in nature..

I often hear people say that they need to get "out into nature." I know what they usually mean is that they need to get out into the wilderness, and that is something I love to do too. But I don't say that I need to get "out into nature," because I am nature. I don't see nature as something outside of me that I need to get into. When referring to nature I say "the rest of nature." We find this put poetically by Susan Griffin in her book Women and Nature. "We know ourselves to be made from this earth. We know this earth is made from our bodies. For we see ourselves. And we are nature. We are nature seeing nature. We are nature with a concept of nature. Nature weeping. Nature speaking to nature of nature." (page 226)

I find myself nurtured in my immediate environment wherever I am. Whether it is going for a walk in my neighborhood, on the grounds of my church, and right at home.  I'm fortunate to have a beautiful backyard. There are bushes and grass and roses and bird of paradise and trees - all of which I can see from the living room, dining room, and bedroom. I have three bird feeders and also spread seed on a retaining wall, meaning, of course, that my yard is also teeming with birds. Finches, doves, towhees, a phoebe, the occasional oriole when the season is right. And all of this helps me  feel the connectedness that remains an abstraction when I forget what I really am...

I love this world. In all of it's beauty and tragedy it plays out in front of me day after day even in my little backyard. This morning as I was waking up I heard the rustle of wings, a thud, and my cats jumped up to look out the window. Michael, who was reading in the living room,  had seen a hawk swoop through the patio and a startled little finch fly into the window. We found the bird stunned, huddled  on ground in a pile of ants. I gently picked her up,  placing her in a safe place to rest and recover. A little while later I went out to check on her, and found her sitting with her eyes closed, her head nestle against her body. I'd brought soft cloths to set her on to keep her warm. As I picked her up she fluttered away up to the patio cover. Although relieved that she had recovered, I felt bad. She was resting, and in my need to take care of her, I had disrupted her rest. Now, she seemed fine, but interactions like this challenge my notions of what it means to be in relationship with species. But I need to keep learning that my relationship with other animals isn't just about me, and how they make me feel, and what I need from them.