The first reading that me and my group did for Conservation Across Boundaries was “Natural History and the Spiral of Offering” by Thomas Lowe Fleischner. I thought this piece was a powerful opening to the course as Fleischner introduces natural history as the practice of intentional and focused patience and attentiveness to the natural world. This practice recognizes subtle relationships, fosters an appreciation for the complexity of the earth, can connect us and build relationships, and can, powerfully, enhance the human experience. In explaining the benefits of practicing natural history, Fleischner talks about a friend who recently lost her father. She recounts how after his death, she has felt closer to all living things. She has developed a relationship with whiptail lizards in her backyard and while observing wrens on a vacation, watched them build a nest. She cried having to say goodbye to them. It may seem silly to cry for birds but Fleischner says, “This attention to the more than human world has buoyed her up, that she might feel her very real human sadness in a fuller context.” This line was very powerful to me as it made me realize my own human emotions were made with intention, so I could better feel sensitivity and connection to other beings. My emotions must be used, not suppressed, felt in a fuller context so that my relationships and care can extend out of the human realm.
It can seem hard to extend our relationships outside of the human realm; even when we do so it’s usually extended to beings that share the same kind of intelligence or experience like dolphins, elephants, apes, or our pets. When we think about a plant, our imaginations can only go so far in thinking about what they sense or feel. What about an insect? A patch of moss? A rock? Since it seems impossible to converse or relate to these beings on our terms, we usually don’t offer attentiveness or patience and dismiss meaningful relationships. This dismissal can often lead to destruction. Since we don’t take the time to understand them and they don’t communicate pain in the same way we do, it’s easier to destroy or kill them. It’s easier to bypass their feelings, their individuality and their right to life.
I may sound pretty abstract, but Robin Wall Kimmerer, botanist, indigenous activist, and citizen of the Potawatomi nation, taught me about the perspective of plants. In her book, Braiding Sweetgrass, in the chapter “Learning the Grammar of Animacy” she recalls the experience of sitting near a creek, closing her eyes, and listening. The water babbling over rocks, the wind in the leaves of the trees, and an insect buzzing, all these sounds are the grammar of animacy. Nature she points out is very loud and is speaking all the time, you just have to be attentive and patient enough to understand. Humans in this sense, never pay attention to beings on their own terms.
In an interview with Leah Tohino, Kimmerer discusses two ways of knowing and critiques Western science as it disrespects plants and animal’s individuality and right to life. If a western scientist wants to know how moss responds to drought, they would uproot the moss from its home, bring it into the lab and drought stress it. She says, “That’s pretty crude in my opinion.” Kimmerer says she would instead go to a wet place with moss and a dry place with moss and learn all she can, “I will say to the moss, ‘I’m not going to snatch you from your home and grind you up to learn your secrets. Instead I will sit at your feet and wait for you to tell me what I need to know’.” This approach involves patience and attentiveness that respects the moss’s right to life and individuality. You wouldn’t simply approach someone and force them to give you all their secrets. You’d develop a relationship and respect their limits and what they decide to tell you. Plants and other natural beings in Kimmerer’s sense are also our teachers. In the “Sky Woman Falling” creation story she calls us “the youngest brothers of creation,” saying we must learn from plants and animals as they have had more time to learn how to live in harmony with the earth and its inhabitants. Plants and animals must also earn the same respect as any teacher you have.
Learning from Kimmerer and Fleischner, I’ve tried to be more attentive and patient to the plants and animals around me, trying to build relationships with them as we traveled through the Bob Marshall Wilderness, through Glacier National Park, and into Canada. In Canada we worked with the Great Divide Trail Crew, who is currently trying to build a new path for the Continental Divide Trail, a trail that goes through the middle of the continent. Initially, I was very excited to be on the trail crew. On our intro day, we got a demonstration of how all of the tools worked. The first tool was a Pulaski, a tool that had a powerful hoe on one side and an axe on the other. Our trail crew leader immediately took to the side of the trail, clearing and uprooting plants. As I gazed at the plant’s roots, I felt a sinking feeling. He demonstrated a lopper, a tool that looked like a big pair of scissors. He lopped off the branch of a tree that was in the way of the trail. I couldn’t help but think about the rigorous nature of photosynthesis, how much time and energy it takes for a tree to grow, and how easily the tool cut off the limb. I thought about my own limbs, how they took me 20 years to grow, and imagined them being cut off with such ease. He began to demonstrate the saw and took to a small tree on the side of the trail. At this, I began to cry. It may seem dramatic to cry for this tree, for the same reasons it may seem to do so for birds, but I cried for the tree as its life was sacrificed for my comfort. I tried to imagine the sensation of calmness and the sudden shock this tree must have experienced, after growing for maybe 20 years (yes, even the smallest of trees can be this old), just to have my body cut and thrown to the side.
I struggled the next day to do this myself, having to uproot plants, lop limbs and cut down trees. I wondered why WRFI would send us to do this work after learning about the sacredness of life and the individuality of plants. When discussing my discomfort with my friends, they felt the same. After a long day on the trail crew, I talked to my instructor Kaleb about my concerns. He understood my feelings and echoed that trail work is a destructive process. We both agreed that it was necessary, Kaleb pointing out that trail building must be done so that there aren’t multiple trails disturbing the plants and animals. A sense of sacrifice occurred to me. Build a main trail, and sacrifice some plants so the other plants go undisturbed. This I understood, but it still seemed wrong to sacrifice them at all for human-centered reasons.
At a UNESCO World Heritage site in Canada called Head-Smashed in Buffalo Jump, a worker named Dean, member of the Blackfeet Nation, shared knowledge with us about juniper berries. He said that if you make tea with them, and drink them in the morning and at night, the berries could help with cancer. He said that before he picks the berries, he offers tobacco.
There is nothing inherently wrong with harvesting or hunting, or building trails, but if it’s done in a way that disrespects a being’s individuality or isn’t reciprocal, there is an issue. Trail work in this way must involve some kind of acknowledgment of sacrifice or must establish reciprocity. I’m not quite sure what this would look like, as I’m not an expert on what it means to have a relationship of reciprocity to the earth, I’m still learning.
This experience was still powerful for me. I understood what Fleischner was talking about, to “feel sadness in a fuller context.” It was powerful to be able to cry for this tree, that I was able to extend my caring to other beings outside of the human realm. I hope to cry, be angry, and feel happiness for all beings – plants, animals, and humans. Feeling caring and understanding for beings is a boundary within itself and I hope to cross more in the future.