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Column Its hard to understand the nature of nature
By JEANNETTE BATZ
Natures hip these days. My
friends drive rugged vehicles, take adventure trips, wear khaki cargo pants
with pieces that zip off for every contingency. Me, I curl up on the sofa and
read. But even from that vantage point, I cant escape the questions. Why
are we so quick to wreck the land with chemicals and monocropping, and destroy
everybody elses habitat with our own? Why have we allowed the simple,
glowing biblical harvest of wheat and barley, vines and fig trees and
pomegranates to become a gray realm where big business rules, technology
is applied before we know its consequences, and eating almost anything is
fraught with guilt?
Back in grad school, reading the classic American texts, I
realized that in the American mind, nature was wild and dangerous, and
civilization meant taming it. Or romanticizing it at a careful distance. Or
plundering it for economic gain. We find the same themes in our own scripture
-- at least, the way the Western world has often chosen to understand it, as
dominion over something inferior. We equate nature with unpredictable,
uncontrollable, unintelligent threat. So instead of learning to live in harmony
with natures ways, we artificially regulate their chaos.
By now we have so many levees -- and barriers and screens and
pesticides and leash laws -- that its hard to even see, let alone
understand, the real nature of nature. We buy our food processed, fortified,
modified, injected and shrink-wrapped. Produce is so hybridized its lost
all flavor. Tomatoes can indeed be purchased year round, but they taste like
wet floral foam.
Even in church, nature feels remote. Theres a small stagnant
pool of holy water in back, some cut flowers at the altar. Watching the
occasional stray gnat, I remember a chapel I visited in Indiana. Behind the
altar the wall was solid glass, and you could see the tumble of a waterfall,
and flowers, and birds splashing. I couldnt help exclaiming how beautiful
it was, and an elderly nun whod come to pray in peace turned and smiled
at me. I never fall asleep here, she said.
The rest of us fall asleep often, our senses dulled, our spirits
damped down. And yet, our instincts survive, and braid water and oil and bread
and fire into sacrament, and nature continues to make our days holy.
Last year, when my father-in-law was dying -- past thinking or
speaking, past making eye contact -- we brought in our dog, whom hed
adored, for a quick final goodbye. The minute Mal felt Sophies nose nudge
his pale, bony arm, his face changed. With more strength than wed thought
he could muster, he rose up from the pillows and actually swung his legs over
the side of the bed. We shot looks at each other and hurried to prop him. He
listed to one side, falling, having a stroke, dying perhaps. But no: What he
wanted, with full determination, was to reach his face down for a kiss. Sensing
what was required, Sophie, who rarely gives kisses, softly licked his cheek. He
smiled, and then, with a tremendous, trembling effort, he lay back down
again.
We are made of nature, and for nature, and that knowledge creates
a hunger deep inside us -- stronger than technology, stronger than speciesism,
stronger than dominion. Perhaps this is why, throughout both Old Testament and
New, God sends us out into the wilderness to be humbled or tested or renewed.
Nature insists on perspective. Watching things grow and change and die, we are
swung into a different kind of time, one that circles again and again. For
everything there is a season. And in the dark winter days when things die, they
do not really die. Christians know that, and so do biologists, because the
central premise of faith and science is the same: We are all connected.
Hang out with an animal for a while, and youll feel it. A
dog not only has emotions, he can sense yours more acutely than the most loving
spouse. When youre ill hell sit with you, hell -- that
wonderful, old-fashioned word we rarely use because we dont do it anymore
-- abide with you. And when youre well hell remind you how utterly
delightful it is to doze in the sun, roll in wet grass, run crazy circles,
greet someone you love with exuberance.
Its one of those wonderful paradoxes -- by living alongside
animals we become more fully human. As a species were frighteningly good
at faking it, turning petty, getting caught up in the surface. Animals make all
that rather painfully obvious, and when we follow their lead, they relax us
into something truer.
I once heard of a woman who was suffering from chronic depression.
Left to her own devices, she couldnt seem to eat or sleep with any
sensible rhythm. So she started to do whatever her cat did. Shed eat when
her cat ate, shed sleep when her cat slept. Sharing this natural pattern
restored her to health.
We are animal, our spirits interwoven with nature in a union so
tight weve managed to ignore it for centuries.
Hindus are taught to leave a wild space in the middle of their
gardens, a place where devas -- angels -- can multiply.
We have plenty of angels already. Maybe its time we planted
them a garden.
Jeannette Batz is a staff writer for The Riverfront
Times, an alternative newspaper in St. Louis. Her e-mail address is
jeannette.batz@rftstl.com
National Catholic Reporter, December 15,
2000
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