Light from the Woods

Anyone who has seen a play by Anton Chekhov may well have felt that the characters were living in a locked room. Not a locked room of a murder-mystery, in which one of the characters must be the murderer.  Instead, a psychologically locked room, in which Chekhov's characters voice their failed dreams, never achieved projects, and unfulfilled desires.  In one play in particular, however, Uncle Vanya, a beautiful green illumination occasionally shines into the psychologically somber atmosphere.  It is the emerald light of a forest.  And it tells us something about Nature and the human spirit.

Twice in the play, the light glimmers through the voice of Dr. Astrov, a physician who every year has planted new forests.  Some of his lines seem to display remarkable foreknowledge of our current environmental challenges, especially given that the play was published in 1897.  For example, in Act I:

"The forests diminish year after year, rivers dry up,

 wildlife is coming to an end, the climate is spoiled...."

Astrov is able to express the beauty of forests, but only a very personal and individual way:

"When I plant a young birch and then see its leaves turn green

 and the way it sways in the wind, my soul is filled with pride...."

When he describes the human relationship to the forests in more communal terms, he is able to describe it only in a distancing or critical way because he is discouraged.  He quickly bores his distracted listener in Act III when he lays out on a table his series of maps charting the receding size of the forests over many years.  Also, his depiction of any combined life of humans and forests is only grim:

"What we have here is a degeneration, the result of a downhill struggle for existence....

 And so [man] destroys everything and never thinks about tomorrow...."

Thus, even though Astrov has nobly devoted much time and money to trying to sustain the forest, he cannot sustain a vision that will inspire other people.  Nevertheless, the green illumination that merely glimmers through him flares more brightly through another character, Sonya.  This is partly because she loves Astrov, but also because she is able to feel more loving toward all people. She is able to tenderly express a beautiful vision of how Astrov's reforestation work can be transformative:

"He says that the forests glorify our earth,

 they teach a person the meaning of beauty and kindle a spirit of majesty.

 The forests make the climate less severe.  In countries where the climate is mild,

 less energy is spent in the struggle with nature, and so there we find a gentler,

 more understanding person.  There too people are beautiful, pliant, and responsive;

their speech is elegant, and their movements are graceful."

Anton Chekhov

What does the playwright Chekhov himself think about these matters?  We have a solid clue in that he gives to Sonya the final words in the play -- the most beautiful and loving speech in the entire play.  We also have a more subtle clue in that the name "Sonya" is a Russian variant of the name "Sophia," which means Wisdom.

~~~

Do you know someone in whom the love of nature shines? Can you describe their spirit?

(The quotations from Uncle Vanya  by Anton Chekhov,

are from Anton Chekhov's Plays, translated by Eugene K. Bristow, © 1977.)

(A most accessible adaptation of the play is the movie version Vanya on 42nd Street.)

An Imaginary Island

In order to cultivate analytical thinking, philosophy teachers seem adept at devising situations we will never encounter.  (Such as:  "If you and two other people were adrift in a boat with no drinking water or food, but then one of those people died, would it be immoral to eat the body of the dead person?")

Despite the contrived nature of such thought-puzzles, there is one imaginary situation that still seems to evoke interest, even among non-philosophers.  It is the scenario of being stranded alone on an island.  I think that scenario engages our interest because it does not simply ask an ethical puzzle but asks us what we like most:  What would you want to have with you if you were marooned on an island?

My slim "Dover Thrift" book entitled Books and Reading: A Book of Quotations tells me that G. K. Chesterton was once asked what book he would want to have if he were stranded on an island.  The Bible?  A volume of Shakespeare?  No, Chesterton, replied he'd want to have a guide to shipbuilding.

It is a cleverly humorous reply.  But I think it ultimately evades the point of the "island question."  Namely, the question of what book is of most enduring value to you.  Surely Chesterton, if not on an island, would not want a book on shipbuilding to be his only available reading for the remainder of his life.

The "island question" does not, however, have to be asked or answered in terms of literal books.  The medieval theologian Meister Eckhart wrote:

"If I were alone in a desert and feeling afraid,
 I would want a child to be with me.

 For then my fear would disappear
 and I would be made strong.

 This is what life in itself can do because it is so noble, so full of pleasure and so powerful.

 But if I could not have a child with me
 I would like to have

 at least a living animal at my side to comfort me."

Meister Eckhart chose from the world's library a different kind of "book."  He chose what Christian tradition has called "the Book of Nature."  It has been considered to be a "book" so valuable that it can even be viewed as a window into God.

Meister Eckhart gave a different kind of answer to the "island question" because he looked deeply into himself, asking what was his most enduring need, not just what would be a quick fix to get out of the desert (or get off the island).  Interestingly, in looking into himself, Eckhart found that his need for belonging could be filled with the companionship of forms of life that were in some way different from himself:  A child.  Or an animal.

~~~

If you were marooned on an island, what things in Nature would you like to have around to comfort you?

(The Eckhart quote can be found in the theologian

Sallie McFague's book The Body of God, © 1993, p. 98.)