Thoughts that Continue to Nourish

 On a recent news story on the radio, a man declard that "smelling pumpkin spice is like smelling fall."  While that may be true in the U.S. today, a more traditional indication of fall's arrival has been the first small burst of cooler weather.  And an even more reliable indication that we are into autumn has been the changing color of leaves.

It was leaves that became the namesake of this website "Wisdom in Leaves" -- because the  English word "leaves" can also refer to the pages of books, in which we sometimes hope to find wisdom. The initial article published on this website (a decade ago) still speaks to our desires to learn from both Nature and the thoughts in writing of other  human beings.

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In June of 1877, a British family -- elderly grandfather, his wife, their grown son, baby grandson, and a nursemaid -- had all traveled on an outing to the ancient site of Stonehenge.  It was the sort of outing a Victorian family of the latter 1800's would do to enjoy being outdoors in the warmer Spring weather.

However, while this family was at the ancient site of Stonehenge, consisting of a ring of immense standing stones constructed maybe four thousand years ago, the elderly grandfather got permission from the guard to do something probably no tourist before had requested -- to dig into the ground around some of the stones.  As odd as that request was, the guard could hardly refuse it.  For, after all, that bearded grandfather was none other than Charles Darwin.

What Darwin was looking for in the ground was, of all things... earthworms!  Charles Darwin's interest in earthworms had begun forty years earlier, and it would continue to the very end of his life, becoming the subject of his very last book.

It was in fact Charles Darwin who made the first detailed discoveries about how earthworms are one of the major aerators and one of the primary fertilizers of soil.  Darwin wrote of earthworms:  "It may be doubted whether there are many other animals which have played so important a part in the history of the world, as have these lowly organized creatures."

When the story of Darwin's discovery about evolution is told, the animals most often mentioned are those giant tortoises and unearthly-looking iguanas of the Galapagos Islands.  And so I enjoy reading about how he devoted such interest and care to the small, unappreciated worms right beneath our feet.  I have a mental image of the bearded old man on his knees, gently browsing through the leaves in order to uncover the living creatures before they escaped into their burrows.  Also, browsing through the leaves in order to find insight.

This rarely-told story of Darwin and the worms symbolizes in a way what I would like to accomplish with my writing on this on-line periodical.  I would like to take time to browse through aspects of Nature.  I would like to pause to look at Nature thoughtfully as a way of gaining a humble perspective on the world we live in and what we humans are.

I would like to get at the nexus of Nature and spirituality, drawing also on the best thought of our religious traditions.  And so, I would also like to turn over other kinds of leaves -- the pages of books.  I want to leaf through my favorite books so that I might re-read those quotations that most nurture my spirit.  Nature and books, earth and human thoughts.  Weaving the two together in a variety of ways.

~~~

What experiences of Nature, or what words about Nature in a book, most touch your mind and heart?

Rachel Carson wrote that "There is something infinitely healing in these repeated refrains of nature -- the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter."  So it is that we can be revived by the first signs of the return of fall -- whether it be the turning of color  in some leaves or the first drop in temperature.  The  recurring character of fall makes the following article, which was first published in Wisdom in Leaves in 2013, just as relevant today.

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Having always been quite nearsighted, I could not appreciate trees as easily as I could appreciate leaves.  I could not readily identify which species a tree was from a distance, the way my parents could.  Nor could I see detail in the distant treetops.  But I could look at a leaf closely, even hold it in my hand, and feel its texture.

I am still fascinated by the shapes of leaves.  Not just the variety, but the way that each one looks like something else.  What child has not noticed the resemblance between a maple leaf and their own hand, even fitting their hand upon it?  Another leaf I examine (from what tree I do not know) looks like a spear.  Still another leaf has the outline of a scoop.  And the stiff, large leaf of the southern magnolia tree seems perfectly designed for fanning oneself during a hot southern summer.

To the botanist, the shape of the leaf tells a story about its tree having evolved to flourish in a particular environment.  Even without knowing the details about such variations, I can be amazed to know that it is within those thin leaves that plants magically convert carbon dioxide and water into solid material, thus enabling the plant to grow.  Green leaves are truly miniature factories powered by the sun.

I am fascinated not only by the shapes of leaves but also by their colors.  How many shades of green can there be?  Even more fascinating are the turnings of color as autumn comes.  Like an alarm clock that has gone off, the shock of seeing some trees no longer green can wake us up to the approaching winter.  The change in foliage can even make us think about our own use of time, and whether our time might be short.

In the author O. Henry's amusing story "The Cop and the Anthem," a dead leaf falling into the lap of the main character, a hobo, signals to him that he needs to make a change in his living arrangements in order to make it through the winter.  That warning, coupled with the moving chords of church music that waft outdoors, inspire the hobo to make a good change in his life -- "to turn over a new leaf," as we say.

As fall continues and winter gets even closer, the leaves we see on the ground change colors even more, becoming mottled, creating a quilt of yellows, browns, reds, and even purples.  The leaves are then ready to be recycled into the earth, to become the substance of plants and trees yet again.  The leaves also "turn over a new leaf."

With the passage of time, I am also probably reprocessing things from my past into my future, shedding some things as a way of growing new leaves.  But it is harder for me to see those changes happening in me than it is for me to observe the changes in leaves.  In leaves, I see life and change made manifest.

~~~

Do you have memories about leaves?  How do you experience your life changing with the cycle of a year?

(The Carson quotation is from her talk “A Statement of Belief,” quoted in Paul Brooks's book
  The House of Life: Rachel Carson at Work, © 1972, 1989.)

 

A Land that Waits for Us to Change

ancient Egyptian farming (ca 1300 B.C.E.)

I remember in middle school being taught the word "delta".  We were in a history class, learning how the ancient Egyptian civilization developed around the delta of the Nile River where it made its outlet into the Mediterranean.  It was explained to us how that area was a fertile area because it was there that the river's branching rivulets created a triangular plain of rich soil built up of sediments from the shifting water.

The importance of that phenomenon was imprinted upon our minds by it being pointed out that in Greek the letter "delta" was a small triangle.  Moreover, the mathematical symbol delta (a small triangle) stood for change, because it was those regular changes of the river delta -- being covered with water and then draining -- that made the soil fertile.  The strength of that Egyptian civilization was thus based on the strength of the natural delta, which supported many forms of life, providing humans both fishing and farming.

William Faulkner

From thoughts of that civilization 5,000 years ago, my thoughts now turn to a story by the 20th-century U.S. writer William Faulkner.  It is a shift in time and place, but there is a common denominator -- the delta.  In Faulkner's story "Delta Autumn,"  a small group of men are making a journey to a wilderness area for their annual hunting.  To get there, however, they have to head towards where the last hill ends and an "alluvial flatness" begins -- a delta!  In his characteristic writing style, Faulkner describes the power that rich land has held for generations of humans in this way:  " [T]he rich black land, imponderable and vast, fecund up to the very doorsteps of the Negroes who worked it and of the white men who owned it; which exhausted the hunting life of a dog in one year, the working life of a mule in five and of a man in twenty."

Although that theme of the vast, sustaining power of the delta is thus described early in Faulkner's short story, the theme of change is also more subtly introduced.  From the conversation of the men in the car on their drive to the delta, the reader is able to pick up that they are living in a larger world that has been greatly changed by forces far beyond the county in Mississippi where most of Faulkner's fiction is set.  The men in the story are living on the brink of the U.S.'s entering World War II, and so some of their banter is about whether U.S. people are more powerful than Hitler.  Their exchanges reveal a degree of uncertainty about what the future might bring.

That theme of change in human society is threaded through with the theme of Nature being guaranteed to change in a rhythmic way.  That is because the story takes place in autumn, a time of change, despite the predictability of fall hunting trips.  Two words, both symbolizing change, are thus paired in the story's title:  "Delta Autumn."

As I re-read the story, in my mind's eye I see a vast, darkish delta surrounding the men.  It would be darkish with the men's melancholy about the unrecoverable past and the shrinking wilderness. It would also be darkish with their uncertainty about the future.  However, as the passage quoted above indicates, it would be Nature, the land, represented by the delta, that could still sustain life, if it was allowed to do so.

~~~

Most of us live in cities, but do you recall a piece of land that provided sustenance?

(The quote is from William Faulkner's "Delta Autumn,"

 which can be found in The Portable Faulkner, ed. Malcolm Cowley, © 1974.)

(The photograph of Faulkner is by Nobel Foundation, and is used by its being in the public domain.)

Some Light on Diwali and Us

In the U.S., as soon as Thanksgiving turkey is eaten, people's plans turn to what has come to be called "the holiday season."  That label, although bland, is appropriate because some of the most festive celebrations of a number of faith-traditions all fall in December:  Obviously, Christianity's Christmas.  And Judaism's Hanukkah.  Also the less known but beautiful home-ceremonies of Kwanzaa, out of African-American culture.  However, even before the December convergence of those holidays occurs, the Indian-American community has gotten a jump on celebration with the ancient festival of Diwali.  And that celebration can shed some light on those other holidays, as well as upon our human relationship with the natural world.

The name "Diwali" is derived from the Sanskrit phrase "row of lamps."  In India, there are variations depending in which region it is being celebrated, and whether the people celebrating are Hindus, Jains, or Sikhs.  But it is the lighting of small clay oil lamps that has resulted in its sometimes being referred to as "the festival of lights."

It is hard to express to someone who does not live in a city with a significant Indian population how popular Diwali is, but one Diwali gathering in the suburb of one large U.S. city drew thousands of celebrants.  One autumn, I dropped in for a vegetarian buffet at an Indian restaurant, and found myself in a crowd of people buying sweets for Diwali -- a crowd so focused on one task that it resembled Christmas shoppers.

I cannot help but notice that all four of the latter-fall or early-winter festivals I have mentioned involve the lighting of candles or oil lamps:  The four weekly Advent candles before Christmas. The eight daily-lit candles of the Jewish menorah.  The Kwanzaa candles representing different virtues.  And the oil lamps of Diwali.

No matter which way we celebrate "the holiday season," as we call it, and no matter which way we celebrate the multi-layered meanings of symbols about light and darkness, one thing will certainly remain true.  Tomorrow, the sun will rise; and in the Northern Hemisphere in the weeks following the winter solstice, the days will grow longer again.  That phenomenon has occurred for over 4 billion years, which calculates out to 1.46 trillion days.  Moreover, scientists tell us the sun will pull that trick of rising for billions of years still to come.

Although the return of light and the human need for illumination, both physical and spiritual, are the most obvious symbols of our four late-year holidays, I have come to think that there is another component as well: Namely, beauty.  The candles we light don't merely illuminate the room we are in.  (If that was all we needed, we could just turn on the overhead fluorescents.)  The candles we light, especially if in a dimmed or darkened rooms, are like the pinpoints of stars in a black velvet sky. The contrast of light and dark creates a harmony of contrasts we can experience as being beautiful.  Moreover, when we light those holiday candles, just as when we look out into the depths of a dark, starlit sky, we can feel a depth to our lives, and a depth in all of human existence.

~~~

Do you have a particular, special memory of one of these four celebrations?

(The photograph of Diwali decorations is by Subharnab Majumdar

and is used under a Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.)

Leaves Old and New

Having always been quite nearsighted, I could not appreciate trees as easily as I could appreciate leaves.  I could not readily identify which species a tree was from a distance, the way my parents could.  Nor could I see detail in the distant treetops.  But I could look at a leaf closely, even hold it in my hand, and feel its texture.

I am still fascinated by the shapes of leaves.  Not just the variety, but the way that each one looks like something else.  What child has not noticed the resemblance between a maple leaf and their own hand, even fitting their hand upon it?  Another leaf I examine (from what tree I do not know) looks like a spear.  Still another leaf has the outline of a scoop.  And the stiff, large leaf of the southern magnolia tree seems perfectly designed for fanning oneself during a hot southern summer.

To the botanist, the shape of the leaf tells a story about its tree having evolved to flourish in a particular environment.  Even without knowing the details about such variations, I can be amazed to know that it is within those thin leaves that plants magically convert carbon dioxide and water into solid material, thus enabling the plant to grow.  Green leaves are truly miniature factories powered by the sun.

I am fascinated not only by the shapes of leaves but also by their colors.  How many shades of green can there be?  Even more fascinating are the turnings of color as autumn comes.  Like an alarm clock that has gone off, the shock of seeing some trees no longer green can wake us up to the approaching winter.  The change in foliage can even make us think about our own use of time, and whether our time might be short.

In the author O. Henry's amusing story "The Cop and the Anthem," a dead leaf falling into the lap of the main character, a hobo, signals to him that he needs to make a change in his living arrangements in order to make it through the winter.  That warning, coupled with the moving chords of church music that waft outdoors, inspire the hobo to make a good change in his life -- "to turn over a new leaf," as we say.

As fall continues and winter gets even closer, the leaves we see on the ground change colors even more, becoming mottled, creating a quilt of yellows, browns, reds, and even purples.  The leaves are then ready to be recycled into the earth, to become the substance of plants and trees yet again.  The leaves also "turn over a new leaf."

With the passage of time, I am also probably reprocessing things from my past into my future, shedding some things as a way of growing new leaves.  But it is harder for me to see those changes happening in me than it is for me to observe the changes in leaves.  In leaves, I see life and change made manifest.

~~~

Do you have memories about leaves?  How do you experience your life changing with the cycle of a year?