“And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, and how much of it was mine to keep.” -Kurt Vonnegut

Hey friends,

In our disconnected culture I believe more and more that experiential observation of nature is the best–and perhaps only–way to instill respect and incite effective advocacy to protect our habitat.

In a society hellbent on dividing everyone and everything, even the word “nature” is inherently othering, implying a separateness from the human world. It suggests that “nature” is something we can opt in or out of at will, like we are participants in a game rather than living beings who need a functioning landbase to survive within.

But many of us today, and certainly some of our wisest ancestors, already understand that whether or not we travel to public lands for recreation, the health of our environment isn’t just a theatrical political position: it’s a necessity.

When you’re actually out there in the world, in the middle of an old growth forest, of a vast and lonely high desert, at the edge of the world on a foggy beach, the experience stirs up sensations, realizations, and emotions that photos, reels, articles, or films simply cannot replace. And frankly, not all of it is comfortable. Experiencing this world will force you to meet your edges and it will blur and expand those edges as you grow. To do this growing you must be immersed, be a participant, in any capacity that works for you. Regardless of mental or physical ability, being in front of a tree, a garden,  or a bird feeder can build a relationship with place and land that is more personal, meaningful, and powerful than watching the world pass you by through a screen. Although the internet can help us experience places we may never travel to and show us wildlife we will likely never see firsthand, supplementing our digital consumption with even the smallest moments with the more-than-human world can be transformative for mind, body, and soul.

There’s an activity we taught back in my environmental education days called Sit Spots. The idea is that you go somewhere–anywhere–and sit. Sit and let the world happen, whatever that means to you. Sit and look, sit and listen, sit and think, sit and read, sit and paint (as I did last weekend, see photo above). Just sit. It is an exercise that seems almost too simple to be worthwhile, but that’s exactly the point: what happens when we allow ourselves to pause?

At first it seems ridiculous and you’re likely incredibly uncomfortable. A rock is digging into your ass cheek. There’s a giant splat of bird poop on the tree you’re leaning against that’s now on your shoulder. The sun keeps peeking through the leaves at just the right angle to momentarily blind you every time you gaze up into the canopy. Intrusive thoughts about that embarrassing thing you said in third grade smacks you out of nowhere, inevitably followed by worries about the struggles you face in the present and future. Mosquitoes threaten to devour you, a fat banana slug inches ever closer to your feet, and where are your snacks, did you forget to bring them? Why don’t you have cell service here, you did at the trailhead, maybe you should go back and sit there instead.

But eventually, finally, you’re able to get comfortable–comfortable enough, at least, to just be.

First you notice the life above your head, the wind swishing the cedar boughs and the shadowy birds flitting around high up in the trees. Clouds tumble across the brilliantly clear sky, freshly washed by a recent summer thunder and lighting storm. Then the noises…cicks, zips, shuffles, crinkles, crackles, chirps, caws, scampers, whooshes, plops, cracks, drips…the forest coming to life again after being momentarily spooked by your arrival.  You breathe in the sweet and heady smell of the wild wood, watch an iridescent beetle tumble over a small mountain of lichen, and watch a Pileated Woodpecker taptaptapping on a nearby oak tree searching for insects to feed her fledgling.

A Douglas-fir cone drops from a high branch. You follow its descent down toward the soft forest floor cupping the tree’s craggly trunk with rich soiled hands, its fingers of fern fronds catching the falling cone with great care. Your eyes shift toward the fallen leaves composting around your body, breaking down to nourish the cone as it sprouts and grows. Spiderwebs are laced between mossy stumps, their silky threads studded with dozens of small-winged insects catching the low golden sunlight as they wave in the wind.

The longer you sit the more you become part of this place, better able to see life resume its daily activities and approach you in your quiet surrender. A Rough-skinned Newt creeps slowly past your knee, a chipmunk scurries between blackberry brambles popping out to give you a once over every few seconds as it forages. A Pacific Wren lands on the log beside you tilting its little head this way and that, trying to make sense of this giant visitor, eventually conceding to the mystery and belting out its famously complex song before flying away toward the creek.

Your body has relaxed into the earth, feeling the softness of the ground catching you. Your shoulders drop, your breath comes a little easier. Your attention is yours again.

You entered the woods with one perspective and are leaving it with the deeper understanding that nature isn’t just a concept, not a place you visit and leave. Nature is everything, and you are undeniably part of it.

If you haven’t tried out a sit spot I encourage you to do so this week. It doesn’t have to be in the woods or far away. Nothing “cool” has to happen–in fact, the smaller the moment the better. Your own backyard through your window very much counts, and probably holds a whole lot of wonder waiting to be discovered.

Thank you for sharing another bimonthly catch up with me, and I hope you have time for slow moments connecting with the analog, screenless, real live world this week.

Jenn