Coming back to nature
‘Whether we and our politicians know it or not, Nature is party to all our deals and decisions, and she has more votes, a longer memory, and a sterner sense of justice than we do.’ — Wendell Berry
The leaden skies, the heavy clouds, the icy rain and the biting wind. Just below the ground, among the fallen leaves, acorns and seeds are crackling open. One shoot quests for the surface and light, while the other pushes down. Around this root, a haze of thin white threads appear and organise. Mycorrhyzal fungi link and grow, connecting out and plugging in. Soon this young sapling will be part of the wood-wide web, finding the mother trees and siblings, friendly neighbours and generous kin.
Clever, greedy, anxious humans have always been Mother Nature’s difficult child, but still she cares deeply for us all. We are part of the web too, with essential roles and vital tasks. Yet every time we show up, we are deeply troubled. Passing under dripping trees, we rush to unlock our car doors, zipped up and hunched against the rain and bluster, our heads full of worries and strifes. What did I just say? And do? What did I forget? What will happen tomorrow? How will all this work out? Never a thought for today.
Never a deep, relaxed breath for the moment, or a nose lifted to feel the air. If only we opened our chests, relaxed our shoulders and showed our faces, the cold would soften gently, and something just there might make us smile.
The cold salt air blown off the sea stings our faces, but the crash of the waves could harmonise with our steps. The syncopation of our mismatched footfall awakens the sleeping earth, just beneath the paving slabs. We have no time to feel the gratitude from the old bones down there, to life — our life right now.
We have every right to be here, and so much to do. We are not strangers here, and our place is secure. The world, our planet, wants us back.
If we let the sleeping winter trees greet us; if we welcome the great incoming tide. The geese on the water’s edge and the waders on the beach may be busy, but they feel us. If we could only feel the peace of the windblown sand, the stillness of the dormant côtil, and the calmness in the grassed dune.
The landscape wants us back, but not fearful and hunched, depressed and anxious. Like the fungal threads around that tiny root, it wants to connect us to our neighbours. And to the mother lode.
This article first appeared in the Jersey Evening Post on 7 February 2019
