This month, we considered how Black writers have influenced the genre of nature writing. Our exploration brought to light ponderings and curiosities, including how imagination becomes ruptured, the connections between our bodies and the body of the earth, and what edges, cracks, gaps, and intersections can teach us about change. Next month, we will continue with this theme and further explore how a place can shape the landscape of what we create. Here is a gentle reminder for October’s reading list:
“The Site of Memory”, by Toni Morrison; “My True South: Why I Decided to Return Home”, by Jesmyn Ward; and Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates.
As always, thank you for being here, and engaging with me. I look forward to reading your comments. This essay is up for all to read, as a few friends have recently joined the space.
A song to set the vibe:
September always feels like a midpoint. Since my birthday is in March, the fall is a season that I have great reverence for, and every year that respect grows. This year, I am noticing the transition between summer and autumn more clearly. I see the leaves descend and surrender to the wind, dancing their way back down to the earth. The days hold a certain clarity, and I love to listen to birds as they busily prepare for cooler days. Their songs are more pronounced in the crisp and changing air. Everything feels more lucid.
I read something recently by Drew Lanham that is so compelling, and apropos for the moment:
“Don't just stand on the edge wondering, wade into the river. The creek. The puddle. Feel the cold flow or wet stone's snot slickness, or the mud ooze up between your toes, or let the sand slough away what ails in the moment. Be it ankle deep or waist high, don't live with the regret of not knowing what going one step further might mean.”
I love this, for all of the obvious reasons. Lanham’s poetry is always so rhythmic and palpable. He makes you feel every ounce of language. I do recommend watching the accompanying video that goes along with this beautiful piece—a black man’s feet in flowing water is a revelation.
This poem reminds me of the essay that we read by Alexis Pauline Gumbs, “Water and Stone: A Ceremony for Audre Lorde in Three Parts. Lorde’s writing is intimately tied to the history of Black nature writing, and, alongside a chorus of Black feminists, her work continues to influence generations of critical thinkers. Notably, her involvement with The Combahee River Collective is an example of how Lorde’s writing life is deeply connected to nature and the geographies she encountered. In “Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power,” Lorde names the erotic as a vital resource, a dwelling place that is rooted within Yin; the deepest, black-as-night parts of ourselves. Lanham’s piece is woven from this same cloth and helps to orient Black Indigenous and POC thought as the bedrock of feminism. It also speaks to the “queer black desire” that Gumbs drew our attention to in her essay on Lorde.
Black, Indigenous, and POC-centered feminism offers insight into the ruptures that separate us from ourselves, where we can face our shadows and love ourselves whole in the process.
The thread connecting Lorde, Gumbs, and Lanham continues through the work of Lauret E. Savoy, another wonderful Black nature writer that we read this month. Her essay, “Ancestral Structures on the Trailing Edge,” is a study of confluence and construction. Rooted in Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains, Savoy’s experience with and knowledge of earth science is similar to Lanham's. Savoy, a geologist, and Laham, an ornithologist. Both know the landscape of the south as well as they do the terrain of their bodies. They help us lean into the power of Black ecologies, making a home at the intersection between science and creativity. Through their work, and the work of other Black, Indigenous, and POC ecofeminists, we can hold our wildest desires and longings.
Relatives, if you feel comfortable, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the connection between pleasure and nature. What places in nature (a garden, by the ocean, or a park) help you feel safe and/or sensual?
With gratitude,
Christian
As I mentioned in last week’s letter, it’s taken me ages, but I finally pulled my first linocut print. I was comforted by how similar the process felt to writing and photography—not a surprising correlation, I suppose. Anyway, here is the first one. Wild and messy, as it is.
My pleasurable moments in nature are touching leaves and bark of trees while trying to decipher their aliveness inside me; even as I am not able to decipher it well (and sometimes hugging them), walking barefoot on grass, and even just being able to see green all around me :)
I loved this letter! So smooth, like clear, flowing water. Thank you for this 🌸🌸