Starvation

Thoughts | Hannah Weinberg

Listen.

I hear the sound of water rushing, I see a sun peeking out from behind a cloud. I see a fat bumblebee frozen in motion, stretching itself into the petals of a deep-colored flower. I taste something green and herbal on my tongue—I smell rain, soil, oakmoss, noble fir. As the water eases out of my hearing, tropical birds chirp to the sound of my fingers tap tap tapping away on a smooth, jellied surface. Soon, the sound of a rainstorm. If I close my eyes, I can imagine I am there—in nature—my senses starved for nothing.

But at my desk, in the room of my student accommodation, in the great city of Toronto, I feel starved for quite a lot. All the rustling fields of grass, rushing water, and birdsong that I hear are “Nature Sounds” curated by none other than Spotify. The only sun I can see, in my room with a window facing a brick wall, is the graphic on the weather app. (Apparently it is “fair” outside today, though I have not been outside to see it yet). The bumblebee on my planner stretches over gold letters that tell the year: 2022. I am twenty years old and my connection to nature feels the weakest it has ever been. Not even the candle, named “Summer Rain on the Forest Trail”, can quite capture the magic of walking through the forests of my home in Oregon.

Some of my fondest memories are of backpacking trips that I would take with my best friend and our dads into the Rogue River wilderness. I’m grateful that my friend and I had two adults to carry our gear because our packs were full of things that fed the soul, but not the body (all the food, water, and supplies were stored safely in our dad’s bags). When we would arrive at our campsite after a short hike, she and I would dump our bags and race up our favorite tree, tuck ourselves in between two heavy boughs, and play until the sun set beneath the Douglas firs. We would play mad-libs, a silly storytelling game, and would read our chapter books. On the hike back to the car the next day, my pack would be pounds heavier, laden down with my favorite rocks and sticks that I had found while exploring. 

My escapades in the woods always ended too soon, but I loved who I was in that tree: a reader, a storyteller, an explorer. And I thought that maybe if I brought mementoes home, I would be able to carry that version of myself back into civilization. It never quite worked, for nothing can replace the sense of wonder evoked when surrounded by the natural world. As I sit here, I am acutely aware that my ecosystem in the city is entirely man-made, and I worry that in my detachment from the natural world, I will lose my appreciation for it.

In Octavia Butler’s 1993 science fiction novel Parable of the Sower, the protagonist struggles to find meaning in the dystopian landscape of California in 2024. She creates a new doctrine, Earthseed: The Books of the Living, the first lines of which stood out to me. I believe that understanding the power of human action is the first step towards enacting change. Butler’s fictional religion embodies the idea of the Anthropocene in a manner that is both uplifting and frightening.

I leave you with her opening words:

All that you touch 

you Change. 

All that you Change 

Changes you (Butler 3). 

Here is the playlist “Nature Sounds”, it is great to study, meditate, or fall asleep to. 

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/37i9dQZF1DX4PP3DA4J0N8?si=bee7522f23cc4394 

Here is a playlist made in collaboration between a local Oregonian candle-maker and a local record label. 

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1sA4m8Fp1n7m2nQygyShgD?si=d56071c9da5147ab