I like my early morning dog-walks before work. The fresh air, the quiet, the solitude. The connection with nature in our local woods. The opportunity to reflect and pray.
And yet even the contemplative and spiritual aspects of the morning walk tend to be functional.
They serve as tools – resources to enable me to face the challenges of a demanding job, rather than pleasures in and of themselves. I keep an eye on my watch, aware of my limited time before the start of the working day.
But when Saturday comes (to quote an Undertones classic)….
It’s a different matter. I do the same thing, but differently.
Prayer and meditation are more mindful, less focussed, more open.
The colours around me are brighter. The fresh air feels fresher. Everything’s slowed down.
Saturday walks are a bit later. Nature is a bit more awake. As am I.
The sense of connection with Nature and with God feels – maybe not stronger, but clearer.
I take my time. I take my camera. I notice more, and enjoy some relaxed and relaxing photography.
Good robin photos are ten a penny on t’internet. But no harm in adding a few more.
I took these – with delight – yesterday, on Saturday morning…
This week I read about a fungus that can survive solely on plastic.
[I don’t have any photos of plastic-eating mushrooms but, to celebrate the role of fungi in our world, here are some pics of other fabulous fungi I’ve taken this Autumn in our local area.]
Pestalotiopsis microspora eats polyurethane and turns it into organic matter! And it doesn’t even need oxygen, making it ideal for cleaning up landfills.
And there are other plastic-digesting mushroom species, such as the oyster mushroom (Pleurotus ostreatus). Research has shown that once the plastic is consumed by this fungus, there is none left inside it, so the mushrooms remain edible!
We are still discovering so much about fungi, including their incredible symbiotic relationship with trees and their complex communication systems. They are truly worth celebrating.
Despite our exploitation of Nature and ravaging of the planet, Nature still has a way of offering us solutions to the problems we’ve created. She is so forgiving. A gift that keeps on giving.
I wonder if mankind will continue to turn to Nature for answers to our global eco-crisis.
Like many other people of faith(s), I share the optimism of Julian of Norwich (“despite all evidence to the contrary”, as Philip Carr-Gomm put it[1]), hoping against hope, that “All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.”
I do believe, despite our perverse tendency to try and detach ourselves from Nature, that ultimately mankind cannot lose its inherent oneness with her.
We may forget that we are part of Nature…
…but Nature does not forget.
I believe that she – and Yahweh, the Divine Presence behind her – will continue to call to us with wonderful solutions like these plastic-eating fungi, to reconnect us, and to heal us and our planet.
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(Photos all mine, but no copyright. Feel free to use / share, with my blessing!)
[1] Also this week I listened to a podcast interview with Philip Carr-Gomm, one of the leaders and former Chosen Chief of The Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids, who believes that at the heart of the universe is “a divine force of love, which is both highly personal and also impersonal”. That the universe is a benign and nurturing place. That “despite all evidence to the contrary, I have such a strong faith in the ultimate goodness of God / Goddess / Spirit / the Source of all being…that [quoting Julian of Norwich] all manner of things shall be well and all shall be well in the end.”
Wow! I’m increasingly and pleasantly shocked at how much commonality often exists between my (admittedly, fairly broad) Christian faith and the spiritualities of others.
This summer’s nature sightings in the UK have been marked by a myriad of marvellous migrants, swept across our shores by successive heatwaves.
One of the most obvious has been the Hummingbird Hawkmoth. A friend who doesn’t follow butterfly & moth groups tells me that even her Facebook feed was awash with photos of these myth-like moths.
I imagine this has been a record year for them here. I’d never seen more than one at a time in the UK until this year, but this summer we regularly had 2 or 3 on the buddleia that invitingly overhangs our garden from next door.
Hummingbird hawkmoth in our garden
I’ve seen more photos of Clouded Yellows this summer than ever before. Their bright, warm colouring seems to reflect the sunshine of their homelands in Southern Europe and North Africa. My own attempts at photographing them have been, as usual, not that successful – they never seem to stop for long. This is my best effort this year…
Clouded Yellow, on the Seven Sisters
But my butterfly – and migrant – highlight of the summer (and a first for me) was the Long-tailed Blue I had the pleasure of discovering at Birling Gap on 29th August.
Long-tailed Blue on Russian Vine, Birling Gap
Again, if the sightings I’ve read about are anything to go by, I suspect this has been a record year for this tiny butterfly that somehow journeys all the way from the Mediterranean to Southern Britain. Females, after mating, make the epic flight back to the Med to lay their eggs there.
A more familiar sight to most people is that of swallows….
Swallows (mostly young ones, evidenced by the less ‘pronged’ tail than adult birds), in Combe Valley
I had the privilege of watching this large flock swooping over a waterway in Combe Valley near us in East Sussex, on 12th September, presumably feeding up on insects before their return flight South.
Likewise, terns are a staple part of the British seaside scene and yet always such a joy to watch, set apart from the more ubiquitous gulls by their angular wings plummeting in descent after small fish.
Young Sandwich terns successfully fishing at BulverhythePair of young Sandwich terns amongst the gulls and Oystercatchers (Hastings in the background)
Like the swallows, these juvenile Sandwich terns, photographed on 20th Sept, were no doubt filling up before returning southwards.
Migration is, to me, a mystery and a miracle. There are no doubt scientists for whom it is less of a mystery but, I hope and suspect, still a wonder. After all, our understanding of the miracle of migration is still in its infancy, and these birds and butterflies use ‘superpowers’ way outside of the five senses we’re familiar with.
Birds, it is thought, navigate by ‘seeing’ the earth’s magnetic field. A chemical in the eye called cryptochrome, that is sensitive to magnetism, could be key to this theory, according to a recent study.
Other recent research suggests that one of the creatures most famous for its mammoth journeys – the Painted Lady butterfly – might be using a solar compass in the club-ends of its antennae to steer its way.
Painted Ladies on lavender, Guestling churchyard
Like the Long-tailed Blue, Painted Ladies also return to the Continent (often at a height of 500 metres above ground) – a phenomenon only discovered during their bonanza summer of 2009.
There is so much yet to discover about the magic of migration.
How birds, butterflies and other animals, some tiny, succeed in covering such phenomenal distances.
How they find their way to suitable destinations.
And, in many cases, successfully navigate back to where they hatched (a process known as philopatry).
Chiffchaff, a popular summer visitor, although many also stay all year round
And we – when we’ve been moving and shaking and doing our thing in the world – do we also instinctively know how to return to our centre?
To our place of stillness, where our identity needs no proving or defending?
To Presence, where we can drink of the river of wisdom and resilience, before again facing a manic world?
“Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”
From Wild Geese by Mary Oliver
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(Photos all mine, but no copyright. Feel free to use / share, with my blessing!)
I recently had the privilege of taking a group of young children from church on a bug hunt at Ashburnham Place in East Sussex. Or did they take me? I’m not sure.
One of the toads found on the bug hunt (sorry about the poor pic quality)
Their fascination and enthusiasm for the insects, woodlice, toads and other small creatures they discovered was simply inspiring. No wonder we talk about childlike wonder!
Chrysalis found hanging from tree bark on the bug hunt
I introduced the kids and their parents to the idea of Nature being the ‘first Bible’. As I explained, there seemed to be a lightbulb moment – for children and adults alike.
The Bible means different things to different people.
For some, it’s an outdated book of myths and contradictions.
Or a ‘weapon’ they’ve been ‘bashed’ with, to try and make them convert or conform to a particular brand of religion.
For others, it’s the LITERAL, INFALLIBLE WORD OF GOD!
For me, the Bible as we know it, which was first compiled about 200 AD, is a uniquely inspired, messy and diverse collection of literature that has the potential to impart wisdom, wonder and faith, and ultimately to reveal the complex mystery and love of God.
Wild carrot – past its best now but still displaying its complex beauty
For me, the Bible’s variety of verse, presenting a spectrum of spiritual perspectives on life and God, helpfully reflects the paradoxes and contradictions of life, making it a relatable, believable book.
However, this was not the first Bible.
The first Bible is Nature, “written at least 13.8 billion years ago, at the moment that we call the Big Bang, long before the Bible of words,” as Fr. Richard Rohr puts it.
Recent moonrise
As early as the 4th Century AD, Anthony of the Desert made a similar assertion that there were two books of scripture: the Bible and Creation.
Or in the words of Thomas Aquinas (1224-1274), “Creation is the primary and most perfect revelation of the Divine.”
Like the Bible of words, this first Bible – Nature – is, amongst other things, a uniquely inspired, messy and diverse collection of (living) literature that has the potential to impart wisdom, wonder and faith, and ultimately to reveal the complex mystery and love of God.
Like the Bible of words, the first Bible, with its strange brew of utter beauty, wild wonder, danger, and downright cruelty, reflects back to us the paradoxes and contradictions of life.
Sparrowhawk (sometimes seen as a ‘cruel’ predator), in our back garden
Standing with the diversity of each ‘Bible’, accepting and holding its differing perspectives simultaneously in tension can give us the strength of spirit to navigate the seeming impossibilities of this life.
The Bible itself is filled with invitations to study and meditate on Nature for wisdom and spiritual direction. Its pages are a constant stream of prophecies and teachings, from ancient prophets and from Jesus himself, inspired by the world of Nature.
Ancient oak – a haven for a wealth of wildlife
It’s almost as if the Bible is saying, “Don’t just look at me and enshrine my words – read the first Bible too! Its wisdom will literally jump off the pages at you!”
A particularly colourful acorn on a younger oak
One small, simple thing I shared with the group on the bug hunt, which I hadn’t prepared but struck me as we were talking, was this:
“We look at all this Nature, and think how wonderful it all is, and marvel at its beauty. How much more, then, does God look at us, and think how wonderful and special we are.”
May you hear the voice of Nature, God and the Universe for yourself, as you look and listen to the world around you today.
Small Copper, Ashburnham
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(Photos all mine, but no copyright. Feel free to use / share, with my blessing!)
In my family we’ve argued about whether the first day of the week is Sunday or Monday. Do other families have these weird debates or is it just us?
Anyway…according to the ancient Judeo-Christian creation myth, God made mankind on the sixth day, then rested from work on the seventh[1]……
This means that mankind’s first full day was a Sabbath.
Years ago I heard a refreshing talk about this observation, deducing that our natural starting place is one of rest – that our work or activity should therefore spring from a place of restfulness, or simply being, rather than seeing our rest or Sabbath as recuperation from our work.
Common Blue, just chillin’
In the natural rhythms of life, rest is our priority. Then our activity / work / productiveness. This has important implications for our sense of identity – knowing who we are apart from our achievements.
This does not always come naturally to me. I’m full of energy and drive and restlessness. Maybe due to an addiction to productivity, stemming from an insecure childhood. I may even have undiagnosed ADHD. But probably mostly it’s just my innate personality.
I can be a bit like this Hummingbird Hawkmoth, always busy
Which is one of many reasons I find meditative and contemplative practices so vital in my life.
Ideally, what we do streams from who we are, rather than creating who we are.
Living streams, Sheffield
Rest, then work. Not the other way round.
I wrote most of this piece and took most of the photos while on holiday, reflecting on this timeless wisdom and on my work-weariness. The holiday was definitely a rest from work, and that’s fine…
…but I was also conscious of the need to not just switch off and forget about work, but also to renew my sense of identity, to find strength and revive my soul, for its own sake and in preparation for the return to the responsibilities of day-to-day life.
A Buzzard at rest, taking stock before returning to hunting
Despite my assertion above about the designed order of things, sometimes we need both processes (rest-then-work and work-then-rest) to take place, almost at once.
Holidays, Sabbaths, periods of rest and moments of meditation can be both things: first a time of healing and recuperation from the stresses and strains of life and work, sashaying almost imperceptibly into a state of being, of satisfied stillness, simply for the enjoyment of life itself, as well as reviving us in preparation for the return to the 9-5 (or 8-6 or 12-12).
The stillness and serenity of a Supermoon-lit evening, Devon
For some people, Sabbath is a Saturday, for others it’s Sunday, and for still others it’s whenever they can get a day – or a moment – to rest. The first day of the week, I guess, according to Judeo-Christian thought, should technically be whatever day your Sabbath or day off is.
A bay at rest in the evening glow, Brixham
What matters, most, though, is seeing rest as the starting point that we work from. Making restfulness our (my) priority, for the sake of our own souls as well as for those who depend on us.
“But those who trust [rest] in Yahweh [God / Presence / ‘I Am’] will find new strength.
They will soar high on wings like eagles.
They will run and not grow weary.
They will walk and not faint.”
(Isaiah)
Resting comes naturally to Gorka! Here he’s taking shelter from the sun during a recent heatwave.
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(Photos all mine. No copyright. Feel free to use / share, with my blessing!)
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[1] I believe that accepting the Genesis account of Creation as allegorical enables us to understand depths of meaning and breadths of wisdom that might otherwise be lost by taking it literally. Having said that, I wouldn’t entirely rule out the possibility of literal elements! As I expressed in A Natural Creed:
“I believe that science gives us wonderful insight into the origins and progression of the Universe and Life;
that the Biblical accounts of Creation are deeply inspired, allegorical myths that reveal much about the Source of the Universe and Life – and about human nature,
but that there may also be elements of literal truth in those ancient texts;
that we would do well to listen to science and religion and philosophy in order to best understand our place in the Universe;
but that the origins of the Universe and Life remain a mystery and are probably weirder than any scientist or theologian can imagine!”
Beyond the thorns strewn across our path, that make our journeys so troublesome at times, hope and faith enable us to see a better place ahead, a better world even.
Beyond the crown of thorns that he suffered, Jesus, Lamb of God, foresaw a resurrection goal that held promise not only for him but for all of humanity, in fact for all the created world.
“In this world you will have trouble, but take courage, I have overcome the world.”
“I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.”
These were some of the reassuring words read out at the funeral I attended of a young man today. A service at which I was filled with sadness.
On the way there I stopped at the Old St Helen’s Church ruins for a few minutes’ contemplative prayer.
As I entered the grounds I saw my first butterfly of the year – a Red Admiral brought out of hibernation by the Spring-like weather. What a wonderful divine reminder of the resurrection hope and eternal life that so many of us believe in.
Wave being whipped up vertically, then horizontally, by the windGulls somehow managing to fly against the wind
Like a lot of people, we suffered some storm damage at home. Nothing too dramatic – our next door neighbour’s cherry tree fell on our fence. That is, one major bough toppled on to a fence that was already in need of some repair.
My neighbour and I chopped and sawed the fallen tree, and we’re getting the fence fixed. No lasting harm done.
(I didn’t think to get a picture of the tree first. Sorry for that missing bit of the story!)
Not one to waste an opportunity to delight in the gifts that Nature brings my way, I picked up a few of the snowy blossom-laden twigs to brighten up the kitchen.
Janine and I have enjoyed their presence the last few days as they’ve slowly shed their tiny, white petals over the worktop.
I started this post with my own version of the old “When life gives you lemons…” platitude*:
“When Life brings storms, pick up the flowers.”
I’m not much of a fan of far-too-easy platitudes, but sometimes they do resonate.
I’ve experienced a storm of stress and anxiety with physical symptoms recently, which is all calming down now, and I’m beginning to glean some bright fragments of blessing from the debris: things I’ve learned that will carry me through into a better future.
The Divine often has a way of speaking to us through Nature.
Whatever the weather, whatever the season, there’s always something to be received, to connect with, to draw us closer to Divine Reality and therefore closer also to ourselves and others.
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(All photos mine, but I’m not precious about copyright, so feel free to use any of them if you wish, with my blessing.)
*For an “alternative”, less platitudinous version of “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade”, check out Kaitlin Shetler’s version. It’s brilliant.
“Everywhere we look, the complex magic of nature blazes before our eyes”, according to Vincent van Gogh in the Doctor Who episode, Vincent and the Doctor.
Dragonfly in Newgate Woods, where I walk my dog, Gorka, most mornings
A wealth of artists, from poets and singers such as Van Morrison[1], Mary Oliver and The Unthanks[2], to writers Richard Mabey[3], Brian McLaren[4] and Mackenzie Crook[5], to the genius Vincent van Gogh himself, have helped and inspired me to delve further into the ‘magic of nature’ – to dive deeper into its divine depths.
Combe Valley
Maybe it’s me but I feel that both science and theology sometimes reduce the world around us to a utilitarian thing. An ‘it’. Call me picky (and I have been known to be picky about words), but the religious use of the word ‘creation’ for ‘Nature’ slightly jars with me….
…like Nature is seen as an inanimate object – there simply to ‘give glory to God’….
….rather than being a living, breathing entity given to us, to enjoy and love for her own sake, in her own right….
… to dance with, sing with….
enjoy being a part of.
Be family with.
My daughter with an exquisite male Orange-tip butterfly
I think this delights God’s heart.
Like tree-hugging: an exchange of vital gases, of complementary textures. A sharing of lives, of life. Of the Love that flows through all things.
Religion can sometimes be so intent on trying to worship God that it misses the wood for the trees – literally.
Highwoods
Likewise, science can be known to scrutinise, compartmentalise, to explain away in binary detail, until all awe and wonder have evaporated in the heat of cold analysis (I do like a paradox!).
Of course, it needn’t be – and isn’t always – like this. We need science and religion, both of which have the potential to lead us into the sheer, incredulous amazement that our souls were born for. Brian McLaren’s book, God Unbound: Theology in the Wild, is a great example of this.
As for me, my ever-deepening immersion into Nature, and my habit of talking to birds and trees, has led me to question whether I’m straying from my Christian faith into something more pagan. Fearing that my love for the created world exceeds my love for her Creator.
It’s good and healthy to question ourselves, and my self-query led to self-reassurance.
I find myself walking in the steps of St Francis, who acknowledged the consciousness and unique personality of each wild animal and addressed them as ‘brother’ and ‘sister’.
…St Francis, who in turn walked in the steps of Jesus, who in turn followed the pattern of thousands of years of wisdom teachers and prophets, who walked in and with Nature, learned and taught from Nature, found God in the everyday and not-so-everyday miracles of the wild.
My dog, Gorka, bedraggled and yellow-spangled, after running through a rape field!
And, as one of Jesus’ own best friends, John, made clear, our love for other human beings – and by extension all our fellow creatures – is a good barometer of our love for God.[6]
Rather than drawing us away from God, our deepening love for people and Nature is in fact an accurate expression of our love for God. And this is true even for those who profess no religious faith!
Our Western society and, sadly, Christendom, have a poor record of respect for the Earth, preferring largely to conquer rather than acknowledge and celebrate our oneness with her.
And the more industrialised, commercialised and technologised we become, the more we lose touch with Nature, with the Earth – and in the process lose something of ourselves and our experience of the God who lives and shines humbly and vulnerably from the natural world: incarnate through every creature, as well as in the infant Jesus.
Little Egret, at Cuckmere Haven
As we desperately try and reverse our tragic destruction of our home planet (and therefore our self-destruction), it’s surely more vital than ever that we as a human race recapture our oneness with Nature.
I rather like this quote that I recently came across: “Prayer is the act of resacralizing the desacralized world.”[7] I think that a prayerful approach to any situation enables us and those around us to (re)discover the inherent sacredness of anything and everything.
And I realised that when I enjoy my contemplative walks through woods and wilderness, I’m simply enjoying the sacredness, the magic, the holy wonder of Nature (of Creation, if you like!).
Trees – the Earth’s ‘lungs’
Although I do sometimes pray with words during these walks, I often try and avoid using words, even in thought, because words can be so superficial, so one-sided, and a hindrance to the experience of God in the presence of stillness, silence and songs of Nature.
My wife and daughter on Bulverhythe beach
Photos all mine and taken in glorious East Sussex.
“I will be yours, you will be mine, together in eternity
Our hearts of love will be entwined, together in eternity, forever in eternity.”
My wife Janine and I sang these words from Brian Doerksen’s Eternity at our wedding 25 years ago today, on 21st December 1996, as a celebration of our union both with God and with each other.
I was reminded of the song recently when I came across these two chestnut branches wrapped round each other in Newgate Woods, the quiet woodland where I walk the dog most mornings.
I wondered if they were branches of the same tree….
…..so I stepped back…and back…
…until I could see that they were reaching across from two separate trees, fusing together at this point in the arboreal canopy (top left in the photo below).
It’s been said that the goal of all religion is the union or reconciliation of all things. For example, according to Paul, the end result of Jesus’ death, is that: “all the broken and dislocated pieces of the universe – people and things, animals and atoms – get properly fixed and fit together in vibrant harmonies” (Colossians 1, The Message version).
I think that’s rather wonderful.
The entwining of branches is, of course, just a picture, an analogy, but one that beautifully illustrates the highest goal of humanity: our union with each other, with Nature, and with God, our Source.
“The Naturalist too often loses sight of the essential oneness of all living beings, in seeking to classify them into kingdoms, orders, families, genera, species, etc…. while the eye of the Poet, the Seer, never closes on the kinship of all God’s creatures, and his heart ever beats in sympathy with great and small alike as ‘earth-born companions and fellow mortals, equally dependent on Heaven’s eternal love’.”
John Muir
Reconciliation between individuals and between people groups; increasing respect and care for our environment; appreciation for Nature; the growth of faithful love between people; and the emergence of peace-giving faith all point towards a brighter, unified future.
Ivy supported by birch. “Ivy uses trees and walls for support, allowing it to reach upwards to better levels of sunlight. It is not a parasitic plant and has a separate root system in the soil and so absorbs its own nutrients and water as needed. Ivy does not damage trees and its presence doesn’t indicate that a tree is unhealthy, and it doesn’t create a tree-safety issue.” (Woodland Trust)
Over our 25 years of marriage, our mutually supportive relationship with each other, with God and with Nature has evolved and grown. I hope that the entwining of our hearts and lives reveals something of that ultimate universal union.
In recent years, our – and especially Janine’s – love for and appreciation of trees has steadily grown. I dedicate this blog to her, with love.
Spirit of Nature 