Recently, I've been diving into a practice called “sit spot.” It's exactly what it sounds like. Basically, you find a spot that's near your house (like your back yard), and you sit there for 20 minutes in the morning every day or every week and simply offer your attention to the land around you. I'm very new to the practice, but I'm already discovering the richness of it. Today, I sat beneath the ironwood tree in my back yard and spent 20 minutes watching countless birds go to and fro. A dove spent the whole time preening his feathers not more than 8 feet from me. A hummingbird rested on a branch above my head, flitting about but always returning to perch. Sparrows came and went. Lizards climbed up and down the tree. Even my roommate's dogs walked up and peed at the base of the tree. All these creatures went about their business in the same space, not bothering each other at all. It stood in such stark contrast to human life as I know it. It has me wondering how much of our suffering is because of this single thing we've lost.
I can only imagine that neolithic humans lived in very much the same sort of communion as these birds and lizards—sharing intimate space with countless other species and life forms. I'm sure they, too, were used to the presence of other species while they went about their daily lives. I imagine much of this must have been a friendly, neighborly agreement. Perhaps they didn't interact oftentimes. Perhaps sometimes they did. Perhaps sometimes, their shared presence mutually benefitted one another. But this is not how we live anymore.
I live much of my life in a car, in a building, in a city. Oftentimes, my only interaction with a species other than my own is when I discover a fly or a spider in my car. My engagement with that other being, then, is primarily to get them out of my space. The ideal I strive for is to make sure that no other beings are inhabiting my space other than houseplants, pets, or the humans I invite in. There is little opportunity for communion across the species boundary. I speak for myself, but I imagine your life is much the same.
I find myself contemplating one of the great questions of humanity: are we alone in the universe? Countless people question whether or not extraterrestrials exist—whether we have been visited by alien beings. The answer seems to be a likely yes with over 400 encounters with UFOs confirmed by the US Pentagon (if they can't identify them, then who can?). Though, even if that weren't the case, there would be no reason to believe we are alone in the universe. The question, itself, is absurd. It's only while we live our lives in human-made environments engaging in only human-defined relationships, that we can ask that question. Though, if we lived as the birds do, constantly interacting with and engaging with members of other species, we would already know we're not alone.
We're not alone! We are just one member of a vast and diverse tapestry. We are a member of a community of countless different forms of life. We have tricked ourselves into believing that we humans are the only lives worthy of notice, banishing ourselves away from the sense of greater membership offered by such intimate contact with the lizards, birds, and trees. The natural world is not just a static background to our more intelligent and important human experiences. Rather, the natural world is a vast and intricate community of countless beings with intelligences entirely different than our own. If we want to encounter alien intelligence, we don't have to go far. I found it in abundance in the tree in my back yard.
The fact that we even ask if we are alone in the universe is indicative of a tremendous psychic wound upon our species. When suffering from this wound of disconnection, we feel totally alone in an empty universe. This loneliness is extremely common in the modern age. There may be no greater wound than our disconnection from the natural world. We once felt ourselves as part of a rich tapestry of life—with countless fascinating others to engage with and commune with. Now we feel so separate that even to contemplate our loneliness may even induce a panic attack.
To deepen the sadness of it, most of us cannot even begin to imagine the type of communion with the other-than-human world that our ancestors experienced on a daily basis. Our culture lives within a narrative of human exceptionalism. We believe that we humans are special and degrade all other life that we know of to insignificance. This narrative assails us on all sides. Science continually seeks to discover “what separates man from nature.” They say it's the use of tools until they see crows fishing insects out of holes with tools they built themselves. They say it's the use of language until they discover that whale song has changing syntax and regional dialect. They say it's the understanding of fire until wild chimpanzees were witnessed responding to predicted wildfire patterns, demonstrating a knowledge of fire dynamics. Try as we might, nature continues to upend any ideas we have about what separates humans from the rest of creation.
Fortunately, there are trends in the opposite direction as well: ecologists increasingly recognize the interdependent nature of all life, including the human. There are legal battles happening around the world to grant legal rights to nonhuman beings, particularly dolphins and whales. These are encouraging developments, yet the overarching narrative that we're used too is one in which humans are “special” and the whole rest of the community of life is beneath us.
Surely, we think this exceptionalism helps us feel good. Of course, who doesn't like to be told or feel they're special? But as any celebrity will tell you, the initial pleasure of being placed on the pedestal eventually gives way to a profound sense of isolation.
Such is the situation for our entire human species. We feel isolated form the world. We believe our isolation is reality and not the result of a story that places walls around ourselves. Even now, as you read this may feel it. Though, perhaps you don't realize it.
The existential loneliness that inspires questions like, “are we alone in the universe?” is hard for we modern humans to recognize. It is as invisible to us as is the water in which a fish swims. Though, all of us probably do feel it sometimes. Even if we feel it, though, it's an even greater step for us to consider the plants and animals around us may soothe the alienation we feel. The inferiority of these other beings is so deeply ingrained in us that it's hard to believe that connecting with birds might help us feel less alone. Thus, our narrative becomes our prison and we won't even turn towards the light that filters in from the outside.
If you're reading this article and you feel a sense of stirring, longing, or hope at the possibility of connecting more to the natural world—then congratulations. It means that some part of you has already escaped the all-encompassing prison of the human-exceptionalism narrative. If instead you feel only grief at reading this article, then I congratulate you as well. That grief means you are able to feel some bit of our immense loss. That grief, if surrendered too, will lead you to your longing. That longing just might be what guides you back home.
Unfortunately, though, it is all too common to feel nothing. Our culture provides little space for us to feel the devastation of this all-encompassing wound. Perhaps this is wisdom. Perhaps the pain is too much to bear alone.
Though we are not alone in it, even if we are only able to connect with other human beings. This wound is one that has affected probably every one of the nearly 8 billion people alive today. Perhaps we can begin to feel it together. Perhaps then we can find our way home.
“Home” as I use it here is the state of natural communion and connection that all our ancestors once felt. I've written of this before and I believe it is absolutely essential for us to rekindle if we are to thrive through the coming changes in our way of life. And we can
I've written a lot over these past months describing our alienation from different angles and discussing in the abstract ways of returning home. Though, expect a bit of a shift in coming writings. I didn’t begin this newsletter to fixate on all the problems of the world, but rather to invite people into a new way. I see a way forward for our species and for our planet that doesn't involve mass extinction, or the widespread suffering of human beings. It is more than possible for us to rekindle what we've lost and heal ourselves in the process.
I've probably rambled enough about the wounds of modern humans, the unsustainability of our civilization, and the need for widespread change. Now it is time to turn our gaze forwards to a future that is worth living. There are tangible steps that we can begin taking personally and collectively that can heal our modern wounds, begin living harmoniously with the Earth, and seed the kinds of widespread change that just may help the Earth thrive again.
There is a vision of a new world out there—one where we feel communion with one another and the more-than-human world. One that we can create with the choices we make today. Thank you for your patience in sticking with me through the darkness this long. Two weeks from now, I hope to share some light.
https://open.substack.com/pub/lizdoyle/p/on-finding-two-directors-chairs-at?r=fibbn&utm_medium=ios&utm_campaign=post
I have a new ‘sit spot’ down by the willows by our gate. Freshly provided with an ancient ‘directors chair’ I found when clearing out junk from the shed yesterday (see latest post/poem metaphor of our aging selves)
Wish I had communed more lately with frogs, 3 squashed ones on the lane.
Thanks for your reference to cross species bird chat - enjoyed watching 3 disparate (?) groups on the beach, each on their own indistinguishable patches of sand, oyster catchers, sanderlings and hooded crows, whilst a rare flock of ten red legged choughs wheeled loudly behind me