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Posted: May 3rd, 2007 at 2:33am By: Anne E. Ulvestad
What allows the proliferation of invasive species? Is it only man's intrusion into the landscape with power lines and sewage pipes? Or is it also the land that allows it? Is the land itself depressed with the present state of affairs, so much so that it can give up hope and let in the invaders?
Traveling to New Hampshire by bus this weekend showed me miles of wooded countryside. One would think this would promote a peaceful, beautiful feeling, and yet this land reverberated a sadness that became apparent when I stopped looking from my point of view and opened my senses. Within these woods that passed by my window, mile after mile, was the evidence of humanity's uncaring ugliness.
Trash littered the side of the road; plastic bags fluttered every few miles in the trees. Old furniture, cans and car wrecks haphazardly abandoned here and there disrupted what was only the façade of wilderness.
The trees, tall and thin, often skeletally so, echoed a sadness that was palpable. In one stretch of land, I was admiring a particularly haunting copse of white birch. Achingly beautiful in their sadness, they seemed to be starving for a peace that couldn't be achieved. And there was the source — the thorn in their midst — a McDonald's billboard, miles from town, encouraging the consumption of gas and empty calories.
It's true that the closer I got to New Hampshire, the more beautiful the trees became, encouraged by the increasing distances between towns. That's not to say that everything we do is destructive and uglifying. I also saw landscapes refined by human hands that produced loveliness — where trees and shrubs were happy with the intervention and thrived and offered joy and peace. We were meant to live together.
But if the Earth, who is so patient and long-suffering, is showing signs of distress that are so blatant a road trip uncovers them, perhaps it's time nature's voice was heard. There is a fascinating new field that explores this very concept. Craig Chalquist, author of "Terrapsychology: Re-engaging the Soul of Place," writes: "Does this sense of psychic animation come from us or from the terrain? Do the non-human and even the inorganic possess a rudimentary subjectivity? These inquiries have a long cultural, intellectual and spiritual history." Terrapsychology, he says, is the study of how this "aliveness" interacts with our own. These person-place relationships often occur and recur in dreams.
I had a dream last month: The Earth rose up in mini volcanoes around me. Wrapped around each volcano were roots from the Earth. As I looked inside, I saw small amounts of gold and silver floating in the molten rock within. I felt Earth crying out that this was too small an amount to destroy her for.
During one of my recent residencies we were doing a guided meditation on our connection with the Earth, and what I experienced was remarkably similar. I had a vision of molten rock flowing from and into the heart of the Earth — orange becoming green, blue and pink, in a whirlpool of energy. Others in my group also experienced this imagery, and flowing lava was the dominant community theme of the meditation. Red-hot weeping — the very core and soul of the Earth is revealing itself at this time.
Another experience I've had with terrapsychological roots was as I drove through Sideling Hill, one of the best rock exposures in the northeastern United States, on my way to Indiana for this residency twice a year. I was told that this was an amazing sight. Three hundred and 50 million years of geography visible, blasted away to make room for the road. I never seemed to be able to drive that route without it raining, though.
One day I drove through and saw with different eyes. No wonder it always rained. This was not a spectacle, a wonderment of natural history. This was a scar that ripped through the heart of the mountain. And if the earth's history is revealed through this engineering feat of man, does it remind us that our memories are so much shallower than the memory of Mother Earth, our vision limited by our limited experience? Do we use our connection as an opportunity to grow and mature? Do we use it to remember that the world does not belong to us, but that we belong to the world?
— — —
Anne E. Ulvestad is a free-lance writer residing in Maryland. She has her masters in earth literacy, and is available for public lectures and group presentations and rituals on Spirituality and the Environment. Anne can be reached at {email anne@ourplaceintheuniverse.com}anne@ourplaceintheuniverse.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Anne E. Ulvestad
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What allows the proliferation of invasive species? Is it only man's intrusion into the landscape with power lines and sewage pipes? Or is it also the land that allows it? Is the land itself depressed with the present state of affairs, so much so that it can give up hope and let in the invaders?
Traveling to New Hampshire by bus this weekend showed me miles of wooded countryside. One would think this would promote a peaceful, beautiful feeling, and yet this land reverberated a sadness that became apparent when I stopped looking from my point of view and opened my senses. Within these woods that passed by my window, mile after mile, was the evidence of humanity's uncaring ugliness.
Trash littered the side of the road; plastic bags fluttered every few miles in the trees. Old furniture, cans and car wrecks haphazardly abandoned here and there disrupted what was only the façade of wilderness.
The trees, tall and thin, often skeletally so, echoed a sadness that was palpable. In one stretch of land, I was admiring a particularly haunting copse of white birch. Achingly beautiful in their sadness, they seemed to be starving for a peace that couldn't be achieved. And there was the source — the thorn in their midst — a McDonald's billboard, miles from town, encouraging the consumption of gas and empty calories.
It's true that the closer I got to New Hampshire, the more beautiful the trees became, encouraged by the increasing distances between towns. That's not to say that everything we do is destructive and uglifying. I also saw landscapes refined by human hands that produced loveliness — where trees and shrubs were happy with the intervention and thrived and offered joy and peace. We were meant to live together.
But if the Earth, who is so patient and long-suffering, is showing signs of distress that are so blatant a road trip uncovers them, perhaps it's time nature's voice was heard. There is a fascinating new field that explores this very concept. Craig Chalquist, author of "Terrapsychology: Re-engaging the Soul of Place," writes: "Does this sense of psychic animation come from us or from the terrain? Do the non-human and even the inorganic possess a rudimentary subjectivity? These inquiries have a long cultural, intellectual and spiritual history." Terrapsychology, he says, is the study of how this "aliveness" interacts with our own. These person-place relationships often occur and recur in dreams.
I had a dream last month: The Earth rose up in mini volcanoes around me. Wrapped around each volcano were roots from the Earth. As I looked inside, I saw small amounts of gold and silver floating in the molten rock within. I felt Earth crying out that this was too small an amount to destroy her for.
During one of my recent residencies we were doing a guided meditation on our connection with the Earth, and what I experienced was remarkably similar. I had a vision of molten rock flowing from and into the heart of the Earth — orange becoming green, blue and pink, in a whirlpool of energy. Others in my group also experienced this imagery, and flowing lava was the dominant community theme of the meditation. Red-hot weeping — the very core and soul of the Earth is revealing itself at this time.
Another experience I've had with terrapsychological roots was as I drove through Sideling Hill, one of the best rock exposures in the northeastern United States, on my way to Indiana for this residency twice a year. I was told that this was an amazing sight. Three hundred and 50 million years of geography visible, blasted away to make room for the road. I never seemed to be able to drive that route without it raining, though.
One day I drove through and saw with different eyes. No wonder it always rained. This was not a spectacle, a wonderment of natural history. This was a scar that ripped through the heart of the mountain. And if the earth's history is revealed through this engineering feat of man, does it remind us that our memories are so much shallower than the memory of Mother Earth, our vision limited by our limited experience? Do we use our connection as an opportunity to grow and mature? Do we use it to remember that the world does not belong to us, but that we belong to the world?
— — —
Anne E. Ulvestad is a free-lance writer residing in Maryland. She has her masters in earth literacy, and is available for public lectures and group presentations and rituals on Spirituality and the Environment. Anne can be reached at {email anne@ourplaceintheuniverse.com}anne@ourplaceintheuniverse.com{/email}. © copyright 2007 by Anne E. Ulvestad
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