Dear relatives,
The air is finally clearing, and I can see the contrast of white clouds against the blue sky from my window. Following the thick drift of orange smoke set on its path by wildfires in Canada, we hear the news that our universe has been humming—purring, vibrating, singing—all this time. As Adam Frank wrote for The Atlantic, “Every star, every planet, every continent, every building, every person is vibrating along to the slow cosmic beat.”
Bodies in motion, some hundreds and others millions of miles away, with all manner of elemental forces between us, it is a wonder that we can carry all of this, across great distances. Theories suggest that we don’t hold it all alone, and instead point to the idea that we bump up against each other (sometimes intensely, sometimes gently); a mutual dependence that creates waves, or ripples, throughout time and space.
How are you holding this—in your mind and body? Perhaps, you’ve always known it to be true.
I recently re-read Jenny Odell’s essay, “On How to Grow an Idea”, which is a text that is layered with interesting nuance. The premise of the piece centers on the work of Japanese farmer Masanobu Fukuoka, author of The One-Straw Revolution. Known for his philosophy on natural farming techniques, or “do-nothing farming”, Fukuoka reinvented agricultural practice by shifting to more ecologically sound methods. His methods were certainly an outlier, in contrast to the push for manufactured inputs and technological advancement, which he rejected with sincerity. For this idea to gestate, it would have necessitated close observation and deep listening. It also required Fukuoka to release a way of thinking he might have previously viewed as essential. To this, Odell posits the question, “...what happens when moving forward actually means taking something away, or moving in a direction that appears (to us) to be backward?” What Fukuoka and Odell suggest is that, perhaps, progress is not a means to muscle through in a singular fashion, but, instead, an opportunity for collaboration and reciprocity.
There are many intriguing connections that Odell can draw by utilizing Fukuoka’s work as a foundation. She writes, “One of Fukuoka’s insights was that there is a natural intelligence at work in existing ecosystems, and therefore the most intelligent way to farm was to interfere as little as possible. This obviously requires a reworking not only of what we consider farming, but maybe even what we consider progress.” I love the idea that everything is buzzing with consciousness, not only because studies on the human brain and the cosmos suggest as much, but additionally because it redistributes our attention towards the land and environment. It might even suspend our belief around who is doing the thinking or witnessing, as Odell mentions in the essay. Is it us, something around or beyond us, or all of the above?
Fukuoka’s approach to farming was as much about nourishing the soil as it was about nourishing the soul. He perceived that climatic factors, such as the weather, can teach us a lot about patterns—and not just those that are often considered separate from the human experience. There is a wealth of wisdom to be gleaned about ourselves by looking outwards, where a wider awareness of cultural, political, emotional, and ecological context is available. I was reminded of this just last week during an eco-literature workshop with Vanessa Mártir in partnership with Corporeal Writing. Mártir proposed the idea that “nature is the mother of metaphor”, and throughout the three-hour lab, we spent considerable time contemplating works by Robin Wall Kimmerer, Alexis Pauline Gumbs, Aimee Nezhukumatathil, Ross Gay, Camille T. Dungy, Ada Limón, and Linda Hogan—all masters in the art of nature writing. This generative group provided an opportunity to reconsider what, and who might be categorized as writing about nature, a genre that has historically been the privilege of whiteness, white men, specifically.
In the days that followed the gathering, I felt inspired and motivated. Ironically (or maybe serendipitously) working through the ideas from Fukuoka, Odell, and Mártir, I’ve found a structural rhythm, and writing routine, that excites me. During the workshop, I was able to piece together ideas that, at one point, felt disparate. Thank goodness for nature writers, and nature writing workshops! Now that I have a sense of the big picture, I am realizing that writing about nature is, for me, a necessity as I find my voice as a writer.
As I continue to write about embodiment, I am embracing the fact that I am also, fundamentally, writing about nature. This is a thread that I’ll be exploring through the next several months with the newsletter. Through the end of the year, we’ll look at the embodied nature of writing, leaning into the work of Anne Lamott, Barry Lopez, Jessyman Ward, Ta-Nehisi Coates, Robert MacFarlan, and others.
Here is the reading list for forthcoming letters and essays. Maybe you’d like to read along:
August: Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, by Anne Lamott; “Environment: New words on the wild”, by Robert MacFarlane; “What Nourishes Your Writing Ecosystem”, by Jamie Figueroa.
September: Black Nature: Four Centuries of African American Nature Poetry, by Camille T. Dungy; A Darker Wilderness: Black Nature Writing from Soil to Stars, by Erin Sharkey; “Ancestral Structures on the Trailing Edge”, by Lauret E. Savoy.
October: “The Site of Memory”, by Toni Morrison; “My True South: Why I Decided to Return Home”, by Jesmyn Ward; Between the World and Me, by Ta-Nehisi Coates.
November: “Indigenizing the Future: Why We Must Think Spatially in the Twenty-first Century”, by Daniel R. Wildcat; “Decoloniality and anti-oppressive practices for a more ethical ecology”, by Christopher Trisos, et. al; “Love in a Time of Terror: On Natural Landscapes, Metaphorical Living, and Warlpiri Identity”, by Barry Lopez.
December: “Twelve Minutes and a Life”, by Mitchell S. Jackson; The Book of Delights: Essays, by Ross Gay; “Nature Writing is Survival Writing: On Rethinking a Genre”, by Michelle Nijhuis.
Thank you for being here, relatives.
In solidarity,
Christian
A quick note on subscriptions:
Weekly essays are still available to everyone, while paid subscriptions will receive an additional monthly essay, along with access to the seasonal workshops. There will be sliding scale options for folks who want to join, as well. I am currently finishing up the workshop details and will keep you posted once everything is complete.
Listening | Reading | Creating:
I’ve been listening to this poem by Pakistani-American poet, Ayisha Siddiqa, on repeat. I was introduced to the poem, read by Ayana Elizabeth Johnson, in the most recent On Being newsletter—a favorite missive that I always warmly anticipate. In between listening to the beautiful words by Siddiqa, I’m reading all of the titles mentioned above. Other than writing, I am creating a late summer schedule for August, which will be a busy month full of more time with my little one, preparing for the upcoming school year, and a fair amount of travel.
This was a beautiful read! 🌸🌱