For the first time in a couple of decades, I am living in a house without air conditioning in July. And some time over this last year, I agreed to write reflections for a retreat with the theme “Carried by Creation.” The two turned out to be more connected than I expected. There is something powerful about opening the windows as evening mountain air brings the outside in. Creation is closer without air conditioning.

Throughout the last century, so much of our living (in the global north for moderate income earners) has become distanced from creation. We want light and we flick a switch. We eat food days or months from the time it is butchered or harvested, so we put it in the fridge or freezer. Our indoor climates are heated and cooled with thermostat buttons or apps. It is relatively easy to avoid the outside and any of nature’s moods.

When we do spend time outdoors, we have so many conveniences that our ancestors would not have used. It is easy to be conned into thinking that I am in control of my outdoor experience — until dusk falls and the giant mosquitoes have their moment.

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I am literally allergic to nature. Anywhere the sun touches my skin without sunscreen breaks out in a rash. Pollens, dust and animals all make me sneeze and itch. At least in the winter, my skin gets a break and my asthmatic lungs just freeze up in the cold. (My family laughs with me and packs my hat; what else is there to do?) But for all my dramatic whining, I am becoming increasingly convinced that the distance from creation is hurting us.

In the most difficult moments in my life, I have laid down on the ground or my bed and focused every ounce of my attention on the earth beneath me. It holds me, without asking for anything in return. I marvel at the miracle of gravity, an invisible force holding me on a planet that spins predictably through space around our sun. I feel the breath of God move slowly in and out of my lungs. The quiet rhythm of my heart beating. 

I am a creature, being carried through life by all the miracles of creation. On vacation last week, I watched my kids playing on a lake past bedtime, held up and cooled by the water, kissed by the setting sun. Why is it so much easier to see the world carrying them? 

I arrived home to finish the retreat preparation and I will leave this here: Carried by Creation: An Unfinished Litany

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Imagined in the mind and heart of God. Held in the womb. Made out of earth and water and air. Delivered into the world.

Swept up in wonder by a ladybug. Breathless before a sunrise. Blown into delight by dandelion seeds.

Carriers of illness. Afflicted by insects. Fed and captivated and burned by fire. Sated and floated and washed by the sea. Tossed and cooled by the wind. Stuck in the mud. Propelled over ice and snowed in. Serenaded by birdsong. Prey for lions, and tigers, and bears. Loved by puppies and horses. (Tolerated by the occasional cat.) Protected by the vulnerability of skin.

Seeds stuck in our shoes. Words carried by melodies. Stories passed down from generations long buried. Sparks lit in the sky and in our souls. Power flowing through our bodies. Communities fueled by care.

Energy captured by photosynthesis. Solar-powered batteries. Wheels for carts and bikes, beds and chairs. Anesthetic and acetaminophen and awe. A sky so stunning that it moves my skepticism to faith.

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A tumbleweed caught in a wheel. Pulled under by a current. Caught in a landslide. Snagged on a tree. Upended by a root and a wave. Reduced to my knees by a mountain. Propelled into cave. Doused by a puddle.

Lifted by the prayers of loved ones. Extinguished with a last breath. Wrapped and prepared for burial. Carried by pallbearers. Cradled by the earth. Set adrift on the ocean. Whispered into the heavens.