Earth Sensory Perception (ESP) is a subsection of Our Uncertain Future (OUF) and represents a compilation of essays on animistic nature connections in the modern world. To subscribe or unsubsribe, navigate to the settings page and click on OUF. Slide the toggle on or off next to the ESP section.
Note: October’s Online Intuitive EcoWriting Workshop is Writing Down the Moon on October 28th, 5-7pm on Zoom. Registration closes this Friday, October 25th. See more about the class at the bottom of this post.
Being an animist means being in relationship with the natural world. For me, this means connecting with the spirits of the land wherever I am through physical and intuitive work. Sometimes, this is easy when the landscape is familiar like high deserts or alpine climates. But when I’m completely out of my element, the lack of familiarity creates a foreignness with the land that makes it difficult to be in relationship. Once I can connect, the foreignness disappears. Another challenge for me when it comes to land connection is when I am sick, like on my last trip to Nicaragua in March of 2024.
I arrived in Nicaragua with a cold contracted from my daughter and husband, which made me very grumpy. My daughter flew off to Japan with her cold for a school trip. I didn’t want to stay home worrying and missing her, so Eric and I decided to head to Central America where I could miss her and worry about her in tropical weather. Eric was recovering slowly from his cold as we boarded the plane south, and I was just beginning to show signs of a raspy chest cough and mysterious full body aches.
I tried to keep myself healthy, even though I was immediately plagued with traveler’s diarrhea after forgetting not to brush my teeth with tap water. I don’t get sick often (never had Covid, knock on wood), so when I do, I try my best to tough it out, but often end up feeling defeated. I wanted to lean into Nicaragua to heal me. Despite high heat, it started out okay in the first two hotels in Managua and the beautiful colonial city of Grenada, but by day three, we found ourselves in a locally owned hotel, with blood on the curtains (I suspect from murdered mosquitos after they already snacked on human flesh), a mattress with metal springs sticking out, and no air conditioning. We’d been in worse. But I was wishing it was better.
The location, however, couldn’t have been more beautiful. Ometepe Island is in Lake Nicaragua, called Cocibalca by locals, and is an hour-long ferry ride to get to. The island is shaped like an 8 or an infinity symbol with a volcano on each side and a lava-made isthmus in the center. We were on the isthmus on a beautiful white sand beach with consistent breezes off the waters and the sound of lapping waves.
On the north end the larger of the two volcanoes, still active, steamed with smoke while the smaller volcano on the south end remained dormant. Signs for evacuation routes reminded me of all the other times I had been near active volcanoes like Chile, Hawaii, Guatemala, and Iceland. All trips taken with my daughter, except for Guatemala. Well, actually, she was on that trip with us to Guatemala. She was a peanut-sized embryo inside my belly. On that trip, I bought a necklace made from a portion of conch shell with a turquoise inlaid crescent moon. Because I was pregnant, I felt in alignment with the moon, growing fuller just as the moon does while my own monthly moon was on sabbatical. I wore that same exact necklace on my trip to Nicaragua to feel connected to my daughter, so far apart, the invisible umbilical cord stretching impossibly long. I considered what would happen if the volcano erupted while we were there and our daughter was in Japan and how essential it was that we didn’t die in Nicaragua, ruining her trip and leaving her an orphan.
We learned of a watering hole fed by volcanic springs not far from our hotel and hitched a ride in a caponera (their term for auto rickshaws). Though crowded with bikini-clad European tourists with their butts hanging out as is the current fashion, the watering hole was beautiful and a blessed respite from the heat. Surrounded by lush green jungle and the sound of screeching birds.
We swam in the cool waters and then dried off in the sun. I imagined the sun drying out my chest cold, dehydrating my grumpiness. My whole body felt grumpy. I only wanted to sleep, rest and read quietly. Thankfully, Eric shared my inclination for rest. I meditated. I drank from a coconut, and it was the best moment of my year to-date despite my illness.
As I floated in the volcano-fed spring waters, I allowed myself to drift on my back. With my ears below the surface, the whole world went silent. It was mid-afternoon and I gazed at the clear sky, not the blue of New Mexico at all, but a quieter, greyer blue. Floating past the overarching tree branches, I caught a glimpse of the crescent moon. It came into sight just for a moment. So beautiful, smiling at me. I smiled back. I remembered my necklace and felt a deep peace and pleasure wash over me until my hand knocked against the stone wall of the pool and the moon was gone. I could not relocate it again amongst the tree crowns. Did I remember to say thank you to the Ojo de Aguas for this gift?
Reciprocity is a big part of being an animist. We must move away from our constant extraction from Nature and instead give back when we take. Just like you send a thank you note to a relative when they send you a gift, if Nature gives you a gift, you send a thank you note. Nature gives us gifts constantly--the food we eat, the peace we garner, even the materials used for everything we own-- and so giving thanks must be conscious and intentional. A consistent gratitude practice is necessary to be in reciprocal relationship.
The next day we went on foot again, hoping to hitch another ride, not realizing that the other end of the island had very little traffic. We hiked to visit some petroglyphs, consumed a cold drink and utilized the bathroom (again) before continuing our route to the kayak rental site. The hot sun scorched us as we plodded down the road. Stupidly, I had not yet applied sunscreen and I regretted this later. The chicken bus picked us up about a half mile before our destination.
The journey was worth it because we lucked out with an incredible kayak guide. It did not go unnoticed by me that there were no forms to sign, safety rules, directions on how to paddle (or questions of whether we had ever paddled before) and no PFDs.
We kayaked to the mouth of the Rio Istian. The waters were shallow along the river at the end of the dry season when lily pads blocked the narrow canals around madrone roots and caiman’s exposed eyes peered at us from the dark depths of the muddy underworld. The blue heron, great heron, white heron, and tiger heron stood perfectly still even as we passed, focused entirely on fish. They were quick to send their beaks between floating plant roots into the deep green surface waters to capture dinner. Alongside them, fisherman stood chest-deep in the same bog, a stick with a string loose in their grasp and cloth protection covering their heads and necks, just as focused as the herons, their brethren fisherman.
I took a deep breath and inhaled the primordial mud of my ancestors, when we were birds too, when the water was our habitat, and we were camouflaged in the thinning green of the river basin at dry season at the mouth of a great lake. Did I remember to sing a song? Did I give a gift back to the waters of Nicaragua then? Even after I held the flapping baby turtle for the photograph?
Did I give a gift to the lake when I finally jumped in after a long day of walking and paddling and burning in the sun? The waters were so cool and refreshing as I swam alone away from the rocky shore, hoping that the bull sharks of Lake Nicaragua did not consider me a tasty meal. I probably sang a song as is my habit. I often create songs as a homage to nature beings. I have acquired a skill for improvised lyrics that praise the landscapes and nature beings for their gifts and beauty. This is my go-to thank you note. If I am more prepared, I will bring a gift. Sometimes I leave a strand of hair and a prayer. This may not seem like much to you, but it is truly the thought that counts. The gesture of gratitude shows consideration and honor that you would offer a friend or an elder.
Since we are desert dwellers, we like to take any opportunity we can to go to the beach, even though it was a bit too much to fit into our short itinerary and even though my cold was only getting worse. The taxi failed to meet us as planned and we ended up taking a different taxi on the two-and-a-half-hour drive through the bumpy hills of Nicaragua in a 1982 Honda Accord with all the windows rolled down because there was no air conditioning.
The Pacific beaches of Nicaragua are known for surfing, but neither Eric nor I are surfers. We tried once in El Salvador, but Eric was too tall and gangly to stand up, and I just got pelted in the face by the nose of the board and gave up. We wanted a mellow beach because both of us are a little hesitant around waves. Actually, the best beach person amongst us is our daughter, Flora. Flora would have run right into the waves fearlessly and I would have followed her protectively and ended up having a great time jumping waves before finally coaxing Eric in for a minute. But with just Eric and I there, well, we were bad at beach. We missed Flora terribly as she cruised around Tokyo eating sushi without us. Our plan to be distracted by the beach to avoid missing her backfired.
I was still sick and grumpy. The chest cold was not easing up. The body aches required constant Ibuprofen. My sunburn raged on, inflaming my neck and shoulders. I didn’t think I could bare to be any stickier. I couldn’t bare anymore droplets of salty sweat down my butt crack. All I wanted to do was sprawl across the bed, a fan propelling wind over my spent achy bones and try to siesta. The ocean seemed like an intrusive chorus of endlessly crashing waves against the shore that never let up, never ceased, a constant splashing pound of white crest over and over letting go each time with a ferocity. I shamefully longed for the deep silence of the desert. I counted 14 resting heartbeats per wave. How long did that wave travel to find my ears on that one Saturday in Nicaragua with nothing around but a handful of newly built bars and hostels? No ATM, no taxi, no cordobas, no road, no market, no English, no Americans, no air conditioning, no nothing.
But we had a hammock on a second-floor balcony right on the beach, a constant breeze to cool us, and the shade of a roofline to shield us from the harsh sun as the numbers rose on my weather forecast app.
We did manage to enjoy ourselves. We swam, collected rocks and shells, ate fish at a loud beach bar and watched two amazing sunsets over the sea. But did I remember to greet the ocean? Did I call on mama ocean for grace and thank her for gifting us with her deep love? Or was I too grumpy?
We returned home again to our high desert abode where cold winds blew forcefully, and our cisterns were low. Our daughter enjoyed her trip, but it sounded like she might have missed us too. I finally recovered from that wretched cold, weeks later. My lungs were finally clearing, and the cough was finally dimming. As I healed, I took time to reflect on the waters of Nicaragua, how beautiful and clear, how much they offered me, and I cannot recall if I showed them gratitude, sang them a song, offered them a prayer, or gifted them something special. I feel bad about this. Is it too late now? Thank you, Nicaraguan waters, may you hear my song a long way off and know that I am thankful.
Nicaragua was the fist place outside of the U.S. that I ever traveled to. It ripped me open. I was only 17 years old at the time. It was the first time I ever learned about how awful the U.S government could be. I had been living under a well protected rock until then. It would be years before I learned to see that not only was the story I learned in my childhood regarding the States and Central America wrong from a political standpoint, but also from a wild, animistic vantage. Giocanda Belli helped me see deeper. (I am sure you are familiar with her book La Mujer Habitada (The Inhabited Woman).) The places we visit inhabit us. Ometepe in particular still visits me. Sometimes offering medicine and sometimes haunting me for what I forgot to do while I was there all those years ago. Sometimes it doesnt matter if we are unaware of what to do. The consequences are still the same regardless. I am reminded of Parzival, who neglected to ask the right question. "What ails thee?". Thank you, Johanna.
SOLID, Johanna. Thank you for that.