Learning from the land
This is an entry from my journal where I comment on how I learn by observing the phenomena around me.
Another rainy day goes by. This is the first wet winter at the hut. The previous two were quite dry, foreshadowing the droughts that followed for the rest of the year. Last winter was especially harsh in this regard. It led to an extra dry spring and summer, which culminated in the devastating wildfires that affected a large part of the island.
Living here has made me more aware of my surroundings. This is because I tend to my land. Each day I walk around, to casually enjoy the little things but also to update my mental model of what is in my midst. I take note of changes to the environment. A new offshoot appears, grass grows more dense in an area that was once barren, or there are signs of water accumulating at some spot. This is the raw data that allows me to anticipate change and plan accordingly.
For example, soon after I got here I realised that the back side of my land was prone to flooding. The adjacent stream brings an unstoppable torrent of water after each heavy rainfall. I could tell that the risk of me getting hit was remote, but was eager to work towards mitigating the threat. Cutting the long story short, I laboured to redirect the flow of water, such that it does not touch my land at a steep angle. Flooding is practically impossible now.
I recognise that to be here I have to show respect to the forces around me. They have their own mechanisms, which I must discern and align my presence with. When you take matters into your own hands, it is dangerous to be frivolous and absent-minded. Or, to put it differently, you cannot afford to be such unless you are being taken care of.
The world is alive. It is not a mere backdrop to the show I am featuring in. Concepts such as “the environment” are mental shortcuts. If we want to be more accurate, we have to talk about systems of systems within which different forms of life are made manifest. To be aware of my surroundings, then, is another way of describing my continuous study of immanent life.
The more I observe, the better I understand that the cosmos is consistent. I can discern patterns in how the landscape develops over time which ultimately find application to human affairs. The flowing waters, for instance, have made poignant the notion that mountains are being flattened over time. The human lifespan is too short to measure up to such a process, though even within a few years we can appreciate how a tiny bit of mountain is moved by the weather.
I built some stairs out of soil by carving them on the side of the mountain. Within less than three years, they have been smoothed by the succession of sunshine and rainfall. A stepped configuration has turned into a near slide. It shows how continuous exposure can create smoothness, given a certain unit of time. This is not a descriptor that is limited to the soil though. It works equally well for our own experiences.
In everything we do, we are subject to this mechanism. It is neither good nor bad, or it is both good and bad, depending on the specifics of the case. Sometimes, the smoothing out is what makes us more effective at our role. We reduce the friction by removing the sharp edges. At other times, being more smooth means that we have declined: those edges are what gave us our comparative advantage.
It helps to be mindful of this phenomenon. It couches our outlook in terms of dynamism. Instead of treating any given state of affairs as static, we appreciate its potential for change; change that may be gradual yet inexorable insofar as creating conditions that undo the case we started out with. We often refrain from trying something in earnest because we overestimate the staying power of the initial friction. At the other end, we cling on to an arrangement of relationships and routines without realising that our role and its impact have been eroded.
I learn from the land by giving it my undivided attention. It ultimately is how I have developed most of my thoughts about life: be mindful and think things through. People will often ask “which books have you read”. The truth is that I have not read much. From now on I will start responding with “the real issue is how attentively you are observing, how carefully you are listening, and how deeply you are thinking”. Not to imply that books are useless, but that the book count or, indeed, the entries in one’s private library, are not a reliable predictor.
The consistency of the world means that we do not need to explore every corner of it to develop profound insights. A small portion will suffice. I have not seen all of the flowers, for instance. The ones that do grow in my vicinity are beautiful. Appreciating their beauty does not require knowledge of the totality of flowers. I do not have to fathom every possible flower. What I get is enough and I am thankful for it.