“In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life—no disgrace, no calamity…which nature cannot repair.” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
It starts sometimes with something as innocuous as a shift of the light or a tiny movement in the landscape. The eye is drawn as if by a magnet and cannot pull its gaze away. At that point, it becomes involuntary as the senses move toward their ancient source, toward what they still, after all these millions of years, relate to instinctively.
More often than not, we take our love of nature for granted. We swoon over spectacular sunrises and sunsets and bask in the lushness of a dense forest or in the sea of color in a flower-filled meadow. We thrill to the sight of birds at our feeders or at deer, alert and ears perked, standing at attention in a field. Seeing nature’s beauties is one thing, and I’d be the last person to minimize the benefits of that. But how often do we think of all that comes into play during that process, as we interact, sometimes without even knowing it, to all she has to offer?
On a recent excursion into the great outdoors, I performed a little experiment that consisted of noting which of my senses came into play first and in what order the others would follow. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that nature gratifies them all to one degree or another during out interactions with her and the moment and the setting dictating the order.
Sight, of course, opens the door to whatever lies beyond. Something I see draws me in for a closer look, and I have no choice but to follow. Then, something teases my sense of smell, be it the piney scent of a dense stand of evergreens or the rich fecund aroma of a forest floor still wet after the last rainfall. Sometimes I’ve unknowingly stepped on some small ground-cover herb that releases its pungent oils, allowing the air to waft their rich aroma upward. Or the thick scent of fungi clinging to a fallen log imbues the air molecules, adding another layer to the experience.
These two senses engaged, sounds then become audible, and there the list is endless depending upon where I am and what happens to be going on outside myself. Birds, of course, are always ready to add their notes to the moment, as are certain insects, such as cicadas and crickets. And if I’m lucky, water bubbling over rocks in a nearby stream or brook may add complexity to the melody. Sounds from the outside, such as that produced by cars and trucks, airplanes, chainsaws, train whistles and human voices might intrude. But their notes come to me from a distance, filtered by the trees and gently tempered by leaves and pine needles.
As for the sense of touch, nature doesn’t disappoint there either. For the woods and fields and water ways provide many different textures and sensations, from the crisp cool fluidity of dew clinging to a spider’s web to the bark of trees, be it smooth or furrowed. The softness of moss, the hardness of stone, the brush of wind on our faces, the sharpness of thorns…all registered by the nerve endings just beneath our skin and relayed to our brains where we are once again reminded of our connection to it all.
Of the five senses, taste is perhaps that which requires the most effort on our part when we find ourselves in a natural setting. But it is not without its very pleasant rewards if we know what to look for. First and foremost among nature’s taste sensations are the wild berries that grow in many forgotten places. Both low and high-bush blueberries and tiny super-sweet wild strawberries are always a treasure to find, as are wild raspberries and blackberries. And it’s a real treat to come upon fox grapes, the wild cousin to the Concord grape. These black beauties offer an eye-watering tangy first bite of the skin, which reveals a much sweeter and juicy pulp within.
I’ve also come upon maple trees in late winter or early spring that are so full to bursting with sap that it’s possible to poke a small hole in the trunk and sample a few drops of it. It is not, of course, thick like the product it is transformed into after a long and slow simmer in the sugar houses of Maine. But calling it sweet water would not be far off the mark. And it is the rare spot I’ve visited in which I’ve not managed to come upon a bed of wintergreen, its small ovate waxy leaves hugging the forest floor and just waiting to provide a quick burst of crisp flavor to the tongue.
Our bodies are not merely extensions of all that we see, smell, hear, feel and taste beyond the spaces we occupy but also become repositories of all those sensations. So it should come as no surprise that it takes all our senses to gain a full and varied experience and appreciation of nature. And what better or more rewarding way to put them all through their paces than by taking a walk in the woods, exploring outcroppings at the beach, or foraging for wild edibles just waiting to be discovered? For it is through our senses working together that nature so effectively comforts and heals, as only pure truth can.
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