There are are as many sets of constellations as there are suns from which to look out on the universe, each solar system a proof point for the inescapable law of perspective.

I was on CFRU’s Family Matters show with Wendy McDonnell again this past Sunday to talk about the subject of nature deficit.  The other guests were John Jantunen and Anne Gajerski-Cauley.  If you are interested to have a listen, you can get the link through Wendy’s blog, Compassionate Solutions, or you can listen to the archived .mp3 file here.

We have had a few hot days lately, and so the complaining has begun, as it always does, usually by the same people who complain about cold in winter and rain in spring and raking in autumn, which is to say almost everyone, at least it seems that way to me.  Wherever I go, people are constantly rushing from their air conditioned houses to their air conditioned cars to their air conditioned offices to their air conditioned shopping centres to their air conditioned gyms, most of which keep the air cooler in the summer than they keep it warm in the winter, so that you almost need to wear a sweater indoors.  The outdoors has become merely a desert to traverse between one oasis and another, and as quickly as possible.  Any temperature higher than twenty-five degrees is an imposition, something to be endured for only as long as necessary and then remedied with all possible haste.

What seems to be lost on this culture of artificial environments is that most of the world’s population manages to endure much hotter climates without any air conditioning at all.  They wear appropriate clothing.  They organize their routines so that they rest during the hottest parts of the day and do their work when it is cooler.  They stay in the shade as much as possible.  In other words, they adapt to their environment. They endure it as  part of living in their landscape and their habitat.   The human animal is capable of this.  It has been doing it for the life of the species.  There is nothing that prevents it from doing so now.  Nothing accept laziness and gluttony, of course.

We live in a world that faces the manifold implications of high energy consumption, with oil prices continually rising faster than inflation and constituting the biggest driver of inflation, with air quality around the world steadily declining, with global climate change threatening to cause any number of unpleasant problems, and with the occasional energy disaster (the Deepwater Horizon Oil spill, for example, or the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear meltdown) just to top things off.  Yet, despite all this, our culture still insists on air conditioning itself, not just on the hottest days, when a certain degree of air conditioning in certain places could conceivably be said to be necessary for the elderly and the invalid, but most of every day, at a temperature that is indefensible by any standard at all other than the most excessive self-indulgence.

What is more, this unwillingness to experience our climate distances us from our environment.  It makes us strangers to it.  We are no longer at home in our landscape and our habitat.  We are disconnected from the world, prevented from living in it naturally.

It is possible, however, to live otherwise.  It is possible to turn off our air conditioners, to wear clothing that breathes in the heat, to do our business in the cooler hours.  It will hurt no one to sweat a little, to feel the sun a little, to endure the heat a little.  If nothing else, quite apart from any benefits to the environment and the economy and the energy crisis, it will remind us of the place where we we live.  It will relocate us in our landscape, make us more aware of our habitat.  It will, in other words, make us more at home in our environment.

I have never seen a muskrat before, and I was not expecting to see one when I wandered down for a walk by the river the other day.  I thought I might see the mallard ducks that can usually be found just north of the park, no matter how cold the weather, and I hoped to see some winter birds, some nuthatches, or grosbeaks, or chickadees, or cardinals, but I had no thought whatsoever for muskrats.  As I was taking some photographs of the mallards, however, I saw that they were circling and feeding around a disturbance in the water, and the disturbance soon revealed itself to be a muskrat that pulled itself onto the far shore and began grooming itself as the mallards kept feeding where its foraging had disturbed the river bottom.  I took a few photographs and then tried to get a little closer, but the river was too wide to get a really good shot, and the ice was not as thick as I thought, so I only ended up getting my one leg wet up past the knee.

Now, a muskrat is only a muskrat, granted.  It is not exactly rare as wildlife goes, certainly not if one can be found on the Speed River in the middle of Guelph.  Even so, I was struck by the sensation of newness as I was walking back, the feeling that I often have when I encounter something for the first time, and I reflected on the curiously wonderful fact that I could still have this experience so close to my own door, that I could still walk down the road such a little ways and find something that I had never found before.

As I was thinking these things, it occurred to me that the key to this experience of discovery is a certain willingness to look and to see.  I have said something like this any number of times before, and I know that I am repeating myself, but I think this fact is unavoidable: We must go looking in order to find.  It is not that I went looking for muskrats.  It is that I went looking for something, for mallards, and for some song birds, and for the river itself, and this looking was surprised by something that it did not expect.  I found something new, not because I went looking for it, but because I went looking, pure and simple, and so I was able to find something, even and especially something I did not expect.

For those who are interested, here are some photographs of my walking and looking.

I am always confronted by the verticality of the forest, by the way it ascends, layer on layer, from the underbrush to the canopy, and my walking through the forest, even when I am walking along its paths, seems like it moves along the wrong plane, fails to recognize the movement proper to its place.  I am always finding it necessary to stoop toward the flowers and the insects and the snakes, always finding it necessary to crane toward the birds and the butterflies and the leaves and the very sky.  I am pulled in both directions, stretched between earth and sky, and this tension is not lessened, only intensified the further I walk in it.  Though I know it is not so, though I can think of countless examples to the contrary, it seems impossible to me that horizontality is not a purely human thing, a purely unnatural thing, confined to those places where we have cleared the forest so that we might break the terrible tension that suspends us, longingly, in verticality.

The dogwoods stand among the still winter-gold grasses, red on gold, defiantly, though everything will soon succumb to green, to fecundity, to the leaves just now budding on the dogwood stems, to the shoots hidden beneath the litter of the grass, and to the evergreen of the forest, the scrambling junipers, the saplings of spruce and balsam, the outliers of a green that will soon permit no red and gold to mar it.

My eldest son set me a task as we were driving up to Parry Sound this past Saturday: “Dad, let’s find a salamander.”

This task, I knew, would be harder than he realized.  Though my brothers and I regularly found salamanders during the summers we spent on Manitoulin Island and in Blind River, I found the little creatures to be much less common when I went to find them as an adult, even in the same places.  We used to keep in a bucket six or eight specimens at a time of what I now think were Redback Salamanders, but I have not seen more than one of these a summer in recent years, though I am unsure whether this is due to a decline in their population or to a decrease in my patience in looking for them.

In any case, I was non-committal about our chances of finding a salamander during our stay at the lake, and my caution proved justified.  I turned countless rocks and logs, discovering more ant nests than I thought possible and a precious few worms that went to feed our catch and release fishing sessions from the end of the dock.  I also found a toad, a patch of previously unknown blueberry bushes, and several species of beetle, but no salamanders.

On the first day we were there, however, on a whim, I tossed the minnow trap into the water beside the boathouse.  It was unbaited, and I did not expect to catch anything much.  I may even have forgotten about it entirely if it had not begun to rain on our fishing yesterday afternoon.  I caught sight of the trap as we headed for shelter in the boathouse, so I decided to check it as we passed, and there, huddled against the side, was a common mudpuppy.

This was certainly not what my son had meant by a salamander, and certainly not what I had expected to find for him, but it was a very interesting creature nonetheless.  The mudpuppy is an aquatic salamander, having external gills and spending its time almost exclusively in the water.  It also grows quite large, our specimen being something like ten inches in length.  My son was overjoyed, and I was excited as well, since it was the first time I had been able to hold and examine a mudpuppy at such close quarters.

As we were releasing the salamander back into the water, I suddenly remembered a conversation that I once had with Dave Humphrey about seeing.  It occurred to me that I had been looking for something in particular, for something that I expected to find only in a certain way and in a certain place, rather than seeing what was actually there, rather than being watchful for what I might actually encounter.  Rather than allowing myself to simply explore and see what was there, and I had been looking past my surroundings in search of something that may not have been there at all.

Of course, the act of seeing may still involve rolling stones, or tossing out a minnow trap, for that matter.  It just rolls stones differently.  It rolls them, not in order to find something in particular, not in expectation, but in order to see what there might be, in wonder.  It explores rather than searches.  It attends.  It approaches.  It encounters.  It experiences.  It allows itself to be surprised.