Unintended Consequences

Elaine Khosrova

 

At the 25th anniversary celebration of The Nature Institute one year ago, several of our staff and one board member shared their personal thoughts on the impact of the work at the institute. The reflections below from Elaine (lightly edited) were part of that event.

Unlike most people who come to The Nature Institute to practice ways of deepening their encounters with the natural world, I came here nearly four years ago just for a job. I’d had decades of experience as a writer and editor in commercial publishing, so my only expectation was that I’d do similar work at the institute where I was hired to manage publications, grants, and outreach.

Little could I have imagined that in the process, the job would be transforming. I too would learn a richer, more connected way of being with the natural world. Not because I came with that intention, but simply because being embedded here allowed me a gentle, steady, and intriguing exposure to Goethean ideas — and how they can be lived.

To be clear, I’ve always had an affinity for natural places; it’s why I live among the rolling green hills and wild places of the upper Hudson Valley. But I’ve come to realize that this attraction had more to do with appreciating its lovely façades. My experience of local nature had been blithely aesthetic, but rarely connective.

Slowly, that started to change. The more I read about the observational work of my colleagues — Craig, Henrike, Steve, John, Jon, and Ryan — and heard their conversations about Goethean practice, the less I could merely scan the outdoors. Often my gaze began to linger curiously on tiny details in my yard, or I’d stop in my tracks caught by the locomotion of an insect or the design of a wild blossom. Paradoxically, the natural world began to seem both more particular and more expansive.

What did this shift mean for me? I’d like to share the story of an encounter I had last spring that I think best illustrates the answer.

The encounter happened in my kitchen. I was at my cutting board, chopping vegetables, when I looked up and saw a so-called “stink bug.” It was standing vertically as if embracing the corner of my window trim.

In the past, I would have immediately scooped up this insect and dropped it outside. But this day, I was intrigued by its patterned “shell” that looks like a tiny coat of arms, and by its behavior: absolute stillness. Even when I gently touched one of its back legs, the bug did not move. If it had been a few years ago, I probably would have googled “stink bug” to learn more about its behavior. But on this day, my impulse was not to collect facts about my visitor. Instead I wanted to simply observe – as my colleagues do so well.

The next day the stationary bug was still there. It hadn’t shifted at all. With a magnifying glass I noted that its wispy antennae twitched slightly, so I knew it was alive. But its beady eyes, six legs, and armored body never moved.

Back at my cutting board, just a few inches away from the bug, I began to wonder: Is it sleeping? Or is it sick? Is it waiting for something? All my questions, I soon realized, related to causes that make us humans become still. I could hear Craig gently chiding me: Don’t anthropomorphize this insect. Being motionless could have very different and deliberate reasons when you’re a stink bug.

I spent a lot of time in the kitchen that day. And always I felt the presence of this other, utterly still, tiny being. I was never alone.

By the third day, I was talking (privately!) to the stink bug. Not for any logical reason. But simply because it felt good. It made me think of how indigenous peoples speak unabashedly to plant and animal beings in the natural world.

At some point that evening, the stink bug vanished. Gone — just as unexpectedly as it had come. I couldn’t help but wonder where to? And what for? Was it ok? I still knew very little about the ways of this insect, but I had come to care about its being. The knowing could come later, but the caring gave me a gratifying sense of connection. The encounter held meaning for me.

A transformation of connection and meaning happens for many people who go through The Nature Institute’s experiential programs — what Jon McAlice likes to call our “science of caring.” It is why, I believe, the institute is such a rare and important place. As someone who didn’t even know what they were missing, I feel strongly about facilitating outreach that will attract a wider community to the possibilities offered by our courses. I only wish I’d started the job sooner.

 
Elaine Khosrova