Nature writer, n. A person who delights in paying attention, being astonished, and telling about it.1
“I felt so vulnerable and understood that I was just one single human life on the planet. I could ‘see’ how small I was on that mountain and how little my short life mattered. It was scary, but it was also ok. I felt wiser when I made it out of the woods.” ~ Jessica Becker
My inbox is full of treasure in the form of lovingly observed writing about place, encounters both wild and gentle, imaginative kinship and renewed reciprocity. These thoughtful, talented writers kindled in me the desire to learn more about them. So I invited them to answer six questions, which I’m delighted to share with you in this new feature. While I’m on travel, these will be a weekly feature. After that they’ll appear on the first Thursday of the month.2
Today’s guest is Jessica Becker a mother, a writer, a photographer, and a wanderer. She wakes early to practice yoga, she cooks dinner for her family, she bikes most places she goes, and she is endlessly inspired by the world. Professionally, she’s in nonprofit communications and celebrates the cultures and histories of Wisconsin.
Jessica writes Wanderlife: Real-world explorations to liberate the spirit and light up the brain, for people who love to wander and are open to life. We first connected over our shared love-hate for wind, but everything she writes is full of care and delight.
Why are you drawn to nature writing?
I’m drawn to writing in nature. I’m always looking for a way to be outside. My desire to write comes from a desire to slow time down enough to process what I’m seeing and experiencing. I had the incredible good fortune to travel a lot as a young person and that’s when I’d write. It was an intuitive need to pause long enough to look around and pin down details and reflect on where I fit into the context of this world. Our world is full of extraordinary diversity and depth. I actually think of myself as a ‘travel writer’ because I am someone who carries around pens and journals while I’m traveling.
But now at age 49, I’m making time to enjoy writing while sitting still at home. Lucky for me, I have a home with many outdoor settings where I go to write during this early summer season - most often on the back patio walled by grape vines and a rose bush that is currently raining pink petals all over the bricks underfoot; or under the shade of an overgrown elderberry bush while propped up in a chaise lounge, my feet pointed toward our sweet little cherry tree; or on the upstairs back deck surrounded by varieties of honeysuckle and overlooking urban backyards and garage roofs; or on the front porch mostly hidden by lilacs and ferns but within in earshot of the dog-walkers on their cell phones and parents with chatty kids walking by; or very occasionally in the hammock that is strung in a sliver of space between the trampoline and tall pines, but there I generally doze off, so it’s less ideal.
My writing comes from observation. It’s an embodied meditation. As I settle and ground into the place, the flow of pen on paper comes as I notice the sounds and sensations of the moment. I’ve been thinking lately that maybe part of what I’ve loved about traveling is that it’s self-evident that the time is precious and the experiences are fleeting, so I embrace every moment. But now that I can travel less – kids, job, elder parents, etc - I recognize every season of the year and stage of life is a kind of journey. None of it lasts too long and it’s all so interesting.
How does writing about nature affect you, in your work or personal life?
Writing about nature makes me more aware and attuned to the passing of time. In the winter, where I live, it is cold. The scene changes. The palette shifts to whites, blacks, shades of browns and greys. So then I’m writing from a cozier, more internally-focused place. Now that I’m embracing the opportunity to write even when I’m not traveling or out exploring, I’m noticing that I love the ‘inside’ months more than ever. In fact, I start to feel overwhelmed as the weather breaks because my instinct is always to be out in fresh air whenever possible, so I get busier.
These days I am loving the riches of my indoor world, too. One morning recently, I looked up at my husband sitting in his tall green wing-back chair, where he sits every morning, and found myself sketching the scene in words in my journal. I noticed how he absorbed each sip of his coffee, heard his fingertips slide across the paper of a book page as he prepared to turn it, and appreciated the careful way he ate a piece of toast. I learned new things about the man I’ve been married to for 16 years. He was as curious to me as the leaf-cutter ants parading across sandy paths with impossible loads in Panama or the ornery monkeys peeling stolen bananas at a temple in India. Maybe I should have compared him to another human! I don’t think he’d mind, though. We continue to find each other interesting, gratefully.
I recently read another writer explain her resistance to spring, and her desire to hold the dark days of winter a little longer, and I surprised myself by empathizing with that sentiment. I’m also realizing that the human tendency to talk about the weather is part of our ancestral connection to cycles and patterns. This is one of the primal ways we understand our place in nature! So it makes sense that all over the world, people chit-chat about the weather. It is how our bodies and brains are wired. I didn’t really understand the Weather Channel phenomenon, but I’m feeling more sympathetic to our evolutionary need to be observant in that way. The weather is inherently interesting!
While outside, have you ever experienced feeling small, lost or in danger?
My first time ‘out West’ on my own, I was in my early 20s. I went for a hike in the afternoon on the side of a mountain. I think it was in Wyoming, not far from Devils Tower National Monument. A storm rolled in and it terrified me. I remember the barometric change in the air, the palpable drop in temperature, the dramatic darkening of the sky, and the winds that warned of danger. This was before smartphones so I had just the natural signals to go on. I hid myself under a pine tree as if there was a big monster coming after me until I found the courage to scamper down the mountain. I felt so vulnerable and understood that I was just one single human life on the planet. I could ‘see’ how small I was on that mountain and how little my short life mattered. It was scary, but it was also ok. I felt wiser when I made it out of the woods.
What’s a favorite memory of nature from your childhood?
In my neighborhood growing up in Ohio, there were mature walnut trees that had been planted in a line down the grassy meridian of the street that crossed my street. So a block from my house, there was this green space that wasn’t exactly a park, but it seemed like a park to me. I’m not sure how often I actually spent time there, but I remember collecting the walnuts in their bulky, fragrant green husks. I remember pretending I was from ‘the olden days’ and I carried the fleshy foraged fruits to my backyard, where I was often a little bored.
I was an only child without many neighborhood playmates at that age. There was a cluster of pine trees at the edge of the yard, planted as a barrier between houses and tall enough to tuck into. I played house under the trees, putting the walnuts into storage among the branches, making drawers and bins from the roots that were poking through the dirt. When my daughters were younger, I watched them play like that together and could see myself, at their age, immersed in those same games with such intensity. It’s just moving walnuts and pine cones around in piles, but the narrative spun from that play is so rich!
What do you hope for, for your writing?
I just want to keep writing and to ignore the worry that my silly and self-absorbed endeavor will leave my poor daughters with a complicated inheritance of artifacts to clear from the basement and put into dumpsters after I die. The problem is, I have figured out that for me, a life with time and space for creative exploration of any kind - writing is just one way of seeking, remembering, expressing – is how I want to live until I die. So the journals will pile up, the boxes in the basement will get heavier, the longer I live.
The writer
explained the writer’s life by saying:“We just have to keep showing up with courage, humility and grace as we cross the threshold between the mundane and the sacred every single time we choose to write, never quite knowing what will happen next.”
My hope is that I’ll pull stories and wisdom from those journals in the basement to share, piece by piece.
A writer or other creative artist who makes you hopeful for humanity and the earth.
I collect quotes all the time. The people whose words and ideas are influencing me most right now are probably Robin Wall Kimmerer, Ross Gay and Elke Heidenreich. A few years ago I would have said Terry Tempest Williams, Mary Oliver, Ruth Ozeki, and Ann Patchett. Oh, and I always return to Barbara Kingsolver, Krista Tippett, and Dervla Murphy. These wise people, mostly women, have been very important in my evolution.
My needs for inspiration change by the day, so I always have a few books in a little pile by my spot on the couch. The truth that I’ll never get to read all the books, and that there will always be more writers to discover, artists to admire, places to explore, and ideas to play with fills me with eager joy. That infinity of riches gives me endless hope for people everywhere!
What did you enjoy most about this interview? To learn about more Substack nature writers, please consider becoming a free or upgrading to paid subscriber. From now until the Autumnal Equinox, I’ll be donating 30% of paid subscriptions to Indigenous Environmental Network. Through a variety of alliances, they’ve been promoting environmental and economic justice issues for over twenty years.
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thanks, Mary Oliver
Since I received so many inspiring responses to my initial call, both August and September will feature two interviews.
Wonderful interview, Jessica. Love hearing how you intertwine with nature, and have done so your entire life.
Particularly moving: Jessica’s description of her husband reading, and the unexpected comparison she makes.