Sandstones of the Soul: From Forest to Desert and Back Again

Sandstones of the Soul: From Forest to Desert and Back Again May 24, 2016

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                                 Canyonlands National Park

Following the tinkling creek up to Whyte Lake, in West Vancouver, BC, I was surrounded by second growth Douglas fir forest once again. The chaos of greens and the enclosed canopy view felt familiar of course, but the naked expanse of red-tan desert cliffs still felt present in my muscle memory. To go from desert to temperate rainforest in such a short time not only captures something of the miracle of modern technology in our lives, and the privilege I carry as a white male graduate student, but also symbolizes much of the spiritual journey I have taken over the last several years.

Canyonlands National Park
                    Canyonlands National Park

As a convert to Catholicism I was captivated by the rich use of symbol, icon, element, metaphor, stained glass, and incense. The Eucharist, which is experienced as the Real Presence of Christ in a small piece of bread and wine, came alive for me as a constant reminder that God, if present in these simple objects, is also present in the entire universe, and in me. In Christian spirituality this approach is called Cataphatic, or, according to the image. It is spirituality rich in symbolism and archetypally embodied spiritual practice. For my first year as a Catholic, spirituality was a kind of tonic for the soul, it nourished and succored. Meditation was a way of feeling at peace, and close to God as loving presence. Cataphatic spirituality in many ways resembles the richness of the temperate rainforest with its cacophony of sights, sounds, smells and textures.

Yet spending time in the desert during the second half of my field work, reading Belden Lane’s The Solace of Fierce Landscapes, and being confronted with my own patterns of self-loathing, helped me enter the danger, the emptiness and wildness of both God and the desert. This approach, opposite to Cataphatic, is called Apophatic, or, beyond the image. Apophatic spirituality is suspicious of images, icons, metaphor, even language itself. The Christian desert Fathers and Mothers entered the desert as the worldly embodiment of this spiritual orientation, and stripped of all metaphor except the soul’s ascent into the desert mountain, sought to dwell in God’s presence without metaphor, language, or even positive spiritual experiences.

Today’s deserts have become domesticated by a Nature-hungry world. The desert was the last of the New World ecologies to be romanticized. Water reclamation projects and uranium exploration carved roads into the vast deserts of the Intermountain and Southwest, which were then incorporated into the cannon of Nature Writing most famously by Edward Abbey and Terre Tempest Williams. In some National Parks like Arches, the desert has become nothing more than a drive-thru outdoor museum. Abbey would balk at the state of his wild Sacred Grove converted into paved tourist detour. RVs, tour buses, and passenger vehicles pull off into bustling parking lots, pour onto narrow walking paths, snap pictures, selfies, and group photos and move on to the next site.

Various soil textures in Utah National Parks
    Various soil textures in Utah National Parks

I too came to the desert to see the iconic arches, and walk the trails carved through millions of years of earth’s tumultuous adolescence. As I writer, I am also eager to extract meaning from my experiences, or the tune in to any spiritual insights I might glean from my travels. I was in the desert at the best possible time, the grasses were still green, the sky blue with puffy clouds, the air still cool with the recent rains and snow. The trails dry, the creeks running but not flooding; the banditos and savages long since exterminated.

Yet the desert, like God, hates her chains. When I was young I had a recurring dream that I was in a vast open expanse that felt like it was rushing past me. As a boy growing up in Orange County, California, I associated it with a mall parking lot, the largest expanse of desert I knew. But looking back, I think it was possible that I was having a kind of Apophatic experience of God, not as loving Father, or comforter, but as terrifying darkness and void. Though the desert had been made safe by well-marked trails, maps, and pleasant weather, I could still feel the bare walls and rock in infinite variety and texture drawing me outward into the open, exposed and vulnerable. This is the original encounter with the desert, and God. What enabled me to enter into this space more fully than I may have, was not reading about it, but passing through a time of tremendous self-doubt. I was able to see the desert as more than just a beautiful place but as the naked rock which mirrored the rawness I was feeling in my soul.

These rocks and walls, which were formed in other places, eroded and then deposited here, and then compressed, uplifted and eroded once more, reminded me of the constant flux in my own life. Returning to the Pacific Northwest, I am again ready to cross back into Cataphatic spiritual practice, with a deeper awareness of what lies below the surface of even the most fecund forests.

Upper Spring Canyon. Capital Reef National Park
Upper Spring Canyon. Capital Reef National Park

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