I can’t say anyone has ever asked me about my theology of earth, nor have I intentionally given it much thought. In many ways, it was a subject I shied away from as a teenager, because the teaching I received in church didn’t seem to make much sense! It wasn’t until my mid-thirties that I reconnected with nature through my role as a wildlife artist. And although I created artwork showing the beauty of nature, I spent a minimal amount of time sitting in its midst. My process was superficial, and for me lacked authenticity.

I became so frustrated with life and my process of working, that I stopped painting altogether and sought another way of doing things. Four years passed by, and out of a state of hopelessness that I’d never paint again, I applied to take part in a drawing course working directly from nature. For 5 days, we spent 7 hours each day sitting in the landscape, attempting to draw fleeting movements of Gannets, Guillemots, Razorbills and Kittiwakes. The experience was overwhelming to the point of tears. As I sat in a community of 25 artists, we faced together the reality of our weaknesses and the littleness of our presence, in a vast environment full of complexities, interconnected relationships, and never-ending communication. We experienced an unlearning of fixed ideas and processes, and an unravelling of emotion which laid bare our vulnerabilities.  

In our togetherness of community, we supported each other in this vulnerability and became part of the landscape, intently listening, watching, thinking, interacting, and responding. Our creative outcomes far from matched our engagement, but it didn’t matter, something deeper was at work. We were no longer just observers, it felt as though we had fully integrated into the landscape and spoke the same language. This experience birthed a deep-rooted connection and support for each other within the group, and fostered in us a meaningful appreciation and love for nature. The time was life giving and life changing, and gave me a profound understanding of what happens, when we slow down and sit with each other long enough to take notice.

I sometimes reflect on the Apostle Paul’s words in Romans 8: 20-23, where he speaks about the earth being liberated from the bondage of decay, and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God. Paul speaks about this bondage through a groaning of pain. I often wonder, if I sat long enough, even in the most beautiful of landscapes, could I physically hear the earth’s agonising cries?  

This practice of sitting within a landscape in a poise of stillness and curiosity, brings calm to my soul, wonder to my mind and praise to my heart. With my senses fully engaged, I am invited into a place of deep emotional and spiritual connection, raising in me an awe-inspiring sense of admiration and love. I see the hand of the Holy gardener and master craftsman, the originality of design and multiplicity of diversity. But I also hear the cry of longing from my own soul, reminding me that God’s promise of restoration and redemption is for a kingdom so much more beautiful than my mind could imagine.  As I sit with the reality of my declining body and a decaying earth, I recognise that my waiting for this redemption is not passive, but one were I need to generate this love into action and nurture the precious gift of life God has given me.

Feature image: ‘Crosses in the Sky’, Celebration of Gannets at Bass Rock, Mixed Media