A world that’s not beneath our notice

By Holly Wren Spaulding
Sun contributor
Being a writer, I spend a good deal of time in the rooms of my head, the dark corridors of contemplation. The obvious hazard, although there are many others, is that such a lifestyle often takes me away from the vigor of the body and the sense of my feet being on the ground, both literally and figuratively.
The Russian poet Osip Mandelstam once said that Dante must have worn out hundreds of pairs of shoes in order to write ‘The Divine Comedy’. And the French philosopher Hélène Cixous wondered “what kind of poet doesn’t wear out their shoes, writes with their head.” She has said that the true poet is a traveler.

For this and other reasons, I make a point of leaving my desk from time to time, wandering out to look at what is happening.
Just minutes into a good walk, the wind on one cheek, the sun on all sides, I begin to unlink from the engine of my busy life, leaving leave behind my lists, looming deadlines and editors, the need to be “doing.” Most of the time, once outside I don’t even have to make an effort, I simply enjoy the elements and my presence in the moment.
In the middle of the night I am stunned by a sky so vast and lit with lights I cannot name, during the afternoon the marsh marigolds in the ditch near where the horses graze are prettiest, and all May the orchards coming into blossom are the sort of encounters which will, if I am paying attention, remind me to look out, to get down low, to fill my lungs. Concerns about the vagaries of household maintenance, the gravity of the global politics or the vagaries of daily existence are subverted to awe.
I live above a conifer swamp fed by perennial springs. The water wanders, anarchic, into and out of sight, filtering through till plains, hummocks and steep moraines. Our home, this land, is green and fertile because of it. In early spring when the snow is gone, the grass still matted, I walk my dog Lucy in the lowlands, circling the edge of a marsh, ducking among white cedars, hemlock and cattail. When the Leelanau Conservancy did a baseline documentation of the property in advance of our establishing a conservation easement, I learned that there are at least 63 different native and invasive species of vegetation rooted in this place — possibly more, depending on the season.
An anthropocentric world view — a tendency for most of us — would have that our human interests are always greater than the needs or preferences of anything else on earth. It requires some shifting in order to live in deference to dirt; to begin to organize one’s habits in order to acknowledge air and water’s rightful place in the precise, magical equation which ensures livable conditions on this planet.
Last week it began to rain while I planted morning glory seeds and since yesterday there are little sprouts peeking out of the sandy loam on the east side of the house. Soon I’ll set strings for them to climb, and the joy of waking to their bright blue faces will be as good a start to any day as I can think of. The poet Mary Oliver has written that “attention is the beginning of devotion,” and I am spellbound when I kneel before what grows and blooms.
Buddhists have a wonderful notion that in the west we call “right relationship.” The sense is that an ethical life is composed of, among other qualities, a mindfulness toward how we relate to each other, as well as to the environment that sustains us. Eastern wisdom places considerable emphasis on the fact that we share the planet with rocks, lichens and the peat coming into being where a tree once stood. Additionally, Buddhism’s first precept is to “revere all life, avoid doing harm,” and it is clear that this means bowing to the rightful place of non-sentient, as well as sentient beings of all kinds.
The idea of “Right Relationship” proposes that we work to be kind and generous and compassionate toward the ones we love, and all humanity. It also offers the mindset that to be truly at peace and fully liberated in this worldly existence, we must take just as seriously our relationships to the natural world.
How do we practice this ethic? We can start where we are. I can start right here. Such thinking dignifies the particulars of place, the contours of what is local and ripples outward, in ever widening circles of affection. It means not neglecting but loving our home, our turf. But it also asks more of us than pride of place. I think it must be something about both engaging our senses — seeing and smelling and tasting what we’ve long taken for granted — and possibly, it is overcoming a prevalent sensibility that elevates ourselves above all else.
Imagining a world organized around values which support a more egalitarian existence precipitates acts which support, rather than undermine all of the large and small systems which make life possible, fulfilling and decent. It does suggest that we have to open our hearts as well as our minds to the buzzing and silent, small and large beings that surround our hurried lives. There is no doubt that a tenderness is exposed in such a process, and yet would we consider not taking this risk?
I began this detour with a thought of going out walking and taking notice of the quiet growing, the silent moving and the green wildness all around us. I have been trying to say that maybe if we love something, we will take notice and in seeing and hearing and smelling our nearest patch of green, we will become allies to milkweed and dune grass; a true defender of aquifers. Yes, our sensitivities would appear to need piquing. But even over the course of a short walk, our mind marvels to discover the larger intelligence of that spring coming out of the hill; the profundity of the ecosystem, the watershed, our community of existence. The head swoons and the heart follows. They take turns leading.
Edward Abbey wrote that “what most humans really desire is really something quite different from industrial gimmickry — liberty, spontaneity, nakedness, mystery, wildness, wilderness.” That’s certainly how I see it. Acknowledging that not only do we want “right relationship,” but indeed, there is a relationship, and this is the most profound place to begin satisfying some of these desires.