When my partner Anne and I moved to this beautiful peninsula
on the west edge of Penobscot Bay, there were those who behaved as if we were either very irresponsible or crazy. At the time, it is true, the explanations I offered for our anything-but-precipitous decision to abandon the relatively secure known of metropolitan Detroit for the downwardly mobile unknown of Martinsville, Me., seemed woefully inadequate, even to me. But, finally, after two years of immersing myself in the rhythms of the tides and seasons, working the earth, walking the beaches and kayaking among seals, I'm beginning to have words for the quest which brought us here.

Quite simply, we longed to see if we could begin living life from within nature rather than apart from it, hoping that if we could internalize the metabolism of earth, sea and sky our souls would find badly needed nourishment. Depleted by social and cultural pressure to keep ourselves informed about--and appropriately responsive to--every oppression, aggression and exploitation taking place on this globe, we hoped that by living very locally we might discover an activism scaled to the limits and range of our energy and consciousness, an activism that we'd find absorbing and recreative rather than exhausting and dispiriting.

Aspirant "dwellers in the land" is what writer/activist Kirkpatrick Sale would have called Anne and me if he'd known us as we plotted this move. In his 1985 book of the same name, Sale writes: "In The Interpreters, a book written at the height of the Irish Revolution by the Irish author known as AE, there is a passage in which a group of prisoners, a disparate lot, sit around discussing what the ideal new world should look like. One of them, a philosopher, advances the now-familiar vision of a unitary world order with a global, scientific, cosmopolitan culture. Another, the poet Lavelle, argues fervently against this conception, trying to show that the more the world develops its technological superstructure, the farther it gets from its natural roots. 'If all wisdom was acquired from without,' he says, 'it might be politic for us to make our culture cosmopolitan. But I believe our best wisdom does not come from without, but arises in the soul and is an emanation of the Earth spirit, a voice speaking directly to us dwellers in this land.'"

Our current world bespeaks the triumph of the philosopher's vision
but at disastrous environmental and social cost. Relearning the wisdom which comes from the earth, Sale says, is the project of creating an ecological world, which requires that we create a society that thinks and operates bioregionally. This issue of The Witness, focused on the region of the Penobscot River and Bay, offers a glimpse into the implications of such a perspective, since it is contradictory to talk about bioregionalism in the abstract.

But some simple, appealing principles do apply. Instead of focusing on national and world politics, bioregionalism is a citizenship primarily of one's region and local community--a natural, comprehensible scale that encourages rather than discourages active participation. Instead of a focus on competitive, global economics that rapidly depletes natural resources, the emphasis is on cooperative, self-sufficient and sustainable strategies. Likewise, a bioregional perspective embraces nature's own inclination towards diversity and decentralized decision-making.

Not so simple is unlearning the detachment of the industrio-scientific world view.
What's required, I'm finding, is a discipline of paying attention. So most every day I walk an hour in the woods and along the shore, intent on noticing the direction of the wind, the status of the tide, the flight of an osprey or the course of a deer swimming to a nearby island. I heed with anticipation our dogs' zealous stalking of beaver, loons and seals, taking note, too, of the surprising (and sometimes unpleasant) array of natural artifacts they uncover. I store away for future reference neighbors' instructions on when and where to successfully harvest fiddleheads or on how to dry edible seaweed and which kinds are best. At neap tide, from May to November, I devote hours of single-minded focus to measuring and describing juvenile lobsters for the Lobster Conservancy. And, finally, I'm monitoring the progress of the moon across our night sky in hopes of understanding its relationship to our seasons and tides.

I've been aware that this self-imposed practice of noticing the peculiarities of this place has made me more mindful in a variety of ways, just as bioregionalist theorists like Sale would hope. I have been taking greater and greater care about putting food on our table that we've grown ourselves or can obtain from local organic producers (we are participants in a cooperative venture with several other households to grow a wide range of crops that can supply us through the winter). Threats to the quality and reliability of our water supply have become regular topics of discussion--and the reason for attending community hearings and meetings. And whenever I have the choice, the goods and services I purchase are ecologically responsible and obtained from regional providers.

But most importantly, I can see, these small commitments
along with the fierce readiness I now feel to fight for the health of the clam flat I can see from my bedroom window, are flowing from--and restoring--my sense of groundedness in a larger life. Thus anchored, I've a renewed feeling of solidarity with this land, sea and sky--and with all those who understand creation as God's gift and determine to live accordingly. This change of heart alone, I'm very grateful to say, was well worth the move.

Julie A. Wortman <julie@thewitness.org> is a co-editor/publisher of The Witness.

Photo: Julie A. Wortman

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