Nature
An invitation to wildness
The following is the sixth part of a 12 part series based on the book 12 Tiny Things: Simple Ways to Live a More Intentional Life. We’re focusing on the 12 themes outlined in the book: Space, Work, Spirituality, Food, Style, Home, Sensuality, Nature, Creativity, Communication, Learning, and Community. Each offering includes a new reflection or early draft or deleted scene from the book along with a worksheet and [sometimes] an audio exercise to help you delve more fully into the theme in your own life. I used to make these for paid subscribers only, but now they are completely free.
That being said, it’s been five months since I got laid off from my full time coaching job, and my job search has been fruitless so far, so if you’ve ever considered upgrading to a paid subscription, now’s a really great time to do that. I appreciate every dollar, but I also recognize that a great number of people especially in today’s economic climate, simply cannot afford extras like substack subscriptions. Which is why everything I post here is free, no matter your subscription level.
The following is part of an early draft of the NATURE chapter in 12 Tiny Things. It’s pretty similar, really, to the final version you can read in the book—just not quite as tidy, a little more rambling and off the cuff.
It is summer in the American midwest. This time of year, life out of doors is thriving. Every tree is reaching its leaves toward the sky, and every root is nestling deep into the soil, drinking up the ample nourishment that comes with abundant rains1 and enough organic compost. The sunflowers that were a foot high two weeks ago will soon be taller than me, and their flower heads follow the sun as it arcs across the sky to end the day gazing toward the westerly hills. There are cabbages as big as my head, canopies of kale providing shade for the vole who munches the beets, and if you were to stretch all of the winter squash and zucchini vines out in a line they would reach down the road and around the corner. Bees and hummingbirds are buzzing about, happily drinking up wild raspberry and oregano blossom nectar, doing their important pollinating work. The scarecrow is earning his keep as the peppers, tomatoes and eggplants stake their claim and the potato plants are starting to lean over in hopes of harvest. The beavers are doing their work, too, as the keepers of the lake, and the lily pads have fully claimed the shallows. Kids who visit the garden like to dart between the staked garden rows with bare feet and hide behind bouquets of wildflowers.
Like I said, everything is thriving. And when I can remember how much life and abundance and beauty and wonder exists just outside the door, I thrive, too.
I don’t always remember these things.
In fact, if you could read my mind, I bet there would be days you’d think I was penniless, completely alone, walking across the Sahara with no water. Or on an iceberg near Greenland with no boat, a severe dislike of fish, and a low tolerance for cold temperatures. With no coat.
Nature is the home of the human being, whether we like to admit it or not. We spend so much of our time cut off from the earth, from the rhythms of the natural world, that we forget that at the end of the day, we are part of this great web of life. We can invent amazing things—and technology has taken us, perhaps, further than we thought we’d ever be able to go. But what do we lose when we forget where we came from? What do we miss out on when we stop noticing the ants and bees and crows and lichen? What do we miss when we forget to let the rain fall on our skin, when we stop walking barefoot in the mud, when we don’t let our children run freely through the woods? Wildness, as much as dominant culture wants us to believe otherwise, is an integral part of what makes us human, and we do ourselves a disservice when we lose sight of that. Feeling connected to the natural world (to vastly oversimplify) makes us feel better. At least it makes me feel better, and I bet I’m not the only one.
If I had to choose just one thing that makes me feel more connected to myself and to nature, it would be a sense of wonder. That feeling of awe that makes me realize that I am, perhaps even in the same breath, vast and tiny, a living being on a living planet that is a part of the whole. As I go about my days, I want to feel abundant, or full of life — and being able to engage with the natural world from a foundation of wonder is one way that I can get there. I’ve heard it said that wonder is a survival skill, and I firmly believe that is true.
Not that cultivating a sense of wonder is always easy —remember, sometimes I feel like a lost soul stranded alone in a hard and unfamiliar land.
I’ve found that one way through the melancholy of an undesirable mood is pretty simple: I go outside. Every single day, no matter what the weather forecaster says. I put on snow or mud boots, wiggle my toes in the soil, gaze at the stars or sit on the front step to look at the clouds. I become enchanted by the haunting call of the loon in the darkness of early morning. I put myself in the way of natural beauty, and I do my best to remember that I am a part of this tapestry of matter that makes up the planet that I call home. I practice breathing into my sense of wonder, and I practice paying attention. Every day. For at least 5 minutes. Some days this is easy, and some days this is hard. Some days I fail miserably. (Ice storm? 45 mph winds? REALLY long to do list? Actually being stranded near Greenland on an iceberg?) All joking aside, I have come to notice there’s a marked difference in how I feel on the days that I allow life or the elements to keep me indoors.
Here’s an audio version of a poem in Slouching Toward Radiance about going out into the woods.
Even in the middle of the biggest city on the planet, all I have to do is look to the sky to reclaim the wildness that invites me to remember my roots. As Thoreau said, “In wildness is the preservation of the world.”
The chapter that made it into the book is a little different (though some of the sentences are the same), but the basic idea remained through all the edits: Go outside as much as you can. Allow nature to companion you through whatever it is you’re going through, as often as is realistic. Even if it’s just five minutes on the front step in the morning, or looking all the way up at the sky at night.
Here’s a short article on how to rewild your everyday, and the downloadable worksheet below can help you dive a bit deeper into your own relationship with wildness:
And if you missed it, here’s an invitation to savor the season and a recipe in my latest installment of The Mindful Kitchen:
Happy July, everyone. May wildness find you with every breath.
Especially this year…so….much….rain…….
Thank you for always helping us to re-center our lives and focus our thoughts around the natural world, that, if allowed, will lead us back to wonder and awe, and dare I say reverence.