By Beverly Subanna Nur Gordon
My relationship with the natural world is an ongoing sense of discovery and belonging. Part of my practice is to go out and consciously experience new and familiar environments, and with senses open, fully take in what is present. The explorations always lead to a sense of calm and all-rightness; the ishk is palpable. The following describes one such experience--an October walk in the southern Wisconsin countryside.
It was chilly, but the rain had stopped and I decided to explore a relatively new section of the Ice Age Trail. (This trail is envisioned as a "thousand mile footpath tracing ice age formations on the landscape." It is far from complete at this time, but grows incrementally as portions of land are ceded or owners grant right-of-way access.) The terrain kept changing, offering unexpected new experiences in just a few miles, and the sun came out and cast its glow over everything. The variety and sense of bounty the trail offered was especially welcome because the very strong winds we had had for a few days seemed to have blown off the most brilliantly colored leaves, and I was already feeling the desolation of late fall. The brightest red maple leaves had passed, and the purple ash leaves held little intensity. The tree in front of my house (inoculated and safe so far from the emerald ash borer) had turned bright yellow almost overnight, but with the fierce swaying of the branches in the high winds, the colored leaves came furiously swirling to the ground within two days.
But back to the trail. As expected, the path skirted fields and led through forested areas, sometimes following rock formations. The woods were relatively young-- the area had either been lumbered or more intensively farmed at some time in not-too-distant the past--and was dominated by oak and hickory trees. The hills were gentle, as was the dominant color palette: varieties of muted greens, golds and browns, with occasional accents of black, red, orange and purple (swollen pokeberry stems particularly stood out with their bright magentas). When one stood back from the woods, in particular, it presented a soothing autumnal tableau; restful and gentle, it reminded me of a hand-colored sepia photograph.
The path brought sensual layers of worn-down sandstone, kissed by pastel lichens, and little micro-environments for ferns, mosses, and spiders. It brought myriad varieties of lichen and fungi, those vital engines of the forest that we best appreciate when we change our sense of scale--entering their world by getting very close and small enough to take them in. It brought the sounds of twittering birds and bustling squirrels, and a feeling of fresh sweetness rising from the scent of just-cut grasses in an adjacent field. Every one of these sub-environments offered its own gifts to be acknowledged, felt and appreciated.'
The real surprise of this walk, and the part I want to focus on today, was that the trail led out of the woods and into a cornfield; there, the path was a right-of-way, a wide passage between the rows. This was a totally unexpected environment which seemed far from “natural.” I first felt an uncomfortable sense of judgment. The acreage was planted in field corn, with soil that had been heavily tilled and no doubt treated with fertilizer and pesticides. The corn was the type grown to feed the livestock kept in feed lots, or to process into the fructose corn syrup additives found in so many prepared foods. It represented everything wrong with our agricultural system--the opposite of the regenerative agriculture that would build strong soil and help sequester carbon and clean our planet. I am committed to this regenerative relationship with the land, our mother; I believe it is the heart of the oneness and unity we must grow into.
Despite the sadness of standing in this manifestation of short-sighted monoculture and the lack of an alive and cooperative ecosystem, this part of the trail still brought a precious gift: a chance to experience this plant with full attention and respect. I had never lingered in a cornfield at just this time of the growing cycle, when the crop was dried out but not yet harvested (had it been sweet rather than field corn, it would have been cut down long before). The accompanying sound was a distinctive whispery crackle that rose and fell with the intensity of the wind in the dried stalks. There was aesthetic delight in the many shapes and textures, and in the plays of color--subtle variations throughout the plant (a deep red at the joints, eggplant hues on the roots; the sharp contrast between the dark dried-out corn silk and the pale husks, which ranged from creamy off-white to purple; the bright yellow of the crop itself). There was the warmth of the sun shining through the few still-green leaves, and the discovery of the tiny hairs that grew up the stalks, perhaps to protect them, or to let in moisture. There was the pleasure in seeing the patterns of the ripe ears, which at this point in the season were in different positions, some playfully pointing toward--or away--from each other, some seemingly following the push of the wind. And the amazing roots, those sturdy mandalas that gripped the ground in no uncertain terms. This is a really strong plant, growing so high and solid in a single season, and, especially because I was there with the observant camera's eye, I was given the chance to fully take it in.
It's always there, just waiting to be discovered. It’s all alive and always giving. Ya shakur! Ya hamid!