Nature
Tom Soma
It’s been less than eight weeks since I left Portland—and already I’ve observed some of the most stunning scenery in America. The breathtaking beauty began immediately in central and southern Oregon—and continued down the east side of the Sierra Nevadas, in Joshua Tree National Park, the Grand Canyon, Sedona, Santa Fe and Taos. I rested for two days in the shadow of Pike’s Peak—the “purple mountain’s majesty” that inspired America the Beautiful.
Last week I drove from Denver to Salt Lake City with my college roommate, Joe. From the 12,000-foot summit of Rocky Mountain National Park to Hanging Lake near Glenwood Springs, and from the Colorado River and Arches National Park in Moab through Utah’s brick red and forest green mountain ranges, we enjoyed dramatic—and different—visual feasts each day.
To date, “nature” has been the most common response to my question, “How do you experience God?” Traversing the American west, it’s easy to see why.
Many people—such as the woman I met while walking along the Provo River on Sunday—are quite precise, directing me to specific places that are near and dear to them (Idaho’s Lava Hot Springs in her case). A man at the counter of Keedy’s Café in Palm Springs spoke wistfully of riding horses and herding cattle at his ranch in the Colorado mountains, describing the “peaceful solitude” and “deeper connection” he relishes there. A friend in Salt Lake City says that she feels more “expansive” in nature; another drew a distinction between the natural and constructed environments, noting how much easier it was for her to feel God in the former.
Non-believers are similarly moved. “I don’t find God,” said a friend over coffee in Portland back in February. “Where I find awe is Mt. Hood—in the mountains, at the ocean—in the beauty of nature.”
John O’Donohue captures the effect quite eloquently. “Nature, he writes in Anam Cara, “is the direct expression of the divine imagination.”
The 5,000 miles I’ve traveled thus far make it easy to understand why people find the divine imagination so conspicuous in nature. But I wonder—is that because God’s presence is intrinsically more visible and powerful in secluded natural settings—or because the barriers separating us from God are less formidable there?
“It is the clamor of the self that needs to be brought to quiet,” observes Joan Chittister, “so that the quiet of God can be brought to consciousness.”
Perhaps that’s nature’s gift—it helps quiet our own internal clamor, so that the quiet of God becomes more apparent and accessible.
Yet as much as I savor the peaceful solitude I’m experiencing, and as easy as it is for me to recognize the Creator’s hand here in the west, I find myself even more captivated by people.
My daughter, Kate, sent a note last month, which I received while staying with friends in Arizona. “We miss you,” it began. Then, “Roy and Gail (her in-laws) said if you’re looking for God all you need to do is look in my eyes.”
Of course, they’re right. I do see the Divine in Kate’s eyes—and in the faces of everyone I encounter. To me, that’s more awesome than anything.
(Torrey, UT)