“The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.”
—John Muir


||| LOYALTY TO THE EARTH by ELIZABETH ROBSON |||


The first thing to understand is that we are already connected. We breathe because trees exhale. Our blood is salted like the sea. The calcium in our bones was once part of mountains. The disconnection we feel is not natural—it has been imposed.

From birth, we are taught to look past the living world, to see it as scenery, as resource, as background noise. The birds are there, but we do not know their names. The wind moves through the trees, but we do not listen to what it says. The land and sea are there to be taken—for food, for energy, for materials, and a great big dump for our waste—for we do not see them as home. We are taught that nature is a place—somewhere separate, somewhere we visit, take pictures of, and then leave behind.

We’ve all experienced a lifetime of training to believe we are separate from nature, but we can unlearn this teaching. We can remember how to connect with the real world and learn how to recognize the connections that were always there.

To connect is to remember how to listen.

Begin with attention. Stop walking past the small things. The moss growing in your gutters or the crevices of an old log is as much the forest as the great old firs and cedars. The spider spinning a web in the corner of your window is no less a miracle than a migrating whale. The crows calling outside your door are speaking to each other, to you, to the shape of the day. Learn their language. Learn their names.

Slow down. The pace of the natural world is not the pace of machines, of profit, of human urgency. A river does not rush unless it is flooded. A tree does not force itself to grow faster. The clouds move only with the wind, and the rain water seeps through soil and rock over millennia. The Earth is patient, and if you want to hear what the Earth says, you must be patient, too.

Feel your own body as part of the Earth. Walk barefoot and laugh at the tickle of moss and duff between your toes. Plunge your hands into the cold sea, into the rough bark of an old tree. Let the Earth touch you back.

And most of all, love the Earth. Not in the way we are taught to love things—possessively, greedily—but in the way the Earth loves: generously, without expectation of return. Love the land enough to protect it. Love the water enough to feel the H2O molecules coursing through your body, flowing into the sea, evaporating up to the clouds, raining down on your face, and sinking back into your body.  Love the wild ones enough to let them live. Know that the land, the water, and the wild ones are not separate from you; they are you, and you are them. Love the world enough to be loyal to it, to fight for it, to grieve for it, and to never, ever turn away.

Connection is not an idea. It is not a hobby or a weekend retreat. It is who you are, if you let yourself remember.



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