Spirituality and the Outdoors
by James J. Geary
25 April 2004
Chalice Reading:
Every walk to the woods is a religious rite, every bath in the stream is a saving ordinance. Communion service is at all hours, and the bread and wine are from the heart and marrow of Mother Earth.
To find the universal elements enough; to find the air and the water exhilarating; to be refreshed by a morning walk or an evening saunter...to be thrilled by the stars at night; to be elated over a bird’s nest or a wildflower in spring—these are some of the rewards of the simple life.
The most precious things of life are near at hand, without money and without price. Each of you has the whole wealth of the universe at your very door. All that I ever had, and still have, may be yours by stretching forth your hand and taking it."
– John Burroughs (1837_1921) American Writer and naturalist
Reading: This reading is from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay on Nature. The thoughts expressed apply to women as well as to men.
"To go into solitude, a man needs to retire as much from his chamber as from society. I am not solitary whilst I read and write, though nobody is with me. But if a man would be alone, let him look at the stars. The rays that come from those heavenly worlds will separate him and what he touches. One might think the atmosphere was made transparent by this design, to give man, in the heavenly bodies, the perpetual presence of the sublime. Seen in the streets of cities, how great they are! If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown! But every night come out these envoys of beauty, and light the universe with their admonishing smile.
The stars awaken a certain reverence, because though always present, they are inaccessible; but all natural objects make a kindred impression, when the mind is open to their influence. Nature never wears a mean appearance. Neither does the wisest man extort her secret, and lose his curiosity by finding out all her perfection. Nature never became a toy to a wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the mountains, reflected the wisdom of his best hour, as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood.
Spirituality and the Outdoors
Good morning my friends. The subject of my talk is “spirituality and the outdoors.” Is there also spirituality on the indoors? Certainly there is here in this fellowship. It approaches the blessed community that Byrd spoke of recently. And so the first thing I want to do is to thank you, members of this fellowship, thank you for enriching my outlook, adding to my spirituality.
Although my basic philosophy has not changed since I was a teenager, you have helped me fine tune it by emphasizing the importance of love for one’s fellow human being. I tend to be more of a nature lover than a humanist. But you have helped me to become a little more of a humanist by making me even more aware of the importance of conscience and understanding and sensitivity in our relationships.
I hope I’ve been able at times to partially repay you by imparting a bit of wisdom — if that’s what it is —acquired over a long life. Much of my philosophy and spirituality has evolved from my love of the natural world. I firmly believe a love of the outdoors — of nature — is spiritual, is uplifting. I believe it gives us that all important sense of expansiveness, of feeling we are a vital part of this wonderful, mysterious universe.
We all need some kind of spirituality. We all search for what is true. One thing is certainly true for me — the calming effect of being close to nature, of feeling the beauty, the mystery.
Emerson said: “Come forth into the light of things; let Nature be your teacher.”
And Aristotle said: “In all things of Nature there is something of the marvelous.”
Joan Baez, now on tour, has a tree house in her yard; and she often sleeps in it so she can be close to nature.
History is replete with nature lovers.
Why do you suppose so many of us love Robert Frost’s poem that begins “Whose woods these are I think I know.” I believe we love it because so many of us are lovers of nature and the outdoors. But we have promises to keep.
You are no doubt familiar with some of the great nature lovers of the American West — Ansel Adams, John Muir, Edward Abbey. I believe Ansel Adams made those beautiful black and white photographs of the earth because he loved the earth and thought it represented life.
And for that great naturalist, John Muir, Yosemite Valley was his church, his cathedral. He used to climb to the top of tall trees during a storm, and he would cling lovingly to them as they swayed back and forth. He was the ultimate nature lover, and he was an activist in her behalf. His advocacy had so much to do with preserving the American wilderness.
Muir said: “Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.”
Ever since I retired more than 21 years ago, I’ve been getting back to my love of nature and the outdoors. I never really left, of course. But in the middle years , when one is involved with raising and feeding robins in the nest, in trying to make ends meet, the love of nature is apt to get clouded over a bit.
But now I have the leisure to enjoy to the full the beauty of our mountains, the mystery of the stars, the ever changing wonder of clouds. And it’s been good for me. I think it has made me a better person, or, you might say, a more spiritual person.
I enjoy hiking with Pat in our Virginia mountains, and the mountains and deserts of the West. I like to contemplate the stars, watch sunsets, moon rises, and feel the cycle of life and death in the flotsam and jetsam of our beaches. I like to lie on my back and watch clouds changing shape.
Watching clouds is for me an exercise in philosophy. I think of the tiny globules of water being moved about hither and yon by currents of air over which they have no control . Often each is a minute part of a great gathering storm. I equate them with us individual humans being moved about, buffeted, and changed by forces beyond our control. And often we too are minute parts of great gathering storms — economic storms, wars, revolutions, plagues.
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I don’t know exactly when I became a nature lover, but it was in full bloom by the time I was 13. I think it began when I was eleven. It was at that time I set about consciously to overcome my extreme fear of the dark, of ghosts, and of imagined intruders. I was very ashamed of these cowardly fears.
They were caused, I believe, at least in part, by a frightening stage play my aunt had taken me to three years earlier, when I was eight years old. It was called The Cat and the Canary and was about a so-called haunted house. The ghosts, it turned out, were thieves operating from the inner passages behind the walls of this large old house. Hands would come out of the walls at night and snatch necklaces from screaming women.
Well. . .the play left me a very scared little boy. On evenings when my aunt and I were alone in the house, and she would descend to the basement to bank the coal furnace for the night, I would follow, fireplace poker in hand. Ostensibly I was going so I could protect her; in truth I was afraid to stay in the lighted living room by myself.
The first step in my pursuit to overcome these fears was to steel my resolve into sleeping in a room by myself. The first night was the worst. Moonlight was streaming in a window. I was in bed and noticed a wardroom door was open, and a white dress or something was hanging on it. I got out of bed and closed that door. I didn’t want to wake up and think that white thing was a ghost, although I knew there was no such thing as ghosts. I got back in bed and concentrated on thinking about various configurations of the sun, the moon, and the stars, until I fell asleep.
With my new found courage, I soon began walking outside at night, gingerly at first, a few steps at a time, my big collie dog with me. We lived on the edge of town. A short distance from our house was a narrow field and a patch of woods just beyond. On a bright moonlight night I approached the woods. It looked dark and foreboding. I screwed up my courage and entered it slowly. To my surprise, once I was inside, it didn’t seem nearly as dark. Patches of moonlight played on the ground, lightening the woods considerably. That was a lesson I never forgot: things often are not a bad as they at first appear.
Within a short time I was going farther afield. By the time I was twelve, I was roaming at night over hill and dale, sometimes with my dog, sometimes without him. And thus began my love affair with nature and the outdoors, and the beginning of my spiritual journey.
I loved the dark blue mountains in the distance on a moonlit night. By the time I was 13, I was staring at those mountains, whether by day or night; or I would contemplate a sunset, and a feeling of awe and mystery would engulf me. I would stare, transfixed but not understanding. I was feeling a mysterious spirituality, a feeling of being drawn into something I couldn’t understand, that I can’t explain to this day.
.I don’t think a knowledge of science need detract from one’s love of nature and of finding beauty there. I have some knowledge of science; in fact my major in college was natural science. Just because I understand about the scattering of blue waves giving the setting sun a red color, doesn’t detract from my appreciation of the beauty and the mystery. Is it more important to know something of the where and why of phenomenon than to feel joy at the bursting out of spring? Which is more important, to speculate on the destiny of the Universe or to feel the beauty and the uplift of wind-blown waves in a field of tall grass or ripening grain.
Edward Abbey wrote, in the introduction to Desert Solitaire : “It will be objected that the book deals too much with mere appearances, with the surface of things. . . For my part I am pleased enough with surfaces — in fact they alone seem to me to be of much importance. Such things for example as the grasp of a child’s hand in your own, the flavor of an apple, the embrace of friend or lover, the silk of a girl’s thigh, the sunlight on rock and leaves, the feel of music, the bark of a tree, the abrasion of granite and sand, the plunge of clear water into a pool, the face of the wind — what else is there? What else do we need?
I have taken hundreds of photographs of outdoor scenes. Most are views of the many places in the West where Pat and I have traveled, camped, and hiked. A couple dozen or so of them are hanging on the walls of our home.
These photos are good for recalling the pleasure of those times; and maybe also for feeling a little sad nostalgia for days and places gone forever. But you can’t really feel nature from photographs. You need to experience it, to feel it under your feet, to smell the pines, to smell the vanilla fragrance of the bark on a Jeffrey tree. You need to watch clouds moving and rainbows changing.
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Do you sometimes get the feeling that you are not taking the time to enjoy each day, that life is slipping away and you are not getting the most out of it. We are all so busy, busy —some is just busy work —that we don’t have time to really appreciate the world we live in. Life is so short; we need to make the most of every day.
I used to complain about winter. The cold intensifies my aches and pains, and chills my spare body. And I am really knocked out, for two weeks or more, by the common cold. But I made up my mind several years ago that I was going to enjoy the winter and the outdoors in winter. Each day of winter is a precious day of living. And I find, don’t you, that there are so many times in one’s life, not always the best of times, that we look back on with nostalgia.
Late this past January I was relaxing by the fire. It was well after sunset and was beginning to get dark. I turned out the light and looked out at the snow covered back yard and the woods beyond, silhouetted against the twilight sky. It was during the worst part of this past hard winter, so cold, so much snow. I asked myself if I would miss the winter.
I concluded I would. I would miss our evenings by the open fire. I would miss going out for the morning paper, in my pajamas, bathrobe, and great coat; boots if there was snow; and breathing in the crisp, invigorating air. Because I enjoyed those brief periods, when it was still dark, sometimes clear so I could see my favorite portion of the starlit sky, or when dawn was just breaking, or a bright orange full moon, framed by bare branches of an oak tree, was sinking in the western sky. And I would miss seeing the mid-day beauty of our mountains, shimmering in that special gunmetal blue they take on sometimes when covered with snow. Yes, each day of winter is a precious day, a day in which to enjoy our beautiful world.
I feel lucky to live here in the Shenandoah Valley, between the Blue Ridge and the Allegheny mountains, so close to Shenandoah National Park and the Skyline Drive. I have done a lot of traveling. I have traveled on six continents.. But mainly I have traveled with Pat in the magnificent western states and provinces of North America. And they are magnificent. They have drawn us back time and time again. Nevertheless, I know of no place I would rather live than right here in the Shenandoah Valley. I lived in and around Richmond for twenty years. I can’t tell you how happy I was to get back to western Virginia.