Nature nurtures itself through death
When I was in New Orleans for a conference at the end of January, I had an opportunity to tour The Nature Conservancy’s Abita Creek Flatwoods Preserve, located just north of Lake Pontchartrain in Louisiana.
During the visit, our group received a demonstration from staff on the use of prescribed fire at the preserve — a seemingly unlikely topic of focus for conservation practitioners but one whose importance quickly became evident.
Fire would happen all the time in nature if not for human intervention and suppression, one of the staff members explained to us. Besides its utility in preventing much larger, more destructive wildfires, regular burning is critical to the maintenance and vitality of ecosystems for a variety of reasons:
- It protects native and endangered species from being choked out by invasive ones.
- It keeps disease and overgrowth in check, ensuring that fauna and flora have room to thrive in a healthy space.
- It clears out combustible dead material, converting it to nutrients for native vegetation.
- It stimulates the growth of new forms of life by, among other things, exposing nutrient-rich soil and removing impediments.
When we got there, I was surprised by how spread out the trees were in the middle of a sea of swampy savanna. It was a stark contrast to the thick, dense woods that are common in this part of the Deep South.
This entire part of Louisiana would look like the preserve if nature was left to its own devices, one of the staff members said. The density of the forests you typically see in the lowlands north of the Gulf Coast is a function of overgrowth and invasive species, he added, and that’s how this parcel of land looked before The Nature Conservancy acquired it. Now, it’s a refuge for various species of native plants and trees, such as the longleaf pine, and endangered animals, such as the dusky gopher frog.
This is made possible by the regular burns that clear out what’s old, what’s dead, and what’s unhealthy, so that new life can take hold.
It’s always remarkable to me how nature has a perfect rhythm and interconnectedness that it uses to sustain and continually regenerate itself, as though to remind us that it is guided by an unseen, all-powerful yet benevolent and lovingly intricate, creative hand. It’s similarly striking how often death and ostensible destruction are part of this equation. Indeed, fire in nature is sometimes thought of as inherently bad, destructive, and necessary to prevent. To the contrary, it is absolutely essential.
As human beings, we often actively resist death. I’m not just talking about physical death, though obviously that’s part of it. I’m talking about the various “deaths” we face throughout the course of our lives — of careers. Of personal endeavors. Of relationships. Of chapters and seasons. Of familiar faces and places. Of old ways of thinking, doing, and being.
We often desperately seek to sustain what already is, or was. I certainly do. We cling to it, simply because we know it, and it’s easier to control what is known. We hang on to that which no longer bears fruit — or perhaps is even toxic — simply because it’s familiar.
We do that with nature, too. We try to tame it and twist it into our own image. We try to make it comfortable, predictable, and profitable for us. Ultimately, we do all of these things at our own peril.
All this time, though, nature has shown us and invited us to a better way — albeit one that requires relinquishing that control and recognizing the necessity of endings, death, and even apparent destruction, because it is only through these things that something greater can ultimately be realized.
This is not to say that there isn’t a time for grieving loss. For instance, if you hike in the blast zone at Mount Saint Helens in Washington state, you will be greeted by a landscape that is profoundly quiet (minus the sometimes howling winds), desolate, and mournful, as if nature has memorialized the catastrophic loss that took place there nearly 40 years ago.
But you’ll simultaneously see unmistakable evidence of new life springing forth with reckless abandon, ushered in through circumstances similar to those brought about by natural fire. Perhaps the most brilliant example of this is the fragile wildflowers that carpet the scorched ridges north of the volcano’s crater, whose existence was made possible by clearing out the old in the most violent way possible; so violent it was that the very notion of life returning to the area once might have been deemed preposterous.
These wildflowers, delicate though they are now, are harbingers of something new, something vital, and something much greater that will eventually betray no hint of the devastation that once ravaged this landscape. The regenerative process at work here is truly inspiring and spiritual, and all of it stems from an immense, seemingly senseless loss.
Whenever nature appears irrationally violent or self-destructive in its rhythm or ways, I think we actually have much to learn from it, including but not limited to the following:
- Death is essential, but it’s never the final word. The story never ends in ashes, even though ashes, both literal and metaphorical, may indeed be a regular part of the plot, and even though ashes may be all we can see for a period of time.
- Stubbornly clinging to a current season, chapter, or way of life simply because it’s familiar can itself lead to stunted growth or even decline, just like an overgrown forest choked by invasive species or disease.
- Endings and death pave the way for new life and new beginnings so profoundly that neither one would be possible without the apparent loss or devastation that preceded it. In other words, new life and new beginnings are both nourished by the ostensible decay or immolation of what came before.
- Embracing loss as an essential part of life entails forfeiting some measure of control. Though it’s much easier and more comfortable to hang on to the known, sometimes we need to let it be “burned” in order to make way for something new and something greater.
The universe is full of fascinating paradox, and nature itself is no exception. I think if we simply paid more attention to its rhythms, though, we could gain a lot of wisdom and inspiration for our own lives. The created order is one of the greatest teachers we have.
