“Take the Adventure, heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes!’ ‘Tis but a banging of the door behind you, a blithesome step forward, and you are out of the old life and into the new! Then some day, some day long hence, jog home here if you will, when the cup has been drained and the play has been played, and sit down by your quiet river with a store of goodly memories for company" (Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows).
As I contemplate my upcoming walking tour of the Scottish Highlands, I am reminded that Thoreau once wrote, "When we walk, we naturally go to the fields and woods: what would become of us, if we walked only in a garden or a mall? (Thoreau, Walking). People often ask me "why do you walk such long distances? What's the appeal of such an arduous journey?"
The art of walking, of pilgrimage, lies in the ability to embrace the wonder, the awe, the joy of new horizons. Robert Frost often describes this joy in nature in poems like "Birches" or "The Road Not Taken". The art of walking is in the sheer pleasure of the thing! It lies in the ability and intention to slow down, to be level with the earth, to embrace each moment, to be fully present to one's surroundings.
And how cool is it to be able to visit one of the "thin places" of the world? I think the appeal for me is the idea of a location, no matter how impractical or illogical, which evokes a sense of sacred ecology, a place where one could imagine fairies, elves, dragons, and mythical creatures exist. A place where the sacredness of creation and the desire to know the Creator are possible. When I think of "thin places", those places in which the veil between the sacred world and our mundane physical world seems transparent or thin, I think of these forest garden landscapes. I believe and I hope that people are transformed by the beauty of places like the Highlands.
Thin places are not places in which God or even the spirit world is more present, but in which we, ourselves, are transformed, more open, listening to the Spirit...God is the same everywhere. But in those places, if we allow ourselves to strip down, to take off the masks, and to remove our own blinders or those things which hinder us, I believe we can experience God's peace, his love, his wisdom, his presence in ways which heal us, make us whole, and refresh us...making us more effective, more of our authentic selves which God created us to be.
Sacred places tend to convey a sense of the 'deep magic'. This is not an animistic belief, but a deeper sense of the sacred in everything...and a reverence because God created this world. In these places, we recognize that Jesus' incarnation is the pivotal moment of creation's return to God. His being and his word, in which all the universe is held together, calls us to life in him. That life is sacred and we are called to join in the dance, to celebrate the seasons, to embrace the sacred, to no longer be separated from creation, but to recognize our own fragility as part of creation.
Sacred ecology recognizes this great disconnect from the earth. It is what has contributed to our sad, polluted, dilapidated planet. Many Native American and indigenous tribes throughout the world call this disconnect, this worldview in which humans see themselves as separate from the rest of the created universe, a spiritual problem. Because of this spiritual disconnect, we try to fill the empty spaces in our souls with things which can never satisfy, such as material goods...more things.
Ecological spirituality is an earth-based spirituality, whereas, spiritual ecology is more of a sacred awareness throughout creation. Spiritual ecology is not a worship of nature, but rather an awareness of the sacred in creation, as evidenced by the inclusion in our stories of anthropomorphized and mythical characters, such as centaurs, dryads, naiads, elves, and fairies. Anyone who grew up on classic fairytales or the stories of Lewis and Tolkien are not strangers to these mythical creatures. C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien and others felt this connection, too, to these archetypes as seen in their fictional works. In fact, both authors wrote essays defending the use of fairytales as doorways to a world of imagination and creativity and deep connection to the earth. We see this use of sacred ecology in their literature. There is power in children's literature to evoke nostalgia or a deep longing for the sacred in nature, a spiritual ecology found in the imaginative works of L'Engle as well.
It is in this imaginative world that we find ourselves, as readers, co-creating. The stories become more than stories. We feel connected to a world of imagination, of possibilities, of overcoming impossibilities. It's a world where mythical creatures are possible, a world in which animals speak and we can understand. Didn't you ever wonder that in the story of Eden, Eve did not find it strange that a serpent spoke to her? That she carried on a conversation with the creature? That Adam did not question that an animal had spoken to Eve? In the time before time, perhaps mythical creatures and talking animals did exist... These fairytales reveal whole worlds of experiences to us which speak to our souls, as deep calls to deep; experiences beyond our own limited understanding (Lewis, essay on Fairytales). We often feel this call from the deep when we are in nature.
A contemporary and colleague of C.S. Lewis, Dorothy L. Sayers would call this response a natural longing when the reader is called into the process of co-creating. This incarnational power of creativity brings the reader into the story, no longer on the sidelines, but actively creating something with the author by imbuing the book with his/her own experiences, imagination, and life story. We use this same incarnational creativity when we interact with nature. As we journey through dark forests along lowly cattle paths, we bring our stories, our lives into each step.
In a perfect world, perhaps an idealized world, somewhere away from the unbelief of the scoffers, the haters, the folks who squash imagination or impractical possibilities or myths, there is a place where one could write and imagine and create and worship God and honor the universe as his creation. A place where the invisible kingdom is almost perceptible. In my heart of hearts, I have experienced this creative state in the rainforests of Oregon or hidden in the hills of Arkansas. I believe I will experience this "thinness" in the Highlands of Scotland. It's a place where I feel that I belong, where I'm meant to belong, where I can unleash the creative in me, a place where imagination can run wild and free. I can't explain why. I just feel drawn there. The thin places are calling to me, to the deep places of my soul. How can I not answer? Like Ratty, in Kenneth Graham's "Wind in the Willows", I often feel the call of the wild, calling me to wander down....to saunter along unknown paths, to discover new worlds: "Here today, up and off to somewhere else tomorrow! Travel, change, interest, excitement! The whole world before you, and a horizon that's always changing!" (Grahame, The Wind in the Willows).
As I contemplate my upcoming walking tour of the Scottish Highlands, I am reminded that Thoreau once wrote, "When we walk, we naturally go to the fields and woods: what would become of us, if we walked only in a garden or a mall? (Thoreau, Walking). People often ask me "why do you walk such long distances? What's the appeal of such an arduous journey?"
How can I explain a thing which can only be felt or experienced in the soul? “Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing" (Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows). How can one express this "divine discontent and longing"? Thoreau goes on, as only he can, about the pleasures, the joys, the art of walking: "For I believe that climate does thus react on man-- as there is something in the mountain air that feeds the spirit and inspires. Will not man grow to greater perfection intellectually as well as physically under these influences?" Our latest research continues to confirm Thoreau's hypothesis that being in Nature heals the soul. There is something so inspiring, so awing, so breathtaking about the beauty of nature. For me, I start to feel broken and dysfunctional when I spend too much time indoors. I need these treks to restore my soul, and find, as Byron said, "not that I love Man the less, but Nature more."
The art of walking, of pilgrimage, lies in the ability to embrace the wonder, the awe, the joy of new horizons. Robert Frost often describes this joy in nature in poems like "Birches" or "The Road Not Taken". The art of walking is in the sheer pleasure of the thing! It lies in the ability and intention to slow down, to be level with the earth, to embrace each moment, to be fully present to one's surroundings.
And how cool is it to be able to visit one of the "thin places" of the world? I think the appeal for me is the idea of a location, no matter how impractical or illogical, which evokes a sense of sacred ecology, a place where one could imagine fairies, elves, dragons, and mythical creatures exist. A place where the sacredness of creation and the desire to know the Creator are possible. When I think of "thin places", those places in which the veil between the sacred world and our mundane physical world seems transparent or thin, I think of these forest garden landscapes. I believe and I hope that people are transformed by the beauty of places like the Highlands.
Thin places are not places in which God or even the spirit world is more present, but in which we, ourselves, are transformed, more open, listening to the Spirit...God is the same everywhere. But in those places, if we allow ourselves to strip down, to take off the masks, and to remove our own blinders or those things which hinder us, I believe we can experience God's peace, his love, his wisdom, his presence in ways which heal us, make us whole, and refresh us...making us more effective, more of our authentic selves which God created us to be.
Sacred places tend to convey a sense of the 'deep magic'. This is not an animistic belief, but a deeper sense of the sacred in everything...and a reverence because God created this world. In these places, we recognize that Jesus' incarnation is the pivotal moment of creation's return to God. His being and his word, in which all the universe is held together, calls us to life in him. That life is sacred and we are called to join in the dance, to celebrate the seasons, to embrace the sacred, to no longer be separated from creation, but to recognize our own fragility as part of creation.
Sacred ecology recognizes this great disconnect from the earth. It is what has contributed to our sad, polluted, dilapidated planet. Many Native American and indigenous tribes throughout the world call this disconnect, this worldview in which humans see themselves as separate from the rest of the created universe, a spiritual problem. Because of this spiritual disconnect, we try to fill the empty spaces in our souls with things which can never satisfy, such as material goods...more things.
It is in this imaginative world that we find ourselves, as readers, co-creating. The stories become more than stories. We feel connected to a world of imagination, of possibilities, of overcoming impossibilities. It's a world where mythical creatures are possible, a world in which animals speak and we can understand. Didn't you ever wonder that in the story of Eden, Eve did not find it strange that a serpent spoke to her? That she carried on a conversation with the creature? That Adam did not question that an animal had spoken to Eve? In the time before time, perhaps mythical creatures and talking animals did exist... These fairytales reveal whole worlds of experiences to us which speak to our souls, as deep calls to deep; experiences beyond our own limited understanding (Lewis, essay on Fairytales). We often feel this call from the deep when we are in nature.
A contemporary and colleague of C.S. Lewis, Dorothy L. Sayers would call this response a natural longing when the reader is called into the process of co-creating. This incarnational power of creativity brings the reader into the story, no longer on the sidelines, but actively creating something with the author by imbuing the book with his/her own experiences, imagination, and life story. We use this same incarnational creativity when we interact with nature. As we journey through dark forests along lowly cattle paths, we bring our stories, our lives into each step.
In a perfect world, perhaps an idealized world, somewhere away from the unbelief of the scoffers, the haters, the folks who squash imagination or impractical possibilities or myths, there is a place where one could write and imagine and create and worship God and honor the universe as his creation. A place where the invisible kingdom is almost perceptible. In my heart of hearts, I have experienced this creative state in the rainforests of Oregon or hidden in the hills of Arkansas. I believe I will experience this "thinness" in the Highlands of Scotland. It's a place where I feel that I belong, where I'm meant to belong, where I can unleash the creative in me, a place where imagination can run wild and free. I can't explain why. I just feel drawn there. The thin places are calling to me, to the deep places of my soul. How can I not answer? Like Ratty, in Kenneth Graham's "Wind in the Willows", I often feel the call of the wild, calling me to wander down....to saunter along unknown paths, to discover new worlds: "Here today, up and off to somewhere else tomorrow! Travel, change, interest, excitement! The whole world before you, and a horizon that's always changing!" (Grahame, The Wind in the Willows).
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