I’ve just completed a the red-dot trail in Worthington State Forest, New Jersey, at the Delaware Water Gap, and after discovering this spot – discovering for me, that is – on the way down the mountain trail, which is a 3 mile loop, I’ve hiked back with my writing tool, my laptop, and I’m going to attempt another phenomenological description. In the past few days I’ve shared with students and colleagues my attempt to write a phenomenology of the special pine tree, the sentinel of the forest behind 29 Sunset Drive. A few have read the attempt, and at least one person, Sam Rocha, posted a response, the one word Contact!, which prompted my commentary from yesterday. So it is with Contact! that I will begin my phenomenological mediation here, at the falls of Dunnenfield Creek.
And I’ll begin with that most important fragment from Thoreau, which has now become the originary prompt for what I have been, for the past week, calling a ‘phenomenology of the forest,’ and the ‘pedagogy of the trees’.
And I’ll begin with that most important fragment from Thoreau, which has now become the originary prompt for what I have been, for the past week, calling a ‘phenomenology of the forest,’ and the ‘pedagogy of the trees’.
“Think of our life in nature, -- daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, -- rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! the solid earth! the actual world! the common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? where are we?”(Thoreau)
Solid > actual > common sense: Contact!
Think of our life in nature. How to think of our life in nature? To begin with, what do mean by ‘our life in nature’? It seems that only after we have taken up that question…[wait a moment…I hear some voices…coming from behind me…no, from above, on a ridge…What is that? Two older men urinating and talking to one another?!?!?....THAT is NOT our life in nature!!!] So, there we have it, begin with the old adage ‘I don’t know exactly what it is, but I know it when I see it,’ and translate that as ‘I don’t know exactly what it is, but I know what it’s not when I see that! And here the problem of ‘people’, or what Sartre called Hell…other people! As I sit here, at these falls, typing away on my laptop, I’m sure that I am appearing as that Hell of the other person…killing the buzz, as the old saying goes. I was thinking of that Hell when I was completing the loop. At times, of course, other people are Heaven, and I’m sure Sartre understood that, and didn’t mean to say everyone who is not me is Hell. I met some cool folks today, a bunch of them, here and there, along the trail, and shared greetings, and even chatted with one or two. Those folks were Heaven.
BUT there is something about being here at these falls, alone with these boulders; the trees, some now laying in that rest that will welcome all living beings at some moment; the water, the flowing rhythmic water that brings it all together; the shower of the falls, the bubbling of the brook that flows after the pool where the falling waters are gathered. Above the falls, which today are a trinity, another pool that I can not see, but now it there because of the play of the sun whose rays are reflecting onto a tree, in a dance of light on bark that is the recasting of the light capturing the gentle flow of the water. Nature makes movies, that it, re-presents movement.
BUT there is something about being here at these falls, alone with these boulders; the trees, some now laying in that rest that will welcome all living beings at some moment; the water, the flowing rhythmic water that brings it all together; the shower of the falls, the bubbling of the brook that flows after the pool where the falling waters are gathered. Above the falls, which today are a trinity, another pool that I can not see, but now it there because of the play of the sun whose rays are reflecting onto a tree, in a dance of light on bark that is the recasting of the light capturing the gentle flow of the water. Nature makes movies, that it, re-presents movement.
Think of our life in nature...to come in contact with it….Contact! Contact! …That is where this life and the thinking of this life begins and ends. Contact! is where and how the phenomenology happens, it is where the truth of that showing is disclosed to us. “Daily to be shown matter…to come in contact with it…” It is this showing that, perhaps, is the way to take up the description. It is this showing that is the phenomenology of the forest. Indeed! Have I missed this all along? I think I may have!
The philosophical question I have been posing all week, “How does one write a description of a tree?” raising the question in such a way that each time I said it the person or people I was speaking with understood, without me having to qualify it, that the problem raised in the question is the apparent vicious circle of anthropocentrism. Language! What is the language that will properly allow us a true description of the tree – yes, the philosopher is aiming at a truth, and for now, the truth is the same old truth of veritas, of getting it right, but NOT on my human terms, but on the terms of Nature. The presumption, then, is that the phenomenology happens to us…Yes! that’s it…that’s the conjecture! To be shown matter, to come in contact with it -- rocks, trees, wind, water, sun, shadows, sounds, smells, sights moss, pebbles, fallen trees, sky, blue, green, rust, yellow, holes, cracks, splashes, sploshes, bubbles, drips. It’s all there… the panta, the many, together, as one…as the one (hen)?
The philosophical question I have been posing all week, “How does one write a description of a tree?” raising the question in such a way that each time I said it the person or people I was speaking with understood, without me having to qualify it, that the problem raised in the question is the apparent vicious circle of anthropocentrism. Language! What is the language that will properly allow us a true description of the tree – yes, the philosopher is aiming at a truth, and for now, the truth is the same old truth of veritas, of getting it right, but NOT on my human terms, but on the terms of Nature. The presumption, then, is that the phenomenology happens to us…Yes! that’s it…that’s the conjecture! To be shown matter, to come in contact with it -- rocks, trees, wind, water, sun, shadows, sounds, smells, sights moss, pebbles, fallen trees, sky, blue, green, rust, yellow, holes, cracks, splashes, sploshes, bubbles, drips. It’s all there… the panta, the many, together, as one…as the one (hen)?
I’m satisfied with this insight…which now seems obvious to me…as if everyone already knew it…as if my friends were all waiting for me…in a manner of my daughters waiting for me when we were hiking Mt. Jackson…but one often feels one’s ideas are arriving belatedly, especially when they are the ones with staying power, the ones that will take root. The pedagogy of the forest, the teaching of the forest via phenomenology…but phenomenology is the word (logos) of what is appearing to us, what is being disclosed to us (phenomena).
Nature loves to hide, says Heraclitus, and I would concur with him in the sense that the pedagogy offered by Nature happens with a showing that is not readily available, is not ‘ready-to-hand’. This is why it requires us to venture into the wilderness, and it demands physical exertion, the kind that will return us to our own physicality. Contact! happens if and when we are already in contact with our bodies, which is a strange kind of solipsism, or so it sounds…a reverb, of sorts. What I am suggesting is something like the contact we feel when we feel and ‘hear’ the strong beating of our hearts (the one beat?), when the exertion really has our heartbeat thumping, our joints creaking and cranking, muscles burning, hard breathing, and sweat, sweat, and more sweat! Exertion, workout...that is the contact that readies us for Contact! for receiving the phenomenology of the forest, and for being ‘translated’ (as Thoreau puts it).
Nature loves to hide, says Heraclitus, and I would concur with him in the sense that the pedagogy offered by Nature happens with a showing that is not readily available, is not ‘ready-to-hand’. This is why it requires us to venture into the wilderness, and it demands physical exertion, the kind that will return us to our own physicality. Contact! happens if and when we are already in contact with our bodies, which is a strange kind of solipsism, or so it sounds…a reverb, of sorts. What I am suggesting is something like the contact we feel when we feel and ‘hear’ the strong beating of our hearts (the one beat?), when the exertion really has our heartbeat thumping, our joints creaking and cranking, muscles burning, hard breathing, and sweat, sweat, and more sweat! Exertion, workout...that is the contact that readies us for Contact! for receiving the phenomenology of the forest, and for being ‘translated’ (as Thoreau puts it).
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The legend of Zarathustra continued this day ten years ago:
“Mist rose up like great applause at the end of a spectacular performance. The amphitheater of stone, time, and turf was filled with the resounding clouds of cool and damp air. A deep quite announced the first moments of dawn. Zarathustra was nearly packed and ready to break camp when the thunderous cawww, cawww of a raven shattered…[p. 375 of the original is missing…for now…I’ll retrieve and include this material when I return to Portland at the end of the week]…
[continued...after returning to Portland]...
cawww, cawww of the raven shattered the stillness. Zarathustra raised is arm above his head, as it to protect himself from the limb he believed was destined to crash upon him. He saw the crow perched above him. 'You startled me, friend, with your alarming greeting,' he said with relief. 'You travel too easily from night to day and day to night, Dreamer, and remain open to the unexpected. You wait upon the unforeseen and have given yourself over to the mysterious and enchanted. Awoken you have been, to the countless paths that await those who travel along this range that we call the Boundless Boundary. This range binds Earth, Sky, and Sun, and this unity ful-fills this world with the Spirit of Life. Within this binding you will encounter six hundred thousand trails, some well trodden, others barely visible. Which one will you take? One that is slow, but rather safe, one that gives you the time to gather in the green of the grass, to smell the wild flowers and eat from bushes ripe with berries, both sour and sweet? Will you take a path that rises quickly alongside the impatient rush of a stream seeking to be reconciled with the river below? Will you take one of the steep and stoney paths, one that puts you to work with the mountains, ascending, rising, deterimined to greet the star as it arrives upon the peaks? How shall you proceed cousin? Will you remain here, resposed, calm, awaiting the clearing of these clouds of unknowing that settle here and gather us, now, into sullen uncertainty? Do you not feel the anxiety emanating from this forlorn mist, the dread of the hunted?' At that moment the black bird released a coarse and clamorous Cawww! Cawww! Cawww! and leaped from its perch, a marrow-spent sapped limb, which fell down down upon Zarathustra, tumbling him into the circled stones where he singed his feet upon the coaled remnants of the camp fire. He howled at the blistering burning, and the raven called back as it soared away above the flow of the river. Zarathustra leaped into the icy waters.
"Misty smoke rose up from embers, now doused and properly extinguished. 'Our desires of climbing fast are dampered, my friends. Today we walk with the small steps of a child, embraced by the hidden beauty that will rise to greet us as we wind our way slowly along the soft ground of the grassy grooves.' The voice of the choir, hidden in the glades, replied, 'What shall we go? Where shall we go?' 'Our destiny is now destined with the direction of the one who has conveyed the news of the six hundred thousand trails. Today we take the paths that unfold with the countenance of grace.' In the unfolding of the...
…enchantment that moved within the clouds of unknowing, Zarathustra gathered his pack and moved along a soft path that lead him away from the river’s rocky bank, through the last of the glades on onto the first steps of the rising range. He sang as he walked with tender feet, Let Us Enjoy Ourselves Here and Now!
For only here on earth
Shall the fragrant flowers last
And the songs that are our bliss.
Enjoy them now!
One day we must go,
One night we will descend into the region of mystery.
Here, we only come to know ourselves;
Only in passing are we here on earth.
In peace and pleasure let us spend our lives, come, let
Enjoy ourselves.
Let us have friends here!
It is the time to know our faces.
Only with flowers
Can our son enrapture.
We will have gone to This house,
But our word
Shall live here on earth.
We will go, leaving behind
Our grief, our song.
For this will be known,
The song shall remain real.
We will have gone to This house,
But our word
Shall live here on earth.
I weep, I feel forlorn;
I remember that we must leave flowers and songs.
Let us enjoy ourselves now, let us sing now!
For we go, we disappear.
Remove trouble from your hearts, O my friends.
As I know; so do others;
Only once do we live.
Let us in peace and pleasure spend our lives;
Come, let us enjoy ourselves!
Let not those who live in anger join us,
The earth is so vast.
Oh! That one could live forever!
Oh! That one never had to die!”*
*These lyrics from the “Thought of the Sages,” are taken from Native American Mesoamerican Spirituality (pp. 181-187)
I was struck when reading these lyrics how much they resounded with the feelings and thoughts I was experiencing earlier today when I was writing by the Dunnenfield Creek falls; especially the emphasis placed on ‘This house’, which reminds me of Thoreau’s emphasis on actual world. Of course, the lyrics are referring to the place of death, and not the earth, but to “the region of mystery.” It is a deeply existential song, and precisely the one that Zarathustra would be singing as he finally departs for his cave, where, ironically, he will again take up a kind of solitary residency, but one that we can presume is totally unlike the one he had taken up in the wasteland where, in fact, he had been ‘asleep’ and living in a ‘dream’, which is meant to suggest the life of the metaphysician, the one who dwells in the realm of pure ideas, focusing on what is apparently ‘beyond’ what is, the ‘presence-at-hand.’
3.0 (Saturday, Portland, ME). The above is a bit overwhelming, both in terms of the amount of content, but more so in terms of the coincidence after having spent a week up in Bar Harbor, and riding in Acadia NP every afternoon, averaging 15 miles on the carriage roads, up and down the mountains, over gorges, with clear vistas of the bay and Atlantic ocean beyond. But this past week I had the opposite experience of Contact! At the very least I can say I was riding in a zen like manner, slow and steady, almost always alone on the stretch of gravel, enountering maybe 8 or 10 folks during the two hour ride. At times I felt some Contact!, some transcendental moment of connection with the forest. But mostly I just had a calm and peaceful flow, that was only interrupted by preoccupations about the draft of "LEARN" or composing "Caldwell '84" in my imagination. All that to say, I read the above from a distance, not only in time but philosophically too. And I'm not even motivated to reconnect, largely because "LEARN" is a phenomenological description of a tradition of study that has always been happening within the walls, so to speak, or inside. This is not an outdoor education, and what I am writing is quite far from a phenomenology of the trees. There's dialectical opposition of sorts between a phenomenology of trees and one of study. It's the world/nature distinction that Arendt has worked out. I had aspirations of working on outdoor education, but that was short lived. And this brings me to a worry or concern, but mostly a worry about my writing, which seems to happen spontaneously in the Moment (the present), but also remains there. When Arendt says, and I cite her in "LEARN," that action is like an artistic performance and leaves nothing behind, I embrace that description for discussion. But I wonder what that entails for a writing/thinking, the kind I do? Something is left behind, i.e, the writing, but what of the inspiration that produced it? What of the specific moment in the Moment? One cannot go back to those hours on those particular days. This much is certain. And so too the moment of inspiration. But is that also the case with thought that emerges in the particular moment, is that also rooted in the past (despite having occurred in the present)? This is a worry because when I was reading "LEARN" this week at times I had to reread a section to make sense of what I had written! It seems as if it should be this way. It seems as if I should be able to offer more than the most general description of the project. Sustaining the narrative and not losing the plot. This is my concern and what will motivate me in the coming weeks as I edit "LEARN."
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