William Blake’s “Earth’s Answer” poem begins by personifying the Earth as a female figure:
“Earth rais’d up her head,
From the darkness dread & drear.
Her light fled:
Stony dread!
And her locks cover’d with grey despair.”
Blake is a poet who constantly romanticizes and personifies wild and pure nature, moaning that her hair has been imprisoned by despair. I’m aware that some reject attributing human qualities to nature, and writing courses go on about “the pathetic fallacy,” since the “sorrowing sands” offend our Reason. But with a surging global population soaring past 8 billion humans and our natural lands under so much stress and threatened development, perhaps we need to personify and fall in love with local nature.
Natural bodies of water such as Zaca Lake, our remaining oxygen-producing forests, our deserts, our beaches and mountains all summon a kind of devotion. They can also demand us to focus on them and appreciate this platform upon which we flourish as humans. We can remember there really isn’t any Planet B despite Elon Musk’s absurd Martian dreams.
During my 50-plus years hiking and camping in our dry local backcountry, I’ve fallen into the odd habit of lying in the dirt (pine needles better if available) and simply resting there. The only goal is no goal since all goals end up as gaols, as the Brits spell jail.
True “rest” for me involves a flight from the digital urban realm, from all electronics and most people, and extremely close contact with soil (the earth). Pine needles, sands, dead leaves, soil … any of these can help us regenerate.
Greek and Roman mythology always interested me, and I worked toward a Ph.D. in ancient Greek history. The uncanny Antaeus myth instructs us about the human duty to protect the land and seas, to take care for our Mother Earth, call her Gaia or Durga or whatever name pleases you.
Recounted in Ovid’s “Metamorphoses“, Antaeus is the giant son of Poseidon and Mother Earth in her Gaia guise. Hercules is described on one of his 12 iconic labors as he passes through Libya to fetch the golden Apples of the Hesperides. In a garden at the far west of the known universe, Ladon, a hundred-headed dragon, guards the immortality-giving precious “apples.”
But Heracles must first cross Libya to reach the sacrosanct Hesperides, and there he engages in the famous wrestling contest with Antaeus. Antaeus forces anyone crossing his turf to wrestle him for the right to cross.
Museums in Athens as well as rooms in the Met’s Greek and Roman Collections house several stunning Attic red-figure vases depicting the giant (sometimes shown as a monster) wrestling with heroic Hercules. Three points stick out when we consider the story and the wrestling contest: Antaeus protects his Mother and manages to throw Hercules down several times. By using his Reason, not just his great strength, Hercules learns that every time Antaeus hits the dirt Gaia infuses her son with even more strength.
Hercules finally holds the giant aloft and chokes him to death with one hand. The lesson is that we will never reach those apples of immortality … because we are neither divine (as Hercules later became) nor as smart as Hercules.
Every time I hit the dirt, I honestly believe that I get stronger, too. Crawling through chaparral, dozing in the dust — often the choice is simple like you see in the first photo where I simply fell onto the soil near a pictograph site we had been monitoring. Pushing through small streams also has given me a much closer feeling for nature.
There are also times when one chooses to crawl through some chaparral to get to a specific rock shelter or a hidden campsite. Some of these excursions have lead to small cuts or minor scrapes as seen in the photograph below.
For these, I now wear gloves, a very tough long-sleeved shirt, and I tuck trousers into the boots … plus, ditch the hiking poles.
However, my penchant for lying on or slumbering in the dirt can be cleansing as well as aromatic, maddening and thorny, but remember — it’s usually clean dirt!
We continue to read about urban humans who feel out of touch with the planet and deeply disconnected from the beautiful natural reality all around. At the same time, there is substantial evidence that almost half of today’s young people would prefer a world without the internet and social media, which together form part of the barrier to embracing Gaia, our Mother Earth.
While it’s likely that most of us do not need more studies informing us that human interactions with nature have dropped dramatically, I found an article in the journal Nature titled, “Human connection to nature has declined 60% in 200 years, study finds.” The statistic is frightening, and the author comments that humans risk the “extinction of experience” in the natural world unless we come up with new policies.
When fording streams or crossing small rivers (e.g. the Sespe), one can get that feeling of burrowing into the very bosom of Mother Nature.
In his “Earth’s Answer” poem, Blake wonders how can “the plowman in darkness plow?” and then asks:
“Does spring hide its joy
When buds and blossoms grow?
Does the sower sow by night?
Or the plowman in darkness plow?”
Whenever I’ve taken students hiking and backpacking, I’ve contrived to offer them moments of near solitude for reflection and psychological immersion in their natural Mother.
The other teachers and I would string the children along a remote trail at 50-foot intervals and just leave them there for 10 minutes or so. Sometimes students would report nothing, but other kids were able to tune in and begin to feel their Mother Earth’s power and revivifying joy.
Nature doesn’t hide Her joy, yet we must be present and receptive to notice those growing blossoms. Why would the sower sow at night?
Hercules represents Reason as well as strength when he figures out the maternal source of Antaeus’ increasing energy. Perhaps the example of heroic Antaeus’ connection to Earth can inspire us to find temporary escape from this digital hellscape “Reason” has fostered around us.
While lurching around the Santa Barbara backcountry leads to wonderfully wild and inspiring experiences, at times one is left exhausted, filthy and thrilled at the same moment.
4.1.1.
Ovid recounts the Antaeus myth in Book IX of his “Metamorphoses.”