Lent: Wilderness

There used to be a forest here. Oak and hickory grew side by side as they brushed the tips of their fingers against the underbelly of heaven, while wolves and foxes hunted their prey through the shadows of the understory. Meanwhile the river nearby hid colonies of bivalves, played host to flocks of waterfowl and schools of fish navigated its waters.

The place was alive.

That's all gone now. The river is so polluted that we have signs warning against eating the fish. There are still birds, but they no longer darken the sky for hours at a time as they fly overhead. As for raccoons, they nest in the storm sewers instead of the hollows of trees.

We call ourselves the Garden State, but our chief crop is asphalt.

In the ancient world, cities were places of strength and security. They marked the evolution of the human mind, and provided the laboratory where we rubbed shoulders with one another and together grew our languages, politics, religion and philosophy. Wilderness was that desolate expanse between here and there, where jackals and demons lived. You went there at your own risk, because no one would be there to rescue you if the monsters came.

The city still holds a lot of the allure it did in years past, but I can't help but wonder as we pass through the city, alone in our own manufactured bubbles that keep us from one another, our private cars, our earbuds that say "Leave me alone" and our smart phones that keep us from seeing each other. I wonder if we haven't replaced one wilderness with another far lonelier than any the ancients knew.


Copyright © 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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