Know Thy Natural Environment

This isn't a "normal" winter. Or is it?

Frank and I returned to Aunt Minnie’s Farm in 1999. We had spent the summer working in Chicago, and though offered full-time jobs there, could not wait to return to West Virginia.

Aunt Minnie’s Farm (Aunt Minnie is my mother-in-law) was originally developed by the Army Corps of Engineers as Hersman’s Recreation Park. Frank and I live in what was formerly the “Rec Building,” home of the concession stand, public showers and bathrooms, dining area, plus. Our backyard is a 3-acre lake, formerly the swimming area.

It should come as no surprise that one of my favorite American authors is Henry David Thoreau. His book, 'Walden' is the outcome of a two-year experiment (from July 1845 to September 1847). Thoreau built a small cabin beside Walden Pond and lived there in isolation. The central theme of 'Walden' is the joy of a simple life amongst nature.

“Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden

In two years, ole Henry observed the lake with intention. As a Transcendentalist, he believed in three basic, essential values: individualism, idealism, and the divinity of nature. Transcendentalists focused on nature and advocated the idea of inherent personal knowledge of God, believing that no intermediary was needed for spiritual insight, that people equally have knowledge that "transcends" or goes beyond what they can see, hear, taste, touch, or feel.

I have been observing the lake out back and the micro-environment of this farm now for 22 years. I have come to know it — its behavior, trends, strengths, weaknesses, inhabitants and their behavior, trends, etc. I know this little bubble on the planet, just as I know my pets, friends, husband, etc. We have a relationship.

Does that sound romantic? Overly dramatic? A little too transcendental?

I did not live here long to realize that the creatures here observe and react to me as much as I do to them. I know the smell of the soil in the spring, summer, and fall. I can name the buzzing and creature sounds around me without looking up: boring bees, crow conversations, falling branches, building mud dobbers, and more. I know the scent of the seasons in the air, the overwhelming embrace of a gentle, warm spring breeze that flushes the internal winter cobwebs away.

I admit, unless you know such a relationship, it is difficult to explain. Henry goes on for pages and pages in Walden, trying to explain. West Virginians and Appalachians have been trying to explain this to corporations who invade our spaces for our resources. We have a relationship with our land. It isn’t an “it” and more than a beloved pet. Our micro-environments amongst these mountains and valleys, they are living, breathing co-existing organisms.

I suppose I too am a transcendentalist. I am not sure how anyone can live immersed in the natural world, observing and experiencing it, and not, at some point, feel spiritually touched or healed. I remember seeing a garden plaque when I was young, knowing in my heart there was simple truth in it: “He who plants beneath the sod, shows they have a faith in God.” This is the transcendental mindset. There is divinity in nature. Therapy. Comfort. Energy that transcends.

"We need the tonic of wildness... We can never have enough of nature."

-Henry David Thoreau.

For many years here, our winters were not “winter.” More rain than snow, more mud than anything else. Warmer temperatures in the winter caused an increased population of ticks in the summer and swarms of hibernating Asian beetles and brown marmorated stinkbugs to survive and “overwinter.”

This winter is the first in six years that the lake out back has frozen over solid. I’m pretty sure we could ice skate this year if we wanted, but I’m not about to test it, and I don’t have ice skates anyway. But I can say that Mattie (beagle), Dandelion (cat), and I walked around the lake on the ice at the edges last week and discovered deer tracks leading from the snowy bank out onto the ice. I saw no mark on the lake where it broke through the ice, and could not locate tracks back off the ice anywhere nearby. Thus, I rationally assume the ice is thick enough to support the weight of a wandering deer.

What I find paradoxical though, is that this winter, in spite of the bitter colds and snow, I still have songbirds in the morning. Not the melodies of summer, mind you, but more than the usual crow conversations and hawk cries. And both last winter and this, flocks of robins in February. Aren’t robins the harbingers of spring? Are they migrating, early, or did they never leave?

For the last few years, my forsythia has bloomed in the fall, and I’m currently a little concerned that my lilies that sprouted are now encased in ice from the drips off the roof.

Most rural folks understand that the behavior of winter becomes a character trait of the coming summer. Fewer ticks and pests, frozen buds, the effect of precipitation on the local water levels — in the waterways as well as in the ground. (A significant number of major flood events in WV happen in February and November, not during summer rains.)

I “enclosed” the front porch this winter. We have a great back porch looking over the water, but it’s on the shady (north) side of the house. The front porch faces south and the ho-hum hayfield, but on sunny days, is warmed by sunbeams. However, the depth of the porch (a mere 8 feet) means that rain and roof drips keep half the space wet for most of the winter season. I took the sides of a massive tent (purchased at a yard sale last fall) and used them to keep the wind and waters from infringing on the space.

It is, by no means, cozy. However, the tarp-like fabric keeps the wetness and wind at bay, and the built-in plastic windows let the sun shine in. A winter coat day becomes a jacket day, and a jacket day becomes a warm shirt day. I’m now wondering why it took me 22 years to make better use of the space. No, the hayfield isn’t as interesting as the fish and waterfowl out back, but during January and February, the Vitamin D from those sunbeams feels comforting and bright. That Vitamin D-infused sunlight, in Henry’s words, is a “tonic of the wilderness.”

The front porch view has opened up a new perspective of the farm for me. While I have been watching the world of the backyard, I have missed the activity of the landlubbers out front — the deer herd, the local rabbits, our chickens, the habits of the stray cat. (I won’t currently go into how despicable it is to drop off unwanted cats in farm country.)

As I soak up some sun and reflect on the 22-year relationship I have with this farm, I recall years when I didn’t pay attention to it. Periods of time when I simply existed here or rushed in and out of it as I put in my 40+ hours of work. In my mind, those times were darker, more frustrated, shallow, periods of time when I operated on automatic.

Now, when I walk the furry children, collect eggs, or find myself outside, I try to make sure I pause, mindful of the moment, breathing in and absorbing the nature around me. Some people take “meditation walks” (which is a bit challenging with a 6-month-old puppy and a talkative cat), but I try to make sure I take a meditation moment, opening myself up to the natural tonics of sunshine, fresh air, and being alive. In Henry’s words, I “resign myself to the influence of the earth.”

I spent nearly a month this winter in “the city.” I found it difficult to find comfort in my outdoor meditation moments. The city is bustling, busy, and raucous. I found myself craving stillness and silence. I wasn’t just homesick, craving my own bed and bathtub, I was longing for rurality. Space. Unpaved quiet places, breezes in trees instead of whipped winds on flatlands along the Ohio River.

We are often advised to “know thyself.” This is good and sound advice. We should come to know, understand and take control of our strengths, weaknesses, triggers, and traumas. But we cannot “transcend” the struggle of being human without knowing the world outside of us as well.

Appalachians almost have to be transcendentalists. Three of the five common traits of a transcendentalist include self-reliance/living a simple life, freethought, nonconformity/individualism - all seem apparent in our inherited culture.

But some don’t have the fourth trait, a critical close relationship to nature, a connection to the divine. And very few have the fifth transcendental trait: confidence—full trust or belief in a person or thing.

It is difficult to “resign yourself to the influence of” anything without trust. Difficult to muster the confidence to “let go” to any influence other than our own. But I call upon you today to come to know your environment. Build a relationship with your natural world. Expose yourself to the tonics of the wilderness, the ground, the air, the light. Resign yourself to the influence of the earth and absorb the tonics of nature.

Yes. It is the middle of winter. But today, the sun is shining (some) and most of us spend our days trying to control our world in a struggle to survive. Take a moment to step outside and resign yourself to the sunlight, draw in several breaths of fresh air, and let your growing relationship with the natural world rejuvenate you with its tonics.

You’ll be glad you did. I promise.

Note: If you subscribe to my weekly email, you may have noticed that last week’s email was incomplete due to some glitch in the system. I noticed it immediately but didn’t want to send a second “oops, I don’t know what happened” note to your email box. Keep in mind, all emailed posts are also available at the Two-Lane Thoughts for Life and Living website. You can read the entire piece, “Life in the Slow Lane,” here.