Deep, dense green stretched beneath us, expanding to touch blue-gray where the forest met the sea. Wisps of clouds clung to treetops, their edges fraying and drifting with the breeze. Green cloaked the mountains and wrapped the town below in mist-shrouded life.
“The forest is so close here,” he said over the thunder of the airplane. “The wilderness is so close.”
He was right, although somehow, I had never thought of it that way. The wilderness was on the edge of every road, every building. This was Alaska, where there are few people, small towns, and great expanses between them.
Rain fell as we disembarked, low clouds covering the rugged mountain peaks and sinuous glaciers that wound between them. But I could feel their presence, knew they loomed above us. Tears stung my eyes and my heart skipped a beat. I was in the presence of old friends again, at last.
As a kid, growing up here, I spent much of my time in my own head, and I still do. I think I never felt alone here, tucked away in this remote corner of Alaska, because nature was so close. There is undercurrent beneath everything, teeming with life, flowing with energy and purpose. I was one with it all here, the wildlife, the trees, the mountains, the storms. It moved around and with me, powerful and eternal.
I have always found deep comfort in the indifferent order of nature. Tides rise and fall, rivers flow, birds migrate. Seasons turn and return again and again, regardless of what I feel. Regardless of grief or joy, pain or pleasure. Nature is steady, constant in its shifting. An endless dance of energy. It has been here long before me, and will be here long after.
And here, in Alaska, the power of nature is palpable. It makes me at once giddy and nostalgic, feral and reverent. As if I am remembering a truth much older and much deeper than my own body.
Such proximity to wildlife, to the forces of nature, offers a certain kind of grace that I have trouble accessing in any other way. It gives us the chance to experience ourselves as a small piece of the larger whole. To set down our personal strife and surrender to a greater power. I think this is what people mean when they talk about God. Or at least the kinds of people I like to talk to about such things.
I’ve never squared with most religion because of its anthropogenic focus. Much of it sees God as a human, a man, specifically, and its teachings, lessons, and mythology are human-centric. And yes, that makes sense because we are humans, and we experience the world from inside this little human shell.
But I feel God best in nature, in wilderness. I know God when I feel salt spray and hear the harsh staccato of gulls. When I look into the eyes of a harbor seal suspended with perfect buoyancy in ocean waves, watching me where I stand on the gently rocking boat, and I know her soul and mine are the same. When wind drives wet snow stinging into my face and my legs burn, and there is only me and the mountain and this moment, this breath, this heartbeat.
I am released from this ceaseless, suffocating focus on self. I forget what I look like, if my hair is a mess (it is), if I remembered to put on mascara today. I forget to post on Instagram or check my email. I forget this constant struggle to “create content” and “market ourselves” that we all seem to have signed up for as artists of the modern world. It looks so silly and pointless from here.
This is the best cure I know for lack of confidence, for insecurity. Just stop separating yourself from the whole. Stop pretending you are a little isolated island who must figure it all out and do it all yourself. Really, there is nothing left to figure out.
You are a piece of this larger picture. You are from here. You are nature incarnate. You have never really been separate. And if you are not separate, if you are nature itself, then you are already perfect, already complete.
So well written and so true ♥️
You are stunning ang. Your mind and your presence! Beautiful writing. Thank you for sharing.