Tender Flesh

For the past five years, Chris Koellhoffer has contributed many of the EarthCARE Updates for our newsletter. This month, Chris is sharing a post that originally appeared on her blog, Mining the Now. To read it in its entirety, visit www.chriskoellhofferihm.org

Deeper kinship with all of creation. How I long for it! Even just the desire for it seems to be set in my spiritual DNA. And here’s something of a seeming contradiction I’ve noticed in my relationship, our relationship, with all who are kin in the created world. The paradox is this: when we give attention over to the seemingly smallest of creation, when we gaze with reverent appreciation at even the tiniest single-celled life form of the created world, we are doing far more than the simple act of noticing; we are actually taking in and gazing at not only that very tiny microscopic organism, but also the entire Universe and beyond to the still unseen and unknown parts of the Cosmos.

Isn’t this what William Blake was hinting at in the opening words of “Auguries of Innocence”? He calls us “to see the world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour.” Ah, William, you got it so right! And so did Gary Paul Nabham, who urges us to expand our sense of just who is our neighbor, our relative, our kin. “What would happen,” he asks, “if we begin to include the fungi, the flowers, the fritillary butterflies, and the flock of wild geese as our neighbors, our family, and our Creator’s expressive face?”

Recently, I came across statistics while listening to a podcast from This American Life. I don’t have a mind that’s often moved by statistics, but these numbers made me shudder. Why? Because these numbers held a dire prediction of what is in danger of happening to some of my dearest relatives. I heard that right now in our world, one in eight bird species are threatened. 1/5 of all reptiles. ¼ of all mammals. 40% of all plant species. Threatened. Moving closer to extinction and vanishing from the face of the Earth, never to be seen by us again.

The mere thought of such an absolute and irreversible goodbye utterly breaks my heart. I’m reminded of my dear friend, Hafiz, the most beloved poet of Persia, now Iran, who lived in the 14th century. He sang beautiful, intimate love songs from the created world to the creator. One of those poems is called, “I Have Come into This World to See This,” and it includes this line: “We have finally realized that there is just one flesh we can wound.” Just one flesh. Whatever we do to one another, we are doing to the human family, to the Earth community, to the Universe.

Oh, Hafiz, you got it right also, and so many centuries ago! There is just one flesh we can wound. Who among us would ever want to imagine a world where, because of our carelessness or inattention, the lilting whistle of a cardinal is stilled? Where the scent of lavender and honeysuckle and mock orange is a distant memory? Where the haunting song of humpback or minke whales heading for home is silenced? Where bustling honeybees no longer model for us what authentic community looks like? Where we have lost our chance to catch our breath in awe at the grace and speed of a cheetah or the majesty of an elephant?

May those irreparable losses of neighbors, friends, relatives never be so! As we do the deep, inner soul work of growing our relationship with the Holy One, may we also get our relationship right with Earth and all her creatures. May we cultivate William Blake eyes and Gary Nabham wisdom and Hafiz hearts before it’s too late. May we continually open our souls to reverence and love and care for the fragile and the vulnerable, the small and large of our kin in this sacred community