Nicole Noceto
I grew up a suburban kid, not in a particularly outdoorsy family, but one with a healthy respect for Nature. We always had a garden; often enjoyed trips to the beach, a local hike, or the occasional camping trip. We were privileged enough to choose to eat ‘organic,’ learn to recycle, and otherwise reduce our carbon footprint. I feel fortunate to have grown up understanding the significance of my place in the natural world. When I think back, though, the experience that truly showed me what it meant to be connected to Nature occurred around the time I was 9 years old, after the sudden death of my 62-year-old grandmother.
She died in April; nesting season for many birds on the West Coast. It was my Dad who first noticed the California scrub jay that took up residence in our backyard in those early weeks following her death. In the wake of tragedy, that blue jay felt like a sign. Of what, I don’t think we knew… but we chose to interpret its presence as something meaningful. In the months and years to follow, the significance of the blue jay became undeniable, in what I could only describe as a spiritual representation of my grandmother. Like the time one flew into the open window of a friend’s living room, landing on her couch during a conversation about my grandmother. I’ve asked myself the question: do I think my grandmother is a bird? The answer is no. But, also, maybe.
I didn’t grow up religious. My mother is Jewish, and my father is an engineer (really, though, I think he would call himself Agnostic). Experiencing traumatic grief at a young age, without a hard and fast belief system, served as a potent opportunity to question the ways of the universe. I’d lost my primary caretaker, my grandmother, as a physical presence in my life; but, I gained the ability to continue feeling guided by her spirit through Nature. We all make sense of the world in our own ways, and I still find myself straddling the worlds of science and mysticism.
I would go on to pursue an Environmental Studies degree as an undergraduate student, satisfying my desire to problem-solve while immersed in both natural and social sciences. Fascinated by the inextricable link between human and environmental health, I developed a passion for holistic healthcare, and later received my Doctorate degree in Acupuncture and Traditional East Asian Medicine. I have a deep appreciation for the profound ways in which Nature teaches, supports, and heals us.
Perhaps because this prompt is titled, ‘On This Land,’ it conjures up the idea that being connected to Nature is place-specific. We didn’t have any family properties, or firmly planted roots in any particular part of the world. Maybe it’s an inherited sense of wandering from ancestors who fled for safety, generation after generation. I’ve moved from the Bay Area, to Santa Barbara, to Santa Cruz, back to the Bay Area, and most recently, here, to Oregon. Every place I have lived feels like home.
For any, or all, of these reasons, I don’t feel connected to Nature through land. It’s so much bigger than that. It’s the blue jay that arrives outside my window each morning, bringing me a sense of comfort. It was the owl that sat, exposed, looking at me from a neighborhood tree, bringing me strength in the days following the loss of my first baby. It was the hooting throughout the night of yet another owl, one year later, when I miscarried for a second time – perhaps a sign of safety from the soul that couldn’t make it here. My connection to Nature is foraging wild nettles on a hike with a dear friend. It’s walking barefoot in the sand with my husband, and gazing into the loving eyes of my pets. It’s brewing medicinal herbs, eating with the seasons, smelling the rain, and being warmed by the Sun.
It’s not a place that connects me to Nature, but Nature that connects me to a place. It’s this connection that heals me time and time again. It’s what gives meaning to my life, and helps me find meaning in loss. According to the law of conservation of energy, energy is neither created, nor destroyed, but transformed from one form to another. I think about this often in my tendency to assign meaning to acts of Nature; that science can lend itself to making sense of what feels mystical, when the line is blurred between coincidence and significance.
I cherish the sense of wonderment from feeling connected to Nature; whether it’s seeing a breathtaking landscape, smelling a springtime rose, tasting the sweetness of a freshly-picked blackberry, touching warm sand, hearing a morning birdsong, or tuning into that feeling that defies logic… beyond intellectual grasp… that feeling that reminds me I’m just another extension of Nature… and maybe, just maybe, there is a blue jay who was once a beautiful lady named Shirley.