That's a wonderful scene in the river! Also your Wendell Berry quotation caught my attention, as I was just listening to him read that on You Tube a week ago, and that very line has been knocking around in my head all week: sacred places and desecrated ones. It's a powerful thought. You've given us much to chew on in this post. I like that these are going to be monthly, so your theme and images can mix around for awhile: Thoreau's water like glass, reflective, everything in it; your water giving you a job to do. And now to get outside and try the "homework." :-)
Thanks for reading, Tara. Yeah, monthly feels spacious, with time enough for a wild encounter or two. Wendell Berry has a way with words, for sure. I love the synchronicity of your hearing that twice. My friend would ask, What’s Mystery up to here?
Thank you for sharing the story of you in communion with the stream. Perhaps coming so close on the heels of losing your father you were open to receiving the information in a different way. It seemed both powerful and gentle at the same time.
I feel the prompt you gave me, to go outside and be, to surrender and allow the questions to come, is perfectly timed (of course it is!) and I look forward to showing up fully.
The last few words of the transcript spoke to me, "...mark where a still subtler spirit sweeps over it." I don't know if we can mark such a thing but we are certainly being called to pay attention.
Yes! Paying attention is our gift to the world. That’s what Thomas Berry taught - we are here to notice and celebrate creation. Thank you for reading and sharing these thoughts. I look forward to hearing about your encounter.
This morning I did my contemplation on a trail by our home. I will post a picture in the chat I think you started. I had your article front of mind and carried an open heart to see what message was there for me.
I was standing in what to me is a sacred space and I immediately was told, "There is time". That canyon, creek, and forest that have been here forever were reminding me of this important thing.
Oh my gosh, I love that paying attention is our gift to the world. I have often felt that my attention is what I most want to offer, but always questioned if it was enough. Thank you for this affirmation!
I'm so glad it resonated. It's a blessed relief to me, too. Not that I'm looking to be let off the hook for further responsibilities to the natural world. But being "enough" is so reassuring.
Jenna, your words 'attention is most what I want to offer' resonate deeply for me. You and Julie are calling me to pay attention to my attention so I am going to work on that today.
“The whole earth is awake, aware and sensate. When I’m having an encounter or writing about one, I try to resist the temptation to mediate with metaphor. Thoreau is all about metaphor in Walden and there are some gorgeous passages, to be sure. But metaphor is an unconscious habit, a way to keep humans at the center and maintain a safe intellectual distance instead of wading in to the precarity of full immersion.”
Our entire lives are metaphors hardened into soft protected womb of our own artifice. The two minutes when we feel the weight of August heat from an air conditioned shopping mall to our protective little sub-wombs in the parking lot are two minutes we rush to avoid. We are uncomfortable being outside our metaphor and buffer ourselves with thermostats on the walls in our homes, small screens on gas pumps to distract us from the beauty of a foreboding sky, and deafened to the world around us by little white machines attached to our heads that a meadow lark’s song can never penetrate. Even the adventurous who seek to escape the metaphor for a few hours encase themselves in earthbound spacesuits to protect themselves from too direct exposure outside the metaphor.
Once, after weeks of internment in the metaphor, some of it in long silver tubes rushing seven miles above the earth, much of it in a padded, chilled air cubicle within the building womb followed by a two minute rush to the artifice in the parking lot, I drove to the Chesapeake to move my sailboat from the Eastern Shore to Sparrows Point on the other side of the bay. Part way across, a squall hit hard and fast. When the bow of the boat pitched down into the trough of a wave, as it rose, great sheets of water splashed against me and left me cold and wet, but those few hours outside my metaphor life and existence in the womb left me joyful, alive, and honestly spent. “We need the tonic of wilderness” as an antidote against living to death in a metaphor after never being alive.
Oh, my. All of this! Right down to the sudden Chesapeake squall that I recognize from my own m encounters, shocked and humbled to stunned aliveness. I arrange my tidy life to avoid such raw encounters and I’ve never whooped from that ALIVEness anywhere or anytime else. It’s such a paradox. The ever-vigilant lizard brain bent on keeping me “safe,” whatever the heck that is. That Mary Oliver line, I don’t want to get to the end and realize I never lived. Whoosh! You really brought something up here. 😳🔥
We need to trip over more branches, get soaked in more rain storms, and miss a few more hot showers and meals to start an escape from our human feed lot existence.
Once, we were caught in a storm with so much lightning I felt the hairs stand up on my neck and we could smell the ozone of the newly-struck water around us. The rain so dense we couldn’t see the bow, 25 feet away. Terrifying at the time and wild to think of now.
Perfect. Real fear, adrenaline, and arisen hair are all good things. In moderation, perhaps, because we are pretty tame these days, but still necessary.
Thank you for this immersion Julie. Water is precious as a healing balm, we have neglected it and lack appreciation for it (according to my guides) and we must treat it with the respect that our ancestors did to return the balance. The honour you bestow upon it is reciprocated for one who sees and knows the winding path of water and how it guides us. What a beautiful gift. 🙏💫
“Nations come and go without defiling it.” I feel a pang of sadness reading this sentence, for what we have lost in the time since Thoreau wrote. I felt the same way after recently reading Huckleberry Finn, specifically Twain’s description of the mighty and life-giving Mississippi, whose vibrancy is also being sapped.
New subscriber here—Thank you for your beautiful post. We must learn to love the damaged places, and see their potential for sacredness again.
Thanks for reading, Amy. And welcome! I, too, am struck by how much has changed since Thoreau went to the woods. That’s what I hope to explore - or at least surface - with this project.
No one was more surprised than I at that request. I would say that by planting seeds, you are doing your part. Reciprocity takes many forms, right? Thank you for reading, Duane.
That's a wonderful scene in the river! Also your Wendell Berry quotation caught my attention, as I was just listening to him read that on You Tube a week ago, and that very line has been knocking around in my head all week: sacred places and desecrated ones. It's a powerful thought. You've given us much to chew on in this post. I like that these are going to be monthly, so your theme and images can mix around for awhile: Thoreau's water like glass, reflective, everything in it; your water giving you a job to do. And now to get outside and try the "homework." :-)
Thanks for reading, Tara. Yeah, monthly feels spacious, with time enough for a wild encounter or two. Wendell Berry has a way with words, for sure. I love the synchronicity of your hearing that twice. My friend would ask, What’s Mystery up to here?
Right! I like your friend. :-)
Thank you for sharing the story of you in communion with the stream. Perhaps coming so close on the heels of losing your father you were open to receiving the information in a different way. It seemed both powerful and gentle at the same time.
I feel the prompt you gave me, to go outside and be, to surrender and allow the questions to come, is perfectly timed (of course it is!) and I look forward to showing up fully.
The last few words of the transcript spoke to me, "...mark where a still subtler spirit sweeps over it." I don't know if we can mark such a thing but we are certainly being called to pay attention.
Yes! Paying attention is our gift to the world. That’s what Thomas Berry taught - we are here to notice and celebrate creation. Thank you for reading and sharing these thoughts. I look forward to hearing about your encounter.
This morning I did my contemplation on a trail by our home. I will post a picture in the chat I think you started. I had your article front of mind and carried an open heart to see what message was there for me.
I was standing in what to me is a sacred space and I immediately was told, "There is time". That canyon, creek, and forest that have been here forever were reminding me of this important thing.
Ohhhh sounds lovely! I haven’t started a chat yet but I will later today. Looking forward to it!
Oh my gosh, I love that paying attention is our gift to the world. I have often felt that my attention is what I most want to offer, but always questioned if it was enough. Thank you for this affirmation!
I'm so glad it resonated. It's a blessed relief to me, too. Not that I'm looking to be let off the hook for further responsibilities to the natural world. But being "enough" is so reassuring.
Jenna, your words 'attention is most what I want to offer' resonate deeply for me. You and Julie are calling me to pay attention to my attention so I am going to work on that today.
😊🙏🌈💚
Me too, Donna! I'm trying to really notice where and HOW I place my attention, wanting the edges of my gaze to be softened and infused with love.
“The whole earth is awake, aware and sensate. When I’m having an encounter or writing about one, I try to resist the temptation to mediate with metaphor. Thoreau is all about metaphor in Walden and there are some gorgeous passages, to be sure. But metaphor is an unconscious habit, a way to keep humans at the center and maintain a safe intellectual distance instead of wading in to the precarity of full immersion.”
Our entire lives are metaphors hardened into soft protected womb of our own artifice. The two minutes when we feel the weight of August heat from an air conditioned shopping mall to our protective little sub-wombs in the parking lot are two minutes we rush to avoid. We are uncomfortable being outside our metaphor and buffer ourselves with thermostats on the walls in our homes, small screens on gas pumps to distract us from the beauty of a foreboding sky, and deafened to the world around us by little white machines attached to our heads that a meadow lark’s song can never penetrate. Even the adventurous who seek to escape the metaphor for a few hours encase themselves in earthbound spacesuits to protect themselves from too direct exposure outside the metaphor.
Once, after weeks of internment in the metaphor, some of it in long silver tubes rushing seven miles above the earth, much of it in a padded, chilled air cubicle within the building womb followed by a two minute rush to the artifice in the parking lot, I drove to the Chesapeake to move my sailboat from the Eastern Shore to Sparrows Point on the other side of the bay. Part way across, a squall hit hard and fast. When the bow of the boat pitched down into the trough of a wave, as it rose, great sheets of water splashed against me and left me cold and wet, but those few hours outside my metaphor life and existence in the womb left me joyful, alive, and honestly spent. “We need the tonic of wilderness” as an antidote against living to death in a metaphor after never being alive.
Oh, my. All of this! Right down to the sudden Chesapeake squall that I recognize from my own m encounters, shocked and humbled to stunned aliveness. I arrange my tidy life to avoid such raw encounters and I’ve never whooped from that ALIVEness anywhere or anytime else. It’s such a paradox. The ever-vigilant lizard brain bent on keeping me “safe,” whatever the heck that is. That Mary Oliver line, I don’t want to get to the end and realize I never lived. Whoosh! You really brought something up here. 😳🔥
We need to trip over more branches, get soaked in more rain storms, and miss a few more hot showers and meals to start an escape from our human feed lot existence.
Once, we were caught in a storm with so much lightning I felt the hairs stand up on my neck and we could smell the ozone of the newly-struck water around us. The rain so dense we couldn’t see the bow, 25 feet away. Terrifying at the time and wild to think of now.
Perfect. Real fear, adrenaline, and arisen hair are all good things. In moderation, perhaps, because we are pretty tame these days, but still necessary.
This was great! I love Thoreau’s book Walden.
I really appreciated your discussion about language - I had no idea English had so many more nouns than verbs. Thanks
Thanks for reading. Glad you enjoyed it.
Thank you for this immersion Julie. Water is precious as a healing balm, we have neglected it and lack appreciation for it (according to my guides) and we must treat it with the respect that our ancestors did to return the balance. The honour you bestow upon it is reciprocated for one who sees and knows the winding path of water and how it guides us. What a beautiful gift. 🙏💫
Thank you for reading and for this affirmation. I appreciate it very much!
Thank you for sharing your conversation with the stream. I felt it inside of me.
Lovely! Thank you for reading.
“Nations come and go without defiling it.” I feel a pang of sadness reading this sentence, for what we have lost in the time since Thoreau wrote. I felt the same way after recently reading Huckleberry Finn, specifically Twain’s description of the mighty and life-giving Mississippi, whose vibrancy is also being sapped.
New subscriber here—Thank you for your beautiful post. We must learn to love the damaged places, and see their potential for sacredness again.
Thanks for reading, Amy. And welcome! I, too, am struck by how much has changed since Thoreau went to the woods. That’s what I hope to explore - or at least surface - with this project.
Looking forward to reading more!
No one was more surprised than I at that request. I would say that by planting seeds, you are doing your part. Reciprocity takes many forms, right? Thank you for reading, Duane.