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Look at your feet.
You are standing in the sky.
When we think of the sky, we tend to look up,
but the sky actually begins at the earth.
We walk through it, yell into it, rake leaves,
wash the dog, and drive cars in it.
We breathe it deep within us.
With every breath, we inhale millions of molecules of sky, heat them briefly, and then exhale them back into the world.
—Diane AckermanA Natural History of the Senses
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Until we understand what the land is, we are at odds with everything we touch. And to come to that understanding it is necessary, even now, to leave the regions of our conquest—the cleared fields, the towns and cities, the highways—and re-enter the woods. For only there can a man encounter the silence and the darkness of his own absence. Only in this silence and darkness can he recover the sense of the world’s longevity, of its ability to thrive without him, of his inferiority to it and his dependence on it.
Perhaps then, having heard that silence and seen that darkness, he will grow humble before the place and begin to take it in—to learn from it what it is. As its sounds come into his hearing, and its lights and colors come into his vision, and its odors come into his nostrils, then he may come into its presence as he never has before, and he will arrive in his place and will want to remain.
His life will grow out of the ground like the other lives of the place, and take its place among them. He will be with them—neither ignorant of them, nor indifferent to them, nor against them—and so at last he will grow to be native-born. That is, he must reenter the silence and the darkness, and be born again.
—Wendell Berry
A Native Hill
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