Restoring the Land. Restoring Ourselves.
If we are to truly rewild the Earth, we must rewild ourselves and how we see humanity as the image bearer of the Divine; we must bring our sacred stories and our soulscapes back into full and whole relationship with the more-than-human world. Original Post for AllCreation.org
Photo credit: Tom Reese
“The universe is made of stories, not atoms.”
-Muriel Rukeyser
The shocking staccato of a lone M60 unloads into the forest filling the air. A strange-bird-like call answers in response. Tucked amongst the overwhelming English Ivy towers and sharp Himalayan Blackberry walls, strewn mattresses are habitat to both syringes and streetwalkers. The foul odor of feces and rotten food mixes with the residual tang of fornication and fear, layered upon decades of human-dumped garbage and debris. Stolen goods are hidden and found, rerouted through the overgrown invasive underbrush to avoid being spotted. And the bird-like call screeches through the branches and leaves once more. Perched on a muddy knoll with back to the trees and facing the structured, regulated life of the city, sits a lone figure clothed in threadbare layers of mismatched sweaters and socks sending sonorous signals through the air. These are distinct from the now-silent warbles and trills that should be present in this urban forest; these particular shrieks offer an alerting call for those illicitly trading in sex and drugs.
Stay out of these woods, was the explicit message. These woods are scary, bad, and degraded; and we don’t belong there. So fear-filled is this forest that neighboring immigrants and refugees are known to make gestures to ward off the evil eye when they walk on crumbling sidewalks beside the trees’ shadows. So avoided is this forest that neighbors living on opposite sides of the wall-like greenspace maintain veils of social and racial distinction and separation, and go to great lengths to drive around the woods to access neighboring community assets. A fugue-state surrounds this forest; neighbors have chosen to file their fear away into a state of forgetfulness, neglecting this natural world and creating a chasm between the people and a place that could serve to create harmonious, interconnected community.
This is the story of Seattle’s Cheasty Greenspace as it was when my husband and I moved next door to it in 2004. And this was the land that began to call out to me, imploring that I begin to reimagine how this particular place could be restored with a renewed story; how reconciliation with this land held a key to the unity of our community. As I witnessed the hotbed of activity flowing to and through these woods, I wondered how these trees could be experienced without dominant feeling of fear and separateness. For every stolen vehicle that was left in front of my house, for every ton of garbage and waste that was dumped upon the forest floor, for every red-eyed dealer that understood this landscape could cover his traded addiction, I began to be curious if we could imagine something profoundly different for this space.
It was as if the woods began to whisper to me, to call out to me, to summon me to restore an ancient story—one where the dignity of the land and the people were intimately interconnected, where the natural world thrived, and all living things flourished together in harmonious inter-relationship.
This urban wild whispered to me of a wholeness, of a restored ecosystem, that could be achieved through equal parts of forest and human restoration. I began to realize that this particular forestscape was a contributing part to the equation that left so many people wondering about the physical and social health disparity of our community—human and more-than-human alike.
Seattle’s Rainier Valley, racially and economically diverse, and historically underserved, has the highest chronic health and crime rates in the city. This area is also an identified “Open Space Gap Area,” meaning a community with no access to open green spaces within a half mile of residences. The irony of a neighborhood where children’s lives are at risk of vehicular hit-and-runs, and gun-shots fill the air more than bird-song, while a massive 43 acres of forest sits within the very midst of this community is glaringly obvious. The inherent connection between holistic human health and the state of this forest demanded my attention. The state of this forest and its ecological well-being began to offer itself as an accompanying answer to the chronic questions around oppression and poverty in our community. The trees offered insight into the well woven roots of injustice and environmental degradation, and how an interrelated relationship with them could inform a sense of being deeply at home both in our particular neighborhood, and subsequently, on our planet. By rewilding this particular place of Living Earth, we would be essentially rewilding ourselves as well.
Ecotheologian and ethicist Larry Rasmussen powerfully posits that “We are not so much at home on earth, as we are home as earth.” The integrity of the natural world renders our most basic and fundamental task: to live in such ways that ensure a flourishing and regenerative life for all of the created world and for all future generations within it. So how we live in our particular places matters as we are meant to be in deep interrelationship with the whole assembly of creation. And how we live in our particular places very much determines whether ecosystems within a bioregion will thrive. Rewilding becomes the process by which we support and live into healthy and whole ongoing relationships within the natural world; I would venture that rewilding becomes a process of returning to a state of belonging, to a state of home. However, we cannot begin to talk about rewilding the Earth, or our particular places, until we begin to rewild our understanding of God. When we begin to engage this sort of divine wholeness, we begin the critical task of rewilding ourselves as well. I believe that through rewilding our bioregional ecosystems, we begin the transformative work of rewilding the image of God.
Western Trillium within Rattlesnake Ridege (qʷalbc to dx̌aclbac)
We carry wildness within. This inner-landscape (what I would call a soulscape) has historically been accessed by stories and myths, and sacred rites and encounters with Mystery. Western civilization has told stories of human separation from the natural world, built upon traditional interpretations of foundational Judaeo Christian scriptures that places humanity hierarchically at the top of the great chain of being, and essentially, God’s vice-regents on earth. Interpretations of scripture such as this has resulted in humanity seeing the natural world as secondary to ourselves, and reducing it to a resource, its value in its commodification and contribution to a Western way of living. This has also resulted in the mental framework that has allowed humanity to extract, denude, deforest, and destruct Earth and her living systems. And, it has resulted in humanity’s own sense of homelessess.
If we are to truly rewild the Earth, we must rewild ourselves and how we see humanity as the image bearer of the Divine; we must bring our sacred stories and our soulscapes back into full and whole relationship with the more-than-human world. Like the presence of the interlacing petals of the Western Trillium (Trillium ovatum), which only grows in restored and rewilded forestscapes, we must see ourselves within an inter-animating relationship with the whole assembly of creation.
When we too are rewilded, then our work of ecological restoration within our local bioregions becomes the Great Work of integral becoming and belonging as home as earth.
Lenten Walk Series 4/5
Gratitude for legacy and heritage have been on our praiseful lips these past two daysas we have made our way to Big Sky, Montanta for a week of skiing with family. We overnighted in Butte, MT the birthplace of both of my parents and a landscape both sets of my grandparents intimately knew and loved
Gratitude for legacy and heritage have been on our praiseful lips these past two days as we have made our way to Big Sky, Montanta for a week of skiing with family. We overnighted in Butte, MT the birthplace of both of my parents and a landscape both sets of my grandparents intimately knew and loved. My paternal grandfather, Knute Plate, immigrated from Sweden to Butte and worked the mines here in what is known as the “richest hill on earth.” And, my maternal grandfather advocated and proponed any project or proposal that would keep this motto socially and theoretically true. One of the projects in which my Grampa, Don Ulrich, was critically involved was the restoration of Blacktrail Creek, which runs through the mid-line of Butte. This stream corridor, highlighted by the majestic presence of the nearby Continental Divide, had suffered adverse affects by “channelization” (or the straightening of the stream), livestock overgrazing, highway construction, and other urban development. A primary restoration goal of this project was to improve public access and use of the stream corridor as well as improving ecosystem function and biodiversity habitat. The restoration resulted in a healthier stream and made a valuable natural resource more accessible to the public.
The pedestrian trail was renamed the Ulrich-Schotte Nature Trail and is now a two-mile segment of a Greenway system in Butte. Named after my grandparents, Don and Kathryn Ulrich and their dear friends and civic leaders, George and Jennie Schotte, The Blacktail Creek Restoration Project was completed in 1998. These visionaries believed that this landscape could be more than what it was. They believed that they didn't have to be content with the status quo: a sickly stream that was a regular dump site for neighbors' trash. Over the years, the project grew from a stream restoration project to include a recreational trail used by thousands of area residents and visitors. This grand vision resulted in something that would serve the greater community, humans and creatures combined!
Considering the stewardship work that we are currently about in Seattle’s Rainier Valley, I was struck anew with the realization of all my grandfather did on behalf of Other and the Future. In this context, he spoke on behalf of the healthy biodiversity that hung in balance depending on the health and well being of this stream corridor. He had the insight and clarity of mind to foresee that healthy and vibrant ecosystems would result in a native, beautiful landscape that would mutually enhance the health and well-being of Butte’s people and generations to come. It became clear that we do this work in our lives out of a great hope for the future, but also because of the legacy and heritage of my family’s DNA.
This was an ideal, which Grampa had to champion with both shovel in hand and policy papers in the other to get the City to support this intrinsic value proposal. But I understand now that he had a vision that was rooted in justice. It would be socially irresponsible to allow that stream to dry up due to the City’s mismanagement of resources. It would also be a holistic loss for both the creature’s depending on that landscape for life, and the inherent health benefits that would be available to the people if allowed to enjoy this native feature. Peace is the presence of justice, Martin Luther King Jr. once said. And the peaceful place that is experienced along this vibrant stream attests to the justice advocated on behalf of systems greater than our own.
For the past couple days we have been walking segments of this trail. We have offered prayers of thanksgiving for our heritage and ancestors, the lives that link us to a lineage of justness and action. It has also caused us to reflect more on our own “legacy work”--that great work of making an impact on something greater than, and beyond, ourselves. We prayed that our children would be impacted by a need outside of themselves that would cause them to cry and subsequently stand up and fight for a better way. We prayed that they too would continue to walk in our heritage’s path of faith, always looking to the mountains, from where comes our help (Psalm 121:1), for the vision to reimagine a better way on behalf of something greater than themselves.
The Pilgrim's Path: Surprise in the Familiar
The work of bringing down heaven to earth is no easy task. And it always takes time...and a lot of it. This is the epic work of pilgrimages and journeys, deserts and dreams. There is always such fanfare and exhilaration when one picks up the walking stick and marks, and crosses into, the beginning of the journey. The vision of the destination is so clear, so lucid--it seems you could just reach across a short breadth of time and realize every desired detail. But soon you find your arm is tired from being extended for so long...for so very long.
I've been walking in our neighborhood's woods for years now. What started out as hopeful curiosity in a forest behind our house, led me down a path towards becoming a Forest Steward- trained in local flora and fauna, urban forest restoration and community activism. I wanted a trail upon which to walk my dog; I found homeless encampments. I wanted a place in which to refresh and recreate; I found prostitution base camps. I wanted a place in which to be quiet and still; I found needles and sex toys. The sacred place I wanted didn't even seem like a possibile hope; the English Ivy and Himalayan Blackberry covered the promise of this land with its dark invasiveness.
In 2007 we commenced our commitment to hosting monthly volunteer work parties for our neighborhood. We believed that the fear, filth and felonious behaviors could be combatted to reveal the great gift Earth is always offering us: LIFE! In the context of these first-Saturday-of-the-month gatherings, we began the slow, inglorious effort of hand removing the ivy and blackberry. We became master garbage collectors and bore witness to the very real social tensions of encampments being told [repeatedly] to vacate. We became versed in our City's shelter programs and at which pier personal affects can be collected. We canvassed the neighborhood looking for support and interest in changing something that was into something unimaginably better. We were committed to the long-term work of restoration and transformation. We wanted to transform this urban soil into a sanctuary.
The work of bringing down heaven to earth is no easy task. And it always takes time...and a lot of it. This is the epic work of pilgrimages and journeys, deserts and dreams. There is always such fanfare and exhilaration when one picks up the walking stick and marks, and crosses into, the beginning of the journey. The vision of the destination is so clear, so lucid--it seems you could just reach across a short breadth of time and realize every desired detail. But soon you find your arm is tired from being extended for so long...for so very long. Your hand clutches that walking stick with a deepened sense of understanding that this stick is with you to uphold and offer stability when the road gets longer, instead of shorter. For sacred destinations always require time and long processes; the meaningful meanderings are necessary to bring you to that place where you are able to see and hear with a clarity that simply doesn't exist at the beginning.
We have hosted over 75 work parties in our 10 acre parcel of urban forest in the last six years. We have painstakingly picked up invasive plants and planted more than 1500 trees and shrubs. We have written for and received grants to fund an urban forest trail system to connect neighbors and neighborhoods. I have sat in Council members chambers in City Hall sharing our story of forest transformation and restoration. The heaven that I thought was just one-shovel full away has taking me years to begin to see. I have leaned on that shovel-and on the arms and hearts of committed neighbors and friends-in fatigue and frustration, wanting so badly to be done and to realize the destination for which I had set out for...so very long ago.
I long for free social weekends and open evenings not requiring correspondance with local organizations. ...And then I have to make the choice--the choice we all have to make on our journeys. When we have been on the road for a bit of time, the enchantments and sparkles of roadside attractions become great. They call for us to stop, rest and even consider them a favored substitute over the sacred destination. We can choose this...or we can look to the "imaginative, active encounter with the place" (P. Cousineau). At this point in the journey, we must look all the harder and request for a renewed power of vision.
I went up into the woods this week and came across a beautiful, seemingly-spontaneously-built, road side alter of rock, wood and fern at the trail head into the woods. I was startled and stunned by its presence. Everything about its quiet appearance shouted reminders to me of what these woods once held. For at one time-at this very spot, I had uncovered over 200 hypodermic needles...and now there was just this free, intentional, beauty. This organic gathering was a blessed statement of how far along the journey we had come to seeing this forest as a place of community refreshment, a place of collective comfort. We certainly aren't there yet--the destination is still a long way off. But the meaning that is being collected along the whole long way is going to make this little piece of heaven one helluva place!
Living in Fear
We all live in fear to some extent or another. There is a spectrum of this emotional response and absolutely, there are situations and contexts that warrant this self-preserving stance. If we were to do a broad-stroke generalization though, what is the typical object of this fear? I daresay that the average common characteristic of these fiends is difference
We all live in fear to some extent or another. There is a spectrum of this emotional response and absolutely, there are situations and contexts that warrant this self-preserving stance. If we were to do a broad-stroke generalization though, what is the typical object of this fear? I daresay that the average common characteristic of these fiends is difference. Think about it: when someone or something is different than you, something inside bristles a bit and puts you on defense. And perhaps there is a good evolutionary reason for this. Because, very likely, a million years ago difference would have denoted danger and you could've tried to eat my kids or kill my clan! Please understand, I am not making light of very real, very tragic events and circumstances that absolutely generate fear. My heart cries with what I read about in the news and cringes when I hear gunshots and wailing sirens in my neighborhood. These situations should spur us to live with vigilance and a keen eye for safety. To a very real degree, our lives and the lives of our children, depend on it. But what I am interested in exploring is the kind of fear that causes us to dig our chin deep into our chest when passing a stranger on the sidewalk, that compels us to close our curtains to the chaos of our community and has us not knowing the very name of our next door neighbor. I think it has everything to do with difference and those unknown, misunderstood behaviors of Other that cause consternation instead of a courageous, compassionate response.
One day, not so long ago, I was playing in front of our house with our children. While they think nothing of this (to them the front of the house is appealing because we live on a hill and they love to take anything with wheels down our front sidewalk), this has always been an act of resistance for me. For good reason, there were times when I hid behind our curtains, double bolted every lock and wished that everyone on our block was like ME. But I've found over the years that this kind of hiding response doesn't necessarily increase safety; it feeds the fear and kills the community. And so we play out front of the house. I've intentionally planted curb-side gardens so that I have to be outside, out front, present to my neighbors and praying for opportunities to engage those who are unknown and different than me.
And then she walked up the hill. Lunging is likely a more accurate description-all the same, coming towards us was a stranger, someone unfamiliar and not at all like me. I shielded a shy smile with my shoulder. My boys, called out to her in a vigorous greeting and asked her for her name. She slowed her pace to a stop. There was a very strong something in me that immediately wanted to hush them, to swoop them under my wings and whisk them away from this now pending encounter with this foreigner...because...I was afraid. I inhaled. I exhaled. And I reminded myself of something I firmly believe: The Spirit resides in (I would say even thrives in) that grace-filled gap between being afraid and being known. That is a space that only the Holy can handle, hold and heal. It is a place that, while scary as hell, I want to be; I'm challenged here to see, to hear and to know Other.
Her name is Manichanh and she is an immigrant from Laos*. I've never seen her before because she rarely leaves her home, which is just five down from my own. She occasionally does exercises on our dead-end street when most people are at work and the roads are quieter. She lives with her six year old grandson, Alexander, who also doesn't play outside; indoors, TV and video games offer safety once he returns home from school. I ask her if she ever goes walking in our neighborhood woods, "There are trails in there now, you know," I gently offer. Manichanh emphatically shakes her head no, points to the woods and firmly states, "Bad. Scary." I take a deep breath knowing that I'm about to step into the gap: "Want to take a walk with me in the forest?" I ask.
Two strangers stare at one another. We have nothing to rationalize an excursion such as this other than the fact that, plain and simple, we are neighbors and I'm struck with the value that that still holds even in our isolated, urban existences. And I believe that our woods are healing and are active participants in a great agenda for God's common good. So, this seems as good a place as any to engage my new neighbor. For a reason greater than us, she agreed.
We-Manichanh, myself and the children-approached our woodland trailhead. She grasped my arm. I laid my hand over hers. This time I didn't hide my smile, and as we entered the woods together, these woods that once truly were a place of which to be legitimately afraid, she exhaled. We walked for a time in silence largely due to our language barrier, the children ran ahead and about, bird song lilted in the leaves of the waving trees. We clasped hands and completed our walk, a walk that took us so much farther than simply through the woods, it took us through the gap and to the beautiful place of being known.
When we made to depart from one another, Manichanh brought her palms together at her chest and bowed deeply, while murmuring a phrase repeatedly. I asked her what she was saying and she said it was like a 'thank you' but her native words carried a depth of gratitude that our mere thanks simply cannot touch. I knew she wasn't just thanking me. With her words and gestures, she was responding to me and the woods and The One who upholds us all, with a deep seat of gratitude. Both of our fears were relieved and in its place stood relationship.
The next morning I discovered home-made Lao cuisine on my porch. Manichanh's grandson, Alexander came over later for a play-date and a romp through the woods with my boys. These are the kinds of blessings that arise from living in fear, living close enough to the edge of what is known that reliance on the Spirit is critical to get through to the other side. And the other side is where the goodness resides, folks--therein lies the beloved community, where all are known, all are welcomed, and all are gloriously different.
The Spirit is calling: "Come! Step into the gap with Me!" Will you go?
*Mentioning Manichanh's ethnicity is important to describe the dynamic of this story. In this context she represents Other to me and I, and the forest, are Other to her.