This past weekend, I had the good fortune to attend a three-day master naturalist conference in Canaan Valley, West Virginia. This spectacular setting, an upland plateau deep in the Appalachian Mountains, is noteworthy for being one of the largest wetland areas of its type in the southern and central Appalachian region. It is a dreamscape for naturalists seeking to observe unique flora and fauna more often found in Canada than in the warmer mid-Atlantic states.
My purpose, however, was to explore a new way of thinking about nature that I’ve only recently discovered. In a nutshell, I need to think of myself not as a naturalist, or master naturalist. I am nature.
When I first read this sentiment in a poem, it took me a minute to wrap my head around it.[1] The philosophical concept expressed was that nature is not something to be simply observed and appreciated, like a lovely display in a living museum. Rather, we humans are an essential part of the natural world, just like all the green and growing things around us.
This suggests that we should have a stronger attachment to birds, trees and insects than to the man-made devices we depend on today. Yet ask the average person to distinguish the song of the white-throated sparrow from that of the chickadee, the maple tree from an oak, or a damselfly from a dragonfly, and they will probably not be able to tell you. Why? Possibly because they feel no connection to these things, and have no interest in learning how to distinguish them. The point of that poem was that unless we feel we are a part of the natural world, we won’t care about it as much as we need to—that is, as if our lives depend on it.
I decided to explore this idea of helping humans feel they are an intrinsic part of the natural order, after taking one of my favorite classes this weekend: “Nature Journaling By Sensing the Natural World,” taught by artist and storyteller Linda Durrett. Linda taught us a helpful method for making connections with nature by using all our senses (including our “sixth” sense) but in reverse order. We began by sitting quietly with our eyes closed for a good length of time and just listening. This was followed by (with eyes still closed) smelling, touching, tasting, and feeling the energy of what was around us.
It was only after we had explored as much as we could with our eyes closed, that we opened them, and went from focusing on the big picture (the landscape) to the tiny things we needed to get down on the ground to see. For me the experience was enlightening, and I learned a great deal while rooted to the same spot for an hour.
I decided to use this approach the next morning when we visited a hidden bog far off the beaten path. Aside from our small group, there were no other people around. By listening first with my eyes closed, I heard the music of the bog—the squishy sound of the wet sphagnum moss beneath our feet, the tiny streams that gurgled through, the whir of insects on the wing, and the songs of the birds who feast on them. The bog smelled wet and earthy and felt like walking on foam pillows. The energy of the bog was alive, but hushed and secretive. Above the surface, all was calm and peaceful, but below our feet the earth moved and shifted with restless vigor.
When I opened my eyes, I saw a wide open space, seemingly devoid of biological diversity. But when I crouched close to the boggy mounds, I discovered a whole tiny world of plants that have thrived in such places for eons.
I’m not sure I can remember a time when I felt more attuned to nature than I did in that bog, and I attribute that to Linda Durrett’s methodology. I felt an almost prehistoric connection, a feeling my ancestors might have had 300,000 years ago when they entered such a place.
It’s funny how, despite our ability to find information about anyone and anything in an instant, we still have so much to learn about the things that are most elemental and real. Try this approach of immersing yourself in the natural world. I think you’ll feel at home there.
Do you have a favorite spot where you feel at one with the natural world? I would love to hear your stories, in the comment section below.
Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates, grows tomatoes, and enjoys a good online Zumba routine at home on winter evenings. Virgin Snow is her first novel.
[1] I did an internet search but I cannot find the poem, or I would add the link here. However, if you would like to read some lovely poems which embrace the same sentiment, read Poems of Earth and Spirit, by Kai Siedenburg at https:/ournatureconnection.com.