During our study of American Romantic and Transcendental literature, I would challenge my juniors to choose between two high-risk ventures: Either walk alone late at night down a dark alley in a rough part of town or through the wilds of Alaska, the home of grizzlies and wolves. That led to some raucous exchanges as they debated among themselves. During the followup, large-group debriefing discussion, two outcomes struck me as particularly telling. The first was how many spoke about going back and forth as they deciphered what their choice said about them. The second was the number that opted for which scenario.
Since then, I posed that challenge to numerous adults. Most landed where my sixteen- and seventeen-year-old students did: the dark alley.
Having a strong nature boy archetype, initially I found that surprising. But upon reflection, I realized there was a lesson to be learned from it: People, by and large, have a fear of nature.
As foreboding and forbidding a dark alley might be, it, nevertheless, symbolizes civilization, and within civilization — “where the peoples is,” as Del Jue defines it in “Jeremiah Johnson” — lies safety. But therein lies the root of our national angst. Since we hom*o sapiens enclosed — barricaded — ourselves behind protective walls, we’ve become risk-averse in its pure sense. For many today, risk-taking involves financial investments, high-stakes gambling, and rush-hour traffic.
Other than occasional strolls through a park, rides along a bike path, or weekend jaunts out to the countryside, ofttimes clutching their wireless umbilical cord, Americans rarely if ever venture into their natural home. And when they do, they do it in a relatively risk-free manner. Though those outings can be beneficial and even crucial for one’s physical, mental and emotional health, they rarely put people in a place where they can experience something soul-fulfilling. In a word, awe. Because it is in nature where a person experiences awe authentically. Where one becomes awe filled.
Think of a time when you experienced an awe-filled moment, one that made you gasp in wonder because of its power, magnificence, or grandeur. Describe it. Was it in or of a manmade structure or an interaction you had or witnessed? Or was it something beyond human creation?
I often think of the time when a friend and I were descending Wilson Peak in the San Juans and a fierce storm rolled in. We were at about 13,000 feet when lightning started dancing not only above us but also below. Safety protocol called for me to crouch low to avoid being a target, but some soulful power kept me hiking down the trail. As I did, John Denver’s line in “Rocky Mountain High” about raining fire in the sky sang in my mind. Far from freaking out, I was so captivated by what I was more than witnessing. I became, as Ralph Waldo Emerson put it, part and parcel of it.
“Awful” is a strange word in that it seems to contradict itself. Rather than meaning full of awe, it means “not good” or “crappy,” or when used as an adverb, it can denote something positive as in, “She’s awfully good at soccer.” We also bandy “awe “around lightly when we say we’re in awe of something mundane. When used in those contexts, we trivialize the depth and power of the word. To remind ourselves of the true meaning of “awe,” it’s helpful to consider the word’s etymology.
Awe is a derivative of “ahe,” an Old English word, which was taken from the Old Norse “agi” that meant terror as well as deep reverence. That might seem like a double usage or meaning, but it’s not. Terror, in this case, is not the kind of terror we generally think of, like an act of terrorism. Rather, it means being completely overwhelmed by an event, presence, or force so beyond human comprehension it causes a shift in consciousness. We’re moved beyond being super impressed into a higher dimension of awareness and profundity.
In the end, an authentic sense of awe is a spiritual experience. Of course, it’s not within most peoples’ ability or means to climb a mountain or sidestep behind a roaring waterfall. But transcendent moments can happen simply by reflecting on a rainbow, sitting on your porch during a hellacious thunderstorm, or, if brazen enough, chasing or getting chased by a tornado.
To become whole, it’s essential to encounter and touch the sublime from time to time. It not only reminds you of your fragility and vulnerability in the face of the power and mystery of nature and universe, its effects can help you put the strife and tension of human affairs into perspective. Because feeling awe-full reminds us that relative to nature we’re not invincible and as tough as we often delude ourselves into believing.
Jerry Fabyanic is the author of “Sisyphus Wins” and “Food for Thought: Essays on Mind and Spirit.” He lives in Georgetown.
