A walk in the dunes
Plus thoughts about how a growing connection to nature begins to change how we see and feel about the world around us
Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit
on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost
unbearable sound of the roses singing.
—Mary Oliver
A few days ago, my husband, Gerhard, and I joined the Dingle Hillwalkers for a silent mindfulness walk through the sand dunes that line Inch Beach—one of my favorite beaches in Ireland.
Unfortunately, I failed miserably.
Not because I found it difficult to remain silent but because I found so many wonderful things to see and smell and listen to that I failed completely to keep up with the group.
Everywhere I looked, old and new friends were calling to me.
“Think about how happy you feel,” said the bird’s foot trefoil, “when you see our yellow and orange blossoms spread across the dunes.”
“Our delicate yellow flowers are just as beautiful and just as full of joy,” replied the sand pansies.
“Don’t forget about us!” cried the scarlet pimpernel and sea spurge.
“Look how magically I grow out of the sand,” said the sea bindweed proudly.
“None of these are as beautiful as we are,” said the majestic marsh orchids, their purple spikes standing upright among the dune grasses.
“We are the most wonderful of all,” whispered the delicate bee orchids, “even though we are small and almost hidden.”
With the group of mindfulness walkers long gone, Gerhard and I sat alone for a while, not talking. We listened to the song of birds all around us while the sun warmed our faces and a breeze cooled our skin. We could hear the rhythmic crash of the waves and smell the salt air emanating from the sea that was just out of sight.
Although I have always loved wild flowers and mountains and streams, this appreciation for the details of the natural world is new to me. And for my husband as well.
Gerhard loves the ocean and is passionate about kayaking and stand-up paddling and kite surfing. He also seems to have an innate feeling for the wind and the tides. He knows immediately if the wind is onshore or offshore, the direction from which it is blowing, how currents are flowing through the ocean, and how the phases of the moon and the cycles of the year are affecting the tides.
But even he sees the natural world now with new eyes and a stronger connection. This connection has been growing slowly—almost unnoticed—since we moved to the western shores of Ireland four and a half years ago.
It began when we made the decision to create a pond in front of our house; plant a hedgerow of hazel, guelder rose and elder; and create a mini forest of alder, birch and oak trees. Above all, it began when we decided to stop mowing our lawn. Instead, we invited nature to bring whatever she wanted to our mostly boggy land.
It has turned into a fascinating journey.
From February to November, we walk through our garden almost every day to observe what kind of flowers, birds, bees, butterflies, dragonflies, frogs and insects are gracing us with their presence. A beautiful variety of native grasses now forms a backdrop to cuckoo flowers, four kinds of fern, foxglove, purple loosestrife, bird’s eye trefoil, water mint, angelica, horsetail, St. John’s wort, self-heal and much more. We also have a single common spotted orchid that appears in just one place every spring.
And every year—to my delight—a few new plants appear in the garden. For example, I was thrilled when four meadowsweet appeared last year, and they are coming back stronger than ever this year. Their delicate white flowers will soon fill our garden with a wonderful aroma that in my mind is equal to that of an old-fashioned rose.
All of the living beings in my garden have now become friends that I SEE and care deeply about. I am driven to identify their names, learn more about their habits, take pictures of them, converse with them and greet their reappearance as the wheel of the year turns.
In a way, we have tamed each other.
As the fox explains in The Little Prince (my favorite book), taming means to establish ties. Once we form a connection with another person—or with an animal or a plot of land or a flower—we need each other and see each other as unique in all the world. But along with this taming comes responsibility.
People have forgotten this truth," the fox said. "But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose.
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
We certainly feel more responsible than ever for taking care of our garden and the natural world around us wherever we go. We are determined to provide a healthy, organic environment in our garden that provides a welcoming home for creatures of every kind.
Gerhard and I had an interesting experience last fall that brought home to us how much we have changed. We were walking near his childhood home in Austria and suddenly came across a mass of purple flowers growing in a field.
“That’s loosestrife!” I shouted.
We stopped in amazement—and laughed out loud—because neither of us had ever realized that loosestrife grows in Austria. In Gerhard’s home village no less. Now that we have been tamed, we do.
I love your approach to your garden! I also just let anything to grow in my backyard, and it became a pollinator garden ... I live in the desert where few plants grow, so I figured years ago that if a plant had the strength to grow in our soil, I should encourage it. I noticed, like you, that I learned the names of the plants that grew willingly in my yard. And we watch bees, birds, butterflies, and bats come to our yard... Thank you fro this post! It makes me feel less alone with my "weed garden". I also love The Little Prince; I think it's one of the best books ever written.
Lovely read! I appreciate your connection with your environment. My partner and I live on our sailboat and travel the Atlantic and the Caribbean. We can relate to the notion of slow travel and how much we can suddenly see and hear when we half our pace.