Scenic Drive
Imagine this: mom and dad in front seats of their SUV with kids in back. Sister is streaming a virtual reality movie about fictional humanoids on the flip-down screen – had to close the sunroof to block natural light. Brother is doing a Netflix cartoon movie with earbuds to block out the entire outside world. Dad is riding shotgun, face in his cell phone and thumbing online poker. Mom is hands-free driving while responding to a text: her GPS has no indication of police in the near distance. The family has been in the midst of mountains with cascading waterfalls to their left and a shimmering lake to their right since they drove past the Scenic Drive billboard sign twenty minutes ago. None saw the sign, and not one noticed Mother Nature and her wonderous bounty since … not really a stretch of the imagination, is it?
Social Media
Indeed, social media addiction has marginalized the intimacy between humankind and nature.
I’m reminded that modern life encourages speed and distraction: cellphones, schedules, and obligations pull our attention inward, away from noticing nature’s intrinsic goings-on. Sunrises and sunsets happen whether we notice or not, and there’re more things going on when seasons change than resetting our clocks and rearranging our wardrobes. In many cases, nature has been dwindled to casual glances rather than active participation. This lack of presence precludes experiencing the tranquil or remarkable lessons that nature offers. Again I’m reminded, even animals are encountered digitally more often than naturally by some of us.
Presence
My connection to nature began early as I grew up in Oregon, in the midst of forests and deserts, mountains and valleys, rivers and lakes, and into the Pacific Ocean. Places my parents took me on weekends and whenever Dad could take time off work. We would camp, sometimes for weeks in a wilderness, and the experiences taught more than outdoor skills. They taught observation, they taught patience, they instilled respect. Whether fishing in Tillamook Bar or on the Columbia River, hunting in the Wallowa or Blue Mountains, or simply walking through desert landscapes, nature was a classroom without walls. Each environment had its own rhythm and demands, and each rewarded me with special feelings of serenity and self-worth: a sense of “one with nature”.
I also learned that natural happenings sometimes counter human notions of tragedy or fatality. Forest fires are disasters only because we proclaim such: floras emerge in fire-enriched soils, some seedlings germinate only because of forest fires, and rejuvenated woodlands materialize for creatures’ habitats. And, how about mom and dad salmon in upstream fresh water? Destined to die where they spawn so their carcasses can ensure soon-to-be newborns’ survival. I learned from these and many other of nature’s designs over the years, and they shaped how I comprehend “life”. Only we humans attempt to adapt nature to us rather than the reverse. Cycles are inevitable; adaptation is essential; Presence matters.
Continuance
Although I’m of European descent, Native American customs influence my convictions. This, too, began early in life with Dad sharing his relationships with nearby Native Americans while growing up in Eastern Washington and Northern Oregon. One powerful notion that influences my outlook is Gerald Vizenor’s concept of survivance. I quoted a phrase from his book, Survivance: Narratives of Native Presence, in my memoir’sPreface: “… the active sense of presence over absence, deracination, and oblivion; survivance is the continuance of stories …”. This resonates with me firmly, and nature reinforces my outlook continuously. Mountains and rivers don’t react to our struggles. Nor do they react to any other of humanity’s emotions. Landscapes change, animals and plants adjust, life continues – and flourishes – without commentary. Even in the aftermath of cataclysms. Naturally.
Endurance, inherent to nature, guided me through hurdles into a way of life that centers on presence and observation. Empirical ordeals rather than theological doctrine. And I challenge Western religion’s focus on after-life bliss rather than seeking a paradise on Earth through engagement. Nature prepared me for facing difficulties without dramatizing them, and I sincerely hope that Such Is Life?’s narrative is comforting and supportive as readers venture through struggles and into contentment.
So. Such is Life? is a memoir rather than an autobiography. One of its themes reflects on how my immersion in nature shaped my perspectives. Forests, deserts, waterways, and oceans taught me as much about life as academia did. Nature offered lessons that were practical, grounding, and quietly profound. One invitation my narrative suggests is to slow down and take notice of what is out there apart from that which humankind produces: paying attention to both the smallest details and the widest horizons. Wisdom and serenity are there, waiting … whether we choose to embrace them or not.
