Mysterious connections
Exploring some of the links between humans and the natural world
Gravity works. Without our having to flip a switch it is always there. It connects our bodies to the ground. It stabilises us. It is a miracle of engineering. Here we are, attached to a planet spinning through space, circling around a sun that itself follows the galaxy as it swirls through barely imaginable distances at almost immeasurable speeds. And the gravity holds us, all the time, so constantly that we hardly ever notice it.
Our breath is another constant connection. It is our umbilical cord to the atmosphere of planet Earth, so regular and reliable that most of the time we are unaware of that too. Our bodies are programmed to breathe in and out without our having to think about it, every minute, every hour, even when we are asleep.
The air we breathe has around 20% oxygen. That oxygen was released through the leaves of trees and grass and all other green vegetation. Thus, every breath connects us to the flora life of the planet. They take in the carbon dioxide we exhale, and condense it to make their structures. It is their bones. It enables them to grow and have shape.
Our breath connects us to the flora life and the thin envelope of air that surrounds the Earth. Gravity connects us through our feet to the solar system, the galaxy and goodness knows where beyond that. They remind us that we are part of an immense, flowing mystery.
Other connections have changed their nature in the last few thousand years of the human story. Take food and water, for example. On the plus side, food insecurity is much rarer than it used to be. Personally, I know of no-one who has died of starvation in the last generation, and I have read that this was a reality for most of the human race until the last century. On the minus side, our connection to the source of the food that sustains us has been filled with intermediaries. It is grown and prepared by people we have never met, in countries we may never have visited. It arrives in plastic trays and bottles on supermarket shelves. If we don’t cook for ourselves, we eat food that has been combined and cooked by people we don’t know and who don’t know us.
This has consequences. The connection through our food to the area we live, with the cycles of the planet, the rhythm of the seasons, is no longer automatically accessible. I may not trust food that isn’t pre-packaged. I prefer to drink water from a plastic bottle than a clear stream (assuming I can find a clear-running stream — and that is part of the problem). Does such disconnected food diminish our sense of what we are part of? Has a certainty been lost, one that should be there by default? And can the situation be remedied?
Anyone who has tried growing their own food will tell you that it is a chancy affair. Sometimes seeds germinate — and at other times, for no obvious reason, they don’t. Then, once they start growing, everything else that lives in the district wants to eat them before I can. However, if vegetable growing is the sort of thing that catches you, then the rewards are well worth the effort. My stomach can recognise what the food is and my brain knows where it comes from, both of which bring a settlement beyond what any processed food can provide. It makes me wonder if nourishment can be objectively measured, because a home-grown tomato feels more filling than a shop-bought one.
Supermarkets sell small pots of herbs, such as basil and parsley. I now transplant them into a larger pot when I get home, water them and put them on the windowsill — and there is a source of fresh leaves over the summer. With that little bit of individual input and care, a connection is established with the plant.
Another project I have taken on is foraging. I joined some online foraging groups. To my amazement, the lanes and paths where I walk are lined with edible plants. It felt like a leap of faith to pluck and eat any of them, though. How bizarre is that — to be afraid of the natural world, of the plants that are abundant and tasty, and that I was oblivious of? There is a lot of learning that has to be undertaken here: some of the plants are poisonous to humans. I have to learn the rules of foraging — what is permissible to pick and what is not. The reward is that as well as allowing me to see the place where I live with new eyes, it tunes me into the rhythm of the seasons (March — magnolia petals, April — wild garlic and hedge mustard, May - common hogweed, June — elderflowers, and so on, until autumn and the fruits to be collected).
Humans also eat meat and fish. Before eating a piece of fish, I try to picture it when it was alive and swimming in the sea. Then, I silently thank it for giving its life so that I can continue with mine. It may not work, but it is an attempt to make a connection. One of the theories about cave paintings is that they were a tribute to the animals that had given up one of their tribe as food for the humans. The painting was a way of completing the loop through thanks and recognition.
I still buy most of my food from the supermarket. For most of us it is not practical to grow all of our own. And for me, the important thing was to start to rebuild the connection.
My sense is that I am not alone in this. A lot of people are looking for new ways to connect with the natural world. In the last decade or so, researchers such as Monica Gagliano, Stefano Mancuso, Merlin Sheldrake and Suzanne Simard have demonstrated the intelligence of some of the non-human inhabitants of the planet, as well as some astonishing levels of co-operation between species.
A generation ago, anyone who admitted to communing with animals and plants ran the risk of being considered a crackpot. Now there are courses available in case you aren’t able to do it for yourself yet. Again, there is quite a journey of discovery to be embarked upon in order to do so. How does a person get on to the same wavelength as an oak tree, for example? A good place to start is to focus on what we have in common: a lot of our DNA, being in the same place, a shared experience of the cycles of days and nights and seasons. Then we can look at what they have that we haven’t, such as stability, longevity and rootedness. What can they feel through all those tendrils that stretch underground? And we might even be glad they are there — and silently tell them so. When life is feeling messy and uncertain I’ll visit a particular oak tree, so that I can experience once again the enduring, living continuity that they express. I can feel different departments in me switching gear when I do that, to a state that is less frantic and with a wider perspective. I walk away feeling that I am a part of the place where I live and that we all have a part to play within the greater unfolding story.
