Opinion

Connecting with wilderness
A time to be in the ‘now’

By B. Chisti

“Find a tree and sit in it,” the assignment sheet read. “Relax. Be aware of the nature surrounding you . . . . Let go of time. Be in the now.”

Yes, the assignment sheet. For an actual assignment. For an actual class. Sounds like inane hippie filth, right? I thought so too.

I signed up for Place Mapping when my adviser informed me it’s a required class for my major. From the course title, I imagined the class would involve primarily honing land navigation skills. After all, the other major-required course titles had been straightforward enough. “Winter Camping,” for instance. We hiked around and camped in the snow. Or “Beginning Rock Climbing.” I learned to climb on rocks. So, when my Place Mapping instructor launched in to the syllabus, I was surprised to learn that the purpose of the first five weeks of this class is to help the students in “developing a connection with the wilderness.” The first step to developing this connection is, apparently, finding a tree, sitting in it and meditating.

While I can enjoy climbing trees, the assignment left me somewhat incredulous. Let go of time? I’m sorry, but I don’t take my watch off. Be in the now? But I’m in the now . . . now. I glossed over the rest of the assignment instructions, as it’s difficult to read that kind of thing without wearing bell bottoms and a lot of patchouli oil and, wouldn’t you know it, I had left both of those things at home.

Actually, do you know what? I don’t have those things. Because I am not a hippie.

I decided not to try the tree-sit over the weekend. I live in the city and figured that if I tried to hang around in a tree anywhere near my home, the police would surely be called. “No, officer, it’s for school, really!” It seemed unlikely that the explanation would be sufficient.

So, it was with a slight begrudging feeling that I went out into the Back 40 on a drizzly morning to pick out a tree. However, as soon as I picked up the smell of water and the dirt and greenery, I immediately felt better. The funny thing is, before then I hadn’t realized that I felt bad.

After one ineffective attempt to Spiderman my way up a sheer pine, I found something farther down the road that featured more accessible branches. I hoisted myself into the tree, remembering as I did so that one of the assignment instructions had been “Do not tumble out of your tree.” Of all the instructions, that seemed the most sound, so it was with grace and care and flailing legs that I fumbled my way to the higher branches.

As it turned out, I totally scored when I picked my perch. I don’t know what kinds of trees the other students in class had chosen, but none of them could have been this good. The boughs were wide and covered with a thick, springy moss and it was just as good as sitting in any recliner, except for the spiders. I pushed my back up against a curved branch, stretched my right leg out on another branch, used my left leg to brace my weight against the trunk and . . . relaxed.

Many cats know that getting out of a tree is considerably more difficult than getting into one and now I know this, too. An hour later, when it was time to remove myself from the aerie, I looked down and around and said, “How the hell did I get up here?” However, I was eventually able to lower myself, without tumbling, back onto the ground. I walked away from the tree feeling whatever the word is for not-angry, and I wondered if maybe the Place Mapping curriculum had actually been really well thought out.