I remember upon visiting national parks, we’d pass sign after sign warning us not to pick the wildflowers and not to even take a stone with us from the lands ahead. We could not touch the wildlife or come within three-hundred feet. Not only were these indecencies taboo, but a crime by law. I remember the ranger telling me with the wide eyes of a grandfather whispering folklore to his offspring of the dangers lying beyond the trail, and the “National Park Prison” with no accordance to the real world of law that could trap you inside as long as it pleased. I knew they had to threaten and scare visitors because requesting or commanding had never worked before: the people will do as they please. They do not come to simply soak in the beauty, wait for it to pulse into their veins and throughout their vitals, and relish the subtle high of serenity, they came to take what they believed to be theirs. These precautions made the territory seem sacred, or even enchanted, the last remnants of holy temples we read about in ancient texts, the only places left on earth to take off our shoes and enter humbly, leaving purified and whole. We breathe in the sweet air of the wild, unprotected by the safeguards and predictability of our days at home, and wiped clean of the fog caused by distraction, worry, shame, and social norms. Though each budding clover and burrowing creature are new to our eyes, they feel familiar to us, as though we once were among them and somehow lost our way, believing that concrete routines and ticking clocks were our calling, away from what truly gives life its glory.
Taking each step with solemn consideration, I felt the welcome of the earth mixed with its heavy expectations; one wrong step into disrespect and the ground might swallow me whole: a gulp of satisfaction with no remorse.
At first, I felt ashamed of the inferiority and fear that echoed within me in these scarce places on earth. Even the sky above me stretched endlessly, containing an eternity I knew nothing of. An infant in a lion’s cage, a lone traveler in a desert night, I was a hollow passerby who humbly wished to taste one drop of the magnificence surrounding me and to swallow it sweetly with the consent of the wild. This awe, unworthiness, and vulnerability are the necessary components that beckon me to return time and time again. They grant me the full appreciation of this holy land that I would not possess if I entered with my camera and empty bag, ready to loot and sell to those who want to mimic the greatness of the wilderness but have not discovered any of its secrets.
Patience and honor will slowly carry the secrets to me. The more days spend with nothing expected, the more serenity I will be capable to hold. The more I appreciate something outside of myself, the less I need myself at all. And what a burden is freed when I am my last concern!
If only we saw the earth as sacred, every stream, river, face, language, and road. If these precautionary signs weren’t necessary to ensure that we would approach each other prudently, with respect, awe, and curiosity, would many of our squabbles be settled and our discontentment be stilled? The earth is not ours to explore and suck “enlightenment” out of, it is a thing to be revered, observed, and thanked; enlightenment will come when we have earned it, not demanded it. People are not objects of pleasure to borrow for a year or two, then return battered and broken. They are gifts of reckless wonder, majesty, and power, we must deem ourselves privileged to behold.
We are not owed a thing at all, other than the commission to enjoy the gifts of our Maker, leaving no trace behind us but kindness, justice, and peace.