Remembering the Sacred

Even for environmental studies/science majors, the hands-on, visceral connection to the land that we facilitate is a novel experience. Our intention, however, is not a one-time shock and awe campaign but rather powerful and transformative learning experiences that deepen lifelong relationships with the natural world. We do what we do to help each of us remember and experience the sacredness of all life. How can we expect to honor and protect something we do not feel an intimate connection with? How can we truly begin to form a deep and meaningful relationship with nature if we don’t experience it fully?

• Student: What if it rains during class?
• Us: We go outside.
• Student: What if it snows during class?
• Us: We go outside.
• Student: What about when classes are scheduled at night and it’s dark out?
• Us: You guessed it … we go outside.

In our classes, we forage and process wild foods as a way to lean deeper into our connection with the land. We know from talking with students that food from a grocery store, pulled from a shelf and wrapped in plastic, is often not seen or experienced as being from the earth. The felt experience of the wind moving through a wheat field or the smells and sounds of a small farm are not available to most shoppers. However, when you harvest hard-shelled nuts from a hickory tree and process them into dark buttery nut milk to warm you after having waded into a cold-water October marsh collecting roots and shoots for your next meal, you feel the connection. Standing on the edge of a cattail marsh in their bathing suits in the often cold and rainy autumn of upstate New York, the students may be uncomfortable at first, but a calm presence also begins to settle in.

Every year, as we wade into the marsh with the students, there is an audible gasp followed by shrieks, as one by one the students feel the bite of the water and the sting of the air on exposed skin. Disappearing among the stalks of the cattail plants, waist deep in water, the identity of student, teacher, class, and campus fall away. Excitement, fear, discomfort, and adventure take over, and we all intimately feel the web of life. What matters now is what is right before us.

Probing for that which will sustain us, we plunge our hands deep into the muck, exploring what we cannot see but can only feel. As we reach deep into the water and pull out the creeping rootstocks (rhizomes) of the cattail plant, something curious begins to happen. The shrieks turn to laughter. The look of fear softens into big smiles. The cold does not become less cold, but it feels different, less threatening. Deep in the marsh and protected by the tall cattails, the wind is calm, and the body adjusts somehow.

Everyone starts to realize that they don’t need to be tough or strong, they simply need to feel what they are feeling and to surrender to the experience. This is what it feels like just now to be alive, to be here, to be human.

Much of our lives are filled with external circumstances over which we have little to no control. Where we were born, the weather, the political climate, or even the mood our loved ones are in are things we experience, not dictate. Still, we are not helplessly at the mercy of the world around us as long as we are responding rather than reacting to our environment. When we practice slowing down, turning toward what is happening rather than away, and softening rather than closing up, we are cultivating the strength and kindness needed to thrive.

Eventually, of course, we must (usually reluctantly) leave the marsh. We embrace the job of washing the creeping rootstocks, separating them from new shoots, and returning the parts of the plant we do not need back to the earth. It is not easy, but it is doable. It is not all fun, but it is not all pain either. It takes a lot of food and effort to feed and warm two dozen people. These are some things that are felt and learned when we are in close relationship to the land and to each other. We can also see the impacts of our harvest, what it takes to feed ourselves in real time, and we are able to reflect on this, too. We must pay close attention to know if the plant we are harvesting is the correct plant to eat and not some poisonous look-alike, but we also need to take the time to ask if it feels right for us to harvest it. We are remembering the sacred.

When we speak of things being sacred in an environmental studies class, we sometimes receive a curious look or two from students. Some feel very comfortable with this word and others wonder about its use in a science-based academic program. To this we simply say, if you prefer you may substitute the word sacred with “very, very important.” Through time spent outdoors, in community and with a mindfulness practice, we begin to sense that perhaps all things in the world around us—our relationships, the stories we tell, and the paths we are on—are very, very important. They are sacred.

Try: Ask yourself what in your everyday life is very, very important. Health, friends, family, food? Can you feel the importance of it in your heart? Can you feel the connection in your body? Letting yourself lean into the sacredness of it all, see if you notice any place where there may also be resistance, pain, or a sense of bracing. A fear of losing something, perhaps, or a desire to acquire something that feels critical? In order to feel safe, we may pull up the drawbridge and wall ourselves in. While this can be wise at times, it’s important that we also look over the walls to see if we still need this level of protection. Are there areas in your life where it may be time to soften the edges? Stepping outside the gates can be uncomfortable at first, but it also helps us connect to the world around us.

Building deep relationships requires a vulnerability and trust for others through all kinds of experiences and conditions. The same goes with building deep, authentic relationships with nature. Choose a day when the weather is such that your inclination isn’t to go outside. Maybe it’s too hot or too cold, too overcast, too buggy, or too rainy. Without pushing yourself to the point that you are miserable, go outside for a bit. Yes, there is some discomfort from the less-than-optimal conditions. But instead of focusing only on this, focus also on what is beautiful or meaningful for you. Practice holding both of these at the same time. After you have gone back inside and gotten comfortable, reminisce about the experience. Journal any insights.