A Borrowed Landscape

A Borrowed Landscape -

Nature has a way of capturing beauty in myriad ways. Be it a sunset, a coral reef, rugged landscapes, or pristine wilderness, Nature’s obsessions drive her pursuit of her own concepts of splendor and design. In primal and ancient times, waterfalls, rock spires, hallowed groves and virgin forests were maintained and revered as sacred spaces, places where spirits might peacefully dwell. Peoples past understood that intact ecologies were critical to steward the cycles of life.

The quietness and solitude of such landscapes created avenues for humanity to conceptualize and participate in things metaphysical. Cultural rituals, veneration, awe – these added mystery and wonder for our ancestors. In our hectic world, I fear we have lost connectivity to Nature’s passions. As Joni Mitchell writes, “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.” Now, few places on Earth retain this primal sacredness of space.

In the early years of American expansionism, wilderness was viewed as something to be conquered, controlled, subdued, and exploited. The fabricated constructs of commerce demanded a narrative for the commodification of nature. Giant redwoods and entire virgin forests were cleared. By placing wilderness in the negative column of the economy’s ledger, we slated its destruction. The bigger the tree, the more board-feet for lumber. Through a mental landscape of sacredness, however, native populations revered that same tree within a connectivity to their spiritual world.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850), states.

“The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!”

Has that “Sordid Boon” bestowed now a toxic inheritance? Fortunately, there is a different way. As an archaeologist working across the globe, I have been privileged to conduct archaeological surveys in multiple remote landscapes across Africa, the Middle East, and Western Pacific islands. Each region hides remarkable vestiges of those once splendid sacred spaces. And each tells a different story of their respective spiritual world.

Over the decades, I have learned I do well in taking time to hear what those forest and mountaintops have to say. Listen. The serenity of bird-song wafts on the breeze. A deer, normally skittish, ambles among ancient ruins, seemingly aware the clamor of the last inhabitants ceased centuries earlier. Through cathedral-tall trees, ruins stand sentinel, silent remnants of forgotten worlds. Wandering the dwellings of peoples lost to memory, faint echoes of their past remain. Surrounded now by the ever-encroaching forest, the sanctity of this sacred space still breathes a prayer on behalf of those who came before, “Let us not be forgotten.”

Then, three years ago, my house burned down. We all survived, but thirty-five plus years of ancient books and my research materials literally went up in smoke. During the clean-up, it struck me; as an archaeologist, this is what I do. I dig through the lives of people centuries gone. While this event gave me a deeper appreciation and understanding of an excavation site, it triggered my persistent depressive disorder big-time.

Limited options remained for me. I moved into a small rental, regrouped, and brooded. The yard was a wasteland. Weeds outnumbered the dry grass. Devastated, but not easily defeated, I sought something to feed my soul again. In the far corner of my rental, a desolate, rock-strewn field of thistles and blackberries encroached with abandon. I determined to fight back.

Fortunately, archaeologists utilize many of the same tools sourced from hardware and gardening stores. Pretending to be excavating small plots at a time, I rehabilitated the soils, dug up rocks, and created a stone pathway. Among those stones were ancient tools used thousands of years before. I also haunted thrift stores for cultural artifacts I could put in my garden. On neighborhood walks, I collected mosses and ferns from roadsides or small trees from culverts, and went to work.

Over time, I forged wildness back into this private sanctuary. I determined that every hour I invest in my gardens, I am rewarded with quiet hours in reflection, healing my heart, and a quiet place for those who stop by.

This corner sanctuary comprises an amalgamation of disparate cultural identities, mostly East Asian, Pacific Islander, and Northwest First Nations. Through my decades in the field, these traditions taught me to seek the sacred and to honor the memory of peoples I have known through their ancient artifacts, or handed-down stories of identity, and the faces of their progeny. It is here, after laboring on the daily grind, I might sit and reflect.

Each time of day paints its own beauty. Early morning bathes vegetation in golden hues, mid-day allows for cooling shadows, evening lends the oranges of sunset, creating a backlight of fire.

Wordsworth continues,

“For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be

A pagan suckled in a creed outworn.”

Like weeds, my depression occasionally pops up and threatens to dominate my mental landscapes. To fight back, I built other enclaves to feed my soul and body; a rose garden, a greenhouse, a raised bed for vegetables, and a patch of clover and lavender for bees and butterflies. Now, depending upon the species of dark thoughts that disturb me, I find retreats in my private corners of Nature.

By building and maintaining my own sacred garden, it provides me avenues to give back to Nature, and by extension, her primal peoples, some of what my forebearers took. I borrow now from the traditions of indigenous elders. I also borrow the encroaching landscapes of mosses and ferns, Douglas fir, and glacial boulders that native peoples passed on their way to honor our world.

Today, pileated woodpeckers, an owl, hummingbirds, and nesting wrens have chosen this enclave to call home. Throughout the day, songbirds and crows vie for top billing. At times, I am certain I hear the whispering of wood elves or tree-sprites and the like. Maybe it's simply the windchimes. Irrespective, I’m the fortunate one. Through this project, I continue to craft a new creed from the many strands that have informed my research.

The slavish demands of the creed of commerce, however, still require I clock-in and pay my bills. But for now, I simply need to garden.