For the Birds: Easy wonder
Nature can teach you how to write.
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My dear friend and mentor, Bill, led a small group hike back in early April, coordinated through the local library where he and my partner both work.
Is there a better combination of variables? Librarians + wildlife biologists + mentors + partners + outdoor community + wonder.
I learned about wonder from Bill. Not that it wasn’t always inside of me, but he’s the one who brought it to the surface. No matter how many times I hike with him, my relationship with the natural world, and the complex yet simple yet vital role I play within my local environment, is never not deepened after being in his presence. Even for five minutes. Even for one.
Our April hike was no exception. About a dozen of us gathered at Tamanawas Falls, where the temperature was 20 degrees colder than it was at our house, snow still covering much of the ground, no wildflowers in sight. I wore 5, 6, maybe 7 layers of clothing, my pockets full of ginger candies and kleenex. I was ready for magic. I was willing to be cold to experience it.1
In the beginning, we introduced ourselves through a quick icebreaker. (“They make me feel normal,” I said in response to the question, “What do you love about forests?”) And in the end, after a series of games and exercises and group meandering, we were each sent off to our own 10-minute sit spot.
The instructions: Don’t talk; notice things.
What I noticed:
I noticed pieces of dead lichen that looked exactly like bones.
I noticed that everything was moving a little bit, even the things I’d originally thought weren’t moving.
I noticed I was moving, letting myself sway and rock a little more than I usually do, especially when other people are around. There’s an experiment currently underway inside me, a practice that I am practicing, wherein I unmask my posture in order to see and feel how my body wants to naturally be. As if it’s not a thing I need to manage or police. As if I could withhold the energy I’d normally spend noticing how I appear to others and instead spend it on, say, all these acorns on the ground.
I noticed all these acorns on the ground. And then I noticed a single perfect one. Symmetrical, no holes, glowing. When I picked it up I saw it had an oceanic quality, like a bunch of tiny glimmering brown shells—scallop? Atlantic cockle?—had been precisely glued together.
I noticed I really love this acorn.
I noticed I felt better than I did 10, 20, 60 minutes ago. 6 months ago. 3 years.
I noticed green: mint green, pale green, grass green, icy gray-green, lime green, and a green that was trying with all of its might to be sky blue. I noticed that trying and being don’t feel at odds in the natural world.
The natural world. When am I not a part of it?
I am noticing things all the time, in every moment, both internal and external, in large part because the dial on my attention knob doesn’t work. When I try to turn it down, it spins and spins and spins, unattached, just there for show. Just there to make me look like I’m a normal person with all the normal dials. But I am not a normal person. I am an Autistic person. This is what I get to say about myself. What I choose to say. That I’d rather not be normal. Rather not be neurotypical. That for all the grief and overstimulation and wow-am-I-an-alien-or-what feelings that will accompany the full length of my life, it’s sort of maybe worth it. (I’m inching toward the things I want to be true. This is just how some of us have to get there.) Sort of maybe worth it for the humor, the awe, and the bursts of hyperfocused creativity that comprise a big chunk of my life. Sort of maybe worth it for the insights and connections that my brain readily has or creates or witnesses. Sort of maybe worth it to have an extremely small number of friends and/but some of the deepest most vulnerable most inspiring friendships possible.
If I wanted to pay less attention, I would need to surround myself with less things to pay attention to. But there’d still be my internal world, which doesn’t go away when I close my eyes.
None of this is bad.
There’s a refreshing, almost biting clarity to my attention when I’m outdoors. Not just outdoors, but immersed in nature. Forest bathing. Flooding my sensitive system with negative ions. Making space for easy wonder.
Wonder is always easy, I think.
That’s what’s deceptive about it, I think.
The other day, I alluded to the connection between profundity and paying attention: That my ability to write as much and as often as I do is a result of my ability to notice and take in and be influenced by the ongoingness of the world around me.
In this sense, my ability is also just my natural state.
How often are we looking for an ability, in ourselves and in each other, that only exists on the other side of striving? An ability we have to earn and suffer for.
How often are we missing the easy, natural abilities and capacities that are already here? An ability that doesn’t demand we work for it.
What if writing was easy?
What if you just picked up a pen and started noticing things?
And then you noticed what you were noticing.
You, looking at a seed, an acorn. A woman in a purple sweatshirt walking their dog. A weird shape of light against the wall; a rhombus?
And then you notice the space between you and what you notice.
The space between you and what you notice is the page.
Do your writing there.
Or rather: I have a partner who helps me remember to bring and wear the right jackets and shoes and layers so that I am better prepared for the experiences I want to have. #actuallyautistic #weallneedhelp
what a lovely essay, and one I feel such kinship to! I grew up in a small town, in the middle of the forest, about 10 miles north of Scranton, PA. Living in a big city (Philadelphia, and Chicago before that), I often felt utterly deprived of forest-bathing and its healing, rejuvenating, nourishing properties.
I now live about a 5 minute drive away from a forested area in Northeast Philly, and I can't get there enough. I could spend hours there every day, if only time (and life) permitted!
I really loved your detail about your internal world, how it doesn't go away, even when you close your eyes. What poignant way to descirbe the experience! I used to think I was ~plagued~ by my inner world - how I couldn't "shut it up," or "turn it off." Nowadays, I often feel thankful for my rich inner world and inner dialogue, knowing I can keep myself company in lonely moments, but also realizing I am also in constant observation - the wonder, curiosity never seems to cease. : )
Your essay lets me feel what it would be like to hike again!
By the way, after subscribing, I went back to read many of your past writings. One phrase you used, “brave noticing,” captured my imagination, so I quoted you in the book I just turned in to my publisher, and referenced your Substack in the Resources. I love your writing style and how your words come to life, bringing the forest to my phone. Thank you!