Nature in Belarus

In Belarus, too, I've been so grateful for those moments of closeness to nature that allow me to relax and be myself. I feel naive, in a way, for craving forests and complaining of pit toilets. Am I in love with a sanitized, cartoon version of the wild? Am I separating civilization and the wild in an artificial way? I've decided to appreciate what I can and admit some of my limitations.

Several times in this country I've been able to have a little excursion into nature.

First, Rashed's aunt took us from her apartment building in Mahilyow to a trail through a forest near a housing development and to a sacred spring with an Orthodox church next to it. I was hot and annoyed with the sun in my eyes as we walked on the sidewalk and then on a path in a field. But as soon as we stepped into the cool shade of the forest, I felt myself relax. A smile crept onto my lips and stayed there, reminding me of when I was a kid at Disneyland and I couldn't wipe the grin off my face. The forest made me feel safe and competent and distracted me from the yammering in my head. The spring was interesting, but there were many people there, and I preferred the peace of the forest. I was sad when we went back another route, through the housing development.

For most of our time in Mahilyow, we were staying in the apartment of Rashed's aunt and uncle. On Sunday, May 31st, though, we visited Rashed's great aunt and another aunt and uncle at their house. They live in an old, wooden, village-style house that is reached by descending a long, steep staircase down from the modern part of Mahilyow. In their front yard is a dog chained and barking. Next to it is a stable that they used to use for pigs. Stretching back behind the house is a huge garden, water pump, sheds, small pond, rabbit hutch, and beyond that is a meadow in which they've begun to plant trees and more crops. The meadow stretches far away to a river, on the other side of which are more giant apartment blocks. But this side is peaceful. After a lunch of salad and cheese and sausage and bread, Rashed and I go on a walk with two sets of uncles and aunts. Again, I have that feeling of finally! we're doing something. We walk past goats grazing, people tending the gardens they have created in square plots in the meadow. There are unknown birds and white and yellow flowers. The uncles and aunts point them out and discuss what they are like it is a very important and enjoyable matter. I breathe another sigh of relief at this welcome change from many of the modern city-dwellers, who scorn the old country ways. We reach the river and watch the water flow. Young people are fishing and lighting bonfires. The sun is warm, and the air is fresh. We pause to watch a motorboat hum by (a rare occurrence), then continue walking along next to the water. Someone points out a ditch and old cement blocks, saying they are remains of a World War II trench and pontoon bridge foundations, whether German or Soviet they're not sure. We try to imagine battles in this peaceful place. Rashed hands me a sprig of pink flowers, which I tuck behind my ear. I feel like skipping and running. I can't understand everything people are discussing, but there is goodwill in the air, and the birds are singing. We have the whole field to cross to get back to the house, and I'm happy.

Somehow at Home in Nature

Though I'm visiting alien lands, if I focus on nature, I feel at home. Though I can't communicate with people around me, somehow I can commune with nature. I feel the space around my body extend and flow into the trees and fields and clouds. They receive my energy, breathe it in and then, softly, whisper back to me, and the perfume of their breath is so sweet.

In Wales, riding in the back of the car on our way to Snowdon, I ceased to focus on the conversation of my companions and my personal worries, and became still, my gaze and my concentration resting lightly on the passing countryside. I felt the border between me and nature open, and, like kids playing in the schoolyard, teasingly jumping over the marked line and then running back, some of my team chanced a walk on the other side and some of nature ventured towards me. I felt a humming that, to my delight, turned into a song. It sounded like a folk song, though it was new to me; and I couldn't make out the lyrics, though perhaps, again like a child, I molded some of the unfamiliar sounds into English words. Nature sang the song to me, with melody and chorus and beautiful changes in harmony until it had played out and I was brimming with feeling.

I sang the chorus to myself until we were climbing Snowdon, and I tried to keep myself open to more, though I realized I also had to interact with humans once in a while. I haven't figured out how to combine the two, though I know they must be combined somehow. During a difficult section of the climb, surrounded by steep hillsides and big, open sky, I felt the aliveness of nature again, and I tried to listen using that part of me that had heard the song. This time I saw, though, rather than heard. I saw a trail other than the one in front of me, flowing upwards, and when I focused on it, I could climb much more easily. I felt more of these presences in the surrounding countryside, glimmerings of something magical. But when I talked to Rashed, I lost my focus, and went back to huffing and puffing up the path; walking then felt like lifting legs of concrete rather than dancing with the fleet feet I had felt for those few long seconds on the shimmering escalator.

Hidden Oases and Industrial Realities

On August 28, I went out on a walk during my last week at a particular part-time job.

I walked almost every day at lunch, letting the sun soak into my bones after a long morning in a refrigerated flower storage room. My greatest joy was to walk past a meadow bordering my work. While my work dealt with refrigerated, beauty-bred imported blooms, this meadow was the real thing. Filled with wildflowers, it was miraculously pristine amidst chemical-soaked concrete warehouses. I would get to the midpoint of the block, and turn so the meadow was stretching away in front of me and to my right and my left. A row of trees shimmered in the breeze, clouds descending from the blue sky to brush their tops. Cattails and queen anne's lace, birds and butterflies, all danced in the meadow. I used to look straight at it, the side shades of my sunglasses blocking the buildings on either side, and imagine I had just hiked up a mountain trail and reached this place of peace. I'd take a deep breath and smile.

Then I'd continue on, past the ominous billboard advertising the "Prestige Lot for Development."

But this day, August 28th, as soon as I step outside, I know something is wrong. I hear the sound of unoiled metal shrieking from the direction of the meadow. I don't want to think about what it could be. The crickets are still chirping, so it must be okay. Here, the crickets are so happy, they chirp even in the daytime.

But as I get closer, the squeaking increases, and I see that a bulldozer with wheels like a tank is vocalizing the horror of the insects and animals, flowers and plants fleeing or perishing in the destruction. A square of dirt extends behind the bulldozer, impossibly flat and brown next to the person-high flowers that had just towered there.

I cover my ears--for the sound is deafening--focus my eyes on the cement and walk quickly, a joyless walk. For my joy, my rest, my strength, my renewal, was in my meadow.

On the way back, the shrieking begins a long block away from the lot.

Getting closer, I again stare in disbelief at the now widening plot of bare earth. Where did the life go? Under the dirt? How does it all fit there?

What about the cat I saw the other day, and the fox family? Will there be any crickets left and could they possibly be so happy as to chirp during the day after this?

I'm tempted to put my work earplugs in, block out the screams, cross the street...but no, I want to hear it.

I pass the bulldozer, wondering if I should lay down in front of it. I walk on.

Slowing down, next to the remaining meadow, I cast a painful glance at the scene I used to love. A monarch butterfly--the only one I've seen this year--careens toward the desolate end of the meadow. It doesn't know yet, I think. It's tired and thinks it's finally found a place to rest. I wish it luck. A blue dragonfly skims over the flowers.

I turn my face to the unscarred portion of the meadow, and, my gaze racing to meet the trees, I do my sunglasses trick, probably for the last time.

Civilization is blocked out, only the meadow and its shimmering freshness in view. I pretend I have just climbed to a meadow on a mountain. Leaves, flowers. Moths, beetles. I let them live inside me, so I can hold them forever, God willing. Amen.

I head back to work, rounding the side of the meadow and nearing my building.

On this side of the meadow, the crickets are still chirping.