(*•̀ᴗ•́*)و ̑̑

But also their body is silly.

"Coyote Studies"

Lives of Game Animals, Volume 1 - Part 2. 1925. Written and illustrated by Ernest Thompson Seton.

No nuance. If you don’t have a mother/are no contact etc this is not a poll for you.

Being a part of outdoor sports has influenced my magical practice, religious beliefs, and my understanding of animism.  The longer I remain in these kinds of spaces, the more I realize that I have an insane amount in common with self-proclaimed nonspiritual people in a very spiritual way, which has reaffirmed my belief that close communion with nature is a kind of religion of its own, whether you recognize it as spirituality or not.  Notably, what I observe the most is a very animistic belief without the label.  Beyond that, these communities are religious about the sports themselves, to the point where I’ve been told by friends that they don’t feel like they need religion because they get everything they would want from spirituality from their sport.

Hostile Environments and Trolls I’m predominantly a caver, and this definitely is the largest influence on my practice.  I think in part, it’s also because of the cave environment itself:  there’s very few places that get so remote so quickly.  There’s limited resources (almost exclusively however much you can carry) and limited physical capacities (one day of hard caving uses about 5000 calories!), which reinforces that this is an inherently hostile environment. For me, it very much echoes an animistic worldview, but it particularly brings me closer to the trolls of folklore and the jotnar of Norse mythology, who are both powerful initiators and beings that will wreck you, in a life-ending way.  I find that a lot of modern spirituality emphasizes historically hostile entities as misunderstood, and one of the most heartbreaking parts of modern trolldom practice is watching the active declawing of trolls and related spirits.  Frankly, I can’t blame people.  It’s hard to understand how people would have historically viewed the trolls, when the comforts of modern life makes it difficult to conceptualize the harshness of nature.  I adore the outdoors, with every bit of my being, but the romanticization of nature in pagan communities seriously destroys understanding of the spectrum of beings we interact with every day.  Even seemingly safe environments in nature can become very hostile understand sudden conditions:  hypothermia from rain in the wrong clothes, a sudden injury, etc.

It’s in caves that I first really felt like I was close to the trolls.  If you sit still, deep inside, it feels as if there’s something slowly shifting in the walls.  I see the trolls in the rock that suddenly shifts underneath me, threatening to throw me off balance.  I see the trolls in the bone-chilling cold that sets in after a wet-section.  I see the trolls in the total darkness as I turn off the lights to go to sleep at camp.  I see the trolls in my failing muscles that are screaming out to eat more, in my bruised body from throwing myself against hard rock, in the fear that hits me when I realize how wrong something could go.  But I also see the trolls in the way my aching muscles give me the best sleep, in the feeling of elation and ecstasy of standing somewhere no one has ever been before, in the comfort of friends in an unforgiving environment.  I think trolls have a similar reputation as caves do, but being harsh and unforgiving doesn’t make something evil and malicious.  They exist as they are, in their own environment, and we have no choice but to submit to their forces.  This puts Tor fighting the jotnar into perspective for me too:  he’s not a brute for this, this is the fight for survival against an inherently hostile existence that the Old Norse lived within.  There’s a lot to fear, as much as there is a lot to love.

Offerings to a Sentient Nature White-water kayaking has recently become an interest of mine over the past year, and I find it deeply fascinating to listen to conversations around water.  A friend of mine was talking about cleaning up any trash she finds in the river as a way to “gain good river favor” while she’s out on the water.  Similarly to caving, moving water can be unforgiving.  These small offerings reflect a natural animistic worldview, where nature is sentient enough to perceive your actions and develop a relationship with you, therefore affecting the outcome of your life as well.  Granted, a lot of my friends do something similar with the mindset of “I know it’s silly and I don’t *really* believe it, but I do it just in case”.  But regardless, I think the fact that if there’s a gnawing feeling that there’s some intangible presence, and this feeling is big enough to warrant acting on it, it is an animistic way of living.  I think that there’s this idea that faith is something you have or don’t, rather than acknowledging belief as a spectrum.  What I find more and more is that people who spend prolonged periods of time outdoors do develop animistic belief.  

I do find it interesting to think about whether this belief is within all people, and personal experience with the enspirited nature simply brings it forward, or if it is the inherently hostile environment of the outdoors that results in the natural emergence of superstition that is believed to bring survival (or even abundance).  Maybe there isn’t a difference between these two ideas.  But I do believe that an animistic worldview naturally prompts a person to consider what it means to build a relationship with the nonhuman spirits around them.  How fascinating that people from all backgrounds come back to offerings!  Despite the appearance, this isn’t a purely transactional relationship.  There is a deep love for nature, a deep respect for its ability to affect life and limb, and an inherent relationship that emerges from simply interacting with it.  The offering doesn’t represent a transaction, this is a human way we show love and care to the intangible.  And in return, we hope that the river might care for us a bit more as we care for it, and although it cannot hold its very nature back from us, maybe it will allow us to navigate its forces a little easier.

Connection over Commodification While it’s less of a sport, a lot of outings have ended with foraging, or started with some plant identification on the approach.  A friend of mine was really into foraging edible plants, and she recently reflected on this phase of her life.  At the time, she was interested in foraging as self-sufficiency, as a way to be less dependent on grocery stories.  What she learned was that foraging is a serious investment!  A lot of time and effort goes into foraging, and even more into cooking various plants so that they won’t upset your system (fiddleheads come to mind).  Ultimately, trying to live off of foraging wasn’t worth the time and effort for her, but she does keep with it for the love of the activity.  Foraging isn’t about what you can get out of nature.  Connection remains when commodification is removed.  

I think about her perspective on foraging a lot, especially as I think of how Scandinavian folklore depicts poverty foods as plants of the Devil.  Blueberries, for example, earn their dark color from the Devil’s shoeshine (according to one story from Swedish folklore).  When you spend a lot of time in intimate connection with nature, you become much more aware of all these little details that you’d normally miss.  This time-consuming labor of love invites our imaginations to create stories, relating the world of nature to our world and understanding.  If the only goal is commodification of nature, to pick as many St. John’s Wort as possible, would you notice the way that the yellow herb stains your skin red like blood?  Would you create stories of connection?  Would you care to understand the intricacies of how the natural world flows together?

Personal Connection to Nature as Religion Despite the hostile conditions, so many cavers feel a sort of love with certain caves.  I’ve listened to a man describe mentally moving through his favorite cave every night before bed.  When he gets to the end of the last explored point, he then imagines what lies beyond (according to him, he’s pretty accurate).  I’ve heard debates about whether certain caves “want” us there or not, with evidence being something like “this one rock is too perfect of a chair for the cave to not want us there”.  I’ve heard similar debates about the benevolence of a cave.  This isn’t about whether or not a cave wants us or not, but rather the obsession with the idea that a cave might love us as much as we love it.  There is a real obsession and adoration among cavers that mirror a sort of divine love and awe I find in religion.  

This goes to this belief that I deeply hold, that personal connection to nature inspires us to protect it.  Personal connection fosters a desire to conserve and to care.  We all (hopefully) know that nature is worth saving, but it’s a completely different emotional impact to stand in a room full of calcite formations that have lived long before you and will live long after you, yet are fragile enough that any ill-intending person could destroy living history.  It’s a different emotional impact to truly see how little life can exist underground, yet to see so many forms of it thriving, and to know the threats that above-ground destruction (like climate change) can do to these extremely sensitive environments.  The more time you spend in nature, the more religious you become about caring for these environments in whatever way you can.  And as you care for nature, you can’t help but wonder if those same forces care for you.  As I wonder if the cave cares for me, I can’t help but see the mirror of nights wondering if Hyndla cares for me too.

Allow Yourself to be Shaped I’ve never climbed without scrapes, bruises, cuts, and blisters.  In some cases, it would be so much easier (and less painful) to hike the mountain rather than climbing the cliffside up.  Obviously, there’s a love for the sport of rock climbing itself, but why else climb?  For me personally, there’s a real appeal that comes with being shaped by nature, the same way humans shape nature every day.  My every action allows myself to be changed.  The sun beats down on me, the wind tousles my hair, the rock removes skin, and I am physically changed.  I sit on a cliffside in between pitches, I look out over the rolling ridges, and I understand I’m receiving a view that I can only get because I have allowed myself to step outside of my sense of protection.  I shed my comfort, I let go of what makes me feel safe, I allow myself to get beat up by nature a little, and in the process, I receive a sort of magical alchemy.  I really don’t have words.

Similarly, it’s special for your every action and decision to be motivated by the shape of nature.  It exists as it is, it is up to you to navigate it.  I find this particularly true when rock and ice climbing.  If I break a particularly good ice hold, I cannot make the ice grow back, I must work with the new route laid in front of me.  When I rock climb, the holds that exist in front of me are all I have to work with, and my option is going up.  Learning to read the environment, and make judgements off of it, translates to so many other parts of my spiritual practice as well.  How different is reading a route and reading omens really?