When I first read Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring it was in a
“Muckraking America” honors history course in college. Our professor, Dr. Morton, was a woman
in her last semester before retirement and she was passionate about the issues
we discussed in a way that I couldn’t understand, but that I loved. I hadn’t seen the changes in the world
as she had, but I darn well was learning about the effects—good and bad. I vividly remember a video clip she
showed of people sitting idly at a picnic table while being showered with a
“beneficial” chemical. As I read
Rodney Jones’ “Assault on the Fields” in the poetry anthology, Wild Reckoning,
that was provoked by Carson’s book, his description of the chemical “snow”
through which his father rode his tractor immediately brought me back to the
horseshoe of tables where we sat listening to Dr. Morton’s fierce
indignation. It wasn’t an
opinionated old woman or even an articulate 1960’s author who built the fire
burning in my heart for the destruction of our environment. They may have provided some fuel, but
the logs had already been carefully arranged.
This summer I chose to participate in the EarthWalk Vermont Progressive Institute for Educators.
EarthWalk is a nature-nurturing program that thoughtfully mentors children
to develop their connection and appreciation for the land. Our experience commenced with the end
of the EarthWalk week-long camp where we sang songs, heard stories and welcomed
the continuation of the passions the campers had developed. Fire was brought to our circle by a
teen using a hand bowdrill. Her
practice in the art of forming a coal was evident, but the fruit of her labor
would have quickly died had the flaming tinder bundle not had an intentionally
constructed fire structure in which to grow. When the campers said their fond farewells, Angella—the
Program Director—shared with our remaining group of nine educators a poem
written by an EarthWalk Parent:
FIRE
by Judy Brown
What makes a fire burn
is the space between the logs,
a breathing space.
Too much of a good thing,
too many logs
packed too tight:
can douse the flames
almost as surely
as a pail of water would.
So building fires
requires attention
to the spaces in between,
as much as to the wood.
When we are able to build open spaces
in the same way
we have learned
to pile on the logs,
then we can come to see how
it is fuel, and the absence of fuel
together, that make fire possible.
We only need to lay a log
Lightly from time to time.
A fire
grows
simply because the space is there,
with openings
in which the flame that knows just how it wants to burn
can find its way.
Dr. Morton and Rachel Carson added logs to an already
well-ventilated fire structure. As
a child I spent a week each year hiking in the mountains of Acadia National Park
in Maine. As referenced in my poem---, I spent hours after school trudging
through ponds in rubber boots. I
grew up in nature. Each frog I
caught and examined added a “mouse-tail stick” to my fire structure. Every time I climbed another bald Maine
mountain I laid a “chickadee stick” to the pile. The nights I laid in the cool grass learning the
constellations gathered “deer leg branches” to add once the fire grew. My experiences in nature have prepared
me to take its well being up as a personal cause. Reading “Silent Spring” without having had these experiences
or hearing Dr. Morton’s ridicule of the way we treat our natural habitat
without the personal experiences in nature to draw upon may very well have been
like trying to catch a stack of chopped wood on fire; the flame may have
flickered briefly, but with no rhyme or reason to the structure—no open
spaces—the fire would not last.
We need the fire to last—to burn strong. Without a nurtured cause in our hearts,
our lifestyle and thoughtless acts may destroy our earth and in that
ourselves.
I had thought when I decided to take this time on the land
to read and write poetry that it would be a simple exercise in learning more
about a way to arrange words. What
I found, however, was that in selecting eco-poetry—as opposed simply to nature
poetry—I discovered the brilliant importance of this art form in engaging
individuals with their environments—a way to build up the “mouse-tails” needed
to start a roaring fire. The
exploration of this discovery is the subject of the essay provided here along
with my journal entries.
