“The spiritual function of fierce terrain … is to bring us to the end of ourselves, to the abandonment of language and the relinquishment of ego. A vast expanse of jagged stone, desert sand, and towering thunderheads has a way of challenging all the mental constructs in which we are tempted to take comfort and pride, thinking we have captured the divine. The things that ignore us save us in the end.”
—Belden Lane, The Solace of Fierce Landscapes
The Deep Silence that engulfs us after a calamitous loss can be deafening. Listening with all our heart and leaning into the desolation of a devastated Earth may save us in the end, as Belden Lane suggests. Earth’s magnificence and vulnerability alike reveal the signature of the divine. How might we learn to listen with all our heart in this time that has called us into soulful quietude?
So many have been escaping to the wilderness during Covid-19 precisely to reconnect with Earth. It is like we awoke from a century’s long post-Industrial coma and looked around, wondering what all this creation was doing here! Some seem to conclude that Earth must be here mainly for our consumption, our ego-centric appropriation, including the exploitation and hoarding of its resources for commodities. Or perhaps some might see creation as another stimulant to distract us, a gaming opportunity to keep us from encountering the terrifying and lonely silence.
Some also see, appreciate and love Earth for the intrinsic sacredness of creation. For many, the simple beauty of reverent mornings in the sun-bathed foothills or gardens rife with color, afternoons in orchards fragrant and mellow, or languid evenings under the beckoning stars hold a soul-captivating allure that graphic video games, and incessant news and social media feeds cannot touch. Breathless while hiking in the mountains or playing by a meandering stream, praying quietly in the forest or listening to the stunning chorus of creation, some find their Source by experiencing their profound embeddedness in creation. For those content and grateful to be part of the web of life, the divine seems palpable. Overwhelming, perhaps, but near. The Romantics and environmentalists like Thoreau and Muir found their cathedrals in nature, and with good reason. The poetess concurs, “When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locusts, equally the beech, the oaks, and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say that they save me. And daily” (Mary Oliver, “When I Am Among the Trees”).
It is less usual to hear of those who linger or return to distressed areas, venturing into cesspits and toxic rubble, destroyed rain forests and polluted waterways. Those are usually considered areas to flee, to distance ourselves as much as possible. Fierce and devastated landscapes terrify us; we feel their desolation in our own bodies and souls because we ourselves are part of creation. Especially today with massive hurricanes and flooding, earthquakes that swallow whole communities, forests besieged by wildfires and the unbreathable air following in their wake, why might we be drawn to the suffering Earth? We find oceans toxified with plastic and the soil itself irrevocably incinerated, washed away and decimated by chemical waste. There are precious few wild places uncontaminated by neglect or abuse. Where do we run for solace?
Maybe we should stay awhile in these traumatized areas, like the desert mothers and fathers who dwelt in caves with skeletal remains and austere surroundings by choice. How might it help if we listen closely and learn from the suffering inflicted on these devastated wastelands? What wisdom might we hear in the Deep Silence?
What may appear as indifference from the silence of a fierce or devastated landscape may actually be a balm for what ails us if we can embrace what feels alien and frightening, if we can “hug our monsters,” as Bayo Akomolafe suggests (These Wilds Beyond Our Fences: Letters to my Daughter on Humanity’s Search for Home). We might find ourselves more at home in the devastated wilderness than we anticipated, craving the communion wrought by our shared brokenness. We might also learn from Earth’s astounding propensity to welcome new life.
Here in Cedar Rapids, since the August 10 derecho, we are surrounded by a decimated tree canopy, ravaged by 120 mph sustained winds that traumatized our arbor elders and left them twisted, uprooted, stripped, jagged and torn asunder. Walking among the remains of these giant elders is a bit like strolling through a city-wide arbor-hospice. Tree limbs and stumps and desiccated branches are everywhere. The temptation is to clean it all up immediately, drag it all away, perhaps burn it, make it pretty again, make it feel “right.” Others just want the fierce and desolate landscape to be eliminated entirely. Some have been rushing to remove all the wreckage from sight as soon as possible, as though we can escape the grief, the aching, searing loss of all these arbor-elders if the mess is out of our sight. Understandably hoping to remove the possibility of “widow-makers” that might cause us further calamity, some want “insurance” that this kind of devastation won’t hurt them again. They are not only working to eradicate “ugly” trees, but also healthy trees that might come down in a future storm. Stumps are especially vulnerable—as is all remaining life thriving around their edges and beneath the surface. Huge, industrial bulldozers and skid-loaders rumble incessantly throughout the bio-region, conquering and destroying the effects of the derecho, leaving Earth-shredding gouges in their wake, as though rampaging the remains will somehow erase the devastation and loss.
We forget that hospices are also birthing chambers, portals through which life is composted and born anew. We forget that there is also solace here, and there are lessons to be learned from the Deep Silence.
How might we breathe through this pain together? The air is filled with diesel fumes and pervasive noise pollution, all the big cats and chainsaws, dump trucks and cranes conducting an endless cacophony of meta-destruction. The air is also filled with melodious birdsong, with cleansing rainfall, with the unmistakable fragrance of autumn leaves, and the mysterious lengthening of shadows as the sun’s light and warmth wraps itself around the edges of all that hurts, all that longs for healing.
Every once in a while, someone stops in the midst of all the fatigue—and the inexhaustible resilience of life. She burrows into the fierce, devastated landscape, and just bows her head and listens.
The Deep Silence. Speaks.
—Laura Weber, Prairiewoods associate director and retreats coordinator