After the festive month of December, January often feels like a slog. The fun is over, and now we’re left with just winter. True, the light is returning, but there are still months before the green time—months of snow, ice, mud, and melt. Culturally, we’re told to start anew at the New Year, to remake ourselves out of the gate with resolutions to accomplish and become our best selves. But winter is telling us not to rush. Nature is not in a hurry—the plants still wait for the signals that it’s time to put forth new shoots. We’re still in the dreaming time: a time to reflect, look back and ahead at where we’ve been and where we are going. One of my dreams for the year is to grow and establish a regular gathering to practice terra divina at Prairiewoods.
I began terra divina gatherings with my church, St. Paul’s United Methodist Church, over a year ago. Terra divina (sacred Earth) comes from the practice of lectio divina (sacred reading)—reading a passage of sacred text multiple times while using your imagination and your senses, opening yourself to receive something from the passage. Lectio divina was a revelation for me when I was introduced to it about a decade ago. I’d never been taught a way to read the Bible other than to just read it like a textbook—educational but not always inspiring. But lectio gave me a way to engage with scripture that allowed it to work deeper in me—more into the heart than just the head. Lectio renewed my art practice, as well, which led me into a leadership role: I started a Sunday school class in which we practiced lectio divina with that week’s lectionary and responded with a work of art or creative writing. It was life changing!
Given the impact lectio divina has had on my spiritual life, imagine my thrill when I learned of terra divina—a sacred reading of the book of nature. St. Augustine is one of many throughout history who have spoken on the book of creation: “Some people, in order to find God, will read a book. But there is a great book, the book of created nature. Look carefully at it top to bottom, observe it, read it. God did not make letters of ink for you to recognize God in; God set before your eyes all these things God has made” (sermon 126.6, as quoted by Brian McLaren).
This is what we set out to do in terra divina. I believe that we do read creation intuitively—and terra divina gives us the framework to do so with intention.
To begin, become present to the moment and the place where you are.
- Begin to wander, taking in with all of your senses—seeing, smelling, feeling, hearing, and tasting.
- Allow your attention to be caught by something on the landscape—it could be something as large as the whole sky, or something very small, like sporophytes on a clump of moss. Whatever it is, spend some time with this other. Get close to it. What does it look like? Feel like? What is it doing? How does it interact with what is around it? What might it have to say?
- Then, respond to the other. You could speak or sing to it. Mirror it. Say a prayer or write in a journal.
- And finally, offer your gratitude, and let it go.
The practice is done individually and can be done anywhere, but gathering as a group has multiple benefits—not least getting it onto your calendar to make sure you actually do it. Attending a gathering in the same place over a long period of time enables you to get to know the place intimately and observe the ways that it changes over the seasons. And it allows us an opportunity to learn from one another, often multiplying the insights that we may receive from our experience. In several past gatherings, we’ve found common threads in our observations, with each person contributing a unique facet to whatever it is we are pondering.
This winter, I am looking back to the beginning. I recall the first time I hosted terra divina with St. Paul’s in September 2023. What caught my attention during my practice was a small partridge pea plant growing out of a tightly packed patch of Indiangrass on the edge of the prairie. Starting a new program on my own, I wondered if I was able to pull it off. Was what I was trying to do important? Would it be well received? And as I spent time with the partridge pea, the thought came to me that there was room among the towering grasses for even this little flower. There was room for it to do what it was meant to do. And, likewise, there is room for me to do what I’m called to do, however small.
My first practice at Prairiewoods in November 2024 also had me reflecting on my place in things, aided by a river birch. I was nervous about starting in a new setting with new people, and if I was good enough to be doing it. I first noticed the tips of the branches above me, and the catkins set for the spring to come. I studied the shapes of the branches, touched the spongy bark and observed its patterns. River birch is often planted in places for erosion control. It fulfills this role by simply being. It doesn’t fret about being good enough, it just takes up its place in the community of belonging. I reflected on my own belonging, and upon my role in community. It’s not about being “good enough.” The book of creation continues to confirm there is room for each of us, small and large, to simply be, and to do what we are called to do.
—Stephanie Heifner, retreat facilitator
If you’d like to delve into terra divina more deeply, consider joining Stephanie for Terra Divina: A Spiritual Practice of Engaging with Earth monthly. Join her this Sunday, Feb. 9, or for a future session.