothing less than a complete restructuring and reengineering of the global economy. I can’t say I’m hopeful that will happen. But descending into blame and resentment is too easy. It bores me, only makes me feel worse. Creativity, on the other hand, is one thing that can’t be taken without my consent, even by force. I choose not to drown.

Aside from its technical aspects, climate change also presents an emotional challenge. It’s understandable, even normal, to feel helpless in the face of problems like these. It’s okay to feel guilt, shame, anger, and blame, to lapse into cycles of remorse and regret, planning and anxious worry. This is all part of the process. The key is to not get hung up, to let it flow through me rather than deny, refuse, or block it. That only prolongs the pain.

As I gaze at the snowless flanks of Boulder Mountain, it occurs to me that ideas appear like clouds, like condensation or precipitation somewhere in the space between my skull and the eternally transparent sky. I could hoard them, guard them, lock them up and never let them see light of day. Or I could convey them forward, so that they might also nourish someone else.

**

Excerpts from:

Garfield and Wayne County Insider. “So. Utah Snowpack at ‘Concerning Levels,” SW Utah’s Worst Snowpack Since 1980.” Issue 1604. February 27, 2025.

Gottlieb, A.R. and J.S. Mankin. 2024. Evidence of human influence on Northern Hemisphere snow loss. Nature 625(7994): 293-300.

Hale, K.E., K.S. Jennings, K.N. Musselman, B. Livneh, and N.P. Molotch. 2023. Recent decreases in snow water storage in western North America. Communications Earth & Environment 4(1): 170

Siirila-Woodburn, E.R., A.M. Rhoades, B.J. Hatchett, L.S. Huning, J. Szinai, C. Tague, P.S. Nico, D.R. Feldman, A.D. Jones, W.D. Collins, and L. Kaatz. 2021. A low-to-no snow future and its impacts on water resources in the western United States, Nature Reviews Earth & Environment 2(11): 800-819.