The Spirituality of the Wilderness: Do We Need to Pray in Nature, or Are We Already Praying?
The first snow of the season is falling today. This puts me in the mood.
When winter comes, I feel the pull to get in touch with the spirituality bumping against the rough edges inside me, waiting for me to do more than just acknowledge its existence each day. Which means, of course, that I head outdoors. The chores of summer are done, and other than shoveling snow now and then, there is nothing for me to do outside but revel in the beauty of nature and think of its origins.
Unlike the other seasons that open my spirit up to the breezes of the universe and make me want to talk to everyone, winter draws me into a tight ball where I want to curl up in my cenobitic room with hot tea and read books about the interior life. Winter’s landscape changes my city into the grounds of a monastery where I walk over snow-covered streets by myself, wandering through the labyrinth of my mind and the cloisters of my heart.
Winter is a harsh environment. It is quieter, life moves slower, and the sense of God’s presence deepens and surrounds me with crystalline beauty.
One year I lived in a small town in Wisconsin and walked three miles to work, going through woods and along a river while reciting the Jesus Prayer on the way there and back. In the middle of winter, with icicles forming on my beard and snow covering my head and coat, I felt like a Russian Orthodox pilgrim.
We would like to be mindful of God all the time. How we accomplish this is the challenge.
A number of early Christians escaped the distractions of the city and went into what they thought was barren desert where conditions were harsh and they expected to focus completely on God. They did feel God’s presence, but they also noticed life living around them on a smaller scale.
For centuries after this, without a desert available to most, monks and nuns stayed away from society’s distractions by closing themselves away in monasteries to live the mysteries of God. Because they also had to support themselves, they worked outside to grow food and discovered the spiritual connections between nature and God. They felt the pace of their life shift to move with the rhythms of the seasons.
Thomas Merton, a monk at Gethsemani Monastery, nurtured this connection by living in a hermitage in the woods where he could explore nature’s Liturgy of the Hours and celebrate God’s presence.
John Muir, who had a strict upbringing in the Bible, loved the outdoors when he worked the family farm in Wisconsin. Later he went to Yosemite where he said that he worshipped as he never had inside a building.
Most of us don’t have the luxury of living alone or living in the woods. We work 9-to-5 jobs, and have to squeeze time in for prayer. Now and then we slip away for a week in a monastery or a retreat center. Most of us would confess that we’re not wired for the monastic life, but we still want to be mindful of God in everything we do, and we think that we fall short most of the time.
Abu Sa’id, an early Sufi mystic, said that a saint is one who lives in the city, moving in and out among the people, and never forgetting God for a single moment.
We know, or have heard, of single people like this who are living solitary, holy lives in the noise and bustle of the city, and devote themselves to being of service to others, like Brother Lawrence.
Mindfulness of God seems easier for me when I’m in nature.
As soon as I arrive to camp for a week in the wilderness, I feel God’s presence all around me, in the squirrels, the birds, the majestic mountains, the ancient oaks, even in the lichen working out their lives on the hard surface of the rock. It’s not because they are holy that I feel this way, but because I see in them the presence of God, the work of God’s hands, the expression of God’s spirit taking form in the world. I feel I am praying when I share their daily lives.
Most of the time it feels redundant to close my eyes and pray with words in this setting, because my heart and soul are already listening for God, open to whatever God wants to show me. Words don’t seem needed. Yosemite Valley is a natural cathedral that is one mile wide, seven miles long, with valley walls that rise straight up for 4000 feet.
Nature continually offers up invocations to worship, inviting us to enter in and open our hearts, minds, and lives to God on increasingly deeper levels. As we walk along the trails being mindful of God, we let go of our control, cross over the boundary, enter sacred space, and soften into God’s presence.
Of course there are moments when it feels like God is putting in a personal appearance, as when the sunset pulses with bright colors, or a thunderstorm sweeps in over the mountains and lightning flashes and thunder cracks all around us. Then we are amazed at the power on display.
For centuries, solitary Celtic monks deliberately sought out the wild places in nature to be close to God, much like Merton. These places were also often strikingly beautiful. The wilderness fit their image of God who was not sedate, but alive and dynamic like the weather and the terrain of the storm-tossed, rocky coast.
In Lindesfarne, Scotland, St. Cuthbert used to sit in the cold North Sea and pray. Some think he did this to deaden his body’s senses. I’m not into that. When I can’t feel my fingers and toes, I worry about frostbite and head for someplace warm. But to be in a wild place and hike through a foot of snow is to feel included in God’s intimate wildness. Perhaps it has something to do with the possibility of dying, of feeling that we’re living on the edge, and that we’re taking risks.
Prayer should be like this, a place where we don’t know if we will survive. Prayer should be like winter where we walk the thin frozen line between life and death.
I love being in Yosemite when it’s warm and sunny. But when any weather is happening, it feels more spiritual, like I’m living in the Psalms.
One spring during a rainstorm, I put on my gear and went out walking. It was delightful with the sounds of rain falling through the leaves and dripping on the ground, the smell of wet bark, pine needles, and the rich aroma of the earth. It was as if the entire valley had come alive and was talking. As I squished around in soaked shoes, with low clouds moving through the mountain peaks, I felt like I was walking through Creation, with the boundary between me and God dissolving. I was praying the Liturgy of Rain, Wet Trees, and Dancing Rivers.
Do we need to sit and close our eyes to pray when we’re in nature? If we want to. Whatever prayer position we feel drawn to is appropriate. There are times when I want to kneel because of feelings of penance, or because of the majesty of the scenery before me, and there are times when I want to run around the meadows filled with joy. That is prayer, too.
In the middle of the night, when I hear a large animal walking close to my tent, I give thanks to God for wildness. Then I say a little prayer for my safety.
So this winter I am looking forward to reciting again the Litany of Snow and Frozen Places that will open my heart to more than what I see, and open my mind to more than what I understand. In this Christmas season, I will think about a child born in a desert a long time ago. If it’s not too cold, I will pray flat on my back and marvel at the cosmos and its constellations turning slowly above me. And I will look for a star that is bringing messages of joy, peace, and hope.
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mark liebenow’s most recent book, mountains of light: seasons of reflection in yosemite, was published by the university of nebraska press in 2012. his essays, poems, and critical reviews have appeared in numerous journals. his nonfiction work has won the river teeth, chautauqua,and literal latte awards, been nominated for a pushcart prize, and named a notable essay in best american essays 2012. his other books include is there fun after paul? (a theology of religious fools and clowns); prepare the way: daily meditations for advent and lent, as well as and everyone shall praise (multicultural worship resources for the church year). he lives in illinois where he writes about nature, spirituality, and grief recovery, and works seasonally on an organic farm. he is a member of the association for the study of literature and the environment, the western literature association, and the yosemite conservancy.