But for what nature does to us

Many people — I am myself one — would never, but for what nature does to us, have had any content to put into the words we must use in confessing our faith. Nature never taught me that there exists a God of glory and infinite majesty. I had to learn that in other ways. But nature gave the word glory a meaning for me. I still do not know where I could have found one. I do not see how the “fear” of God could have ever meant to me anything but the lowest prudential efforts to be safe, if I had never seen certain ominous ravines and unapproachable crags. And if nature had never awakened certain longings in me, huge areas of what I can now mean by the “love” of God would never, so far as I can see, have existed. (C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves)

Since I’m reading a library copy of this book, passages may be appearing here instead of being underlined. This is the first, and it jumps out at me because it seems so perfectly to express something I feel myself.

Personally, what I love about being outdoors in a wild place is the sense of my own irrelevance. The girls and I go out there and find a spot to settle in and observe, and at first it seems like nothing is going on. Then, gradually, we realize the “air is full of singing” (as Wendell Berry puts it). So many sounds; how to register them all? Then we notice movement: fluttering leaves; buzzing insects; floating seed fluffs; birds diving and singing and nabbing berries. The sound of scuttling leaves on the ground is always a thrill: what could it be? Chipmunk? Deer? Or perhaps — the possibility is always there — some animal we might not want to meet.

Nowhere else do I have such a vivid sense of a world of purposeful activity going on around me — and none of it has anything to do with me. It’s kind of a supreme indifference, or more accurately, a permission granted by the wild creatures who recognize that I’m there, that I’m harmless, and that I may therefore be safely ignored while they get back to business. It’s amazing how much time can pass without even realizing it.

In a crowd of people, to feel ignored or invisible is always lonely. But in a natural setting, it’s a wonderful feeling. If pride is the original sin, the unavoidable and delicious humility of sitting in a busy natural thoroughfare is one of the best antidotes there is.

I’ve gotten pretty far from Lewis, haven’t I? Not really. I’m just describing one small way that nature calls out a different kind of response in me, a different state of being, than I ever experience elsewhere. It gives meaning to spiritual categories. I agree with Lewis that “glory” and “fear” are words we can understand through seeing what surrounds us in a natural setting. I’m just adding a few more words to the list.