keeping company with waldo & friends
by the hour, i sit behind my wall of books, reaching from merton to thoreau to emerson, deeper and deeper into the folds of wisdom. it all started because of merton, aka brother louis. or maybe it all started because of mary O. or maybe it all started because of my mother.
my mama, who goes to mass every day of her life (a week ago, during the depth of the polar vortex, i called, and she was in her armchair at 8 o’clock sharp, watching mass on the telly. i shouldn’t have been surprised, and i wasn’t; but i melted a bit at her devotion), she must have been my first rabbi (rabbi in hebrew translates to “master,” or “teacher”).
she’s the one who woke me each morning, flinging the blinds, warbling lines from browning or dickinson — “God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world” (browning, song from “pippa passes”); “some keep the sabbath going to church — / i keep it, staying at home — / with a bobolink for a chorister — ” (dickinson, 236).
she’s the one whose home movies always drifted away from the faces of her five cherubic children to the iridescent-blue indigo bunting, or the neon-red scarlet tanager darting in the boughs over our heads. some 60 years ago, when in a single day a realtor toured her through half a dozen lovely houses along chicago’s north shore, she bought the one with the most trees. and the creek gurgling in the woods across the street, and the green pond where the frogs croaked and the turtles sunbathed on logs, and the country club directly across the way, with its wide-open vista, promising her a lifetime of sunsets.
she must have been the one who first planted the seed. the seed that has grown and grown. the seed that now is a towering, undeniable, inescapable force, the one that draws me into the woods, under the star-stitched dome of midnight or dawn, the seed that draws me to windows where i can keep watch — on the birds, on the wind, on whatever is falling from heaven.
turns out i am hardly alone in this congregation of woods-goers. i’ve been hot on the trail of something called the Book of Nature, a text i’d never known by name, though i’ve been reading it since before i learned to assemble alphabet letters into words that came with particular sounds and meanings. i’d first learned of it — by name — when a rabbi i was talking to on the radio a few years back said of my first book, slowing time, “it’s midrash to the Book of Nature.” (midrash is defined as ancient commentary, often rabbinic, on Hebrew Scripture; it makes connection between text and lived reality, so says my all-things-jewish dictionary.)
hmm. i’d never known that a girl with a confirmation name, and a patron saint besides, could put a pen to midrash. but my main intrigue centered on this Book of Nature, a title i certainly wanted to get my hot little hands on.
over time, and through the years since, i’ve burrowed deeper and deeper into this ancient wisdom. there’s a whole theology that centers on the notion that the Book of Nature, unfurled at Creation, is God’s first holy text. (called the Two Book Theology, it’s the belief that God is revealed through a pair of complementary sources: the Books of Scripture and Nature; Genesis followed by Word.) this first text even has a latin name, librum naturae, and it traces through the millennia, an idea explored by the ancient “church fathers,” among them augustine of hippo, origen of alexandria, galileo, on through martin luther, emily dickinson, clear to merton’s gethsemani doorstep and mary oliver’s walks through the cape cod woods.
a fellow by the name of sir thomas browne, clear back in the 17th-century, aptly wrote: “there are two books from whence i collect my divinity: besides that written one of God, another of his servant, Nature, that universal and public manuscript that lies expansed unto the eyes of all.”
just a few years ago, pope francis wrote: “God has written a precious book, ‘whose letters are the multitude of created things present in the universe.'” and before him, pope john paul declared: “the visible world is like a map pointing to heaven… we learn to see the Creator by contemplating the beauty of his creatures. “
all i knew was that i love nothing more than to stand, stone still, under the night sky, drinking in the moon and the glowing orbs of heaven. or to sit burrowed in sand and stiletto-sharp dune grasses along the shore, counting out the undulations of the lake’s watery pulses. or to marvel at the mama bird dutifully and vigilantly building her nest, one shriveled stick or grass or ribbon at a time.
i knew and know that i feel the hand of God there. feel the telltale tingle up my spine. i know God’s nearby when i catch the goosebumps breaking out along my arms and my thighs.
so, acolyte to Wisdom, i follow the trail deep into the pages where wisdom is recorded, where it’s spelled out in words that hold me like a vice, or would it be as a spelunker? this week found me in the Transcendentalists: first thoreau, then the master, r.w. emerson, who i learned preferred to go by his middle name, waldo. (henceforth, waldo it is.)
i’ll begin though with a few notes drawn from thoreau, first from richard higgins’ thoreau and the language of trees:
…The winter woods, especially, were a spirit land to Thoreau, a place for contemplation. He walked them alert to the mystical, more as supplicant than naturalist….All its motions… must be “circulations of God.”
and from thoreau himself: “if by watching all day and all night i may detect some trace of the Ineffable, then will it not be worth the while to watch?”
or: “my profession is to be always on the alert to find God in nature.”
maple trees, thoreau called “cheap preachers,” whose “century-and-a-half sermons” minister to generations.
at his funeral, thoreau’s friend and teacher emerson said that despite thoreau’s “petulance” toward churches, he was “a person of a rare, tender, and absolute religion.”
which drew me straight to emerson, absorbed for days in his signature essay, Nature. and these are but some of the notes i scribbled into my notebook:
Chapter IV Language:
Every natural fact is a symbol of some spiritual fact. Who looks upon a river in a meditative hour, and is not reminded of the flux of all things? Throw a stone into the stream, and the circles that propagate themselves are the beautiful type of all influence.
A life in harmony with nature, the love of truth and of virtue, will purge the eyes to understand her text. By degrees we may come to know the primitive sense of the permanent objects of nature, so that the world shall be to us an open book, and every form significant of its hidden life and final cause.
Chapter VII Spirit:
[Nature] always speaks of Spirit. It suggests the absolute. It is a perpetual effect. It is a great shadow pointing always to the sun behind us. The aspect of nature is devout. Like the figure of Jesus, she stands with bended head, and hands folded upon the breast. The happiest man is he who learns from nature the lesson of worship.
…the noblest ministry of nature is to stand as the apparition of God. It is the organ through which the universal spirit speaks to the individual, and strives to lead back the individual to it.
…Is not the landscape, every glimpse of which hath a grandeur, a face of him?
Chapter VIII: Prospects
The invariable mark of wisdom is to see the miraculous in the common.
no wonder mary oliver called herself a student, first and most, of emerson, who taught her — and us — that “the heart’s spiritual awakening” is “the true work of our lives.”
and with that i leave you to your own musings on the true work of our lives, the Book of Nature, and its most brilliant disciples and diviners….
who are your wisdom teachers, from the pages of the Book of Nature, or otherwise?
Beautiful….makes me appreciate nature even more…
then we’re a circle for i began with you…..
The English Romantic poets, particularly William Wordsworth, wrote much about nature and the world around them. Some of his poetry is relevant to our world right now. And what’s really interesting to me, is that he was alive when both Thoreau and Emerson were, but they were across a huge ocean. There was no quick and easy way for them to communicate! That may point to the fact that the world was rapidly changing at that time, just as it is now. Enjoy your reading! Your mother sounds like a remarkable and interesting woman!
the intertwining and echoing of all these voices — across oceans and centuries — totally captures my imagination.
my mama is quiet something. the Original Mother Nature, we’ve been known to call her……
I just loved reading your childhood recollections and the many lovely excerpts you included here today… I have felt happy this week, knowing you’ve been immersed in Thoreau, Emerson, and Merton.
Wishing you unlimited hours of delight as you wander page by page through the ineffable Book of Nature… xxx
thank you, my beautiful friend and fellow congregationalist in the sanctuary of the woods. xoxox
I did a photography project a few years ago on rivers and discovered the writing of Edwin Way Teale. Just magical nature writing. Also, Loren Eisley, of course.
oh, dear gracious! i feel certain i’ve read teale, but i just scanned my bookshelf and don’t see anything leaping out. so i clicked over to the cyber-encyclopedia, and the list of his titles is making me dizzy with dreaminess. guess i know who’s next on my excursion. and loren eisley, i don’t know…..
if you have a link to your photography project, i and i’m sure all the chairs would love to pore over, and absorb…photography to me is peerless among the arts, to see what so many of us miss, to capture the ephemeral….
bless your soulful spirit…..
just found this on Eiseley, anthropologist, educator, philosopher, and natural science writer, longtime professor at the University of Pennsylvania (below from Richard Wentz, writing in Christian Century):
“Although Eiseley may not have considered his writing as an expression of American spiritually, one feels that he was quite mindful of its religious character. As an heir of Emerson and Thoreau, he is at home among the poets and philosophers and among those scientists whose observations also were a form of contemplation of the universe.”
“We do not really know what to do with religiousness when it expresses itself outside those enclosures which historians and social scientists have carefully labeled religions. What, after all, does it mean to say, “the religious chord does not sound in someone,” but that the person vibrates to the concerns historically related to religion? If the person vibrates to such concerns, the chord is religious whether or not it manages to resound in the temples and prayer houses of the devout.”
Wentz quotes Eiseley, from All the Strange Hours and The Star Thrower, to indicate that he was, in fact, a religious thinker:
“I am treading deeper and deeper into leaves and silence. I see more faces watching, non-human faces. Ironically, I who profess no religion find the whole of my life a religious pilgrimage.”
“The religious forms of the present leave me unmoved. My eye is round, open, and undomesticated as an owl’s in a primeval forest — a world that for me has never truly departed.”
“Like the toad in my shirt we were in the hands of God, but we could not feel him; he was beyond us, totally and terribly beyond our limited- senses.”
“Man is not as other creatures and … without the sense of the holy, without compassion, his brain can become a gray stalking horror — the deviser of Belsen.”
Teale’s book that I loved the most was “A Conscious Stillness,” written with naturalist Ann Zwinger. The two of them paired up to take a long canoe trip over many, many months to explore Thoreau’s rivers, the Assabet and the Sudbury, in Massachusetts. Teale died shortly before the book was completed. I don’t have any of the photos from the project scanned digitally. I actually did the whole project on film. Going over my notes tonight, I’m thinking it would be fun to scan my negatives and see what I have digitally.
oh, dear mary, thank you for the extra layers, and for pointing us toward a place to begin. ” a conscious stillness.” i’m there at the title…..
i love that you shot film. and i would love to see your photos if ever there is a way……
well, whaddya know. i just did. https://www.marymccloskeyphotography.com
luminous is the word. i soooo long to be able to capture images….yours draw me right in….
i found the right site, right?
Of course Thoreau, who did what most of us cannot and lived in the woods for a year to commune with trees and fishes and waters and birds. Others who have inspired me are Archie Carr, the father of sea turtle biology, who started out an English major and wrote like it. Everything he penned, from Time-Life nature books to scientific papers, sparkled. Rachel Carson was one of our most eloquent, and ardent, teachers and defenders of the natural world.
And I am glad to see Loren Eiseley mentioned. Do find his compilation, The Star Thrower. The binding on my copy is cracked to open at “The Bird and the Machine,” which recalls when his life intersected with that of one-half of a pair of kestrels. It begins, “I suppose their little bones have years ago been lost among the stones and winds of those high glacial pastures. I suppose their feathers blew eventually into the piles of tumbleweed beneath the straggling cattle fences and rotted there in the mountain snows, along with dead steers and all the other things that drift to an end in the corners of the wire.” I believe it was written in 1955, but it resonates today. And it never fails to move and inspire me.
oh dear gracious, i love that you gave us a line — the first line — to quicken our hearts, and propel us to the library. and of course someone who starts as an english major and moves to sea turtles sounds like someone whose words i want to pore over. i think, sometimes, the beauty of the writing is what holds half the sacred to me. that, and what it points us to see…..
and once again, the titles of Eiseley: “star thrower,” what a glorious picture pops up in my imagination…..
thank you all for deepening my bookshelf. and lengthening my reading list for the spring soon to come….