My Prayer Practice: Communing with Nature

And I dream that these garden-closes
With their shade and their sun-flecked sod
And their lilies and bowers of roses,
Were laid by the hand of God.

The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth, --
One is nearer God’s heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.
By Dorothy Frances Gurney
 
“Nature is full of genius, full of the divinity; so that not a snowflake escapes its fashioning hand.”
Henry David Thoreau

          A man walks alone on a deserted beach.  Periodically, he stops to observe the movement of the water on the sand and the flow of the clouds across the sky, feeling a deep sense of awe and reverence. 

          A couple hikes a mountain path, stopping occasionally to observe the trees and undergrowth or to listen to birdsong or the rustle of leaves.  They reach the summit and stand, surveying the panorama surrounding them.  Few words are spoken, but a deep sense completion and wholeness is felt.  They hold hands and share this sacred moment.
          A woman works in her garden.  As she plants or feeds or otherwise tends the plants in her care, she is conscious of the amazing gift of life—of the miraculous ability of tiny seeds to grow into plants enriching her life with beauty and nourishment.  She pauses a moment to be grateful for this gift.

          If we combine Angeles Arrien’s definition of prayer as “a way of setting a sacred intention,” with Catherine of Siena’s assertion that “everything you do can be a prayer”, then surely each of these scenarios is a form of prayer.  When I read Maggie Oman Shannon’s book The Way We Pray, I was quite struck by the fact that the author does not include Communing with Nature as one of her smorgasbord of prayer forms.  Communing with Nature has been fundamental in my life as long as I can remember.  Indeed, I think it would be safe to say that Communing with Nature is the oldest form of prayer known to human-kind.

          I am a practicing Wiccan/Pagan and Communing with Nature in a fluid unstructured way is part of my daily practice.  I walk in the natural world—the beach, the forest, the mountains, my own yard—I tend to my companion animals and the plants I nurture—all with an intentional awareness of and desire to touch at some level the Divine Spirit in everything.  Sometimes I am silent.  Sometimes I verbalize a deep and heartfelt sense of gratitude for the beauty of the world and the blessings I experience by being open to that beauty.  Sometimes I dance.  Sometimes I drum.  Sometimes I sing.  Sometimes I select a rock or a flower and stare at it in deep contemplation of its intricacy and beauty.  If I initiate one of these responses to my experience, it is the way my Divine Soul is choosing to respond at that point in time, to the presence of the Divine in the Universe.  I am communing with the Divine as represented by the natural world.

          This spiritual practice has been with me since childhood.  My parents taught me to say my prayers morning and evening and to go to church on Sunday’s.  But the Divine taught me to climb a tree, sit on its branches and marvel at the pattern created by the bark and the miracle of the fruit it produced.  I believe that a spark of divinity lives within me and within you and within everything created by the Divine—plants and animals, rocks and rivers, planets and stars.    

          Many of the pre-Christian spiritual paths that humans followed considered time spent in the natural world as a source of spiritual teachings and healing.  This is certainly true of the surviving indigenous cultures, in this country and others, as well as the contemporary adaptation of spiritual practices derived from indigenous cultures, such as Shamanism.  Indeed, as I recall my Bible stories, many of the Hebrew Testament prophets, such as Moses, as well as Jesus himself, withdrew to the natural world for the express purpose of communing with and receiving inspiration from the Divine Presence.    

          The nice thing about Communing with Nature is that it doesn’t require any special equipment—no art supplies—no sacred text—no words to memorize or create.  All that is necessary is my body and my intention to be open to Divinity.  As such, this form of prayer is accessible to everyone—small children and the elderly, urbanites and country-folk—anyone who is willing to take a few minutes and “combine concentration with wonderment”, as David Steindl-Rast writes.  You don’t even have to go outside, as windows to the sky provide ample frameworks for connection. 

          There are times in the lives of all of us when even the most well-intentioned words and gestures offered by others cannot break through the wall of misery and despair surrounding us.  Several years ago I experienced just such a dark night of the soul and was healed, in part, by time spent communing with nature.  I lived in New Orleans for 25 years.  In 2005, all the supports and props of my life were swept away from me.  Within a 4 month period, I lost both my parents, survived Hurricane Katrina, and lost my husband of 33 years.  I moved back to New Orleans in November and the misery, pain and anguish engulfed me.  The city was dark and dank and my life was dark and dank and I was not sure if I would be able to find a way to go on.  Into this monochromatic existence floated a gift.  The storm waters had planted a seed in my yard and, unbeknownst to me, it had started to grow.  By the time I noticed, it was growing up the side of my deck—huge verdant green leaves branching off a vine I had never seen before.  The presence of such vibrant color was healing in and of itself and I began to pay attention to this plant. 

          Over the next several months, this plant thrived.  And every day, when I got up, I went outside to look at it.  Observing this plant became the high point of my day.  I began to tend to it—dumping soil on its roots and making sure it had water—which was more attention that I was paying to my own physical needs at that point.  As winter slipped into spring, buds appeared, soon followed by giant buttery yellow flowers.  By now, I was spending part of everyday sitting outside by my vine, soaking up its energy, its beauty, and its wholeness.  Gradually, I got the message—I would survive—I too could flourish if I allowed it to happen. 

          Today I have a new life in Maine—a life I could not have imagined 6 years ago.  I have done massive amounts of exploration and healing, but I will never forget that my first step back to wholeness was guided by a single vine.  Such is the healing power of the very simple prayer practice of Communing with Nature.