NATURE: Orion Rises On The Dunes by Henry Beston

Orion Rises On The Dunes by Henry Beston

From The Outermost House

So came August to its close, ending its last day with a night so luminous and still that a mood came over me to sleep out on the open beach under the stars.  There are nights in summer when darkness and ebbing tide quiet the universal wind, and this August night was full of that quiet of absence, and the sky was clear.  South of my house, between the bold fan of a dune and the wall of a plateau, a sheltered hollow opens seaward, and to this nook I went, shouldering my blankets sailorwise.  In the star-shine the hollow was darker than the immense and solitary beach, and its floor was still pleasantly warm with the overflow of day.

I fell asleep uneasily, and woke again as one wakes out-of-doors.  The vague walls about me breathed a pleasant smell of sand, there was no sound, and the broken circle of grass above was as motionless as something in a house.  Waking again, hours afterward, I felt the air grown colder and heard a little advancing noise of waves.  It was still night.  Sleep gone and past recapture, I drew on my clothes and went to the beach.  In the luminous east, two great stars aslant were rising clear of the exhalations of darkness gathered at the rim of night and ocean – Betelgeuse and Bellatrix, the shoulders of Orion.  Autumn had come, and the Giant stood again at the horizon of day and the ebbing year, his belt still hidden in the bank of cloud, his feet in the deeps of space and the far surges of the sea.

My year upon the beach had come full circle: it was time to close my door.  Seeing the great suns, I thought of the last time I marked them in the spring, in the April west above the moors, dying into the light and sinking.  I saw them of old above the moors, dying into the light and sinking.  I saw them of old above the iron waves of black December, sparkling afar.  Now, once again, the Hunter rose to drive summer south before him, once again autumn followed on his steps.  I had seen the ritual of the sun; I had shared the elemental world.  Wraiths of memories began to take shape.  I saw the sleet of the great storm slanting down again into the grass under the thin seepage of moon, the blue-white spill of an immense billow on the outer bar, the swans in the high October sky, the sunset madness and splendor of the year’s terns over the dunes, the clouds of beach birds arriving, the eagle solitary in the blue.  And because I had known this outer and secret world, and been able to live as I had lived, reverence and gratitude greater and deeper than ever possessed me, sweeping every emotion else aside, and space and silence an instant closed together over life.  Then time gathered again like a cloud, and presently the stars began to pale over an ocean still dark with remembered night.

During the months that have passed since that September morning some have asked me what understanding of Nature one shapes from so strange a year?  I would answer that one’s first appreciation is a sense that the creation is still going on, that the creative forces are as great and as active today as they have ever been, and that tomorrow’s morning will be heroic as any of the world.  Creation is here and now.  So near is man to the creative pageant, so much a part is he of the endless and incredible experiment, that any glimpse he may have will be but the revelation of a moment, a solitary note heard in a symphony thundering through debatable existences of time.  Poetry is as necessary to comprehension as science.  It is as impossible to live without reverence as it is without joy.

And what of Nature itself, you say – that callous and cruel engine, red in tooth and fang?  Well, it is not so much of an engine as you think.  As for “red in tooth and fang,” whenever I hear the phrase or its intellectual echoes I know that some passer-by has been getting life from books.  It is true that there are grim arrangements.  Beware of judging them by whatever human values are in style.  As well expect Nature to answer to your human values as to come into your house and sit in a chair.  The economy of nature, its checks and balances, its measurements of competing life – all this is its great marvel and has an ethic of its own.  Live in Nature, and you will soon see that for all its nonhuman rhythm, it is no cave of pain.  As I write I think of my beloved birds of the great beach, and of their beauty and their zest of living.  And if there are fears, know also that Nature has its unexpected and unappreciated mercies.

Whatever attitude to human existence you fashion for yourself, know that it is valid only if it be the shadow of an attitude to Nature.  A human life, so often likened to a spectacle upon a stage, is more justly a ritual.  The ancient values of dignity, beauty, and poetry which sustain it are of Nature’s inspiration; they are born of the mystery and beauty of the world.  Do no dishonor to the Earth lest you dishonor the spirit of man.  Hold your hands out over the Earth as over a flame.  To all who love her, who open to her the doors of their veins, she gives of her strength, sustaining them with her own measureless tremor of dark life.  Touch the Earth, love the Earth, honor the Earth, her plains, her valleys, her hills, and her seas; rest your spirit in her solitary places.  For the gifts of life are the Earth’s and they are given to all, and they are the songs of birds at daybreak, Orion and the Bear, and dawn seen over ocean from the beach.

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