THE LIVING EARTH
Paths to Your Wildness
Cultural historian Thomas Berry says, “Walt Whitman did not invent his sentience, nor was he wholly responsible for the form of feelings he experienced. Rather, his sentience is an intricate creation of the Milky Way, and his feelings are an evocation of being, an evocation involving thunderstorms, sunlight, grass, history and death. Walt Whitman is a space the Milky Way fashioned to feel its own grandeur.”1
Let me repeat that last sentence, “Walt Whitman is a space the Milky Way fashioned to feel its own grandeur.” And so, I believe, are you and I.
You have a capacity for beholding the wonder of life on earth, and when you do that, you allow the universe to contemplate itself through you. The challenge for most people is learning how to befriend the mind so that day-to-day worries, stresses, and other thoughts we carry around don’t get in the way of experiencing the miracle of life on earth. It’s not that thoughts are bad or that forethought, planning, and strategic thinking aren’t useful; they are. We wouldn’t be here without them. But we need to be able to put them aside regularly in order to return to the present moment and to the earth and to ourselves through the body and the senses as well as the mind.
The practice of meditation is the most powerful tool for developing the capacity to calm the fluctuations of our thoughts. Of course, just by spending time close to nature, our physiology knows how to attune with the forces of the earth, so much of the work of rewilding has to do with slowing down and falling into rhythm with nature.
Have you ever been spellbound by the beauty of some simple thing in nature? Maybe the specks of dust caught in a ray of light coming through your window, their dance and the angle of the light casting radiance all about you, transforming what seemed an ordinary moment into something else, magical, sacred, maybe. Each of us has the ability to open our senses and experience the beauty and wonder of this life. We are the stewards of this garden. Our species can create and destroy on a grand scale. Like a drop of dew, our consciousness can open itself to the vastness of a million universes, or it can close itself to just our little world. It’s up to us.
Stepping out of doors and into the moving air, where the sounds, smells, sights, textures, and other subtle messages of the more-than-human world are moving, activates our ancient, “wilder” selves. Outside, we have access to more life force, the prana of yoga. Think of life force simply as the presence of living things and their energy, their chemistry, electrical charge, and the electromagnetic fields around them. How much more life is present in a field or forest than in your living room or an office or in a department store? How is the quality of the air different in these places? Where do you tend to feel more alive? How do you feel when you head into a forest, where myriad life-forms live in a dynamic environment and present an abundance of sensory information to absorb?
Rewilding is a journey of discovery, where we use natural vehicles to take us to places that will expand our awareness and experience of being alive on this earth and in this body. Perhaps your connection with nature is a tree you climb, a boulder where you take your seat, or a stream that bathes you in liquid and sound. Perhaps you allow your eyes, ears, and skin to come into relationship with the heat, flames, and sounds of a fire as you meditate on the enchanting light — the occasional pop calling you back from your mind’s wandering and into the living night.
Different sections in this chapter provide ways to stimulate your mind and senses and more fully experience your embodied awareness outdoors. The consciousness we bring to anything is the single most powerful determinant of our experience. If we approach the earth with fear or a desire for conquest, our experience will be profoundly different than if we approach with reverence and respect and a desire to care and coexist.
Interbeing
If you are a poet, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud, there will be no rain; without rain, the trees cannot grow; and without trees, we cannot make paper. The cloud is essential for the paper to exist. If the cloud is not here, the sheet of paper cannot be here either. So, we can say that the cloud and the paper inter-are. THICH NHAT HANH
I don’t know about you, but I find it easy to slip into a way of being in which I feel separated from everything. My clothes, my house, my job, my family; all of these “I, me, mines” reinforce an idea that I am something distinct from the rest of the universe. In fact, most people spend their lives building this sense of self, like building a real-life bitmoji, first establishing its character and then spending their lives defending and supporting the story of that character. Inevitably, though, life wins. No matter how much we try to protect our fragile sense of self, greater forces will have their way and break down what is made up.
Modern societies like to pretend we can isolate and separate ourselves from nature, and many aim to insulate themselves from the earth, to create a permanent disconnect between our bodies and our Mother’s touch. Most children learn to walk with rubber-soled sneakers before their toes ever know the soil or grass, pebbles, mud, or sand. Ticks, mosquitoes, and poison ivy become the boogeymen of the forest, and hypersanitized indoor spaces are where many people now feel most at home. When we can seal ourselves indoors, eating food in sealed packages, drinking water from sealed bottles, ingesting prepackaged information, even breathing air filtered through air conditioners, we can easily think that this is the way things really are.
But, of course, this is not the way things really are. Our bodies were not grown in petri dishes but evolved out of the living earth, a part of all that is. We share our cells and the air in our lungs with all of life. The pollution we put into our atmosphere we put into ourselves. Remember that the air we breathe today was on the other side of the planet just a few days ago, exhaled by trees and the ocean. In this way, these great characters of nature live within us, and they exist in relationship with us. Our existence interpenetrates. As Thay says, we “inter-are.”
The word universe is made up of two separate terms, “uni,” meaning “one,” and “verse,” which means “song.” Our universe is “one song.” Everything that exists is vibrating to the tune of creation, and we are a part of that great music that is playing and being played through us and all that is.
When we invite our awareness to rest in the present moment, we can clearly sense that the way of everything is in a state of interbeing. This knowledge that all of life is connected lies at the root of many spiritual and mystical traditions. It stirs our souls, lifts our awareness above the fear and struggle of our individual existence, and places us in a much larger whole, part of the great mystery. What if you could connect with this lofty way of being every day? How would your life be different? What might you do differently? Spending mindful time outdoors, entering into relationship with the forces and manifestations of the earth, is a powerful doorway to the awareness of interbeing.
During a five-day mindfulness immersion in the winter woods at Kripalu, we spent at least five hours outside every day. We navigated over frozen streams and stood under huge trees, as the wind blew fresh snow down from the boughs and onto our upturned faces. We tracked fox, coyote, white-footed mice, and fishers. One of the students in the program was quite tall and imposing, yet out on the trail, he was surprisingly unsteady. He seemed out of his element. After a few days, he shared with the group that in his normal life he spends 95 percent of his waking hours sitting behind a computer. When he isn’t at a screen, he’s reflecting on how he could have done a better job at work or preparing to go back to work. “I feel so disconnected from reality,” he said. He was not only disconnected from other people and the natural world but also from his own body and self. But after a few days in the awe-inspiring winter woods, with ample time for reflection, encouragement to breathe deeply, and a community of kind people, this hardworking man began to reconnect with his embodied experience of life.
Take yourself to a place you enjoy in nature, or look out a window onto a green space or other natural setting. Stand or sit comfortably, with your feet anchored into the support of the earth. Gently lengthen your spine up through the crown of your head, as if your spine just grew an inch or two longer. Draw a soft breath in through your nose and hold it in for a moment, then exhale slowly and allow your shoulders and abdomen to relax as you follow your breath all the way out. Take a deep breath in and exhale through your mouth with a gentle sigh or sound. Soften your face and relax your jaw; allow your teeth to part slightly and your eyes to rest like big pools in their sockets. Let go.
Watch the little pulse of movement in your belly as the body breathes on its own. Stay with your breath and notice the activity of your mind. Feel the breath entering your body, and feel the breath leaving your body. The atmosphere of the planet is moving in and out of you. Each exhalation is inhaled by another being, perhaps by a tree. Each inhalation was exhaled by other beings, trees, and oceans. This breath, has been recycled on our planet for hundreds of millions of years. This breath, right now, so ancient, yet so fresh.
If you’d like, take a walk as you stay with your breath. If your attention wanders into thinking, come back to the anchor of your breath. Look around, take in your surroundings. Notice the way that life is connected.
The bird, connected to the air, rides on currents of atmosphere. The puddle holds the water that cycles through us all. The material for your clothes was grown on farmland. The cotton blossomed under our only sun, was watered by passing clouds, then harvested and spun and woven and delivered by other humans until its destination in this moment with this body. Notice how things are connected, how they “inter-are.”
How might you bring this way of seeing with you to your life indoors, at work and at home?
Whenever you are in your “normal life” and things get stressful or you feel disconnected from the web of life, try pausing to remember a restorative time you spent outdoors. Close your eyes and take a soft breath in and a long breath out. Just remembering the sound of wind in the trees can help to center and calm you. Remember that nature is not an abstract place outside of you — you are a part of nature. You are an imaginative and self-aware expression of the creative life force in this uni-verse. One song.
Animacy
Language is powerful. The words we use and the concepts we choose to contain our life experience shape how we think about and experience reality, so our language has profound impacts. The most common word I hear to describe all that is of the earth and outside the realm of human invention is nature. The term is used to speak about forests, mountains, oceans, and any part of our earth that has not been totally burned, bulldozed, paved, or built on. Animals and plants, weather, geology, and ecology all fall within nature. In fact, nature seems to include almost everything except human beings and the things we create. Yet we too are an expression of nature.
Life evolved out of the primordial oceans, from single-celled organisms to complex beings, including the 37 trillion-celled, self-aware animals that we are today. From that perspective, you and I are part of the consciousness of the earth itself. We are part of this planet and supported by it. So, to me, the word nature alone doesn’t convey our true state of interbeing. By now, I’m sure you’ve noticed that I use the terms “the living earth” and “the more-than-human world” in place of nature.
As you draw closer to the living earth, this perspective can help you break through limited ways of relating to the more-than-human world and provide insights that bridge the chasm formed between us and the land we live on. We may be domesticated, but we can take small steps to find our inner wild selves, and in so doing, bring a more balanced human consciousness back into relationship with our many relations on this planet, including paw, wing, fin, wind, and the rest.
The old Lakota was wise, he knew that man’s heart away from nature becomes cold and hard, and that a lack of respect for green, growing things soon leads to a lack of respect for people too. LUTHER STANDING BEAR2
My yoga teacher trainer, Yoganand, often says that after a deep relaxation at the end of a yoga class, he goes outside and sees the trees and the mountains and notices that they are not the same trees and mountains that he saw before class. They are more vibrant, vivid, emanating a life presence that he missed somehow before the class. What changed? Was it the earth, or was it his perception?
One day in late October in the Berkshires, I was taking a yoga training that involved breathing techniques and internal disciplines intended to increase the flow of prana. After a full morning of practice, I went outside to get some fresh air. It was unusually warm for the time of year, with temperatures in the mid-80s. The sun was shining, the air was dry, and a steady wind was blowing out of the south. The leaves on a favorite sugar maple were swooshing as I’d never before seen. The tree was talking up a storm! I sat in the grass and stared at that tree for over an hour, transfixed by its character, its beauty, and its sheer aliveness. Ever since that day, the tree and I have a bond. I would even go so far as to call it a friendship.
Certain spiritual practices shift our attention from the thinking to the feeling mind. Rather than projecting a limited concept onto the sugar maple, naming it, and assigning to it a list of categories before moving on, I experienced the maple in its present moment of self-expression. It wasn’t only a tree — it was color, texture, motion, sound, joy, and memories of autumns long gone. The tree was a living being, with a personality, character, and presence. Sitting for hours in meditation, watching stories and thoughts float across the movie screen of my mind, and breathing until my body vibrates with presence, changes me. It means that when I walk outdoors, everything I see reflects back to me my ability to perceive, feel, and sense life. The tree didn’t change; I changed. The lens of my perception had been cleaned up a little, so my view on the world widened, deepened, and came into sharper focus. This heightened state of awareness promotes our making connections with people and places. These connections nourish us, but we can make them only when we are present.
REANIMATING
Go outside and find a nice place to sit. Close your eyes and begin to deepen your breath. As you breathe in, feel the sensations of breathing in. As you breathe out, feel the sensations of breathing out. Continue to breathe with this awareness for five minutes or so. When you take a final deep breath in, let it out with a gentle sigh or a soft sound. Now, notice what sounds you can hear. Notice the light coming through your closed eyelids. As you are ready, slowly open your eyes. Allow the light of the world to enter into your awareness and give yourself permission to simply observe your world. Let go of needing to put any names or labels on anything; just look out and take it all in. After five minutes or so, get up and walk mindfully, feeling each step and imagining that you are sending gratitude to the earth that supports you. Enjoy this time to simply be and receive the beauty of the earth. You can conclude this practice with a few minutes of journaling or sketching. Whatever you do, enjoy this time to simply be and receive the beauty of the earth.
Many children have had a bond with a tree or a stone or other natural being. As we grow up, however, we are taught that rocks and trees are objects, things, not people like us. We learn to see them as resources that exist for our own needs. Trees are the wood that make baseball bats, and rocks are pulverized to make building materials. We even learn to see animals as objects. We refer to them not as “they” or “them” but as “it.” “Hey, there’s a fox over there!” “Where? I don’t see it.”
Many indigenous cultures refer to the more-than-human worlds as people. Clouds, trees, stones, plants, all belong to their own community, speak their own language, and have their own relationship to the spirit that moves through all things. The first time I recognized these more-than-human communities and felt their presence strongly as an adult was when I had spent a lot of time in the woods and became fascinated with trees. I noticed that in some places, many American beech trees grew together, while in other places, eastern hemlock congregated. In the beech groves, the simple-toothed leaves quaked in the breeze; their smooth, grey trunks reminded me of the mallorn trees from The Lord of the Rings. I couldn’t help but feel the presence of elves in those beech groves!
In the hemlock groves, the shadows were deep, and the earth moist. The deep green boughs stretched and gently bobbed on the breeze, light, buoyant, and mysterious. The hemlock groves were hushed. Silence and watchfulness permeated the hemlocks’ shadows. Families of white pine created sun-toasted auburn carpets of needles, soft and aromatic in the afternoon light. Their trunks climbed high into the sky, and their bluish-green pine needles shone bright and happy in the sun. A feeling of optimism and joy seemed to ring out when white pine needles shimmered in the sunlight. Under these mighty trees were perfect places to lie down or to sit and lean against trunks, perfect places to take in the tranquility of the land.
Looking into the distance, I could see patches of forest green on mountain slopes where communities of evergreens lived, and then the grey patches in the fall from oaks and maples that had lost their leaves. Suddenly it hit me: these are communities, tribes, families. Before this, I had not really seen or felt the profound reality of community that exists among trees of the same species, trees that congregate. Now, when I look out at hills or mountains in the distance, I see the tribes of tree beings whose presence creates a tapestry of color and texture all across our forested lands.
Trees communicate and support one another. Forest ecology expert Peter Wohlleben refers to the nutrient and information exchange that exists among trees in the microbial network underground as the “wood wide web.”3 There is evidence that trees work together to keep elder trees alive and that they warn one another of danger. We are symbionts with trees, relying on the oxygen they provide while they rely on the carbon dioxide we exhale. There is a give and take, a reciprocity, that binds us to the trees, plants, and other members of our earth community, all of whom share the atmosphere, nutrients, and waters of this living earth. To think of trees as objects denies what they are. To think that way minimizes and flattens the complex and mysterious reality of their “treeness.” This objectification of the living earth, whether it be trees, minerals, or animals, also flattens our consciousness and experience, causing us to miss out on so much of the beauty, love, and wonder to be found in relationship with the earth. When we think of the earth as composed of so many lifeless objects, we give ourselves permission to treat them as such. If we take the time to slow down, to be mindful and observe the land, trees, and other crewmates of spaceship Earth, we strengthen our ability to see the reality of life’s living connections.
Reciprocity
Keep close to Nature’s heart . . . and break clear away, once in a while, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean. JOHN MUIR
Rewilding is a way of seeing and being in relationship to life, and it can include learning ancestral skills for survival. Tom Brown Jr., a great tracking teacher I noted earlier in the book, emphasizes the profound role gratitude and thanksgiving played in what he learned from his teacher Stalking Wolf, a Lipan Apache tracker and spiritual teacher. To truly feel and connect with the miracle of any living thing, any gift of the Creator, whether a piece of wood being carved into a sacred pipe or a plant or animal being harvested for food, one must honor the other being’s sacrifice and give thanks for what is received from that being. All of life is an exchange of energy. To live, all living things must consume, and in turn, be consumed. There is no escaping this.
Of all the world’s wonders, which is the most wonderful? That no man, though he sees others dying all around him, believes that he himself will die. YUDHISHTARA
To be awake to the wonder of life is to be in a state of constant thanksgiving, for this breath, this bite of food, this caress of wind, this sunset, this chance to grow and serve others. A society whose people are involved in harvesting their food from their environment will likely be a culture that appreciates and that values thanksgiving. I believe that our collective loss of reverence for nature is in part due to our disconnect from the origin of our food. Pulling a potato or carrot out of the soil provides a sensual, embodied experience of taking life. When we take life, we have a natural inclination to want to give back, to restore balance.
We all need to embrace the ethic of thanksgiving again so that we don’t take the biodiversity of earth for granted. We can’t pretend that the water and air we pollute aren’t the water and air we rely on for our survival, for our health and well-being. A great start for a thanksgiving practice is with the breath, the thing we rely on most and most immediately. The birds who fly in the sky fly on our very breath. The air sweeps all around us, moving clouds, bringing snow and rain, making waves, and flowing in and out of our bodies with the oxygen that allows us to exist. The air we breathe moves the leaves in the trees, creating beautiful sounds that soothe our souls. We can go weeks without food and days without water but only a couple of minutes without the gift of breath. Throughout the world, there are cultures that hold the air and the wind as holy, as life-giving forces. The entire yoga tradition revolves around the fundamentals of breath, which can unlock expanded states of awareness and foster deep insights.
Here is a simple breathing practice you can work with to calm the nervous system, open to the senses, and become present to what is happening.
THE LONG EXHALE
When you are outside and about to begin a time of mindfulness, invite a slow, deep breath into your lungs through the nose. Hold the breath for a second or two before you exhale, and then exhale slowly through the mouth so that your exhalation is about twice as long as your inhalation. Repeat this breath at least four times. Your eyes can be open or closed, whichever feels better for you in the moment. In whatever direction you focus, internal or external, focus on the sensations and actions of the breath that is flowing in and out of you. When your mind wanders, come back to the breath and let it root you in the now.
This practice will help you get out of your thinking mind and into your feeling body. It will help you be present for what is happening in the moment. As you spend more time outdoors, the teachings of the earth will begin to show themselves to you. Ants, spiders, trees, and stones can be great teachers when we allow ourselves the curiosity and presence to open to what they have to share.
Giving Thanks
When I exhale, I know that the carbon dioxide flowing out of me will be absorbed by plant life and that the oxygen the plants exhale will flow into me. In my lifetime, I will ingest many living things, fruits, vegetables, animals, and water, and one day my body will return to the earth, and other living things will eat me.
We are only stewards of our bodies for a time. Every seven or so years, every molecule in this body will have been replaced, so that the me I think of as me is stable only in my mind. Who I really am is living in a dynamic state of reciprocity with the cosmos. Our planet, which includes us, is made up of elements generated in ancient star explosions. So, when we walk barefoot in the grass, stand at the entrance to a forest, or look up at the cool moon on an autumn evening, we can acknowledge that we are not simply receiving beauty from a heavenly body, that there is more going on. Through mindfulness we can hold an awareness of our situation, one in which we are suspended between using and being used, between eating and being eaten, between enjoying and being enjoyed.
When did people stop talking to the earth? How does one thank the moon for being all that the moon is? I’ve made a habit of speaking to trees, stones, salamanders, the wind, and any other relative I see outside. I speak to everything in nature. Why? When I speak to the forest, it feels as if my words are resonating not only in the cavities of my human body but also through the air, back into my eardrums, and bouncing on trees, leaves, and stones. When spoken from the heart to the living earth, my words express love for what I experience as my greater self. I know that hemlocks and stones do not understand the English language; I am not anthropomorphizing them. Yet I feel fuller and more connected when I give myself permission to speak to the land. When I converse with the earth, sometimes the wind blows suddenly, as if in response, or a squirrel will throw a pine cone out of a tree, which also feels like some kind of answer. I don’t think we need to feel so isolated on this earth, so cut off and separate. We can honor our reciprocity with all of life by opening up the channels of communication with the more-than-human world.
GIVING THANKS
The next time you experience a perfect sunset, a refreshing walk through new fallen snow, or the gift of seeing a wild animal, consider offering a gesture of gratitude to the living earth. Drawing your hands to prayer in front of the heart and bowing to the light in that manifestation of the universe, you can simply say “thank you.” You might offer a small token, such as an acorn, a pine cone, crystal, or small pebble, to show your thanks. You could also make an earth mandala, creating a circular symbol with natural objects you gather, and offer it with gratitude. As the days and months go by, the mandala will be received into the earth. You could also take a handful of water from a pond, lake, stream, bay, or ocean and speak your words of love and gratitude into the water, allowing your prayer to slip through your fingers and become one with the water of the earth. Maybe you would like to burn a locally and sustainably harvested ceremonial incense such as cedar or mugwort, placing your intentions in the burning ember so that the rising smoke carries your prayer of gratitude and love to the heavens. These are small gestures, but they are powerful. These actions build a habit of focusing on the many ways we are in a deep state of interbeing with all of creation.
NOTICING AND THANKING
The next time you’re outside, take a few soft breaths until you feel calm and centered in yourself. Take a look around and notice everything. Listen to the earth. Feel the air on your skin and in your lungs. Sense the support of the land holding you up and the force of gravity grounding you. Reflect on the mystery of life. How did this living earth emerge from the dark vacuum of space? How did everything evolve to be just as it is? What are the chances? In this moment, as you receive yet another breath from the invisible element of air, consider to what you owe your life in this living earth. What do you require to live? What essential ingredients do you receive each day and each moment that allow you to stay alive? What needs are being met that allow you to sit here with a living body? Breathe into that. Then, if you feel called, express your gratitude in any way that feels good to you. Maybe whisper “thank you” to the sky, or touch the earth and say a prayer. Let your bare feet feel the earth, and send loving kindness down into the soil. Whatever you do, let it be your true prayer. Don’t ask for anything; only say thank you.
Species Connection and Biophilia
One should pay attention to even the smallest crawling creature for these too may have a valuable lesson to teach us, and even the smallest ant may wish to communicate to a man. BLACK ELK
According to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America, 40 million Americans are afflicted with an anxiety disorder.4 What if part of the great sadness upon our species comes from our separation from all the other species that are our relatives, from our separation from the living earth? Haven’t we been separated from our family members, the bears and wolves, the butterflies and frogs, and the eagles and whales, to name just a few? Although many people are brought up to relate to animals as things, as creatures beneath us, humans feel an affinity, or biophilia, for other animals.5 Animals may not feel all of the feelings we feel, but they certainly share in much of what it is to be alive on this earth. They have access to their senses and ways of experiencing life that we do not. Our many relatives are not exactly like us, but to diminish them because they are not like us is to overlook their uniqueness and overstate the superiority we think we possess. Animals have skills we do not have, whether the freedom to soar and see above it all, to burrow and live in the belly of the earth, to call to the moon in a pack, or to sing great songs from the ocean’s depths.
What are we missing when we are apart from nature? What feelings are not being stirred that only a hawk’s shrill cry or a buck’s antlers in the morning mist can awaken? How impoverished have we become, locking ourselves in square rooms, away from the sound of wind, the light of stars, and the presence of the more-than-human world?
To connect with our wild selves, we need to reach out to the rest of nature and close up the distance, in physical space and in our hearts and minds. We don’t need to walk in grizzly country or go on safari to do this. We can do it by opening ourselves to little things, things we might take for granted, like the robins in our backyard, the ladybug inside our window, the seagull on the beach, or the salamander we see on the path in the forest.
Imagine you just landed on earth from another planet. What a wonder each life-form would be! Imagine how exotic it would seem to you and how curious you would be about everything you see and experience. In the language of Zen Buddhism, this way of perceiving is called beginner’s mind. Every life-form on earth is unique and has its own medicine, its own wisdom to share, if we make the time to be interested.
Just before my first child was born, I spent a lot of time walking along the banks of the Housatonic River in the Berkshires. One late summer afternoon, while exploring a flood plain near the banks, I came upon the skull of an animal, perfectly preserved on top of flattened old grasses. I stooped down to examine it. The skull was about the size of my palm, with two curving teeth protruding just below the nasal cavity. It was the skull of a young beaver. Beavers are well known for their hard work and ingenuity. After some time to appreciate the skull for the gift it was and reflecting on the qualities of the beaver, I also took it as a sign that a time of hard work was ahead of me — and it did indeed prove so. I became a father and my professional career took off. The beaver inspired me to do what needed to be done for my growing family.
Deep in a hemlock forest is a gurgling stream I like to bring people to. It has plenty of good stones, old stones for sitting and listening to the language of water. Sometimes when we sit near a certain pool on the edge of the brook, a small green frog comes out to sit with us. Students have remarked that sitting with the frog during the water meditation is deeply moving. This simple and unintimidating encounter with a frog provides a connection and a respite from species loneliness. One being with another, simply sitting and enjoying the same afternoon together.
Take some time right now to reflect on your connection with other nonhuman life-forms on this earth. What would it look like and what would it feel like to invite a rekindling of your relationships with other species? What calls out to you? Are there small actions you can start with?
Here are a few options:
• Bird Watching. In urban and suburban areas, bird watching is a great way to reconnect with the more-than-human world. As David Lindo, better known as the Urban Birder, reminds us, “Look up!” This gives you a broader perspective immediately, and you will be surprised by the birds that frequently appear in pocket parks, tree-lined streets, yards, and gardens. You’ll also notice the sky, the clouds, wind, and weather and appreciate them more. Today, birdwatchers are becoming younger, more urban, and more diverse, and they’re also connecting with each other and advocating to protect the earth and its species.
• Nature Meditation. There is no substitute for sitting outside every day and getting to know the creatures you share the land with around your home. After sitting quietly for a few minutes, birds and other animals may appear and go about their business around you. Some people have actually befriended chickadees and hummingbirds, who eat or drink from their hands.
• Cat or Dog Rescue. Adopting a cat or a dog allows you to have a relationship with another species that can be profound. Animals experience the world differently. Observing them and interacting with them, we broaden our senses and awareness.
• Wildlife Photography. Place a trail camera on a tree near your home. You may catch a glimpse of a hidden world outside your door. You will become more aware of and connected to other beings you share the land with.
Topophilia
Rewilding allows you to see your environment with new eyes, sometimes as if for the very first time. You become more intimate with all its life-forms and sometimes see beyond the visible, connecting with a greater spirit, or presence. In his book The Nature Principle, Richard Louv discusses “place blindness,” which afflicts people who live so much of their lives indoors or in front of screens that they do not look up to see the land they live on. As with a psychological state such as inattentional blindness or perceptual blindness, these people do not perceive what is right in front of them, whether that is a horizon, a rock, a landscape, or a tree. Whether they are overwhelmed, overstressed, or preoccupied by other stimuli, in effect, they become sealed off from the elements, the seasons, and the real world of the living earth, and they lose out on the benefits of a vibrant and reciprocal relationship with nature.
Because place blindness inevitably leads to a disconnection with the living earth, it also leads to a lack of caring and interest in the planet’s well-being. Future generations will not value and care for the earth if they have little or no actual relationship with it. People will not work to reverse climate change if they are so rarely outside that they have no embodied experience of its reality.
So how do we overcome place blindness? We embrace mindfulness and take it outside with us. The more time we spend out on the land, exploring and learning about the different plants and animals, the natural history and ecology, and simply enjoying and getting to know the contours of the living earth, the more bonded we’ll feel to the places we call home. The more intimate we become with the land, the more we’ll grow to love and cherish it. The word land can be a vague, general term, but as you get to know a place, you discover its individuality, its individual trees, stones, birds, and landmarks. Walking along a favorite trail as the months and years go by, I watch little saplings grow. As you walk, I encourage you to bring your full, penetrating awareness to the reality of life as it is. This kind of intimacy with place is as natural as can be. We’ve lost it only in the last hundred or so years. But we can get it back and be enriched again.
Some call this love of land topophilia. Every spot on a map has a unique quality and personality. Bioregionalism is a movement that seeks to understand the watersheds, geography, ecology, natural history, human history, and other layers of knowledge that make up the richness of a place. Climate change compels us to become more bioregional so that we can address some of the nasty repercussions of a society crumbling under the compounding costs of extreme weather events, food production problems, mass migrations, rampant pollution, and social strife. Stewardship begins with you and me.
Overcoming Place Blindness
• Walk outside. Whether you live in a populated neighborhood or in a more isolated area, walk outside every day. While you walk, open your senses, connect with your breath, and pay attention to movement on the land and in the sky.
• Become an amateur naturalist. Learn about the trees, plants, animals, insects, and other features of the land where you live. Use field guides to learn what trees grow near your home. Learn about the wild edibles that grow near you. Pay attention to the birds. Are there watersheds nearby? Where does the water flow from? Where does it flow to?
• Join local organizations that support the land. Make friends with local conservation, land management, and other environmental organizations that are active in your area. Perhaps there are walking or hiking groups, foraging clubs, craftspeople, or other groups you can learn and explore with.
• Limit your screen time. When you are outdoors, set a strong intention to experience the earth directly through your own senses. Silence your phone and put it away. Resist the urge to capture everything with a picture and instead take mental pictures of what you see. Practice letting go of the need to document every scene. See if you can reconnect with what it is like to experience life. Slow down and notice, as if for the very first time.
Owning up to being an animal, a creature of the earth. Tuning our animal senses to the sensible terrain: blending our skin with the rain-rippled surface of rivers, mingling our ears with the thunder and the thrumming of frogs, and our eyes with the molten sky. Feeling the polyrhythmic pulse of this place — this huge windswept body of water and stone. The vexed being in whose flesh we’re entangled. Becoming earth. Becoming animal. Becoming, in this manner, fully human. DAVID ABRAM
When guiding rewilding retreats and trainings, I often invite participants to take their hands out of their pockets and touch the land as we walk, stalk, and crawl mindfully along. My good friend and fellow mindful outdoor guide Mark Roule calls this practice “hiking with hands.” For many people, nature is no longer something to touch and feel. Even sitting directly on the soft earth might feel strange and scary. Yet the simple act of reaching out and feeling the different types of tree bark can be a powerful awakening experience. Putting your nose into the cracks of the bark can also be a surprise: white pine furrows have a deep, earthy smell; cracking the twig of a sassafras tree releases a root beer–like aroma; popping a sap bubble on a balsam has a piney scent like Christmas trees. The body’s olfactory system processes all the information in an odor, triggering reactions and memories. Exploring the wide range of smells out on the land is a wonderful way to draw closer to the earth.
Generally speaking, while exploring the outdoors, you needn’t worry about most plants. There are really only a few plants that you want to avoid, and these are easy to identify. Poison ivy is common around trails or disturbed areas, but it is sparse farther in the woods. Poison ivy’s shiny green leaves grow in threes on stems — hence, the expression “Leaves of three, let it be” — and on hairy vines that go up tree trunks or telephone poles. Poison oak is pretty rare and is found in damp, sandy soil, usually at the edges of wetlands. Cow parsnip, or wild parsnip, is a tall green plant with tiny yellow flowers that look a little like Queen Anne’s Lace. Its leaves grow symmetrically from the stem in groups of five, and the stem has deep grooves in it that you won’t see in other plants. Of course, you also want to avoid any plants with obvious thorns or nettles. You can use your awakening sight to discern what to touch and what to steer clear of.
Our five primary senses (sight, hearing, touch, taste, and smell) evolved in relationship with our environment and other life-forms to become highly sensitive instruments that help us survive and thrive as a species. Perhaps you can recall walking behind someone wearing strong cologne or perfume. Now imagine that you can smell the musk of a buck or the odor of a bear that a spring breeze carries toward you. We still have the capacity; we need only to awaken our senses again. It’s not enough simply to go outside. We also need to bring our attention and intention to the senses in order to consciously invoke, awaken, and sharpen their capabilities.
Our hunter-gatherer ancestors lived in simple shelters made of poles, straw mats, animal skins, and other natural objects. These human nests were often arranged in circles, following the way energy moves in nature, and they were permeable, allowing the sounds of the earth to filter in, along with drafts, which carried information. Although we’ve improved the functionality and comfort of our homes, we’ve also sealed ourselves off from the living, breathing world out there. As a result, many people who live mostly indoors suffer from sensory anesthesia, the gradual loss of sensory experience. Think about the number of plants growing in a forest or a field, the myriad decomposing life-forms washing around the ocean, the dry herbs and tree resins in a high desert plain. All these environments have their own concoction of smells, textures, sights, sounds, and flavors, richer and more varied than the average office environment.
In the woods and out on the land, the sense of smell is essential for survival. It can help us detect an incoming storm (think of the smell of the ozone before a thunderstorm) or the musk of a predator, like a skunk we want to avoid. To awaken this sense outdoors, I often invite folks to gather eastern hemlock or balsam needles, press them between their palms to release the aromatic oils, and then cup their hands and take deep inhalations. Another great stimulus for scent are the fallen leaves in autumn; crush them in your hands and take in their sweet, earthy smell.
During an outdoor mindfulness retreat I led with the Audubon Society one winter, we kept coming upon fox tracks in the snow. My cofacilitator, Dale, master naturalist and outdoor educator, kept sniffing and asking the group if we could smell the scent of fox on the air. At first the group was oblivious to it. Then Dale knelt down and lifted a small handful of snow with a small, yellow ice crystal in it, a drop of frozen fox urine. He invited us to take a whiff, and sure enough, it had a potent, musky, almost skunk-like smell. From then on, we were on our knees sniffing every little yellow patch of snow we found near fox tracks. After a few days, the group began picking up the smell on the wind.
You can feel a sensual connection with the living earth after only a few minutes of quiet and reflective nature meditation and observation. It may give you peace and joy, but it may also stir up other emotions, including grief — grief for species loss, environmental degradation, and climate change. Awakening our senses and countering sensory anesthesia is a practice of awareness, and when awareness expands, it perceives both pleasure and pain, light and dark, joy and sadness. That is why in the contemplative traditions there is an emphasis on clear seeing and calm abiding. We might be able to see the truth, to observe what is really happening, but can we handle it? Can we hold an experience of deep, clear perception without being totally swept away by it? We need to learn how to be with the expanding boundaries of our awareness. This comes as we develop a strong witness consciousness, that part of us that soars like an eagle and can see the big picture. When we can temper our increasing ability to feel with wisdom, we build our capacity of true spiritual growth.
Fascination Attention
What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset. CROWFOOT, Orator of the Blackfoot Confederacy
I love to watch the wind blow through the trees or tall grass in a field, its invisible and mysterious qualities revealed through this interaction with the earth. The dance of light and shadows of clouds driven by the wind move across the body of the mountain behind my house. Sitting by a stream or near a beach, I’m mesmerized by the rhythm of the currents or waves. Such simple enjoyment of the beauty and wonder of nature is sometimes called “fascination attention.” It is the opposite of “directed attention,” which we employ when we are actively trying to hold our focus on a specific task or object, like when using the computer, attending meetings, or planning and strategizing. Directed attention is fatiguing, which is why when I get home from work, the perfect medicine for my tired brain is to stare at the mountain.
Nature is never truly still, and yet, the more still we become, the more we become aware of the subtle movements at play on the land. This vibration of life, the way the subtlest motion of air causes a single blade of grass to oscillate in the cool morning air, I refer to as spanda. In tantric yoga, spanda means “sacred tremor,” which is present in all things. Spanda is the inflow and outflow of the breath, the movement of electrons, the turning of the earth on its axis and its orbit around the sun. Even things that may seem inert, like the “stone people” who sit so solidly in the earth, have spanda, their atoms vibrating below the level of our sensory awareness. The living earth embodies this sacred tremor, from the movement of our digestive tract to the movement of plate tectonics. We evolved enmeshed in the dance of spanda, carried by the movement of the seasons, the plants and animals, and the tides. It is in our nature to be drawn to the way things move and to be restored, nourished, and soothed by exposure to the land.
Focus allows us to get large and important projects done, but we can’t sustain focus indefinitely. In meditation practice, there are two very similar types of meditative attention. One is often referred to as open awareness, where attention is not focused on a single thing but on the whole field of sensory input coming in at any given moment. Attention in this state is allowed to wander in the present moment, though not into the future or the past. The other type of attention is closed attention. An example of closed attention would be staring at the tip of your nose, focusing on a candle flame, or attending to the inflow and outflow of breath.
Environmental psychologists Rachel and Stephen Kaplan at the University of Michigan have done considerable research on the way natural environments can help to restore our ability to focus and support general resilience. Their terms, “directed attention” and “fascination attention,” correspond nicely with the open and closed forms of meditative attention. Directed attention can be taxing over time because we have to block out or inhibit competing stimuli in order to hold our focus on a single object or task. This action of ongoing inhibition takes a toll and leads to what the Kaplans call “directed attention fatigue.”6 If the average American is looking at a screen for eleven hours a day, and almost entirely indoors, when they look up to take a break, it’s likely they look up at an interior wall or some other human-made space. Contrast this with someone in an outdoor line of work who is focusing on a task, such as mowing or fixing a piece of equipment. After a period of directed attention, they can lift their gaze to see open land, trees, sky, or geese flying overhead.
To quote Yoshifumi Miyazaki, Japan’s foremost researcher on forest bathing, “Throughout our evolution, we’ve spent 99.9 percent of our time in nature. Our physiology is still adapted to it. During everyday life, a feeling of comfort can be achieved if our rhythms are synchronized with those of the environment.”7
Forest bathing contains elements of human rewilding, including deepening connection with the earth, awakening the senses, and learning to relate to trees and other nonhuman entities in the interconnected web of life. Originally, forest bathing was developed to help stressed urbanites in Japan cope with the challenges of city living and demanding careers. Today it has spread all over the world and has opened a new (and old) doorway for modern humans to come home to the many gifts and opportunities in their local forests. Forest bathing invites us into a deeper relationship with trees, particularly evergreens with their fresh, bright, and invigorating aromas.
Forest Bathing and Other Invitations
It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air, that emanation from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
My family and I live close to Mount Greylock, at 3,489 feet the highest mountain in Massachusetts. Part of the Appalachians, the oldest mountain chain in North America, Mount Greylock also contains one of the southernmost boreal forests on the continent. This alpine ecosystem evolved to survive the extreme winter weather of the region, which is particularly brutal on the exposed mountain peaks, home to a forest of balsam firs, which are cold tolerant — remarkably, their boughs can flex to accommodate heavy loads of winter snow.
In the warmer months, Greylock is perfect for walking, particularly because the balsams give off loads of essential oils, also known as phytoncides. These aromatics boost immunity and elevate mood, and in fact, everyone on the Greylock trail is wonderfully friendly. It’s a stark contrast from the experience of walking through a chain store, where smiles and eye contact are rare. Hiking up Greylock is a sacred tradition for my family. When we are on the mountain, my kids seldom argue or fuss. They, too, seem to be elevated by the energy of the place. Walking up the Appalachian Trail in the damp coolness of the balsams’ shade, I feel my worries and tensions transform and melt, like frost in the morning sun. Above the din of traffic and human commerce, the air moves differently, and I feel above it all, like I am on a higher plane of reality.
Throughout this forest, the wonderful smell of pine fills the atmosphere, freshens the senses, and stimulates the mind. I do a lot of mindful breathing and tend to pause often to take deep breaths, which has a calming effect on the mind and body. This practice is enhanced on Greylock by the concentration of essential oils in the air. In ancient times, pine boughs were believed to ward off evil spirits and disease. Today, research into the power of phytoncides bears out this ancient belief in pine’s medicinal attributes. Essential oil, tea made from the needles, and ointment made from the pine resin have all been shown to have healing properties.
Up on Greylock, the balsams’ intoxicating aroma and the misty air combine to create a kind of tonic, as if the mountain’s exhalations were a potent medicine and we are absorbed in its breath. I really can’t overstate the power of these balsams. They are literally a forest of feral Christmas trees. Pre-Christian cultures saw evergreen trees as symbols of renewal, and some brought cuttings inside during winter, when the sun is at its weakest. I also love the tradition of bringing a fresh balsam inside our home for the Christmas season. These trees have long reminded us that days will grow long again and that earth’s green life will return, even after the longest and coldest winters. Marking the solstices and equinoxes today with rituals rooted in nature, as our ancestors did, can help orient us in time, season, and place.
I’ve been mindfully engaging with woods like this for decades, but since learning about the practice of forest bathing, I am grateful to have this clear term to explain how I intuitively relate to the woods. When forest bathing, you mindfully commune with the forest environment to relieve stress and anxiety, elevate your mood, boost your immunity, bond with nature, and find inspiration in its beauty. Forest bathing is less about getting to a destination and more about experiencing wherever you happen to be, so it is accessible to more people.
Forest bathing in Japanese is shinrin yoku, a term coined by Tomohide Akiyama, a director of the Japanese Forestry Agency. Shinrin means “forest,” and yoku means “to bathe.” The official definition of the practice is “taking in, in all of our senses, the forest atmosphere.”8
Shinrin yoku is not about roughing it in the wilderness; forest-bathing stations in Japan have bathrooms and concession stands. And no, it does not involve taking a shower in the woods. The idea is to make the forest accessible so that you can receive the therapeutic benefits of immersing all five senses in the forest’s embrace.
In 1990, Dr. Yoshifumi Miyazaki of Chiba University measured the effects of shinrin yoku and found these proven benefits:
• reduces physiological stress, depressive symptoms, and hostility
• improves sleep, vigor, and feelings of aliveness
• lowers cortisol levels
• lowers blood pressure and pulse rate
• increases heart rate variability
• decreases blood flow to the prefrontal cortex
• improves immune system functioning due to decrease in stress hormones9
Forest bathing’s benefits go far beyond stress reduction and immune boosting. It also fosters a connection between human beings and nature, which contributes to human rewilding. Over the past thirty years, Dr. Miyazaki and others have gathered scientific evidence for the health benefits of forest bathing. They have also partnered with the healthcare industry to make forest bathing part of a holistic approach to well-being. Because of Miyazaki’s research, we can say that walking mindfully in a forest is forest bathing, though communing with nature is not a practice that belongs to any one culture or people. People from every corner of the globe have long remarked on the health-giving properties of nature.
The World Health Organization found that in 2008, for the first time in history, the majority of people live in urban environments, making us now a predominantly urban species.10 WHO has also found that noncommunicable diseases, or lifestyle diseases, now account for more than half of the premature deaths in the developed world.11 These diseases are the direct result of the stress, poor diet, and lack of exercise that are the way we now live in modern society. People need intimate contact with nature. We need to bathe in its beauty, eat its simple foods, and stay on the move. Forest bathing and other practices for connecting with nature improve our physical and mental health. We also need to observe and learn from nature’s cycles to be inspired by her wisdom. We need to honor the turning of the seasons and feel ourselves living within the great wheel of life.
The power of life that is experienced so directly through nature has gone by many names. In yoga that life power is referred to as prana; in Taoism, the tao; in Chinese medicine, chi; in Shinto, kami; in Lakota, Wakan Tanka; and in the modern mythology of Star Wars, the force. This ancient concept that nature is interconnected and imbued with consciousness is no longer confined to mythology and religion. The modern science of quantum mechanics has uncovered evidence of the interbeing that Thich Nhat Hanh and many contemplative traditions hold central. When we peer deeply into nature, we see that every entity exists in relation to everything else.
Human health and planetary health are inextricably combined. In my own communing with nature, it isn’t about using the forest for my own well-being but about realizing that my well-being and the well-being of the forest are the same, that together we are nature experiencing itself through a highly developed nervous system, capable of great depth of feeling and self-reflection. Forest bathing is a way to awaken our own consciousness within the supportive matrix of the forest’s wisdom.
GUIDED FOREST BATHING
Before embarking on a walk in a forest or a park with trees, take a few moments to bring your full attention into the present moment. Invite a deep breath in and a long, slow breath out. Do this three to five times. Feel your feet on the ground and the sky opening above you. Imagine that your body, like the trunk of a tree, is rooted and grounded in the earth while also connected to the infinite sky above. Feel your body as a channel of awareness connecting heaven and earth. Breathing into the space inside your body and exhaling into the space all around you, sense the embodied experience of being both alone and intimately connected to the forest that surrounds you.
Notice the sounds of the forest. What can you hear? Notice the sensation of the air on your skin. How does it feel? Is it hot? Cold? Warm? Cool?
Notice what you can smell. What does the air smell like? What does this tell you about your surroundings?
When you are ready, open your eyes and look around. Without naming anything, just notice the colors, shapes, textures, and depth of field. What do you see?
When you are ready, begin walking with an awareness of each step. Walk as if you are blessing the earth with each step. Take in the forest atmosphere through all of your senses. As you walk, feel free to reach out and gently caress the bark of trees or the moss on stones, or place your hands in cool running water and feel the current or the mud or the stones in the stream. Allow your body to come into sensual contact with the land.
If you notice something beautiful or interesting, allow yourself to pause and explore. You have no destination. You are already here. Allow yourself to experience being in this forest. Keep coming back to your breath.
If you’d like, find a nice spot to sit and relax. Give yourself a few minutes to just rest here and observe the forest. Allow yourself to be still and to notice any and all movement around you, however small.
When you feel complete, walk mindfully back to where you started. Pause again and take a deep breath in, letting it go with a sigh and with a sign of thanks to the forest.
Impermanence: Wisdom of Blossoms and Falling Leaves
The natural world freely gives lessons in rewilding. One timeless lesson is that of impermanence. Any mindful work in nature is bound to elicit awareness of life’s constant changes and to stir feelings associated with loss and new beginnings. The impermanence of life is on constant display in nature. Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, realized that human suffering was caused by attachment to pleasure and aversion to pain and discomfort. His prescription to end suffering is the practice of nonattachment. Because everything in life is impermanent and only change is constant, we practice letting go of our attachments and embrace impermanence.
This is a difficult practice.
You must train yourself to let go of that which you fear to lose the most. YODA
A perfect example of the celebration of impermanence in Japanese culture is Hanami, the Cherry Blossom Festival, which occurs each spring. Cherry and plum blossoms bloom in aromatic pink petals and sometimes last only a day. As in New England during the peak of the colors of autumn, people in Japan flock to see and smell the stunning aromatic blossoms, enjoying the beauty of that short season, a lesson in the beauty of impermanence.
Nature is always teaching us about change. By embracing impermanence as part of our forest bathing and rewilding practice, we can begin to experience so much more of what nature has to share, whether it be the lush fullness of summer or the depths of the bleak midwinter.
I have two favorite Hanami-like seasons here in western Massachusetts. The first happens in May, when the crabapple tree in our backyard is in full bloom. On a good year, the entire tree, which is about twenty feet high and has a wide crown, blooms into a giant pink marshmallow. When a soft breeze blows, delicate pink petals flutter to the young spring grass, creating a surreal pink carpet that gives off a light floral bouquet. The flowers last only a couple of days, which makes the whole experience that much more potent and special. My kids and I spend as much time as we can just lying in the grass and the petals, looking up at the mountain and breathing it in. If the cherry blossoms blooming in Japan exceed the glory of a blooming crabapple in May, they must be glorious indeed.
My other favorite season of impermanence is in October, when the leaves begin to change. A dyed-in-the-wool New Englander, I love our mixed hardwood forests, our seasons, and our old stone fences. When fall rolls around, I could lie in the leaves for days and watch the mountains change color.
Autumn is a celebration of impermanence. First, the sugar maples turn, sometime in early September. They go out in a blaze of glory, all bright oranges and scarlets. The oaks, hickories, and poplars turn next. They go from green to yellow and brown, from soft and juicy to tough and leathery. Then they start dropping their acorns and hickory nuts, which the squirrels and chipmunks gather up as quickly as they hit the ground. Next, the beeches turn, like a grand finale in a fireworks display. Mother Nature saves the best for last. The beeches’ smooth grey trunks look like elephant legs in the forest, and their simple toothed leaves resemble elegant elven boats, as they float down clear woodland streams, rolling over miniature waterfalls, and swirling in the eddies of little pools. The leaves go from green to brown and then to silvery golden, sometimes at the same time on the same leaf, and they hang on to their branches and quiver in the cold autumn winds. Beech leaves quaking in a breeze are one of the most beautiful things to be seen in the forests of the world. They are stalwart and stubborn, perhaps afraid of what happens after they let go and give themselves to the wind. Are we any different?
I have a favorite patch of forest near Lake Mahkeenac in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, where I like to guide my groups. The trail winds through a forest of mixed hardwoods and evergreens, passing several massive eastern white pine trees, one of which is home to an impressive nest for a bird of prey we have not yet identified. As the trail nears the edge of the lake, a wetland separates the forest environment from the open water. This edge, or ecotone, is rich with wildlife activity. It also has a white pine that is so big it takes four people to wrap their arms around its trunk. This tree is also noteworthy because it pitches at about a 55-degree tilt toward the lake. This makes it perfect for sitting against, with your bottom cushioned by an ancient carpet of pine needles.
I once walked in these woods on a bitter cold November Sunday with my son, Stryder, when he was four, and my good friend and mentor Moose, the groundskeeper and land steward at Kripalu. On that particular morning, Stryder sat down at the base of this tree, closed his eyes, and interlaced his little fingers in a prayer mudra. He sat there, and from what I could tell, prayed or meditated for a full five minutes. I observed him in wonder as my heart filled up to the brim and spilled over with love and gratitude for such a perfect moment.
I recently led another group to this same location, about four years after Stryder and I visited. On our way to the leaning tree, we found three clusters of barred-owl feathers. It seemed an owl had been eaten by some other bird of prey, perhaps another barred owl (known to hunt their own kind to protect their territory) or a great horned owl. I carried one of the feathers with me as we walked through the forest, attuning myself to the creature for whom this feather had enabled flight and vision from high perspectives. As we made our way toward the leaning pine, someone in our group spotted a barred owl high up in a hemlock tree. We paused for ten minutes to observe this large, noble creature, apparently napping about forty feet up, occasionally opening one eye to check on us. I felt compelled to silently thank this owl for the gift of its presence. I took the feather I was carrying, which was perhaps a victim of this mighty owl’s skills in hunting and territorial protection, and placed it in the bark of a hemlock beside me. We then made our way to the great leaning pine.
Moose let me know that the big tree had recently broken off, about ten feet up, and fallen to the ground. In my heart, I felt the loss of this mighty tree, and as we drew close to it, we could smell the scent of pine on the air from the exposed inner wood. I placed my hands on the trunk and thought of all this tree had lived through and of that morning when my son sat protected at its base.
I invited the group to spread out and find a place to sit for a nature meditation. As we settled into our spots, we heard the cawing of numerous crows coming close and then dive-bombing the barred owl in its perch. The wind kicked up and blew cold and hard through the trees. In the distance we heard screams. A fox? Kids playing? It was hard to tell. Nevertheless, the sound was unsettling. As we continued to sit, I couldn’t help but feel sadness at the demise of the great tree, also a reminder of my son’s childhood passing by so quickly. I felt my heart opening big, vulnerable to the sweetness of life’s temporary treasures. Life’s impermanence was on display so fully on this morning in the winter woods. As we gathered together in a circle to share our experiences, one woman said that the fallen tree had brought the memory of her recently deceased brother into her awareness. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she shared memories of their childhood, though she appreciated the opportunity to feel the loss and the gift of her brother’s life.
A fallen tree can awaken such depth of feeling. Our species evolved, after all, in deep connection with trees. Perhaps the natural world, in its many manifestations and life-forms, reflects back to us our own inner environment. While in mindful relationship with the earth, we try to stay with the feelings that arise. Impermanence is all around us, and though we may try to build walls of security, nature eventually washes them away or blows them down. It is in surrendering and opening to this essential impermanence of nature that we can begin to live in harmony with our world, taking each moment as a gift and giving thanks for the moments we have, as precious and miraculous as they are.
Kami, the Spirit of Place
I spend a lot of time walking off trails and exploring the various nooks and crannies of the lands here in western Massachusetts. I love to feel the tug of the land calling me off the well-trodden path and into some hollow or glen around the bend or over the hill. I find that the more I get to know a place, the more the land speaks to me and in some cases guides me to new special places. Each place has a story, a history, and a character. Rewilding invites us to become students of the land, to open ourselves up to the wisdom that geography has to share.
When Buddhism arrived in Japan, the kingdom was home to a pantheistic religion known as Shinto, which regards all of nature as infused with the quality referred to as kami. Kami can mean “sacred essence” and is believed to emanate from natural beings such as rocks, rivers, and trees, as well as animals, including people. Shintoism is animistic, like many indigenous cultures the world over, and views nature as imbued by many spirits, gods, and goddesses. The land and elements are considered very much alive, and Shinto rituals and ceremonies seek to honor and align with these forces.
As a child I walked in the New England woods with my mother, who loves collecting rocks and studying Native American cultures. Through her example and guidance, I developed a sensitivity to the character of the land, to the rocks and to the trees. I pay attention to the landscape to read its expressions and to feel its moods. The more time you spend on the land, really exploring and becoming intimate with its character and qualities, the more you will get a feel for what kami is about.
You may find yourself drawn to a place based on an intuition. Places have their own energy and memory. Stones and old trees have been around a lot longer than we have, and stones will be here long after we have gone. The more of our attention we give to a place, the stronger the bond we will feel. Our senses become sharper, and we see more clearly where we are. We develop the eyes to see and the ears to hear the voice and spirit of the land.
The mountain behind my house is bordered by a thickly vegetated floodplain. In the summer, the area is practically impassable, with ferns that grow chest high and green briar that forms a natural fence. Living at the foot of this mountain, I have ventured into this area in all seasons, gradually learning ways to get through at different times of the year. The density of the vegetation provides a sanctuary for wildlife of all kinds. On snowy and muddy days, I have tracked black bears, bobcats, coyotes, foxes, fisher cats, skunks, raccoons, squirrels, otters, mice, turkey, crows, an occasional human, and a variety of smaller birds.
As the years go by, I get to know my marsh and my mountain more and more. I know some individual trees very well. We have one tree that we call “Coyote Bridge” because it lies across our brook, and the first time we found it, a coyote had pooped on it. Now it’s our bridge, and my children are learning about balance and footing as they cross it in all seasons and weather. I am bonded to this land. I have come to love it deeply. The fact that my children are growing up playing barefoot on its breast deepens the bond even more.
Wabi, Appreciating Transient Beauty
Rewilding is an ethic that elevates the simple, the handmade, and the practical. Unlike the consumer obsession with all that is shiny and new, the journey of rewilding guides us into relationship with that which is old and worn. Along with the Shinto idea of kami, Japanese philosophy has a unique appreciation for things that are naturally worn, battered, and otherwise shaped by time and natural forces. I have found this concept to be helpful in appreciating the rough beauty of nature in its raw and wild forms. Think of a boulder covered in moss, a rusty old tractor in a snowy expanse, or the sun-bleached bones of an animal lying on a windswept field. This is wabi.
This aesthetic was one of the ingredients that set the Star Wars films apart from other science fiction films of its era. Unlike the Buck Rogers and Star Trek franchises, which displayed clean and shiny spaceships and explorers in crisp, clean uniforms, Star Wars made space look old, beatup, and rugged, like a spaghetti western or an old Kurosawa flick. We love the Millennium Falcon because it’s dented and worn. It has scars and stories. That is also what wabi is all about.
Often when I am forest bathing, wandering, or rambling through the woods, I notice something old and worn that is so achingly beautiful I have to stop and just be with it. Recently, I was exploring a cobble on the ridge near where I live. A cobble is an open, rocky spot where you are likely to find mosses, lichen, and smaller, stunted trees. On this particular spot, you will find all of that plus lots of lowbush blueberry and wintergreen growing all around. As I was sauntering along, I saw an old maple log that had fallen over years ago. It was hollow and lying on its side so that it formed a long bowl, with the opening gazing up to the sky. In the bowl, a thick carpet of mosses and lichens had grown. A dash of red and orange maple leaves added flair. It was the most stunning little piece of terrarium gardening, and it was just out there, as natural as could be. I could have sat with that old log for hours, just looking around, as the cool autumn wind blew the leaves down into that cobble.
Wabi fills a void in our western vernacular. We don’t have a word like wabi that combines the qualities of rugged, worn, and beautiful. Wabi can promote a greater appreciation for used things, and perhaps encourage more repairing and less disposing. It can also help us see the earth through a different lens. If we can begin to embrace what is old and worn in nature as beautiful, it is more likely we will bring that appreciation back home.
The living earth, of which we are a thinking, feeling, breathing and self-reflective expression, is both within us and around us. We find our greatest solace and sense of place when we mindfully dwell in the awareness of our inherent state of connection with all that is. Spending mindful time outdoors, observing, feeling, and interacting with our local environment can help us build embodied experiences of this calm, clear, and connected state of being. It is not enough to think about such lofty ideas; we have to get out there and engage with the land, the more-than-human world, and our fellow humans. As a father, I am committed to doing what I can to ensure that we live an earth-centered, sustainable life, for the benefit of the planet and future generations. We need to be strong for the times we are living in. Turning toward the wisdom of the earth will help us find our footing and give us the physical, mental, and spiritual healing we need. Mindful rewilding can help us be the change our time is calling for. No matter how long it has been, a feeling of being connected, supported, and at home on earth is just a few breaths and a few steps outside.