Lessons from the Great Outdoors
We humans seem to have complex feelings about the natural world from
which we’ve sprung. As much as we crave communion with nature, we often
desire to be free of it, which can make for a bit of a fraught
relationship.
I recently went camping in the woods and directly experienced this
contradiction. On one hand, my mind was relaxed by the quiet wisdom of
the trees and the usually unnoticed conversations between distant birds.
I was filled with the ancient joy of simple forest living, astonished
by the beauty and complexity of running streams and tiny insects.
On the other hand, that simple life among complex surroundings was kind of a pain in the ass.
There was shelter to build, water and wood to carry, fire to tend, and
meals to prepare in a less-than-ideal kitchen. It was cold at night, and
I found alarming quantities of black bear poop. And those beautiful
insects were out for blood. How could something that felt so nourishing
be so difficult?
I suppose, as in intimate human relationships, the things that make a
close connection with nature hard can be the things that make it so
valuable — but only if we can get beyond the difficulties as excuses not
to make an effort.
Fortunately, there are many compelling reasons and ways to overcome our
less noble instincts and give old nature a try. All of the writers in
this Weekend Reader present plenty.
Diane Ackerman describes
how nature allows her to apprehend such Buddhist qualities as
impermanence, interconnectedness, and ultimately emptiness. The world
will enchant us, she says, if only we let it.
Gary Snyder, conversely,
sees spiritual and artistic practices as ways into healthy relationship
with nature. He thinks our mistrust of our own wild minds is killing
us. If our cultural gifts to the natural world are to survive, we will
have to practice loving the wilderness through them.
Gretel Ehrlich,
profiled here by Stephen Foehr, takes that necessary love even further,
seeing it as visceral and primal. “It’s really like the act of taking
off your clothes and pressing yourself against a dirt road,” she says.
“You cover yourself with the living world.”
At that point, the apparent dichotomies break down. Our spiritual
practice then enriches our appreciation of nature and vice versa.
Eventually it’s all one practice, developing a tenderness toward the
world and ourselves. And maybe even insects.
—Andrew Glencross, Deputy Art Director,
Lion’s Roar magazine
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