Grit Nature Dirt Self

Exercise Your InkTank
Nature

Writer Mary Gaitskill argues that the primary difficulty with sex in literature is our tendency to confuse and conflate reverence and politeness. It strikes me that if there is a problem with nature in literature, it’s probably similar: our tendency is to conflate respect and reverence. Nature writer David Gessner writes in “Sick of Nature,” “Too often when I flip through the pages of contemporary nature books the tone is awed, hushed, reverential. The same things that drove me away from Sunday School. And the same thing that drove me, unable to resist my own buffoonery, to fart loudly against the pews.” He reminds us that Thoreau’s book Walden has its share of bad puns and fart jokes too, including “references to Pythagrians and their love of beans.”

In attempt to convey the respect we feel is due the natural world, we’ve set it (and Thoreau as its writer-hero) above (ordinary, real, concrete) life. And by setting it above, we’ve set it beyond life in a sexless, humorless place, where (as Gessner phrases it) “nature becomes a kind of bland church.” We’ve inadvertently made it exactly what it’s not: untouchable and uninteresting. The point is, we need not treat nature with the stilted language of reverence and worship in order to demonstrate or evoke respect for it. In fact, we might better demonstrate our respect for nature by writing about its presence in and as ordinary life. Let’s write about it with the true grit and dirt of, well, true grit and dirt. Let’s bring it out of the exalted sky and back into our lives. Perhaps we can care better for it here.

Early Birds
Writers have long argued that the language we habitually use to talk about nature is problematic. Exhibit A: the word wilderness. It refers to untouched, uninhabited, uncultivated land. But the truth is that we’ve had our hands on nearly everything. Less than 5% of old growth forests remain in North America—we destroy 10,000 square km of ancient forests every year. We think of wilderness as other. We have to get away to get into it and once we’re there, we’re supposed to re-connect with it. But why can’t it be with us all of the time? Why can’t we stay connected? If we change the way we talk about nature, perhaps we can change the way we conceive of it and if we change the way we conceive of it, perhaps we can change its value and meaning on a larger cultural scale. In a very real way, many writers now see themselves as the most powerful (and necessary) tool in the environmental movement’s current arsenal. But whether or not you view your work as an instrument of change, you’re a person living in this world. We all have a history with nature. Think about your earliest experiences with it. I’m not necessarily talking about the first time you went camping. I’m asking you to look inside your everyday life. Write about it as you would any early experience, using the language of the personal narrative. Keep the inflated and elevated language of reverence out and aim for the true dirt and grit of ordinary life. Do your small part to change the lexicon.

Some compelling nature writers to investigate, should you feel compelled to do so: Joy Williams, Wendell Berry, Edward Abbey, Barry Lopez, Gary Snyder, Rachel Carson, William Cronon, Rick Bass.