THE GIFT OF WILDNESS
The air is crisp and has lost its persistent humidity edge. Magically, when the calendar turned from September to October, the temperature dropped ten degrees (in Fahrenheit), and the sky seemed further out of reach, signaling that the azure October sky is here. After returning from the US in mid-August, I found all kinds of unidentifiable wild bushes encroaching on the private driveway up to our house, so I had to do some unwanted yardwork. Yardwork and I are not friends. One afternoon, having just gotten back from a workout, I headed down to the driveway in my workout shorts and sleeveless tank top, my go-to flip-flops, doubly ill-equipped with a flimsy saw and a clipper. After more than an hour of huffing and puffing as I underestimated the work, I finally did the yeoman’s job of clearing the bush and felt proud of my work.
Covered with dirt and sweat, I hurriedly showered, only to discover later that my exposed skin had developed a rash all over, further aggravated by uncontrollable itchiness. My wife glanced at me and quickly blurted, “Oh my gosh, did you work in poison ivy or something?” “I don’t think so,” I muttered, unsure. However, I felt relieved after I quickly looked up photos of skin exposed to poison ivy. One problem gone, but my itchiness and rash did not abate. I found a bug-bite relief stick in the cupboard. Desperate for any relief, I applied the balm generously all over my body and asked my wife to apply it to the areas I couldn't reach. Amazingly, the intervention worked beautifully, and I let out a sigh of relief.
October mornings have been some of the best mornings ever where we live. The clear, tall sky is unmatched as far as my eyes can see, with occasional low-lying silky fog filling the slender, slithering valley underneath our house. For a few days last week, I witnessed an impressive flock of birds that appeared to be migrating to a warmer region. As a novice, I had no idea what kind of birds they were. Even then, what gets me is not the sight, though, as mystical or breathtaking it may be. After my eyes are satiated properly, what slowly engulfs me is the sound of nature, with no manmade sound nearby. During summer, the sound of the insects is louder than the birds. This is without the aid of the deafening summer sound of cicadas, which we missed by being in the US. In October, insects and birds compete for the most dominant sound in the forest.
During my morning’s centering prayer, the sound of the insects and birds is my faithful friend, with refreshing, brisk air caressing my waking body. The sound grounds me to stay in the present, but my mind does not help me by going a hundred miles an hour, projecting and planning for the day, anticipating every foreseeable move. My chattering mind seems to know all the rabbit trails, pursuing every single one of them until I realize what I was doing and beckon my insects and birds to help me stay present.
The fall colors are peeking now, ever so cautiously, unsure whether this is the right time to make their grand entrance. The autumn foliage in Korea is not unlike a fire spreading from small campfires. One day you can see small patches of the fall hue near and far. The next day, it has spread to other areas, and you marvel at how quickly it is spreading. Soon, you will see the fire light up the entire mountains. If the spring colors are shy, pastel because they realize they don’t need to be more impressive than they already are, against a backdrop of dull late winter, the fall colors are vibrant, evocative, perhaps because they know they need to end with a bang before the arrival of winter monotone.
Henry David Thoreau wrote, “We need the tonic of wildness...At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature.”
One of nature’s gifts is wildness, wildness beyond comprehension–which no dualistic mind can understand–a mystery that is unfathomable and unexplorable. I can drink to that . . . without the need to understand, simply accepting and letting it be. The bushes, the insects, the birds, the colors all contribute effortlessly to the profound wildness today.
As someone who writes, I bring to “life” what is taken for granted, forgotten, or even dead in our collective memories by first paying attention and through the acts of remembering. We who are creatives, and we all are, get to bring life by creating meaning for existence and/or wonder, contributing to the growing collective consciousness, never complete knowledge, of humanity.