I was pretty blessed to grow up in a small town. My dad bought some property in the forested area outside of our town, so he could accomplish one of his dreams of building a rustic log cabin. I went through various phases going out to our property- some seasons of my life I looked forward to spending my days out there and I couldn’t wait until the next outing; some seasons I decided it was boring out there and I’d rather stay home where I could watch tv; and once, after some sort of 5 inch flying beetle flew right at my face, I even decided I didn’t like our property anymore. It took time to come up with something to play out there. Time, that often, I didn’t want to spend. The tv was much quicker and easier, as far as entertainment goes. There has been plenty studied already about the effects of our kids having very little unstructured time to play anymore, and I think it’s often related to the minimal amount of time our kids spend in nature. I first heard the term, “nature deficit disorder” a few years ago and I still don’t know anything about it, other than that phrase simply states what my own experience has been when I go too long without being outdoors, as well as, what I’ve observed in the many children I’ve worked with over the years. Something becomes disordered in my soul when I get too far from nature. A quick google search says that the symptoms of nature deficit disorder are: “diminished use of the senses, attention difficulties, conditions of obesity, and higher rates of emotional and physical illnesses.” Yeah, that sounds about right.
Last night, my kids and I slept in our backyard to be able view the Neowise Comet on its brightest night. As we lay there, somewhat uncomfortably, I tried to think about what it is about the wilderness that brings about this sense of rightness deep within me. Strangely enough, the first thought that came to mind was, fear. When I look out into the vastness of space or swim out into the deep ocean, I feel my smallness. I feel like my lack of control. Just the darkness itself was enough to make my kids feel uneasy. We live under the false assumption that we can control our lives. We flick a switch when the sun goes down, we turn a knob when we need a drink of water, we keep up on our vaccines, and we try not to think about the fact that we still have very little control over our dear Mother Earth. It is not healthy to live under any false assumptions, the longer we ignore scary things, painful things, the more it seems those feelings blow up after being pushed down so repeatedly. Maybe it’s a paradox, but when I surrender to my smallness in the universe, I have peace, and, unexpectedly the next feeling that bubbles to the surface is profound gratitude. I wonder, like the psalmist in Psalms 8:4, “who am I that you are mindful of me?…that you care for us?” I feel my place in the world, and even though it is an infinitesimally small, humble place, I am filled with joy to be alive at all and I no longer desire to control something so grand.
Wonder and delight. Two things that are not very efficient, not too practical. I think my generation and younger has been specifically harmed by the productivity race- we are always supposed to be bettering our mind, our body, accomplishing tasks, finding new ‘life hacks’ that create some way for us to pretend we can multi-task. If there is one thing this time of quarantine has taught me, it is that our expectations before all this, whether real or imagined, were completely unrealistic, not to mention opposed to a joyful and meaningful life. But, that’s another blog post. Nature can, if we let it, teach us about wonder and delight. Kids help too. As we lay on the ground staring up at the millions of stars, we entered into wonder. A gratuitous experience, where I expected no results, nor did I have much to offer…just sharing in the wonder of the cosmos. Interrupted only by my son springing up and bellowing, “shooting star!” a few times.
I’ve been appreciating the wildflowers this season more than usual. Our hillside seems to be painted with a new stroke of color every few days and I’m inspired by their ability to give regardless of anyone noticing them individually. They grow where the wind blew their seed, bloom and wither, sometimes in less than a week, yet they invite me to delight in small moments of beauty.
My son excitedly ran up with a giant bug in his hands. He thrust the beetle (maybe the same kind that led to my temporary dislike of nature as a kid) an inch from my eyes, “look, Mom!” “Oh cool,” I tried to fake interest as I pulled his hand back so I could actually focus on the bug. His delight, however, helped me to actually look. I paused for a moment and noticed the symmetry on its back, the light reflecting on its shell making it green, then black, then even a little purple. Maybe a tiny bug has something to teach me about beauty, and that gives me hope.