Wild and Free?

Under other circumstances, I might not have given a second thought to the single word "free."  After all, it was used in a common type of statement:  In an anthology of nature-writing, Words for the Wild, the editor Ann Ronald introduced an essay by Loren Eiseley, saying, "Loren Eiseley's wilderness differs somewhat from others' in [this anthology], but it is no less the terrain of what is wild and what is free."  Somehow my mind paused, and I began to ask questions about what it means to be free, and what might lie behind the appeal of a freedom that wilderness seems to offer.

I say "seems to offer" because wilderness and wildness can be idealized.  A predator in the wild might appear "free" to us, but how "free" is the prey that is being chased?

Alexis de Tocqueville
(1850)

Today in the U.S., we often associate getting out into the open spaces of wilderness with freedom, but that has not always been the case.  When the Frenchman Alexis de Tocqueville, eager to see the American wilderness, visited this nation in 1831, he concluded:  "In Europe people talk a great deal of the wilds of America, but the American themselves never think about them; they are insensible to the wonders of inanimate nature...."  The reason for such an American attitude at that time was primarily practical:  The hardship of merely surviving apart from the support-system of civilization made living "in the wild" anything but a pleasant getaway.  It would require the construction of mapped roads connecting towns, along with a change in attitudes, before Americans could resonate with Lord Byron's idea of "pleasure in the pathless woods."

We humans, like all living beings, depend upon other entities.  Despite that dependence, every living being -- if its life is able to reach a fullness -- must still obtain a type of freedom from something in its past.  A chick needs to hatch and leave its shell behind.  So also must adolescent humans find some separation from their parents.

That ambiguity regarding freedom can lead to human hypocrisy.  De Tocqueville made a wry observation about American society.  He said that when Americans are criticized for their behavior, they protest, "I have a right to do so" -- whereas when they see someone else doing something they do not like, they exclaim, "There ought to be a law!"

Paradoxically, we can find a kind of release, a kind of freedom, when we yield to some forms of dependence.  The bird finding the breakfast upon which its life depends is simultaneously gaining a temporary freedom from hunger.  And vice versa:  The being that is finding a new form of freedom is at the same time developing new relationships with new forms of dependence.  That young adult moving out of its parents' home now depends upon friends or a job to sustain the newfound freedom.

Self-actualizing is an ever-ongoing combination of freedom and ties, ties and freedom, all in motion.  We might employ that word "wild" in a slang sense by remarking upon what a "wild and crazy" kind of life it is to exist on this planet!

~~~

What do you think the purpose of freedom should be?  Can you give an example?

(The Ronald quote is from Words for the Wild, ed. Ann Ronald.  © 1987.  p. 237.)

(The Tocqueville quote is from his Democracy in America, as quoted in
Wilderness and the American Mind by Roderick Nash, © 1982.  p. 23.)

(The quote by Lord Byron is from his poem Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, canto IV, st. 178. [1817].)

The Good, the Bad,and the Ugly in Nature

Every Fall, I receive in the mail some calendars from environmental organizations that want to coax me into making a donation.  The calendars represent marvelous examples of nature photography, bringing me beautiful close-up images of wildlife, and panoramic images of landscapes.  Although I enjoy the colorful photographs, in the back of my mind I am aware of a drawback in their representations of Nature.  And therein lies a complex paradox about the natural world and our human relation to it.

John Ruskin
     

The key to understanding the paradox is remembering that I enjoy beautiful pictures of Nature, whereas things in Nature are not always beautiful.  This insight was laid out by the 19th-century art critic John Ruskin when he criticized a minister who had depicted a landscape as being only light and freshness.  Ruskin pointed out things that had been left out of that depiction, by adding:  "Beside the rock, in the hollow under the thicket, the carcase [carcass] of a ewe, drowned in the last flood, lies nearly bare to the bone....  At the turn of the brook, I see a man fishing with a boy and a dog -- a picturesque and pretty group enough certainly, if they had not been there all day starving.  I know them, and I know the dog's ribs also, which are nearly as bare as the dead ewe's...."

A bit of reflection can, without too much difficulty, lead to the recognition that not all things we see in Nature are aesthetically beautiful.  It is more difficult to recognize and accept those things in Nature that we can feel a moral distaste for.  Such as a tiger chomping its teeth on the body of a beautiful antelope that is not yet dead.  (You will never see a close-up of that on one of those wildlife calendars.)

It has been easy for humankind to be repulsed by such predation, labeling it "bad."  Our modern science of ecology teaches us, however, that predators play critical roles in the internal, balancing dynamic of ecosystems. And over eight centuries ago, the theologian Thomas Aquinas cautioned his readers against imposing a too simple absolute moral grid upon other forms of life, writing:  "The wolf, though in its own kind a good of nature, is nevertheless evil to the sheep."

It might seem that the matter is resolved at this point.  It might seem that I have to just abandon my revulsion at the ugliness I see in the non-human realm of Nature.  True, I should be concerned about that needy man and boy who Ruskin pointed out to me.  But shouldn't I just set aside my feelings when I see distasteful things in the non-human world, such as the ewe Ruskin described?  It might seem so, but I think that would be misguided.  It could result in a hardening of my own heart.  My sensitivity is part of what makes me a living being -- similar to the way the poor ewe had its own forms of sensitivity.

The paradox is that I need to see in Nature a wider beauty that incorporates things that should be disturbing to me in a certain way.  So, ironically, even as I try to remember that Nature was not designed for my own aesthetic or moral pleasure, I say to those environmental organizations, "Don't stop sending those beautiful wonder-filled calendars!"

~~~

Are there things in Nature you experience as being ugly or unpleasant?

(The Ruskin quote is cited in McGrath, Alister E.  A Fine-Tuned Universe:

  The Quest for God in Science and Theology.  © 2009. p. 81.)

(The Aquinas quote is from his A Compendium of Theology [1269-1273], I, 142.)

Humane Beauty, Japanese Style

Water.  Stone.  Plants.  Wood.  With those four simple building blocks, the Japanese create traditional Japanese gardens.  Although using only four basic elements, they create a multitude of beautiful effects.  As they create those gardens (a tradition that dates back a thousand years), they provide what could be a course in the principles of aesthetics.  The gardens also provide what could be considered a lesson in our human relationship to Nature.

A basic principle of beauty -- any kind of beauty -- is that it brings into harmony what might be otherwise experienced as being conflicting.  As you stroll through a Japanese garden, you indeed experience a peace, a harmony, even as your eyes are filled with a variety of contrasting textures and shapes:  Stone path, soft grass.  Trickling water, hard rock.  Carved wood bridge, straight pine tree.  Great overhanging willow tree, a tiny splay of small stones.

The plants, walkways, bridges, pools of water, and occasional benches or buildings are arranged not only to provide a heightened experience of picturesque effects, but also so as to slow you down as you stroll through the garden.  I have had the pleasure of visiting a half-dozen Japanese gardens in the U.S.  I admire what the landscape designers have accomplished, even when the moisture and moss that are a feature in gardens in Japan are not available due to a drier climate.

Besides providing numerous lessons in aesthetics, my experiences in exploring Japanese gardens has led me to musings about our human relationships with Nature.  Certainly, designers of Japanese gardens and the people who frequent them display a love for Nature.  Nevertheless, the effects are clearly contrived, even when they are designed to feel natural.  There is not a weed anywhere (even though the hard-working people who maintain the garden are usually out of sight).  Because of this cultivated character, it seems to me that Japanese gardens can speak only partway to our human relationship with Nature.  They certainly cannot speak to our relationship with wilderness -- which by definition is land not cultivated for human use.  There is little sense of the otherness of Nature, or of its value in its own right, apart from human enjoyment.  Nor is there much of the predatory component within Nature.  (Even the koi fish are like giant pet goldfish, with food dispensers in some gardens so that human visitors can feed them.)

Despite those limitations, I would prefer that Nature be loved in this way than not at all.  Also, it would be wonderful if every U.S. city had a Japanese garden as a place for rest and renewal in the often hard and often stressful urban landscape.

In the final analysis, though, Japanese gardens are not a complete home for humans, but are instead places for us to occasionally visit.  They are a refined home for the cultivated koi.  If I had any doubt about that, it was removed by the sign on one garden's fish-food dispenser by the koi pond.  It read:  "Please don't feed the squirrels or other wildlife."

~~~

Have you ever visited a Japanese garden?  What do you remember about it?