“We don’t have to understand nature to appreciate it.” — Rick Rubin, The Creative Act, page 43
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And we probably shouldn’t even start making a list of all the things we don’t understand.
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I feel lost to nature now. (And sad to write this.) The woods were my childhood refuge. Rich black loam that revealed gold-eyed newts and toads plus so many unnamed wriggly things. Crayfish under rocks in a chilled fast-rushing stream, then sometimes the surprisingly odd raw architecture of a caddisfly house glued on the underside for a neighbor. On the forest floor, the air: in each breath, a perfect balance of tender new life and the reliable rot of death.
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I cling to feeling like it was taken from me, but I walked out on it. Or in(side) I guess.
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Why does it feel like an obligation now? When someone online tags their red-cheeked outdoorsy post with “go outside” a tiny wave of rage rolls over me. I mean, you know, don’t tell me what to do. But something about hearing nature made prescriptive irks the shit out of me. No, YOU go outside.
- Maybe the knowledge that something is good for you feels like a threat to its magic.