Inspired by our journal prompts and somatic activities, I've developed a set of my own prompts and responses to explore the ways we encounter the natural world, both intentionally, and (when we're lucky) on accident.
I chose this format to allow for the possibility that someone else might read these prompts and feel compelled to respond in their own way.
All images, quotes, and inspirations are either linked our attributed in text. The prompts and written responses are my own work, though all my writing in this class has been especially informed by the work of Robin Wall Kimmerer and Adrienne Maree Brown, as well as a favorite poet of mine, Mary Oliver.
Let's encounter the earth together.
#01. "You own nothing"
When are we taught an ownership-based relationship with the earth? What are we missing out on by living with this mindset?
As a child I was taught that humans were put on the earth to take care of it. I was also taught that sometimes when people hurt you it's called love and that my body doesn't know what's best and that certain people don't deserve forgiveness and soon these lessons started contradicting one another. Soon, I was making lists in my little pink journal to keep track of all the things that didn't make sense and wondering how everyone seems to remember it all.
Then I grew up, and I learned that love isn't supposed to hurt. Not when it's people, not when it's plants, not when it's yourself. I taught myself how to listen again, to the feelings in my body and hear the knowledge my ancestors whispered into my bones. I know now how to forgive anyone, even myself, and how to sew compassion into each breath as it slips past my lips.
When I started touching my feet to the grass in the morning and naming it love, I remembered everything my childhood made me forget. We belong here as the dirt belongs here. We cannot own this earth or anything in it. We are visitors and we know nothing. The lessons we need are here when we listen, when we breathe deeply, when we forget over and over the fear that teaches us to claim any of it as "mine."
#02. Dear Mother Earth,
Write home + tell your mother you love her.
You love me the way I wish I knew how to love everyone. There is always enough. When I'm worn ragged by my own busyness, the rhythm of leaves and and ants and rivers quiets my spirit. I'm fed and bathed in sun. Guided by the moon and stars. Gently reminded when to sleep, and when to wake. And on top of it all, if I'm ever unsure of your love, all I have to do is look around me at all the life you sustain. How beautiful and purposeful it all is. Why would I be any different?
I'm committing myself to learn this way of loving. I am unmistakably connected to every other being on this earth. I strive to contribute all that I can, just as the roots of the trees do, and the rain, and the hummingbirds, and the beetles, and the dandelions, and on and on.
#03. Ecosomatics
List ways that your body is not separate from nature.
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Sometimes when I see dirt under my nails, I'm tempted to leave it there.
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On a long run in the humid Kansas summer, I can't tell the difference between the moisture in the air and the sweat on my skin.
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I don't have much knowledge of the ocean, but when I look at the moon, I feel the same magic that pulls the waves to shore.
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Sun + salt water take better care of my skin than I've ever been able to
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The sounds of cicada wings, white birch leaves, and chirping bats send a calm chill over my body. The sounds of childhood summers.
#04. Lover
If water were a lover (who says she's not?) describe her love language.
She'll let you love her, but be warned, you may not survive. She can touch you everywhere, all at once. And sweep you into darkness while orbs of sparkling light call to their company inside you. She knows more of you than you do. Let her.
05. "Good. It's all still here."
Describe an encounter with nature in a "human space."
"The sterile white box is the stranger. Not the ant"
I watched a video of a woman who practices witchcraft explaining that she never gets mosquito bites because she simply tells the mosquitos that they're welcome to some of her blood. She has plenty. She swore it works every time. And while I can't personally vouch for the mosquito treaty, I do wholeheartedly believe that the more than human beings we encounter everyday understand much more about us than we think. Especially insects whose species has survived on this planet for millenia. I'm honored to share this life with them and when they make their way into my home, I tip my (metaphorical) hat and watch them carry on.
"I see the mycelium as the Earth's natural Internet, a consciousness with which we might be able to communicate. Through cross-species interfacing, we may one day exchange information with these sentient cellular networks. Because these externalized neurological nets sense any impression upon them, from footsteps to falling tree branches, they could relay enormous amounts of data regarding the movements of all organisms through the landscape."
Paul Stamets (2011). “Mycelium Running: How Mushrooms Can Help Save the World”, p.31, Ten Speed Press
Playing, exploring, attempting, and wondering is so important. It’s so important and it feels like a practice a sort of vocation—in all kinds of things, it just feels important not to necessarily make it beautiful or not to necessarily make it the best or not to have aspirations to be the best. But to have it be... a sort of play.
Ross Gay for The Creative Independent
#06. The How-To
Create a guide for nature play. Messy, free, joyful, play.
Step 1: if you're going to wear anything at all for this adventure, make sure it's ridiculous. get weird from the get-go and you'll be free
Step 2: gather some things that look cool. a bendy stick, a colorful rock, a teeny tiny leaf.
Step 3: find somewhere to get messy. like messy, messy. mud and water and dirt and moss. feel them on your skin. what are the sensations?
Step 4: look, observe, imagine. the best part of play is you don't have to know the "truth" of anything. wonder about everything. wonder why the ants all walk in a line. watch them carry crumbs up the tree. follow them into their world.
Step 5: now do it all over. re-write the steps in the wrong order. or forget all the steps and do it your way. or don't do any steps and just dance around in the sun for a while. you already know how to play. this was just to help you remember.
#07. Goodnight, Moon
Write about nighttime things.
i'm here for the sky to get dark and the porch lights to turn on. i get to watch the world get dark. i get to watch the world get dark. it goes apricot then deep pink then indigo then dusty black. the bats start flying in their confident swoops reminding onlookers like me that while we might feel special watching the sky, it's them who get to touch it. they claim the darkness as their playground.
the fireflies too. they'd keep your head spinning all night those little magicians.
