Lynn Ruoff

From the rocker on the front porch of my little cabin nestled in the trees, I see the flag of the world as viewed from far above the planet, and I am reminded of Jesse Wolf Hardin's article on ecopsychology in the Summer issue of Talking Leaves, in which he encourages "zooming in on a particular section...get[ting] down on our hands and knees...the exact place where our bodies touch the giving body of the Earth." I think about the symbolism of this flag for Lost Valley Educational Center as a community, its vision of coming together with the whole of the earth, in unity with spirit--and I am pulled back to the microcosm of reality in which this vision is being created: Myriad natural grasses bend in the breeze in a sunlit, lazy meadow. The grandfather evergreens and oaks tower overhead, providing a never-ending source of comforting wisdom. Westerly winds comb in from the surrounding hillsides, permeating acres of new forest growth to join the downstream motion of Anthony Creek, which flows gently through the northern portion of the land.

Jesse Wolf Hardin points out the importance of the experiences we have through the sacred presence of a place. Ecopsychologist Michael J. Cohen, in his book Reconnecting with Nature, describes these experiences as our natural 53 senses. He suggests that anything in nature, be it "a park, a back yard, an aquarium, or a potted plant," can help us reconnect with the inherent knowledge with which we came into this life. As a student of ecopsychology, I am finding that the more I open my conscious attention to that which is around me in nature, the more I see about myself. If I stay in the same place to focus that conscious attention, then that place becomes increasingly enmeshed within me, within my essence. Life at Lost Valley aids in both spending more time in nature and doing so in a particular place.