ABSTRACT

DECONSTRUCTING THE SELF: MODELS OF DISENCHANTMENT

In my Master of Arts English Literature Thesis, “Deconstructing the Self: Models of Disenchantment,” I closely examine the protagonists in Tim O’Brien’s “Sweet Heart of the Song Tra Bong,” Willa Cather’s, “Tom Outland’s Story,” and Sarah Orne Jewett’s, “A White Heron.” I utilize them as models for what I term the Natural Self and Constructed Self and apply them to the process of experiencing the sacred in Nature. I associate the Constructed Self with the part of man’s intellect that embraces Western social constructs that are essentially materialistic, self-serving, corruptive and anthropocentric; I identify the Natural Self with the antitheses of those values and sees embracing the Natural Self as a prerequisite for experiencing the sacred in Nature. I argue that by having a sense of place and immersing ourselves in nature we become more sensitive to the overall physical experience of being in nature, and to the sublime experience when Nature provides it. The sublime experience, I then suggest, is important for realizing the greater powers of Nature that cause us to realize that we are smaller beings, part of a larger, living interconnected system. This realization changes our perspective of the way we see the natural world and both the experience, and the place, become sacred. We then come to revere the landscape and the natural world, and demonstrate this reverence through actions that show concern for the well being of the earth and the things within it.

Aaron Benson December 2011

DECONSTRUCTING THE SELF: MODELS OF DISENCHANTMENT

by Aaron Benson

A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Arts in English in the College of Arts and Humanities California State University, Fresno December 2011 APPROVED For the Department of English:

We, the undersigned, certify that the thesis of the following student meets the required standards of scholarship, format, and style of the university and the student's graduate degree program for the awarding of the master's degree.

Aaron Benson Thesis Author

Lyn Johnson (Chair) English

Ruth Jenkins English

Steve Adisasmito-Smith English

For the University Graduate Committee:

Dean, Division of Graduate Studies AUTHORIZATION FOR REPRODUCTION OF MASTER’S THESIS

X I grant permission for the reproduction of this thesis in part or in its entirety without further authorization from me, on the condition that the person or agency requesting reproduction absorbs the cost and provides proper acknowledgment of authorship.

Permission to reproduce this thesis in part or in its entirety must be obtained from me.

Signature of thesis author: ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Special thanks to my committee for their time, energy, and patience. Thank you, Erin, too…

For Mother. TABLE OF CONTENTS Page

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION & OUTLOOK ...... 1

The Sacred ...... 4

Percepts and Concepts...... 5

The Sense of Place ...... 8

The Sublime ...... 10

Discovering the Sacred ...... 11

In Essence… ...... 14 CHAPTER 2: MARY ANNE BELL’S SACRED EXPERIENCE IN TIM O’BRIEN’S “SWEETHEART OF THE SONG TRA BONG” ...... 16 CHAPTER 3: SYLVIA’S DEFENSE OF THE NATURAL SELF IN SARAH ORNE JEWETT’S “A WHITE HERON” ...... 30 CHAPTER 4: TOM’S BALANCE OF BODY AND MIND IN WILLA CATHER’S “TOM OUTLAND’S STORY” ...... 45

A Balance? ...... 47

Tom’s Journey ...... 49

CHAPTER 5: IN BRIEF… ...... 61

Our Models of Disenchantment ...... 62

WORKS CITED ...... 68

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION & OUTLOOK

Man is moving further away from his connection with Nature. Motivated by anthropocentric attitudes, values, policies, and the constant pursuit to improve our way of life, we move farther from the physical, emotional, and spiritual, sacred-relationship we once had with the Earth. Dedicated to anthropocentric practices, we see, and therefore treat, Nature as a commodity having little to no inherent worth. While technologies advance and capitalism reigns, we perpetuate materialistic, consumer-driven values that displace our selves from the natural world around us, creating an identity I appropriately call the Constructed Self. This Self is grounded in values that work not only against Nature but also against the future survival of the human species. It is through the Constructed Self that we engage, condone, and arrogantly justify antithetical, exploitive practices that we know have negative consequences for our fellow man, and for the Earth on which we ultimately depend. In other words, guided by the identity of the Constructed Self, we embrace destructive routines, and we become further removed from our connection with our Natural Self. Our connection with Nature thus severed, we forget that the earth is inherently sacred, which leads to a continuance of exploitation, justified, as we indulge the Constructed Self and its anthropocentric norms. The Constructed Self is unique in nature in that it is a construct of Man that creates a false binary, separating him from nature through an unnatural dichotomy. This dichotomy separates Man from Nature, mind from body, body from spirit, and even man from man. Patricia Ferrer-Medina discusses dichotomies and the myth of the Wild Man found in literature. Her findings reveal a similarity between 2 the Wild/Civilized Binary and the binary we can find between our Natural and Constructed Selves. She writes that the Wild Man is a place of contingency where the human realm encounters the animal one. The figure is made up of two essences which he or she internalizes from abstract notions of that which is conventionally considered human (culture) and that which is conventionally considered animal (nature). The human and the animal are then organized within the figure in a false binary opposition. The pair is falsely opposed because, as has been well established already, more recently by the ecological sciences, the human element coincides with the animal. (Ferrer-Medina 67) The similarities of Wild/Civilized binaries and the Constructed/Natural Self are apparent, considering they both rely on constructed oppositions created by man, and use those oppositions to suppress/oppress the Natural side of the binary by relegating it to an inferior position. In other words, the Constructed Self can be seen as subscribing to socially made values—man made, constructed values—that motivate behaviors that suppress our awareness of a greater connection with the earth through behaviors that ultimately condone materialism, competition, and greed. Quite simply, the Constructed Self consists of values that condone behavioral tendencies not natural in Nature: it is hedonistic, ultimately selfish, self-serving, and seeks to acquire what can be physically gained and values most what can be tangibly quantified. The inherent value in and of Nature is lost, and with it, our natural connection with Nature – the intuitive awareness that we are but parts of an interdependent living system. And what is natural and known to the Natural Self then—the knowledge that we are connected and absolutely dependent upon the Earth’s well being—is made “unordinary” by the Constructed Self as the 3

Natural Self is repressed and the Constructed Self conforms to society’s anthropocentric ethos. This process of making the ordinary, unordinary, can sometimes make the unordinary then seem almost magical or mysterious. The sense of magic and mystery creates a sense of enchantment to the experience, the experience most often happening in a particular place that removes us from our everyday life; this can ultimately add to the significance of that place. Through repetition and even shared experiences, particular places, often out in nature, come to hold special meaning as we revisited them in order to re-experience the initial enchantment— the feelings that grow while being away, out in nature, those feeling of smallness, while also knowing or feeling, that we are connected to something bigger. These sublime experiences are our reconnection with the Natural Self—and with that reconnection, comes an awareness of our sacred relationship with the Earth. But looking at this more closely, we find that the Natural Self is actually a state of disenchantment. Antithetical to Romanticism’s tendency to associates Nature with enchantment, the real enchantment is the current perspective we subscribe to while living as the Constructed Self. Disenchantment occurs when the Natural Self reestablishes its naturally-dominant position, and we become aware of and act on the reality of having a natural connection to the earth and the importance of our role in maintaining the environment that is critical to all survival. That is, the Natural Self sees beyond the fallacious human/nature dichotomy that we have enchanted ourselves with and more fully realizes that our contrived social values not only separate man from nature but also situate man hierarchically above nature which consequently provides the justification of our anthropocentric principles that recognize only the earth’s instrumental value. 4

In response to this experience, the Natural Self begins to rebuild its relationship with the Earth through a reverential recognition of the intrinsic values of Nature. Through a reconnection with our Natural Self, our link and ultimate dependence on the earth is recognized and even revered—the earth again becomes sacred. This reconnection with the Natural Self begins with having a sense of place, in which, the sublime is experienced. And in the culmination of the feelings comprised of the sense of place and the sublime, the experience can become sacred, and thus, so does the Earth. As we will later find, literature sometimes provides models of disenchantment that clarify and make tangible sense of place, sublime, and the sacred, and how these come together to evoke the Natural Self, which can aid us in reestablishing our connection with the earth and ultimately act upon the negatives of our society’s self-destructive ethos.

The Sacred If any experience can be considered universal, it is that of experiencing the numinous within Nature. This experience, while potentially universal, is also an individual, subjective experience, as the sacred reveals itself in different ways to different people. Belden C. Lane, Professor of Theology at St. Luis University, defines the sacred place as the point at which the wondrous power of the divine…[can]…be seen breaking into the world’s alleged ordinariness. As a result, that fixed point becomes the center of the world, the navel of the earth or axis mundi by which passage can be obtained to the cosmic region beyond, from where all meaning derives. Here the real could unveil itself in space. (Lane 20) 5

Because this experience is potentially universal, Lane’s example is quite appropriate for us, as “divine” connotes a physical and emotional connection with one’s self and one’s particular—for lack of a universal term—religious or spiritual “Entity.”1 It is the emotional, or spiritual, component that makes this universally-discoverable experience subjective. Simply put in other words, if two or more people were to experience the sacred at the same place and moment, it would be a different experience for each of them. What is also being said above is that as the sacred reveals itself, we become closer and more in-tune with the mysterious, more-than-human world from which we habitually close ourselves via the Constructed Self. That is, as we become aware of our connection to this “cosmic region, from where all meaning derives,” we realize that we are more closely related with—and more dependent on—Nature than we ever could imagine while living with the anthropocentric perspectives of the Constructed Self. Experiencing the sacred affirms Man’s direct link with Nature and establishes a reverence for the natural world by realigning ourselves with the Natural Self. And because our natural connection to the earth is again realized—providing us a more enlightened, more honest, critique of our anthropocentric ethos—we become aware of a necessity to change how we think of, and act upon, Nature and its resources.

Percepts and Concepts The basis for all human experience is perception. As we know, the sensual body receives stimuli that is interpreted into an experience, first through the

1 I am not satisfied with this term, “entity,” but I struggle to find a manageable term that is tangible to readers with various levels of spirituality, yet connotatively spiritual/metaphysical enough to retain a sense of awe. 6

body’s senses and then, as the information is processed and conceptualized by the mind. In other words, experience requires the participation that is inherent to sensual stimulation. Whether we actively note points of interest while hiking along a trail—such as the freshness of the mountain air or the bright green of new forest growth—or miss them completely because we are somehow too busy or otherwise mentally distracted, we are physically participating with our environment to some degree. Aware (or not) of stones or fallen branches that we sidestep, our bodies interact with the environment around us in an act of participation. This means, quite simply, that participation does not necessarily require an active awareness on our part. However, actively participating with our surroundings—such as by purposefully taking-in the wilderness around us as we ascend a mountain trail— lends itself to an overall more sensually immersive experience, which makes not only the moment more significant, but the place our experience occurs in as well. However, the connection with our Natural Self has diminished because of our conceptualized values—created by the Constructed Self—that place stock and priority in the logical mind, and not our physical bodies. In other, significant terms, because of the paradigm shift brought about by the Enlightenment and the ways it still influences our thinking, we have learned to readily dismiss much of what our bodies perceive, separating the mind and body by organizing them hierarchically – mind over body, mind over matter. English Professor and nature/nonfiction author John Hales discusses this very notion in his memoir Shooting Polaris: A Personal Survey of the American West. He details his experiences as a BLM Land Surveyor and future teacher and how his surveying experiences while out in the wilds of Nature influences how he thinks and feels about Man, Nature, and how Man handles his relationship with Nature: Hales shares his inner conflict as he acknowledges that though he values 7 the natural world around him, his surveying work of the land—which he thoroughly enjoys—for governmental and big-business profit (coal mining, power plant building, etc.), conflicts with values that recognize Nature’s inherent worth. He appropriately links this conflict with the values and attitudes we have, informed by the Enlightenment, and compares them to those of “the romantic revolution [that] ushered in a new sensitivity to the integrity of the natural landscape, which…seldom carves itself into squares” (199). Hales is referring too, of course, the surveying lines and the product of those lines which impose a man- made, constructed sense of order to the natural landscape, at the landscape’s expense. And furthermore, while there has been a sense of growing sensitivity regarding the treatment of the landscape with values of post-Enlightenment, Romantic ways of thinking, we are still very much cultured to value the reason and logic prompted by the Enlightenment. Hales appropriately also writes that “The Land Ordinance of 1785 has had the effect of keeping Americans trapped in the smug assumptions of the Age of Reason, and as a result, post-Enlightenment insights sit heavily on the American countryside” (199). What we can take from this is that we are stuck in the “Age of Reason,” stuck in our minds, isolated from our bodies. We know that we have need for a sustainable relationship with Nature, with the earth, but we have been taught to separate ourselves, for the most part, from the sensual, and to value the mind over the body: science and reason over emotion and instinct (as we will explore in subsequent chapters). Again, this separation of mind and body, largely motivated from our enlightened reason, also separates us from our natural connection with Nature. With the loss of our physical connection with the earth it becomes difficult to realize a spiritual connection, as the physical body is [often] the catalyst when we experience the sacred in Nature. But with this connection with Nature mostly 8 severed, our spiritual connection dwindling, Nature loses its intrinsic value and becomes commoditized. Consequently, as our values have changed, we have changed, and following the ethos of the Constructed Self we justify our anthropocentricism – Man is better than Nature so it becomes “OK” to drill, chop, and blast for our exclusive needs. In short, despite our post-enlightenment responses, we still choose to place greater value on the concepts of the mind than we do on the perceptions of the body. And thus, by conveniently aligning our values, indeed enchanting, ourselves by the facets of science we choose to acknowledge and the others we blatantly ignore, we disconnect ourselves from Nature and the Natural Self and indulge the pseudo-logic and values of the Constructed Self. This is the essence of the Constructed Self, why we have disconnected from our Natural Self, and why it is difficult for us to not only recognize the Earth’s intrinsic worth but also why it is difficult for us to appreciate and engage in active participation in Nature and experience the sacred when we realize that we are out in It.

The Sense of Place Before we can experience the sacred, we must have, or at least be familiar with, a sense of place. Having a sense of place begins with our bodily perceptions—and our awareness of our connection with the Earth—and ends, ideally, genuinely feeling good wherever we may be. It is that intangible “something” that lets us feel totally comfortable while appreciating a place for what it is. Professor of Environmental studies, Neil Evernden, discusses the sense of place, suggesting that “there appears to be a human phenomenon…that is described as aesthetic and which is, in effect, a ‘sense of place,’ a sense of knowing and of being a part of a particular place…it’s just what it feels to be 9

home, to experience a sense of light or of smell that is inexplicably ‘right’” (100). This sense of feeling at home is not a miraculous occurrence, as most people have certainly felt a sense of place at least one time or another, but, one may not have had the language to interpret and define the experience. In other words—and as we will come to see in subsequent chapters—the sense of place is often difficult to describe in words because it is largely a physical experience that occurs when one is open to the sensual perceptions of the body. But, the sense of place can be more than a location where we just feel good. Ecologist and philosopher David Abram discusses this very notion, suggesting that “The singular magic of place is evident from what happens there, from what befalls oneself or others when in its vicinity” (182). That is, this place can be significant because of something unique or significant that happens there, some event that occurred that marks itself in our—or possibly, a group’s—mind, that evokes memories, and therefore, feelings, when the experience is recalled or the place is revisited. Regardless of how a special locale is identified, the sense of place is an important consideration as it is the basis from which an appreciation of our environment (Nature) is built and is necessary for a reconnection with the Natural Self. This is a physical sensory experience and if significant enough, can manifest itself through the emotions, adding to the weight of the experience. Being aware of our physical and emotional reactions, we begin to open ourselves to more opportunities to experience this sense of place. As this continues, an appreciation and respect for these places, that we realize are all within Nature, is built. By nurturing a genuine appreciation for Nature, which is motivated from having a sense of place, we move toward a closer relationship with Nature and thus, more ready to experience the sacred when Nature shares it. 10 The Sublime The sublime is an aesthetic of how we feel in response to a powerful experience within Nature. It is an awe-striking, disorienting, and sometimes equally-frightening experience when we find ourselves in Nature, humbled by her immense beauty, size and power, when we realize that we are much smaller in the grand scheme of things. The 18th century philosopher Immanuel Kant writes in his Critique of Judgment that at the sublime moment, we measure ourselves against the apparent almightiness of nature: bold, overhanging, and as it were, threatening rocks, thunderclouds piled up the vault of heaven, borne along with flashes and peals, volcanoes in all their violence of destruction, hurricanes leaving desolation in their track, the boundless ocean rising with rebellious force, the high waterfall of some mighty river, and the like, make our power of resistance a trifling moment in comparison with their might. (Kant 110) In other words, the sublime occurs when Nature’s beauty and power are seen and felt in such a way that our Constructed Self is displaced and we realize that our anthropocentricity is unjustified. That is, during the moment of the sublime, when we find ourselves contrasted to Nature’s aesthetic, creative, and even destructive forces, we not only feel humbled in our misplaced “Man is better” attitude, but also have a healthier respect and reverence for Nature and Her powers as we realign ourselves with the values of the Natural Self. When we experience the sublime in Nature the landscape or scene in which we are participating often takes on an exceptionally vibrant aesthetic. The place stands out to us, saturating our physical perceptions to a point that motivates an emotional response. At this point Nature often seems alive as her powers are 11

revealed in various ways. Sometimes, we describe these ways with respect to the weather, which is often a factor in the experience, and liken these ways to sounds animal in nature, such as a roaring thunder or a whistling or howling wind. At other times, the sublime experience may be more abstract and difficult to articulate. In these cases the setting still plays an important role in the experience, but it is there, with the description of the landscape, that an easily definable experience ends and something more personal, emotional, and spiritual, begins. When we experience the sublime by participating in and experiencing the powers of Nature, we realize that Nature’s powers are beyond our control. With this realization we then become, at least for a moment, aware that Man lives in, and not above, Nature. Said another way, in our Natural Self we are disenchanted, humbled, small in contrast to the greater world around us, yet also part of the whole. The influence of the sublime comes to us then, as we become aware of the connection that is usually not readily felt during the course of daily life, while living in the Constructed Self. This special moment is bigger, more powerful than we can imagine, which then often prompts us to consider that place and experience sacred. And in turn, most importantly, we cannot help but rethink our relationship with Nature, and thus, our anthropocentric values as well.

Discovering the Sacred Experiencing the sacred is contingent on our perspective and Nature’s willingness to reveal this sacred place and moment. With this in mind, it becomes important to know how Nature may be willing to share the sacred and how we may best open ourselves to experience the sacred within Nature. Nature/spiritual philosopher and theologian, Professor Belden Lane of St. Luis University suggests that the sacred is based on four axioms, the first of which states that a “sacred 12

place is not chosen, it chooses…Sacred place, therefore, is a construction of the imagination that affirms the independence of the holy. God chooses to reveal himself only where he wills” (19). What this means is that the sacred is affirmed in its revelation to Man; it is not created or chosen by men. We can write or read or wonder about the sacred, but only after actually experiencing it do we know and understand, physically, emotionally, spiritually, that sacred space is indeed sacred. It is the culmination of the sense of place, the influence of the sublime, and the opportunity given by Nature. So powerful is the discovery of the sacred, our identity is changed in some way—often seen through the craving to return to or remain in that sacred space—which gives way for a new or greater respect, and even reverence for, Nature and, quite often, a significant reverence for the particular place where we experience the sacred. Lane’s second axiom suggests that the sacred place is an “ordinary place, ritually made extraordinary.” Explaining then, that these places become “recognized as sacred because of certain ritual acts that are performed there” (19). That is not to say, of course, that these rituals require special incantations or magical potions; they are simply made sacred through an act of ceremony involving internal reflection, or respect for a given moment or place. In “The Sacred Hoop” Paula Gunn Allen discusses ceremonies, explaining that during a ceremony, “The distractions of ordinary life must be put to rest and emotions redirected and integrated into a ceremonial context so that the greater awareness can come into full consciousness and functioning” (250). In other words, through ritual or ceremony, the Constructed Self must be suppressed and the Natural Self awakened in order for our identity to be realigned with the Natural Self. By aligning ourselves with the state of mind necessary to experience the sacred, we better prepare ourselves to experience the sacred when Nature shares it with us. 13

The next axiom that Lane appropriately proposes is that “sacred place can be tred upon without being entered,” (19). Because of the enchantment of the Constructed Self, and its consequential disconnection from our Natural Self, this axiom suggests why so many of us can be out in Nature but not experience the sacred, nor reconnect with the Natural Self. Simply getting out of town for the day to “recreate” for a short time, catching a break from our daily lives, may not be enough. While it certainly is a step in the right direction, we must also be able to appreciate the place for what it is, and why it is an important place – we must have that sense of place. And while considering that sense of place, as suggested in the second axiom, it may be necessary to further participate in a ritual of sorts that clears the mind and opens the senses. Then, perhaps finally, the Nature will reveal the sacred to us. The fourth and final axiom Lane proposes suggests that “the impulse of the sacred place is both centripetal and centrifugal, local and universal” (19). That is, the sacred manifests itself in a particular moment and place, space, which becomes the center (“centripetal”) of that particular experience. However, the sacred is also centrifugal in that it reaches outward from its center – it is “not confined to a single locale” (19, my emphasis). Another way to say this is that experiencing the sacred is a personal thing, and begins as such from within, when we reconnect with the Natural Self; this is the center. Yet this experience can be so physically and emotionally poignant that we often seek a greater connection, something relatively spiritual that can be likened to others’ experiences. This is the centrifugal nature of the experience. We are prompted to move our inward awareness outward, to ultimately seek a greater spiritual connection that though on the one hand is personal, but on the other hand, is also universal, and so, can be discussed and compared to others’ experiences. It is not surprising then, that after 14

the extraordinary phenomenon of discovering the sacred and its consequential reconnection with the Natural Self, we are changed. The enchantment of the Constructed Self and all its anthropocentric and self-destructive values is broken, and with our disenchanted, more realistic and humble point of view, we reflect on our perspectives of the natural world and how our relationship with that world is defined by our actions upon It. It is this reconnection with the Natural Self and our acknowledgment of the sacred that must essentially happen in order for us to make a committed change, one that causes us to find intrinsic value in the earth, while motivating us to become stewards, and not parasites, of the natural world on which we ultimately depend.

In Essence… Experiencing the Sacred in Nature begins with having a sense of place. That sense of place and the way it helps us open our perceptions to the natural world, is a precursor to experiencing the sublime when Nature demonstrates her wondrous beauty and immensely powerful forces. And provided the conditions of the axioms for experiencing the sacred are somehow met, the sense of place and the sublime can act together to ultimately open us to the sacred experience, when Nature shares it. And because, understandably, this may still seem abstract without tangible examples, in the subsequent sections of this text we will study models of disenchantment for contextual clarification: in chapter 2 we will look at Tim O’Brien’s “Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong” and witness Mary Anne Bell shed her Constructed Self when she immerses herself into the jungle of Vietnam; in chapter 3, we examine Sarah Orne Jewett’s “A White Heron” and young Sylvia’s struggle to retain her connection with the Sacred and her alignment with the Natural Self when elements of the Constructed Self are interjected into her life; 15 and chapter 4 includes a look into Willa Cather’s “Tom Outland’s Story” and Tom’s sacred experience in Nature that leads him to a reconciliation of the body and the mind. The characters in these works all reveal traits that represent states of the Natural Self, or the Constructed Self, respectively, and help us to see how their contrasting values motivate how they act upon the Natural World and the things within it. Whether these literature examples can be seen demonstrating the Constructed Self or the Natural Self, they are appropriate instances in literature that we can study to help us better understand ourselves and the significance of reconnecting with our Natural Self and experiencing the sacred in Nature.

CHAPTER 2: MARY ANNE BELL’S SACRED EXPERIENCE IN TIM O’BRIEN’S “SWEETHEART OF THE SONG TRA BONG”

Reconnecting with the Natural Self and realizing the sacred within nature are incredible experiences. In “Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong,” one of several short stories in Tim O’Brien’s, The Things They Carried, Mary Anne Bell reconnects with the Natural Self as she experiences the sacred in nature. Her story is included here because it makes for a rather poignant metaphor to demonstrate how significant experiencing the sacred within nature can ultimately be, if one is first open to the physical sense of place. Her experience with the sacred and her realignment with the Natural Self is completely physical and sensual, and as she comes to essentially reject the constructed reasoning and intellect of the Constructed Self, she physically participates with the place in ways those around her cannot understand. By looking closely at what happens to Mary Anne, what she says, and how she reacts, we can see that as she experiences the sacred within nature and reconnects with the Natural Self, she comes to redefine—even rediscover, perhaps—humanity, at a truly natural, primal level. “You just don’t know” Mary Anne says to her boyfriend Mark Fossie (O’Brien 111, original emphasis). And, like Fossie, what some critics such as Lorrie Smith do not realize, because they continue examining Mary Anne from the confines of the Constructed self, is that Mary Anne’s change marks a transition to embrace her natural perceptions, her physical senses and her body so completely that she subsequently comes to totally reject constructed concepts of the intellect, such as morality, language and gender roles. It is no wonder then that Lorrie N. Smith cannot reconcile Mary Anne’s whole-body experience and suggests that other critics, who move beyond gender-based readings are “unselfconscious about [the] obsession with and ambivalence about representations of masculinity and 17 femininity” (16). While Mary Anne’s movement indeed engages and subverts Western social constructs of gender, she quite obviously goes well beyond that subversion. Pamela Smiley recognizes that through the character of Mary Anne, O’Brien reveals that “the kinder, gentler world of the feminine is nothing but an illusion” (603) and goes on to suggest that “Women who never go to war are not innocent so much as they are ignorant of their own capacity for violence” (604). Indeed, but there is more to it than even that; yet, like Fossie, we cannot fully realize what Mary Anne demonstrates if we continue looking at her experience through the very same illusion that limits our perceptions. Because Mary Anne sheds her Constructed Self, we must see her experience from her own perspective in order to appreciate the scope of that experience. Only then can we better appreciate Mary Anne’s experience and what it can help us see about our selves and the significance of our greater disconnect from the Natural Self. “Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong” begins with a group of young military men sharing their stories of Vietnam. Rat Kiley, specifically, details the story. He describes a small, isolated medical compound, which houses a handful of medics, security personal, and a mysteriously quiet, six-man squad of Green Berets, all with only a dope-smoking noncommissioned officer in charge. And essentially, because of this last detail, an enlisted-medic, Mark Fossie, arranges to have Mary Anne Bell, his “seventeen years old, fresh out of Cleveland Heights Senior High” (105) girlfriend brought from the United States to the wilds of Vietnam. The medical compound is significantly juxtaposed to the surrounding jungle as Rat describes the area. He recounts a single helipad, and a few mess halls and medical hootches and a view of the “river called the Song Tra Bong” (103). They were surrounded on all sides by barbed wire, “bunkers and reinforced firing positions at staggered intervals…yet even with decent troops the place was clearly 18

indefensible” (103). Rat then mentions nothing of battles nor conflicts with the locals, but instead contrasts the facilities against the jungle’s natural surroundings, almost as if it were the very thing they were trying to keep out: “thick walls of wilderness, triple-canopied jungle, mountains unfolding into higher mountains, ravines and gorges and fast-moving rivers and waterfalls” (103). The area is remote and wild, with “exotic butterflies and steep cliffs and smoky little hamlets and great valleys of bamboo and elephant grass” (103). The juxtaposition of jungle and compound helps to evoke in the reader a strong awareness of place, preparing to help us better understand Mary Anne’s change as she ultimately disconnects herself from the intellectual mind of the Constructed Self and fully immerses herself into the sensual physicality of the Natural Self, and experiences the sacred. Before we see this change of Mary Anne though, it is important that we understand her current state of alignment with the Constructed Self. We get a baseline of Mary Anne’s alignment when O’Brien tells us about her relationship with Fossie and that she subscribes to the Constructed Self’s stereotypical ideas of love. Since the sixth grade she thought that they would be married and live in little “gingerbread house …and have three healthy yellow-haired children, and grow old together and no doubt die in each other’s arms and be buried in the same walnut casket” (106). These stereotypes of young love are very much Western social ideals, concepts of the Constructed Self we are all-too-familiar with. These details are important to note early on because they help us identify psychological changes in Mary Anne, as she sheds the kinds of biased, self-serving constructs of the intellect perpetuated by the Constructed Self, in favor of real, truly natural, sensual experiences of the physical body. It is not long before we find that Mary Anne is open to the new place and the area around her. She “was no timid child. She was curious about things” (106), 19 and she asks questions about the camp, the equipment, and the geography, and listens intently to the answers. Open to the sense of place and the experience the place affords her, she spends time near the perimeter—closer to the jungle— learning some of the local language and “how to cook rice over a can of Sterno, how to eat with her hands” (107). And while she symbolically moves toward more indigenous behaviors by eating without utensils, she comes to fit in so well the soldiers call her a “little native” (107). So despite her long distance from the comforts and security of home, Mary Anne has little trouble participating in the area. This begins to show not only her sensitivity to the sense of place, but also that the sense of place is a physical, not intellectual, experience. Mary Anne’s affinity for the place grows and the more time she spends there the more she wants to be outside the perimeter, beyond barriers, interacting more fully with the place. Oblivious to her growing connection, Fossie resists this idea but she is allowed to tour the nearby village, despite the apparent danger: “She seemed comfortable and entirely at home; the hostile atmosphere did not seem to register …she loved the thatched roofs and naked children, the wonderful simplicity of village life” (107). And as Mary Anne takes in the place, “Her pretty blue eyes seemed to glow. She couldn’t get enough of it. On their way back up to the compound she stopped for a swim in the Song Tra Bong, stripping down to her underwear” (107-08). Mary Anne’s physical, near-naked immersion in the river marks a baptismal connection with Vietnam and with the Natural Self. Mary Anne’s immersion into place continues increases so quickly that by her third week, she is helping the medics with their emergency operations. Rat explains that she did not at all mind getting “her hands bloody …she seemed fascinated by it…the adrenaline buzz that went with the job…No time for sorting through options, no thinking at all; you just stuck your hands in [with] a tight, 20 intelligent focus” (108-109). While Mary Anne’s medical participation obviously shows her complete openness to the place, it also shows that Mary Anne is attracted to the physical feeling of the experience, the “adrenaline buzz” of the place, of moving on instinct, not “thinking at all.” Her attraction to the physical experience seems so great, in fact, that she is willing to immerse herself at the level of blood, literally. Mary Anne’s increasing level of physical participation with the place around her has an effect. As she moves from the Constructed Self to the Natural Self, her values and priorities change, and these changes begin to reveal themselves in her physical appearance. Rat explains that she “quickly fell into the habits of the bush. No cosmetics, no fingernail filing. She stopped wearing jewelry, cut her hair short and wrapped it in a dark green bandanna. Hygiene became a matter of small consequence” (109). These things, quite simply, are not natural, and are largely constructs of man, valued by the Constructed Self. As Mary Anne moves toward the Natural Self, she begins to shed values of the Constructed Self, dismissing the social norms that call for woman to wear makeup and jewelry, to keep long hair and nice nails, and, of course, to be ‘hygienic.’ This change in Mary Anne becomes even more apparent to us when her boyfriend Fossie attempts to reinforce some of those societal norms Mary Anne is abandoning. He suggests that she should probably return home but, “Mary Anne laughed and told him to forget it. ‘Everything I want,’ she said, ‘is right here’” (109). As she moves away from her alignment with the Constructed Self, and embraces the Natural Self, Mary Anne’s identity changes: “there was a new imprecision in the way Mary Anne expressed her thoughts…Not necessarily three kids…Not necessarily a house on Lake Erie. ‘Naturally we’ll still get married…but it doesn’t have to be right away. Maybe travel first. Maybe live 21 together. Just test it out, you know?’” (110). Her sensitivity to place and her subsequent immersion into that place shifts her ideas and life goals in a remarkably short time. The extremity of her immersion is shortly revealed. Rat explains that Mary Anne disappears from camp one night. He sees her return at dawn with the detachment of Green Berets, explaining simply, “Ambush. All night long, man, Mary Anne’s out on fuckin’ ambush” (113). When Fossie sees her come through the perimeter wire he hesitates. “It was as though he had trouble recognizing her. She wore a bush hat and filthy green fatigues; she carried the standard M-16 automatic assault rifle; her face was black with charcoal” (113). As she meets Fossie, her initial response is to silence him: “Not a word,” she tells him. (113). As she comes to completely embrace the Natural Self and reject constructs of the Constructed Self, she even begins to shun the use of language, as it ultimately detracts from the physical experience of the Natural Self realizing the sacred in nature, because quite simply, it advocates the use of the mind rather than the senses of the body. Abram would suggest here that “by linguistically defining the surrounding world as a determinate set of objects, we cut our conscious, speaking selves off from the spontaneous life of our sensing bodies” (56). To put it another way, let us continue to consider David Abram for a moment. While essentially discussing the disparity between the concepts of our mind (such as Descartes’ Cogito ergo sum) and the authentic percepts of our physical body received by our raw senses, Abram suggests that the “finite bodily presence alone is what enables [us] to freely engage the things around” us (47). Considering this—the body’s sensual connection to the natural, physical world— he then suggests that the physical, sensual body is our, “very means of entering into relation with all things” (47). So while we are free to ponder our existence as 22 much as we like, we would have nothing to ponder, if not for our sensual bodies, our physical selves, that first perceive the world around us, ultimately giving us experiences to contemplate, for it is on the physical level that all experience begins. Mary Anne is a metaphor of the intense reconnection with the Natural Self. As she enters the jungle and goes out on ambush, she moves to completely embrace her “bodily presence” and fully “engage the things around” her. Her physical immersion enters her “into relation with all things,” as she begins to take her place in the life and death struggles of existence. She is giving herself up to her physical body in a way that precedes rational thought, higher intellect, and, of course, gender constructs – concepts of the Constructed Self. Quite simply, her participation in ambush is her physical entry into the natural, primal cycles of nature, the cycles of life and death. While the Constructed Self usually denies or ignores our being subject to these cycles, unless they somehow fit within the confines of a socially constructed viewpoint, Mary Anne’s Natural Self embraces it, perhaps even celebrates it, without attempting to add to it socially ascribed attributes that can skew both the experience and the significance of that experience. Following Mary Anne’s night on ambush, Fossie realizes that she is changing and because he embraces the values of the Constructed Self, he does not understand. He chastises her and prohibits her from leaving the compound. Rat says that she fell “into a restless gloom” (O’Brien 115), sat on the fence line and “would not speak” (115). And explaining it “as if she were caught in the no- man’s-land between Cleveland Heights and the deep jungle” (115), he suggests that she is drawn in by the place as “she seemed to disappear inside herself [and] stared out at the dark green mountains” (115), with a “haunted look …partly terror, partly rapture” (115). As she is drawn into the wilderness, the look of 23

terrified “rapture” reveals that she has indeed “come up on the edge of something” as her Constructed Self disappears and her overwhelming joy of the moment is equated to religiously-euphoric feelings, spiritual in nature. Mary Anne, in a state of rapture, moves beyond the sublime to experience the sacred as it draws her in on a spiritual level. And her refusal to speak not only again highlights her reverential feelings for the place, but also represents a rejection of language that coincides with her separation from the Constructed Self. Mary Anne’s reconnection with her Natural Self and her sacred experience is so significant to her she wants more, and she disappears again. “The next morning,” Rat says, “she was gone” (115). And while what we initially see is the allure of the jungle on Mary Anne, we see how life-altering the change can be as she reconnects with the Natural Self and aligns herself with its particular values. We see that this change becomes physically apparent again, when Rat witnesses her return, three weeks later. He tells his companions that she was at first unrecognizable, that she was but a tiny, “soft shadow among six other shadows” (116). And trying to describe the change in Mary Anne he says that there was absolute silence, and “No real substance either …like spirits, vaporous and unreal …The silhouettes moved without moving. Silently …Her eyes seemed to shine in the dark – not blue though, but a bright glowing jungle green” (116). From within the paradigm governed by the Constructed Self, Rat cannot initially identify Mary Anne because as she has come to embrace the Natural Self, she comes to represent something unidentifiable to the Constructed Self, and as such, she looks different to him. She appears as spirit-like, nearly intangible, with eyes that have changed color to match the jungle, as though she were changing to become part of, or an embodiment of, the jungle itself. Mary Anne, as a poignant metaphor demonstrating the significance of realigning with the Natural Self and 24 just how physical that experience is, connects with the place to such an intense degree that she seems to be physically becoming the jungle. She sheds her Constructed Self, realigning herself so fully with the Natural Self, that she acts from outside dominant social constructs – judgment, morality, gender. This transformation is so complete, that she is rendered unrecognizable, as is the significance of her experience to those looking at it from the perspective of the Constructed Self, as if it were some “vaporous and unreal” spirit. Through a brief dialogue with Fossie, Mary Anne gives us clues that suggest that we should look beyond the typical examination that limits itself to dichotomizing the sexes and adhering to (or subverting) Western gender values. We can see these clues as Mary Anne tries in vain to convey her intimate, sacred connection with the place around her. She rightfully points out to Fossie, “You just don’t know…You hide in this little fortress, behind wire and sandbags, and you don’t know what it’s all about” (121). She explains that she feels so close with the jungle and so completely longs to immerse herself in it, that she wants to “…eat this place. Vietnam. I want to swallow the whole country – the dirt, the death – I just want to eat it and have it there inside me. That’s how I feel. It’s like…this appetite.” (121). In her realization and exaltation of that sacred connection with the jungle of Vietnam, she wants to become even closer to it, intimately. As if it were a reverential ceremony that honors a sacred animal killed for food, Mary Anne wants to eat the place, as though the “dirt” and the “death” were the flesh of a fallen beast and consuming its matter would ritually bring her closer to the sacred, both physically and spiritually. She has an “appetite” for it, she says, and that hunger for the sacred and immersion into the physical self soon becomes a “needing, which turned then to craving” (124). So this not only shows a level of physical intimacy—or a desire for more of that intimacy—but also, as 25

Belden Lane suggests, “Sacred place is ordinary place, ritually made extraordinary” (19). This means, quite significantly, that Mary Anne’s participation, her physical immersion into the place, ultimately—and unknowingly—helps her reconnect with the Natural Self and experience the sacred, all of which could not have been possible, if she were not initially open to the sense of place and the sensual experiences it can provide. As she continues to relate her experience, we get a sense of just how significant Mary Anne’s connection has become and just how physically tangible it is to her. She says that she often gets frightened when she is out there at night, “but it’s not bad (121, original emphasis), because she feels closer to her “body” (121). And further highlighting the sensuality of the experience, she says, “I can feel my blood moving, my skin and my fingernails, everything, it’s like I’m full of electricity and I’m glowing in the dark – I’m on fire almost – I’m burning away into nothing – but it doesn’t matter because I know exactly who I am” (121). That is, Mary Anne totally immerses herself in the place and reconnects with her Natural Self and to the Sacred to such a strong degree that she feels it physically and it is “not bad” – it is outside the moral parameters of the Constructed Self. Mary Anne’s reconnection with the Natural Self is so poignant, it seems as though she feels her Constructed Self burn “away into nothing,” as she emerges anew, aligned with the Natural Self, knowing “exactly who I am.” The experience of the sacred is thus, not only psychological, but largely physical: in her immersion into the physical she so completely embraces the unadulterated Natural Self that she becomes hyper-sensitive to her own body, even her blood, skin, and fingernails. It is through this physical, sensing body that Mary Anne connects with the sacred and when her experiences are then interpreted by the values of the Natural Self, 26 the place is made sacred and the moment special, the end result being a change in identity that reveals itself through steps taken to show veneration for the place. In Mary Anne’s response to her sacred experience, there is little of the Constructed Self left within her as she eventually fully identifies with the Natural Self and comes to physically embody the sacred. The physicality of all this—the physical nature of the sacred experience—becomes more apparent when Rat tells us that Mary Anne starts acting on her craving to immerse herself further. She takes a “greedy pleasure in night patrols” (124); she goes out “all camouflaged up, her face smooth and vacant” (124), connecting again with the sacred as she seems “to flow like water through the dark, like oil, without sound or center” (124). She also stops wearing shoes and stops carrying a weapon, both of which are items that symbolize socially formulated constructs of the Constructed Self and act as physical barriers, if you will, that interfere with her physical contact, her immersion, into the natural world around her. Mary Anne’s fluid, natural, water and oil-like movements show us that she is very much aligned with the Natural Self and completely connected with the sacred, as she again physically becomes the place around her and disappears, “without sound or center.” Quite simply, as she eagerly embraces the Natural Self, physically connecting with the sacred place around her, the descriptions of her movements come to represent her physical embodiment of the sacred, emphasizing the intense physical nature of Mary Anne’s sacred experience as she walks off “into the mountains and does not come back” (124). The story’s end puts to rest any debate about the significance of Mary Anne’s experience and what that ultimately shows us: Mary Anne completely realigns with her Natural Self and becomes one with the jungle. Rat explains that the Green Berets feel like the “whole rainforest seemed to stare in at them” (125), 27 as they “almost saw [her] sliding through the shadows. Not quite, but almost” (125). And then, highlighting her identification with the jungle: “She had crossed to the other side. She was part of the land. She was wearing her culottes, her pink sweater, and a necklace of human tongues” (125). Mary Anne’s intangibility—to even the Green Berets—stems from the others’ conception of her former Constructed Self, with which they can identify. She seems to appear in her stereotypically female culottes and pink sweater, yet she is hardly recognizable because she is being perceived only through the eyes of those in Constructed Self, who really “just don’t know.” They do not understand the intensity of Mary Anne’s experience, let alone recognize the greater significance of that experience. So while Mary Anne’s story does show a subversion of female gender roles as informed by Western ideas of masculinity, we can look deeper to find a greater significance. Mary Anne’s rejection of the Constructed Self and subsequent alignment with the Natural Self leads her to realize the sacred and reconnect with her humanity on a primal level. She leaves the weapon behind and has apparently taken off the military fatigues – a further rejection of the social order. Her sacred experience in the jungle progresses to a level of immersion that changes her very identity. Her necklace of tongues tangibly demonstrates her ultimate rejection of language and the social constructs that create it, while also revealing a kind of reverence through the ritual-like act in which she engages in order to ultimately silence the tongues, string them, and wear them around her neck. This ceremonial gesture helps us to again identify the sacred while considering Lane’s second axiom, which suggests that “Sacred place is ordinary place, ritually made extraordinary” (Lane 19). That is then, Mary Anne’s necklace of tongues marks 28 her complete rejection of the Constructed Self and helps her to make the jungle of Vietnam “ritually” sacred. Most basically, Mary Anne’s actions are subversive to social norms that define morality, make judgments, and ascribe gender roles. But more specifically, and more significantly, however, what this story reveals is that experiencing the sacred involves a significant letting go of the intellect—the rational mind ultimately responsible for the Constructed Self—and a shift in perspective that requires a recasting of Western tradition. This tradition, largely formulated by the Constructed Self, associates spirituality and the Sacred with physically- transcending, metaphysical, incorporeal connotations that tend to situate the Sacred beyond the physical and somewhere else, intangible. This not only makes discussion and understanding of the Sacred problematic, but also seems to move the Sacred beyond the reach of physical experience. What Mary Anne shows us about the Natural Self, however, is that the movement towards embracing the physical is an experience of the sacred. The Sacred here is not metaphysical, but rather, an immersion into the physical on a most truly natural or primal level, and a celebration of it. We see Mary Anne completely immerse herself into her sensual, physical body, participating with the place around her as she obviously rejects the social norms that ascribe expectations of both her physical appearance and her behavior. She physically participates within the jungle from the perspective of the Natural Self, which, in this case, precludes contrived notions of judgment, morality, and gender. So as she “gets her hands bloody,” goes out on night patrols and ambush, and dons a “necklace of human tongues,” she does so free from the kinds of concepts that aim to control behavior, influence reason, and apply morality or judgment. 29

In short, experiencing the sacred in nature and reconnecting with the Natural Self can be influential enough to actually change our life perspectives. This is often first demonstrated through a new respect—or a greater reverence— for the place in which we experience the sacred. Quite often, this reverence begins to manifest itself through a simple appreciation of that place and a craving to return to, or remain in, that sacred space. Mary Anne’s craving to immerse herself into the jungle is much like our own desire to return to a special place in nature where we may have experienced the sacred. By returning to the place, the original experience or a feeling like it can often be recreated, as we “re-create” ourselves; it is an individual experience ultimately given to those receptive to the sense of place, open to the values of the Natural Self. So then, as we reconnect with the Natural Self and come to experience the Sacred in Nature, we are changed to some degree when we ultimately realize the significance of the physical landscape and its role in our experience. And as we explore this idea in the next two chapters, we will find that this veneration is often demonstrated through reverential attitudes and behaviors that serve to protect and conserve the natural landscape.

CHAPTER 3: SYLVIA’S DEFENSE OF THE NATURAL SELF IN SARAH ORNE JEWETT’S “A WHITE HERON”

The way young Sylvia experiences the sacred in Sarah Orne Jewett’s, “The White Heron,” is similar to Mary Anne Bell’s experience, as she physically immerses herself into the place around her. Her story is not a movement from the Constructed Self to the Natural Self, though; rather, it is Sylvia’s struggle to retain her alignment with the Natural Self when the enchanting allure of the Constructed Self is introduced into her life. Her story begins simply enough, as we find her at the young age of nine living with her Grandmother, Mrs. Tilley, in the country woods, having been brought there from the city a year before. She is quite at home there, fond of the place and the animals, the birds especially. But her life suddenly turns upside down at the arrival of a hunter who loses his way while searching for an elusive heron. She comes to be attracted to the young man, who seems to be charming and kind to her: he offers her gifts and a cash reward in attempt to coerce her into telling him the location of the bird’s nest. He persists and she seems to eventually succumb to the hunter’s temptations and she climbs a tall pine tree (a proverbial Tree of Knowledge, no less) in order to identify the secret location of the White Heron’s nest. In the final moment, however, she realizes the significance of her tree-top experience and she cannot betray the heron’s secret after all. Sylvia’s story is interesting in that she is young and naïve, having been brought to the country at a young age. She, like Eve, is innocent, if you will, before the great fall. Yet unlike Eve, when confronted by corrupting temptation, Sylvia is able to resist and retain her innocence and her identity. As we see the hunter seek to exploit and corrupt Sylvia for his selfish gain, we see it is as a kind of an assault on her – her values, innocence, and identity. These attacks make up 31 the very interaction between the hunter and Sylvia, as the values of the Constructed Self aim to subjugate those things the Natural Self embraces, most especially, for instance, the I-Thou perspective of the world, reverential silence for the sacred, and a subjective intimacy with the natural world. And because Sylvia essentially comes to represent those few of us that have retained an alignment with the Natural Self, and a strong connection with the sacred, her story emphasizes not so much the significance of the physical experience of discovering the sacred, but instead, what it can mean to be corrupted by the values of the Constructed Self, effectively disconnected from our relationship with the Earth, our Natural Self, and its humanity. In the context of Christianity’s belief in the Fall of Man, and motivated by Jung’s idea that Western Man has essentially separated his head from his heart in a fall of his own, Steven Rockefeller suggests in “Faith and Community in an Ecological Age,” that “For a variety of complex reasons…including ignorance, pride, and fear reinforced by social conditions, human beings are led to perpetuate their ‘fallen’ state (153-54). We can identify this “fallen state” much like we identify the Constructed Self, as its outlook, values, and behaviors are quite similar. Rockefeller suggests that the separation “between the head and the heart in Western culture has found expression in the divisions between science and faith, fact and value, spirit and nature …the sacred and the secular, the individual and the community, the self and God, male and female, and oppressor and oppressed” (154). That is, he basically sees the division of the head and heart much like we do the disparity between the Constructed Self and the Natural Self. Appropriately then, he also suggests that it is an unnatural separation that leaves us “haunted by a sense of estrangement, by anxiety about meaninglessness, and by the fear of death, nothingness” (154). 32

We are estranged and anxious because we know—be it through the feeling in our heart or inner being via the Natural Self, or through the science of conceptualized fact that we may embrace by the Constructed Self—that we are all a physical part of something much bigger than our individual selves. We know that the whole Earth is essentially made up of interconnected systems that are each reliant on the other, in some way. Yet we proceed in our current direction as this anthropocentric Constructed Self attempts to deny or ignore this fact and its priorities reflect this dramatically. Rockefeller considers this, suggesting that, “Struggling with this situation in their fallen, or ego-centered, state of mind, many people seek escape in consumerism, exciting diversions, drugs and alcohol, conformity or fundamentalism while others are driven to pursue a quest for power” (154). Some part of us is vaguely aware of our disconnect with our Natural Self and we attempt to compensate for this disconnect in ego-driven, selfish, destructive, ways that perpetuate that very same disconnect. Logically then, the egotistical, self-centered nature of the Constructed Self is antithetical to the values of the Natural Self and the kind of I-Thou perspective of the world that it embraces. Rockefeller interprets Buber’s I and Thou as essentially arguing that all things, “should be respected as a Thou, an end in itself, and not merely as an it, a means to be used for ends external to its own being” (163). This is appropriate here, as this parallels the Natural Self’s recognition of the intrinsic worth of the sacred, which includes all things in nature. Carol Christ, in her like-minded article, “Rethinking Theology and Nature,” briefly discusses concepts of the I-Thou relationship and suggests that, “To understand and value the life we enjoy is to understand and value the lives of all other beings, human and nonhuman” (66). All things, in other words, have inherent worth by simply being. This idea of recognizing and valuing the lives of other beings is significant 33 because it comes to help mark a fundamental difference between the hunter and Sylvia. The hunter, aligned with the Constructed Self and the ways it objectifies other things, recognizes only the concept of the It and does not “understand and value” the inherent worth of “other beings.” Sylvia’s alignment with the Natural Self, on the other hand, as seen through her relation with the heron, demonstrates an I-Thou relationship with nature, as she ultimately recognizes the intrinsic worth of the living things in the world around her. As Sylvia’s story begins with her already living in the woods, we do not see a physical or psychological transition of her move from the city. Through the narrator, however, Jewett does give us context of Sylvia’s history. We are told the choice to move her from the “houseful of children” (1) in the city, “was a good change for a little maid who had tried to grow for eight years in a crowded manufacturing town” (2). We find Sylvia agrees and feels “as if she never had been alive at all before she came to live at the farm” (2). The narrator subtly also reveals that Sylvia has an I-Thou perspective, suggesting that Sylvia “often [looked] with wistful compassion [at] a wretched geranium that belonged to a town neighbor” (2-3), which, for our purposes, is a signifier of an alignment with the Natural Self. In the year’s time that Sylvia has been living in the woods she has become intimately connected with the place, which is seen mostly through her bond with the animals living around her. As she drives the cow home in the evenings, they often stop at a brook and the animal drinks while Sylvia lets “her bare feet cool themselves” (Jewett 1). The two also often play together, Sylvia considering the cow’s behavior “as an intelligent attempt at hide and seek” (2). These simple notions show a relationship with the animal, an openness to the place around her as she casually immerses herself into to the place, which is not totally unlike Mary 34

Anne’s ritualistic swim in the river Song Tra Bong. We see more of Sylvia’s openness to the place and her fondness for the animals when one night Sylvia listens “to the thrushes with a heart that beat fast with pleasure …. She was not often in the woods so late as this, and it made her feel as if she were a part of the gray shadows and the moving leaves” (3). We see here Sylvia’s openness to the sense of place. Even more so, we begin to get a sense of the sublime when she feels connected with the place, as she is out later than usual, feeling both frightened and exhilarated with the experience that connects her even more intimately with the “moving leaves” and even with the intangible “gray shadows.” Sylvia’s intimate moment with nature is short lived, unfortunately, as the appearance of the hunter marks the re-introduction of the Constructed Self into her life. The conflict begins when, “Suddenly this little woods-girl is horror-stricken to hear a clear whistle not very far away. Not a bird’s whistle, which would have a sort of friendliness, but a boy’s whistle, determined, and aggressive…she stepped discreetly aside into the bushes, but she was just too late. The enemy had discovered her…” (4). Sylvia is “horror stricken” because the silence of her commune with nature is aggressively broken by the “enemy.” Silence, as suggested, is one value that comes under attack from the hunter. Like Mary Anne’s embrace of silence, Sylvia’s not only demonstrates a reverential attitude for the sacred place but also eventually comes to mark her complete rejection of the Constructed Self. In contrast to Sylvia’s apprehensive silence, the hunter “called out in a very cheerful and persuasive tone” (4), inquiring about the distance to the road, to which she answers “almost inaudibly” (4). As he begins to explain himself and we come to learn his reason for being in the woods, we find that he has self-serving motives and is not afraid to share them. He tells her, “I have been hunting for 35 some birds …and I have lost my way, and need a friend very much. Don’t be afraid …Speak up and tell me what your name is, and whether you think I can spend the night at your house, and go out gunning in the morning” (4). Following all his verbiage she only faintly replies, “Sylvy” (4), after he repeats himself. Her embrace of silence and his whistle and barrage of language that end that silence and, the fact that he seeks to kill what Sylvia values and would use her as a means to that end, begin to set these two apart and clearly mark for us their respective I-It and I-Thou perspectives. The hunter’s use of silence on the other hand, is brief and only seems to occur when he is gathering intelligence that can help him on his selfish quest. He appears to listen quietly as Sylvia’s grandmother hospitably agrees to let the hunter stay the night and shares much about her family’s history, its sorrows, as well as Sylvia’s familiarity with the place. She eventually tells him that Sylvia is so at home in the woods that, even “the wild creatures counts her as one o’ themselves. Squer’ls she’ll tame to come an’ feed right out o’ her hands, and all sorts o’ birds (6). Then, further describing Sylvia’s connection with the animals and her concern for them, through acts almost sacrificial in nature, Mrs. Tilley says, “I believe she’d ‘a’ scanted herself of her own meals to have plenty to throw out amongst ‘em, if I hadn’t kep’ watch” (6). This care for the well being of the animals points towards a natural, life-oriented approach to the way Sylvia interacts with the world around her. This insight into Sylvia’s character becomes emphasized when we find her foiled against the hunter and we learn specifically why he hunts the birds. The narrator tells us that the man actually pays little heed to most of what Mrs. Tilley has to say, showing only an “eager interest in something else” (6). As soon as Mrs. 36

Tilley goes quiet the hunter reveals more about himself through yet another large dose of language use. A telling sample of this includes: So Sylvia knows all about the birds, does she?…I am making a collection of birds myself. I have been at it ever since I was a boy… There are two or three very rare ones I have been hunting for these five years. I mean to get them if they can be found…they’re stuffed and preserved, dozens and dozens of them…I have shot or snared every one myself (6-7). As he seems to enjoying listening to himself speak, we find that his desire to kill and stuff the birds in order to physically collect them is motivated by values of the Constructed Self. The pride he has in having taken nearly his whole life to assemble the entire display himself highlights his anthropocentric, materialistic attitude: his commodification of the birds and willingness to take their lives so he can add yet more things to his collection pointedly shows that he has no recognition of Nature’s intrinsic worth. Quite simply, in other words, the hunter shows his objectification of nature by seeing the birds as instruments—a means to a selfish end. Because of her familiarity with the woods and its animals it is no surprise that Sylvia knows of the bird the hunter seeks. As he explains that he is looking for a rare White Heron and hopes Sylvia knows where it can be found, her “heart gave a wild beat” (7). She had seen it once and watched silently from “the other side of the woods …where the sunshine always seemed strangely yellow and hot …[where] her grandmother had warned her that she might sink in the soft black mud underneath and never be heard of more” (7). While is seems she has an idea of where the heron can be found, what is interesting here is the hint of something vaguely unfamiliar and perhaps dangerous, with the “strangely-yellow,” hot 37 sunlight, contrasting with the “black mud” in which Sylvia can sink. These details add a sense of mystery and danger to the black bog, which gives the moment a feeling reminiscent of the sublime, an important element in experiencing the Sacred in Nature. We soon learn even more about his deceitful nature and the hunter’s limited view of nature’s inherent worth. He says, “I can’t think of anything I would like so as to find that heron’s nest …. I would give ten dollars to anybody who could show it to me” (8). Blatantly scheming, the man’s true colors show themselves again during his attempt to manipulate Sylvia and her grandmother through bribery. His suggestion that he would actually pay for the information shows his eagerness to get what he wants and his willingness to manipulate people in order to get it. (This is ironic, in a sense, because on the one hand, if he had a sense of place, he would probably know how to find the bird he is looking for and would not have to resort to such gross behavior. But on the other hand, if he had a sense of place he would be more aligned with the Natural Self, have an I-Thou perspective and not feel the need to kill, stuff, and collect the bird because he would recognize nature’s inherent worth and act in less anthropocentric ways). Though Sylvia remains silent at this tempting bribe, we find that it has an impact on her: “No amount of thought, that night, could decide how many wished-for treasures the ten dollars, so lightly spoken of, would buy” (8). That is, quite simply, the hunter’s volley begins to take its toll on little Sylvia’s will, as she begins to wonder what she can get in return for sacrificing the heron’s life. This attempt at bribery on the part of the hunter warrants attention for a moment longer. It is a poignant example of the self-serving principles of the Constructed Self and is an important and useful point of discussion in George Held’s “Heart to Heart with Nature: Ways of Looking at ‘A White Heron.’” In his 38 article Held examines Sylvia’s “heart to heart” (personal) connection with nature and how it ultimately saves her from betraying nature and losing her self-integrity. Considering the hunter, Held suggests that, “Perhaps no other element of his determination to secure the heron as a specimen more bespeaks his alien presence at the farm and suggests the possibility of corruption from without than his proffer of the ten dollars” (60). The very concept of bribery caters to the values of the Constructed Self and motivates us to further scrutinize the hunter’s nature and what he represents. Held takes his assessment further, which coincides with our examination, and suggests that the hunter “represents the broader, more cosmopolitan world beyond the New England wilderness, the man of science and technique, and the rich, in contradistinction to the poor but homely people on the farmstead” (61). He is essentially implicating those aligned with the Constructed Self by likening the hunter to “a sort of blithe Satan tempting a naïve Eve to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge” (61). This is appropriate here because as it also coincides with Rockefeller’s take on man’s fallen state, it helps us to better understand the respective natures of the hunter and Sylvia and what is going on between them as he continues his assaults on her principles. Metaphorically reminiscent of a fight of Good versus Evil, it is, as suggested, Sylvia’s struggle to retain her un-fallen state and stay connected with the Garden as the Tempter works to enchant her mind and influence her to embrace values that practice exploitation, corruption, and manipulation as an everyday norm. And like the Serpent to Eve, the hunter is successful in charming Sylvia. To our dismay, the narrator suggests that he only troubles her “when he brought down some unsuspecting singing creature from its bough” (Jewett 8). He is so cunning, in fact, she actually comes to be attracted to him, though she “would have liked him vastly better without his gun; she could not understand why he killed the very 39

birds he seemed to like so much” (8). Enchanted by his charming personality, the attention he gives her, and the possibilities of rewards, she does not yet understand the significance of his I-It perspective, nor does she realize that she is being used. This becomes even more apparent when the narrator then tells us that, “But as the day waned, Sylvia still watched the young man with loving admiration. She had never seen anybody so charming and delightful …[she] was vaguely thrilled by a dream of love” (8-9). As we come to recognize his tactics, his gift-giving and flattery become yet another attempt to manipulate her. Considering her nine-year- old naivety, and the adult hunter’s ulterior motives, his attentiveness and kindness that stirs a “dream of love” within her, marks a kind of seduction of young Sylvia. That is to say, given the man’s motivations and the young girl’s innocence, his improper behavior is something short of a symbolic child molestation and the murder of her Natural Self, as he eagerly murders the birds to which she is connected. Before Sylvia resolves to stay devoted to her Natural Self she must first experience the sacred in nature in a way that makes her aware of it, thereby reinforcing her I-Thou perspective. Ironically, this actually occurs while she attempts to aid the hunter in his quest; enchanted by the Constructed Self, she thinks of the great lone pine of the woods instrumentally, wondering, “if one climbed it at break of day, could not one see all the world, and easily discover from whence the white heron flew, and mark the place and find the hidden nest?” (10). Under the influence of the Constructed Self, she sneaks out the next morning to climb that very pine, yet goes “with comfort and companionship to the drowsy twitter of a half-awakened bird” (10). Despite the hunter’s barrage that is beginning to corrupt her, she continues to demonstrate a connection with the Natural Self. This lingering connection is important because as she moves to 40 embrace the values of the Constructed Self, the part of her still aligned with the Natural Self remains open to the sacred experience. Like Mary Anne Bell’s connection to the jungle through her swim in the river Song Tra Bong, Sylvia’s sacred experience occurs through her physical immersion into the woods. While she is already quite active in her physical participation with the natural world around her, her ascension of the tree marks her complete immersion into the place. The moment begins significantly, as the narrator gives the “tree asleep yet” (10) sentience and Sylvia seems to become one of the very animals she loves. She climbs with bare hands and feet that “pinched and held like bird’s claws” (11) as she makes her way “up, up, almost to the sky itself” (11). Her embrace of the physical, again like Mary Anne’s response, is to the level of blood, as Sylvia feels hers “tingling …coursing the channels of her whole” (11) body. As Sylvia climbs higher, she seems to grow smaller and we begin to recognize a sublime experience building as the scene unfolds. The narrator suggests that the tree was surely “amazed that morning through all its ponderous frame as it felt this determined spark of human spirit wending its way from higher branch to higher branch” (11-12). And in its awareness, the tree acts out of love for “his new dependent” (12), helping Sylvia ascend to the top by the use of its “least twigs” (12). This is interesting because as the tree is given consciousness, we see it reciprocate Sylvia’s general I-Thou relationship, helping her to climb safely. That this consciousness of the tree makes a choice to help Sylvia on her way up further suggests the efficacy of considering Lane’s axioms in identifying the sacred in nature. In this case, specifically, we find that “Sacred space is not chosen, it chooses” (Lane 19). Because Sylvia is actually enchanted by the thoughts of a reward and that is her initial motivation to climb the tree, she is not 41 consciously seeking out the sacred experience. In other words, the Sacred’s choice to help Sylvia makes this her entrance into the sacred experience. Through the details of Sylvia’s summit, what she sees and her reaction to it all, we witness Sylvia’s sacred experience unfold. When she reaches the top she radiates “like a pale star, if one had seen it from the ground …trembling and tired … high in the tree-top” (Jewett 12). Her exhaustion, coupled with the satisfaction she feels after the dangerous climb, and the beauty she witnesses while high in the tree, makes this a sublime experience for her. As she wonders beforehand, she can indeed see the ocean from the treetop and she is taken in by the sun shining “a golden dazzle over it” (12). Sylvia’s experience is intensified when two hawks pass so closely by she can see that “their gray feathers were as soft as moths” (12) and she is so enraptured by the moment, she feels as if she too can fly “away among the clouds” (12). Sylvia is also impressed by the view to the West, where woods and farmhouses span for “miles and miles into the distance; here and there were church steeples and white villages” (12). Seeing the “vast and awesome world” (12) with a new perspective, she begins to internalize an appreciation for her greater connection with the natural world. But as potent as this experience is for Sylvia however, the hunter’s influences are still working on her, as she does not forget her initial motivation to climb the tree. With a level of vested interest or emotion, the narrator becomes involved and seems to advise Sylvia where to look for the bird. As the heron quickly approaches the narrator exclaims “wait! do not move…do not send an arrow of light and consciousness from your two eager eyes, for the heron has perched …not far from [you] and cries back to his mate on the nest and plumes his feathers for the new day!” (13). While this appears to be another choice of the sacred to bless her with its presence, the narrator’s choice to warn Sylvia is 42 noteworthy. The caution against sending “an arrow of light and consciousness” suggests that—just as we see with Mary Anne Bell—the sacred experience involves a letting-go of the constructs of the intellect; alerting the heron through her “eager eyes” would thus disrupt the sacred moment with nature. But as obviously sacred as we recognize this moment to be, Sylvia is enchanted by the hunter and is, for the moment, “well satisfied” (13) that she has learned the location of the heron’s nest. She “makes her perilous way down” (13), showing signs that she is already beginning to disconnect from her Natural Self now that she is looking at the heron with an I-It perspective. As she loses the physical intimacy with nature and descends, she nearly cries “because her fingers ache and her lamed feet slip; wondering over and over again what the stranger …would think when she told him how to find his way straight to the heron’s nest” (13). Thus, Sylvia seems to surrender to the temptations of the Constructed Self; the tree that just moments before shared the sacred experience with her is now a cause for her to “cry” and “ache” as she slips on its branches: she is literally losing her connection with nature, due to a new, self-serving perspective that disregards the heron’s intrinsic worth by objectifying the natural world. The realization of Sylvia’s experience with the sacred comes to her as she arrives home. She is reprimanded by her impatient grandmother and receives yet more pressure from the cunningly caring eyes of the man who promises to “make them rich” (14) and yet, “Sylvia does not speak after all” (14). In a call for her to stand firm, the narrator cries out, “No, she must keep silence” (14) and Sylvia becomes aware of the significance of her sacred treetop experience then as she recalls the moment: “The murmur of the pine’s green branches is in her ears, she remembers how the white heron came flying through the golden air and how they watched the sea and the morning together, and Sylvia cannot speak…cannot tell 43 the heron’s secret and give its life away (14). Her resolve to “keep silence” marks the moment in which she reaffirms her alignment with the Natural Self and her rejection of what the hunter represents. She thereby not only saves the life of the heron by denying the hunter the information he seeks, but even saves her own life—her virtues, innocence, and identity—as well, by finally standing firm against the offensive of the hunter’s attacks on her values. When Sylvia and the hunter’s characters are examined, we find that the way they perceive relationships with other things motivates their core values, and thus, their actions in the world in which they live and interact. Considering what the hunter represents, his attempts to subjugate little Sylvia highlights the modi operandi of the Constructed Self—the ways it attacks and attempts to corrupt the kinds of positive values inherent to the Natural Self. This monstrous disregard for the intrinsic value of the natural world—which includes all human and nonhuman things—is the quintessence of the Constructed Self. Put another way, little Sylvia represents those with the kinds of reverential attitudes paramount for the well- being of the natural world. When we become aware of the sacred and realize its inherent worth, we show it through our actions that demonstrate a respect and stewardship of the land: Sylvia demonstrates this point most clearly through her reverential silence at the end of the story when she chooses not to speak. Her choice symbolizes the kinds of decisions we must make in order to address the selfish exploitation of nature and of our fellow man, ultimately preserving the natural world for the sake of all living things. As Sylvia chooses to stay loyal to her Natural Self and not exploit the sacred landscape for ill-gotten gain, her story highlights not only what can be ultimately lost, but also that even amidst the corrupting enchantment of the Constructed Self, we can retain, and even regain, 44 the humanity of our Natural Self as we make efforts to restore and preserve our natural connection with the world and care for its well being.

CHAPTER 4: TOM’S BALANCE OF BODY AND MIND IN WILLA CATHER’S “TOM OUTLAND’S STORY”

Willa Cather’s “Tom Outland’s Story” was originally written as a stand- alone short story later framed within two other chapters, “The Family” and “The Professor.” The three sections together comprise The Professor’s House. The work has been thoroughly analyzed in parts and in full, with topics ranging from anti- Semitism and Americanism, to immigration and identity. The story is told in first person, as the narrative shifts and Tom shares his experiences, for the first time, to Professor Godfrey St. Peter and the large St. Peter family, to which he becomes very close; he is schooled by the professor, becomes engaged to one of his daughters, and is a successful engineer until killed in the First World War, while the success of his [engineering] work, ultimately makes the St. Peter family rich. In essence, “Tom Outland’s Story” interjects Tom Outland’s recount of his experiences on a desert mesa near the small town of Pardee, New Mexico, on which he discovers an ancient Indian cliff city hidden high away. But rather than re-hash what has been typically argued for or against, I suggest a different approach, conducive to my thesis as a whole and appropriate as a response to the critics that attempt to explain the significance of Tom’s experience on the mesa. The journey that leads Tom to the sacred experience begins in a physical way but he becomes emotionally invested with the mesa; we come to see that his appreciation for the place and its native ruins and artifacts represents a tangible connection that he feels for the place. More specifically, as he comes to experience the sacred, he comes to embrace what the mesa represents, reverentially adopting the culture and history of the Indians that used to live there, as though he were a part of their generational heritage. Some critics suggest that Cather is responding to America’s policy on immigration and Indians’ citizenship status, for in 1924 46 they were finally “declared to be citizens of the United States” (Prucha 218). Walter Benn Michaels, in particular, suggests in “The Vanishing American” that because Tom is an orphan and “wasn’t obviously Indian” (221) his behavior is “odd” (220) and “surprising,” (221), but is ultimately explainable, because it shows him to be seeking out some cultural connection to which he can attach himself and “claim exemption from the perils of assimilation and naturalization” (223). In other words, quite simply (and paradoxically), he suggests that because Tom is an orphan and has no physical family ties to demonstrate his American citizenship, he symbolically adopts the mesa as his home to compensate for his lack of family lineage, even though he was clearly not an Indian and knows full- well that his “claimed descent from them is not only false but …impossible” (221). But, yet, in the end, Michaels suggests that Tom still finds “his American identity” (237). It seems more reasonable to suggest the contrary – that Tom seeks out a familial connection because he has no physical family ties with which to associate a heritage, and is so desperate to feel that connection, he bonds both physically and spiritually with the place, its history and culture, all despite knowing that he does not share actual Indian bloodlines. But if he knows this, and makes a connection anyway, that connection becomes more meaningful than Michaels gives credit for. With that, then, I suggest that Tom’s experience is more significant than his seeking out a symbolic form of American citizenship – an insufficient way to explain Tom’s so-called “odd” and “surprising” behavior. Rather, as he physically immerses himself in the place around him and he comes to experience the sacred, we ultimately see that Tom achieves a sort of balance between his sensual body of the Natural Self and the intellect of the Constructed Self. If there is a citizenry he realizes or discovers, it is that he is a citizen of the world, as he embraces the place 47 around him through a balance that connects him with his physical senses and focuses his intellect. On the mesa we see him simply being, not of any race or color, nor with any citizenship, but simply as a living thing in nature, in touch with his senses and his intellect, his mind and body. His sacred experience in nature creates such “great happiness” (Cather 226) that he comes to feel it as if it were a “possession” (226). And so we see again, as we do through little Sylvia and Mary Anne Bell, respectively, that it is through the physical body, through an immersion into place, that we reconnect with the Natural Self and experience the Sacred in Nature. Through Tom, we get a sense of the balance of the Selves and a brief glimpse of the kind of I-Thou perspective of the natural world that is important for a sustainable—and reverential—approach to human-human and human-earth relations. This suggests then, that a balance of some sort is not only prudent, but is, essentially, and most obviously, the only realistic solution to a reconciliation of mind and body; this is what we ultimately see Tom achieve during his experience on the mesa. And by this token, we push eco-criticism yet deeper into the realm of academics, as it affords us a fresh view of humanity that many literature critics stop short of, or simply do not consider, when discussing the significances, nuances, or sources, of socially created issues that are represented in literature.

A Balance? A reconciliation, or balance, of the Selves consists of returning to or maintaining a solid foot in, as it were, the Natural Self. And so, it is important for us to have the sense of place and immerse ourselves in nature in order to experience the sacred. Emerson realized this and some of his work can help to clarify. He suggests in Nature that, “In the woods, we return to reason and faith” (823). Here, “reason” is complemented by “faith,” so while we associate the 48 former with the intellectual mind, we connect the latter with the sensual body, for there can be nothing without the body; it is the gateway to all perception. Through our perceptions we realize a kind or spirituality, or a reaffirmation of faith, as our sensory perceptions essentially confirm that “all things are interrelated” (Rockefeller 164) when we perceive them in nature. Emerson goes on to suggest that “In the wilderness, I find something more dear and connate than in streets or villages” (823), suggesting, essentially, that he feels as though he naturally relates more to what can be found in nature, than in city “streets or villages.” This further suggests that we need to remove ourselves from the social constructs prevalent in the city, the trademarks of the Constructed Self, and immerse ourselves in nature. So while we embrace the physical experience of being, we rediscover our “reason and faith.” Explaining further, Emerson then says that The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them. The waving of the boughs in the storm is new to me and old. It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me, when I deemed I was thinking justly or doing right. (164, my emphasis) What we have here is a sense of the sublime that connects us with nature on more than just a physical level. Through our sensory perceptions we engage in the physical world around us and come to realize that we are not alone in nature, as we are “acknowledged” by a consciousness of “the vegetable,” the plants and trees that wave their “boughs” during a storm and we are affected by that consciousness. The feeling is sublime-like, and natural to us, as nature makes us aware of its presence or its power; Emerson attempts to liken it to something short 49 of a pivotally intellectual and emotional experience, during a moment when he knew he was thinking and acting purely. This echoes the feeling we have when we are open to the sense of place. For Evernden, it is that “sense of knowing and of being a part of a particular place” (100). This sense of place essentially originates from our openness to and receiving the sensual experiences of nature. Emerson would suggest here that “the power to produce this delight does not reside in nature, but in man, or in a harmony of both” (164). It is up to us, in other words, to experience this “delight,” by being receptive to and in a state of harmony with nature. This state of harmony, as we will see with Tom, first requires the sensitivity to the sense of place. He immerses himself in place and eventually returns “to reason and faith” during his time on the mesa. As we have seen before—with Mary Anne in Vietnam, and Sylvia in the woods of New England— this immersion leads to a connection with the place that is sublime in feeling, as we consider that we are “not alone and unacknowledged.” We are delighted then, when we experience the Sacred in Nature and connect with it, the experience becoming more significant when we realize the connection connotes an I-Thou relationship with Nature that is mutually beneficial and reverential, as mind and body reunite.

Tom’s Journey Tom Outland and Rodney Blake meet each other in a small New Mexico town and essentially gain work together as cattle hands. Before leaving for work in the country, they become good friends, each looking out for the other in ways that suggested a strong bond growing between the two. They vary as characters, of course, and Tom is different from Rodney, in that he is more intellectual and more aware of the sense of place, for instance. Immediately upon arriving at the remote 50 cabin that will act as their residence while working for the cattle company, Tom is taken with his surroundings. Here, his sense of place is seen through his sense of awe and comfort as he describes the view from the cabin. He tells us of a cactus- covered sandy hillside, a grass and “yellow rabbit-brush” to the south” (Cather 168), and that Along the river the cottonwoods and quaking asps had already turned gold. Just across from us, over-hanging us, indeed, stood the mesa, a pile of purple rock, all broken out with red sumach and tallow aspens up in the high crevices of the cliffs. From the cabin day and night you could hear the river, where it …churned over the rocks. It was the sort of place a man would like to stay forever. (168) The vastness of the rugged landscape, the emphasis of the contrasting colors found amongst the rock formations and the trees, and the power of the river constantly announcing its presence, all have a positive impact on Tom. He is comfortable and at home in nature, a place where could “stay forever.” In his admiration for the place, we begin to quickly get an idea of his openness to the sense of place. We get an even better idea of Tom’s sense of place after he settles in and shares more about the surrounding landscape. He explains that “The mesa was our only neighbor...the closer we got…the more tantalizing it was. It was no longer a blue, featureless lump as it had been from a distance. Its sky-line was like the profile of a big beast lying down; the head to the north, higher than the flanks around which the river curved” (170). The scope of the area and Tom’s connection to it becomes more apparent when he suggests that his only neighbor was the mesa itself, which gains a definite shape as he gets closer to it. His senses open to receive it as a living being. 51

Tom’s aesthetic experience suggests that he is coming upon a sublime experience. Describing what he can see of the mesa, he says that, “Whether the top was wooded we couldn’t see—it was too high above us; but the cliffs and canyon on the river side were fringed with beautiful growth, groves of quaking asps and pinions and few dark cedars, perched up in the air like the hanging gardens of Babylon” (171). Various elements of the area then, both literally and figuratively, make Tom’s experience sublime. Tom’s sense that the mesa is alive adds to the overall experience. He explains that the mesa “was always changing. Black thunder-storms used to roll up from behind it and pounce on us like a panther without warning” (171). As Tom is impressed by the beauty of the mesa, he comes upon the sublime when an element of fear, danger, and awe combine with the sense of place. The unpredictable, animal-like thunder stirs a sense of vulnerability in Tom and the sublime then becomes apparent. He tells us that [t]he lightning would play round it and jab into it so that we were expecting it would fire the brush. I’ve never heard thunder so loud as it was there. The cliffs threw it back at us, and we thought the mesa itself though it seemed solid, must be full of deep canyons and caverns, to account for the prolonged growl and rumble that followed every crash of thunder. After the burst in the sky was over, the mesa went on sounding like a drum, and seemed itself to be muttering and making noises. (172) In this moment Nature seems to be alive. The scene is aesthetically charged by the black, thundering clouds against the protruding mesa and Tom’s comparison of the deafening noise to an animal’s growl increasing the sense of danger and vulnerability, as does the threat of the lightning-induced brush fire. Furthermore, whether Tom is aware of it or not, the Sacred’s presence is represented through the 52 music, with the mesa “sounding like a drum” as the echo of the thunder goes through the canyons, making them sound as if they were alive and “muttering.” Quite simply, this is a sublime moment for Tom because he recognizes his vulnerability, is afraid, and yet is taken aback by the beauty and life of the place. What is interesting to note here briefly, is Rodney’s physical presence on the mesa. Though we know he is exposed to the same experiences as Tom, his reactions are noticeably absent. This is, because, he has none; he is closed to the sense of place. But not until the end do we discover that Rodney has, alongside Tom, all-the-while “tread upon” the Sacred space without entering it. He is disconnected from his Natural Self and he fails to share in the experiences Tom has on the mesa. Rodney’s disconnect, it seems, stems from his fondness of the intellect and naivety of the body. Tom suggests that Rodney “Had a great respect for education, but he believed it was some kind of hocus-pocus that enabled a man to live without work. We had Robinson Crusoe with us, and Rodney’s favourite book, Gulliver’s Travels” (167). Rodney is, quite simply, a little naïve and aligned with the Constructed Self. He is enchanted, self-deceived, if you will, by the notion that education is a special “hocus-pocus” trick that can exempt a man from work. Tom also begins to quickly form a respect for the place. He discovers old stone tools and a near-ancient irrigation system—signs that people had lived there centuries before. Later, contemplating the find after sharing it with Rodney, Tom suggests that “there is something stirring about finding evidences of human labour and care in the soil of an empty country. It comes to you as sort of a message, makes you feel differently about the ground you walk over every day” (173). This marks the beginning of his reverence for the people and the place, and his subsequent adoption of their connection to the lands as his own. 53

Following this discovery, Tom is curious, feeling the excitement of the sense of place as it stirs within him the desire to explore the area further. When several cows then stray from the herd and cross the river, Tom uses it as an excuse to get closer to the mesa. So despite the apparent danger of the river being “too deep to ford and too swift to swim” (169) he crosses and he immerses himself further into the place. His immersion here is not unlike Mary Anne’s swim in Vietnam, nor unlike Sylvia’s feet-soaking in the woods, as it marks his openness to the sense of place. His successful swim becomes even more significant as he lands safely on the other the bank and describes the canyon and valley. He is so overwhelmed that even the air seems different to him. He says, “it seemed to me that I had never breathed in anything that tasted so pure as the air in that valley. It …seemed to go to my head a little and produce a kind of exaltation …it was very different than the air on the other side of the river” (Cather 178-79). It is as if Tom suddenly sees things from a new perspective, as if the swim through the river has a ritualistic, cleansing, even baptismal effect on his senses. The air feels so pure that he experiences it both physically and emotionally. While the experience of this moment is initiated through physical immersion, the culminating effects balance both the physical and the intellectual. The result is a “kind of exaltation”—a word that suggests a quasi-religious reaction. Tom’s sensitivity to place allows him to become increasingly drawn into the beauty of the mesa. We see his reverence for the landscape grow as he takes in his physical surroundings. Exploring the canyon, he eventually sees the ancient Native American cliff city, one-thousand feet above him, carved into a “great cavern in the face of the cliff” (179). He is immediately taken by the majesty of the place and its reverential silence. “Such silence and stillness and repose— immortal repose. That village sat looking down into the canyon with the calmness 54 of eternity. The falling snow-flakes, sprinkling the piñions, gave it a special kind of solemnity” (180). Tom’s reaction befits his growing awareness of the sacred. He detects in the place a condition even outside of time, in its “immortal repose” and its “calmness and eternity.” Tom considers enacting a kind of silence of his own out of new veneration. Thinking of Rodney, initially, he says, “As I stood looking up at it, I wondered whether I ought to tell even Blake about it; whether or not I ought to go back across the river and keep that secret as the mesa had kept it” (180). His protective, I-Thou perspective begins to show itself here, as he is “reluctant to expose those silent and beautiful places to vulgar curiosity” (183). And later, as he immerses himself further into the place, and discovers yet more Indian ruins, he says that he “went about softly, tried not to disturb anything—even the silence” (186). This protective, reverential silence is not unlike what we see from Mary Anne Bell or Sylvia, when they choose to embrace silence in their respective, but equally reverential ways. Mary Anne Bell comes to ultimately reject language and what it represents as she immerses herself into the jungle, while Sylvia knows the hunter’s true intentions of being in the woods—knows that he does not understand or recognize the inherent worth of the birds that he kills—and so, keeps the White Heron’s secret by not speaking in the end. So while Tom does in fact tell Rodney, the fact that he considers it first marks Tom’s growing concern for the mesa’s “silence and beautiful places.” He understands that while he recognizes the inherent worth of the mesa, others with “vulgar curiosity” will certainly not. Tom’s reverence for the place comes to include an appreciation for the intrinsic worth of the animals that have also been there for generations. He seems to honor the mountain sheep, for instance, and explains that he refuses to kill one, even for food, for, “When a mountain sheep comes out on a ledge hundreds of feet 55

above you, with his trumpet horns, there’s something noble about him—he looks like a priest” (191). He recognizes the sheep’s intrinsic worth and his choice to respect the life obviously marks this. So then, as Tom comes to embrace the sacred animals, we are not totally surprised that he seems to readily embrace a physical symbol of the spiritual when they find a preserved body of a young woman high in the cliff city and refer to her as “Mother Eve” (192). This has obvious Biblical connotations, of course, as the association makes both the young woman and the land sacred. After this, Tom actually begins to revere the place so much it is as though he feels himself unworthy of being on the mesa and rediscovering the native culture that has been preserved. Seeking advice, he discusses his concerns with a priest-friend, Father Duchene, who agrees with the idea that Tom should visit Washington in order to “make some report to the Government, so that the proper specialists would be sent out to study the remains” (199). In his absolute appreciation of the place, in other words, Tom thinks the right thing to do is report the discovery so that the mesa can be properly studied and respected by experts in archaeology or similar relevant fields. Tom essentially believes that through understanding the dynamics of the mesa, the old cliff city, its people and their relationship with the land, the sacred place that is the mesa can be appropriately honored by having its intrinsic worth affirmed. While this idea is well intended, in his ultimate desire to appreciate the mesa and the old Indian city, he lets himself become enchanted with the notion that those in Washington are different from the kinds of people with “vulgar curiosity.” He does not necessarily experience “vulgar curiosity” in Washington; rather, it is largely indifference based on an extreme I-It perspective of the world, as the great majority of those he interacts with are unhelpful because they are too engrossed in their own constructed, self-serving personal lives. Tom gets shuffled 56 to and from different agencies and departments, from the Indian Commission to the Smithsonian, as he explains his discovery and shows them his best samples. He is told in one instance, that his discovery is uninteresting and means little because the items have “No market value” (204). He is propositioned in another instance, as one commissioner’s secretary suggests that he wants his “best bowl for his cigarette ashes” (204). Exhausted and out of money, Tom resigns himself to a return home when he is finally told that, “They don’t care much about dead and gone Indians. What they do care about is going to Paris, and getting another ribbon on their coats.” (212). Longing for home then, Tom says, “I wanted nothing but to get back to the mesa and live a free life and breathe free air, and never, never again to see hundreds of little black-coated men pouring out of white buildings” (213). Frustrated and disenchanted by the nature of those people in Washington concerned only with bettering their position, Tom is quite eager to return home to the mesa, leave Washington behind, and lead a way of life different from those in the black coats. His return to the mesa then, is not only literal, but symbolic, as he craves the mesa’s “free life” and “free air” which he literally returns to, and while doing so, symbolically rejects the Constructed Self’s self- serving values, as he exclaims that he never wants to see those “little black-coated men” again. Considering Tom’s response to his experiences in Washington, we can imagine his horror when he returns home to find that Rodney has sold off the mesa’s relics as “curios” (214). He discovers that Rodney has sold the artifacts to an interested German who purchased everything they had unearthed for “four thousand dollars” (214). Responding to the very notion that the sacred objects were sold by Rodney as if they were mere trinkets to be pawned to the highest bidder, Tom says, “I thought Blake must have lost his mind …I had never told him 57 just how I felt…directly. But he must have known; he…lived with me all summer and fall…And yet, until that night, I had never known myself that I cared more about them than about anything else in the world” (216). So while Tom does not understand how Rodney could ignorantly sell what he should have known meant so much to him we see that it means that Rodney does not come to experience the sacred after all. Confirming for us his I-It perspective, Rodney then simply explains that he thinks Tom had, “meant to ‘realize’ on them, just as he did, and that it would come to money in the end” (220), because “everything does” (220) for those firmly aligned with the Constructed Self. Tom then reveals the level of offense the Natural Self and the Sacred have taken. Tom responds to Rodney in such a way that there is no question about the intense physical and psychological connection that he feels for the place, which makes quite obvious his feelings about Rodney’s perspective. He tells him, “I never thought of selling them, because they weren’t mine to sell—nor yours …I’m not so poor that I have to sell the pots and pans that belonged to my poor grandmothers a thousand years ago” (219). He tells Rodney that it was never a “question of money …They were something that had been preserved through the ages by a miracle, and handed on to you and me…to keep a trust” (221). And then, clearly showing that this is something unforgiveable to him, as though Rodney betrays the very integrity of humanity, Tom says to him, “If it was my money you’d lost, or my girl you made free with, we could fight it out, and maybe be friends again. But this is different” (222). Tom is saying here, essentially, that if it had only been a personal betrayal between the two of them—man to man—he could forgive Rodney. But this betrayal is an offense to the mesa that goes beyond the personal. The disparity between their perspectives of the mesa is too great to be reconciled and Rodney’s actions, motivated and justified by the I-It perspective 58 of the Constructed Self, ultimately end their friendship. Realizing the implications of what he does, he packs his bags and they exchange good-byes. When considering Tom’s overall experiences, it is only after he comes to be alone on the mesa that we realize the significance of his overall journey, and subsequent reverence for the mesa. His experience in the end is such that as we see him physically immerse himself into the landscape of the mesa, he also comes to a state of intellectual focus, as he embraces the receptive sensitivity of the sensual body and the intellectual prowess of the mind. Trying to explain the experience, Tom says that he felt as if it were the first time he had ever been “on the mesa at all—the first night that all of me was there. This was the first time I ever saw it as a whole” (227). He goes on to suggest that this moment makes his initial experiences on the mesa all “pale” (227) in comparison. And further emphasizing the gravity of the experience and his connection to the place, he tells us that the mesa has become “a religious emotion” (227) and evokes in him the “filial piety in the Latin poets” (227). In a description that encapsulates the physical and sublime nature of the sacred experience, he goes on to say: Every morning, when the sun’s rays first hit the mesa top, while the rest of the world was in shadow, I wakened with the feeling that I had found everything…Nothing tired me. Up there alone, a close neighbour to the sun, I seemed to get the solar energy in some direct way. And at night when I watched it drop down behind the edge of the plain below me, I used to feel that I couldn’t have bourne another hour of the consuming light, that I was full to the brim, and needed dark and sleep. (227) The sensual nature of this experience is clearly seen: physical space, the light and heat of the sun, the dark of night, and an overwhelming embracing of it all through 59

the perceptions of the physical body. Tom’s experience is as physical in nature as Mary Anne’s and Sylvia’s. It is the physical immersion that initially opens him to the sacred experience and that experience is continued through the physical body. Yet Tom’s sacred experience in nature is also intellectual. As he continues to revere the landscape around him through the I-Thou perspective of the Natural Self, he is able to mentally relax and focus his mind, yet free of the oppressive nature of the Constructed Self. He tells us that “It was the first time I’d studied so methodically, or intelligently. I got the better of Spanish grammar and read the twelve books” (227). And subtly revealing that he finds a state of balance that reconciles the mind and body, he suggests that, “I found I was reading too fast; so I began to commit long passages of Virgil to memory—if it hadn’t been for that, I might have forgotten how to use my voice, or gone to talking to myself” (228). And while Tom transitions to a tone of retrospection as he comes to complete his story, he complements his sacred experience by embracing both his mind and body. Suggesting that there was a kind of medium between the two at the time, he says that when he reads “the Aeneid now, I can always see two pictures: the one on the page, and another behind that: blue and purple rocks and yellow-green piñons with flat tops” (228). Thus his sacred experience on the mesa is both intellectual and physical. He recalls his immersion into his intellectual self and its appreciation for the creative constructs of the writing on the page. But he also recalls the wondrous landscape in which he physically immerses himself, and as a result, ultimately experiences the sacred “blue and purple [and] yellow-green” landscape of the mesa. Tom’s experience on the mesa, his immersion into the place and the physical, emotional, intellectual participation in which he engages, proves more significant than seeking-out a tangible connection through which to prove 60

American citizenry. The poignant connection that he makes with the place shows a kind of balance in the end. Rather than going on and on to lament the loss of the objects to which he feels so attached, he accepts it and disconnects himself emotionally from the menial tangible items that would have helped him conjure up a right to American Citizenship. His continuing reverence for the place, simply as it is, also suggests that there is more to Tom’s experience. He adopts the mesa and its cultural history as his own; he recognizes that he is connected to it all simply because he shares the ties of humanity, as he finds that connection through “evidences of human labor and care in the soil.” As he comes to revere the mesa, the ancient ruins and artifacts, and the history of the native inhabitants through an I-Thou perspective, his experience is more than an attempt to reaffirm or recover physical proof of his American ancestry. If anything, rather, as he comes to revere and tries to honor and protect the mesa by doing the right thing, he shows an awareness of Man’s greater connection with nature and the landscape in which we live and in which we interact. He comes to fully realize this in the end, as he embraces his sensual body and becomes receptive to the sensory experiences nature provides for us. And while immersing himself physically, he achieves a state of consciousness that engages his mind in creative and productive ways that do not subjugate the values of the Natural Self.

CHAPTER 5: IN BRIEF…

Examining the experiences of Mary Anne Bell, Sylvia and Tom shows us the significance of reconnecting with the Natural Self and reaffirming our connection with Nature. Because it is an experience that is mostly physical it requires that we are open to the sense of place, which means we must be open to the senses of our physical body—the very means in which we perceive and participate in the world—and the way we feel while out in nature. Because it is through the sensual body that we experience all things, it is through the body that the sense of place works. We cannot be closed off to the world around us, in other words, or otherwise too preoccupied with what is going on in our constructed lives if we are to become aware of the sense of place, let alone reconnect with the sacred. Physical immersion alone is not enough if we are mentally distracted and out of touch with our physical senses. When we open our body to the phenomenal experiences of nature we open ourselves to the influence of its awesome powers. This is the moment of the sublime. These moments cause us to feel delighted yet humbled as the intensity of the moment prompts us to realize a power greater than our own. They are experiences that make us feel both terrified and rapturous as we recognize that we are but mortal beings and Nature’s powers far exceed our own. We are caught by the moment, taken back. These are the kinds of responses that leave us speechless and it is often then that we feel, in essence, much smaller when set against the forces of nature. We begin to see things from a different perspective, which awakens in us the awareness of the sacred in nature. This is a natural state of awareness that occurs as we begin to become disenchanted from the ego-centric perspectives of the Constructed Self. And this often shows itself through our 62 subtle behavior that suggests a growing appreciation for the natural world around us. The experience of the sacred, sublime in quality, begins as a physical state of immersion during which we feel so connected to the world around us, we realize that we are indeed part of a greater chain of being. Physical immersion creates and enhances the moment, making it more vibrant, which is necessary for the realization of the sacred in nature, as the experience must be intense enough to awaken that overall sense of genuine interrelatedness. This realization creates within us feelings of reverence that inspire a perspective that recognizes the inherent worth of nature: the I-Thou of the Natural Self. This perspective motivates us to act in ways that ultimately tend to preserve, maintain, or restore the natural landscape, and act considerately to the human and nonhuman beings within it.

Our Models of Disenchantment Tim O’Brien’s Mary Anne Bell is brought from her home to visit her boyfriend stationed at a small Army medical compound in the jungles of Vietnam. Her openness to the area is demonstrated throughout the story, and is seen through her physical immersion into the place. Her participation starts subtly and builds as she first immerses herself into the place by taking swims in the river and helping in the camp’s medical operations, and then later, goes out on night patrols. She rejects her boyfriend’s judgment, which is a symbolic rejection of the kinds of values that initially construct that judgment. As she continues to spend time there she comes to revere the place and forms an addiction-like attachment to the sensation of her overall experience. Mary Anne’s sublime experience comes upon her then and the jungle seems to 63 pull her in; she embraces her sensual body so completely that she is able to feel things on a cellular level. Her ultimate rejection of social constructs, language and judgment specifically, and her complete alignment with the Natural Self, is finally seen when she becomes one with the jungle and wears a “necklace of human tongues” (125). Considering the level of her physical immersion and the influence it has on her, Mary Anne’s story represents for us a metaphor for a complete realignment with the Natural Self and highlights the physical body’s overall role in experiencing the sacred in Nature. While also showing the physical nature of the sacred experience in nature, Sara Orne Jewett’s young little Sylvia in “A White Heron,” also shows us what can be lost when the Natural Self is subjugated by the Constructed Self. Sylvia’s conflict begins when she finds she must ultimately decide between maintaining her innocence and integrity (her alignment with the Natural Self) while keeping the trust of the sacred, or succumbing to the enchanting, corrupting, allure of the Constructed Self. Sylvia is tempted by the charms of the Constructed Self and we see the characters Sylvia and the hunter ultimately juxtaposed. Like Eve, Sylvia falls for the tempter’s charms and eventually intends to betray her sacred trust. While Sylvia ultimately seeks to satisfy the desires of the Constructed Self, she experiences the realization of the sacred. And as she becomes aware of the significance of the moment just as it is time to sell Nature’s secret to the hunter, she realizes what it would mean to her identity, integrity, and her relationship with nature. She ultimately finds that she cannot betray nature’s trust and exploit it for her personal gain. She, too, shows her rejection of the Constructed Self in the end by choosing to be reverentially silent, while maintaining her alignment with the Natural Self. Quite simply, in other words, Sylvia’s identity is at stake. But through her physical immersion she comes to experience the sacred in nature 64

which is a poignant enough moment for her to realize the greater inherent worth of the heron and its mate. Most importantly, she maintains her innocence by honoring her trust with nature, thereby keeping true to her identity; she maintains her alignment with the Natural Self and connection to the sacred. So while it is important to again note the physical immersion involved in the sacred experience, Sylvia’s story helps to identify not only the loss of the Natural Self and its connection with nature, but also gives us an idea of how those values of the Constructed Self can initially influence and corrupt us, especially the unsuspecting or unaware. Tom Outland, on the other hand, is quite aware of the concepts of the Constructed Self. In Willa Cather’s “Tom Outland’s Story,” Tom narrates his journey of his sacred experience while living on the mesa. We see his sense of place upon his arrival at the mesa and he follows the trend of physical immersion that we see in Mary Anne and Sylvia. He shows his openness to his senses and the experiences afforded by the natural world around him as he further immerses himself. His attraction to the place intensifies as he connects with the mesa’s ancient Indian relics and they ground him in such a way that he feels part of the place. This initiates his reverence for the place, which initially shows itself through his reciprocation of the silence that adds to the place’s majesty and his concern of those who might exploit the land, and then later, when he mistakenly seeks government help in Washington. Tom is disenchanted by the bureaucratic authorities when he comes to realize that anyone there with the power to help is too preoccupied in self-serving schemes to care for his cause. They are stuck in their Constructed Selves and as he recognizes this he essentially rejects their lifestyle and what they represent. His subsequent rejection of his friend Rodney Blake marks his ultimate disassociation 65

from the values of the Constructed Self that conceives of the natural world through an I-It perspective. Through his continuing physical immersion he experiences the sacred, which leads him to have a clarity-of-mind enabling him to focus his intellect in a positive way. That is, as he ultimately embraces both his body and his mind, he is able to focus his mind as he becomes intimate with the sacred. And this shows that we first need to re-identify with the Natural Self in order to embrace the Sacred in Nature. Then, when the interconnectedness of all things is realized and we feel the subsequent calm that eventually comes with the experience, we can focus the mind in positive ways that embrace our creative intellect, while yet remaining aligned with the values that recognize the inherent worth of the natural world. When we look at these models collectively we clearly identify a process of moving away from the Constructed Self and realigning with the Natural Self. We see that as we embrace the physical senses of our body and immerse ourselves in nature we make ourselves receptive to the sublime experiences that awaken our awareness of the Sacred and our overall connection with the natural world. This realization makes us aware of the negative values of the Constructed Self that influence us to value our minds more than our bodies and thereby obstruct the natural relationship we have with the “Natural” Self. And with this new revelation, we change the way we look and act on the natural world, which begins in most cases, with the place in which we first experience the sacred. This new reverence is manifested through actions that show we have a respect or greater concern for the well-being of the natural landscape and those things within it. In each of the models we examine, we see that silence plays a significant role in the sacred experience in nature. Through silence, language is scrutinized, rejected, because it interferes with the Natural Self’s reception of the natural 66 world; it is a construct that confines our perceptions to predetermined, predefined descriptions that are ultimately limiting and controlling. So as Mary Anne, Sylvia and Tom engage in their specific acts of silence and reject language, they reject the constructs of the Constructed Self, while further opening themselves to the sacred experience. Silence, in other words, becomes a way in which we engage the sacred because as we quiet the mind and embrace our physical senses, we become more receptive to the experience itself. Silence marks our reverence for the sacred and becomes a means by which we can focus our physical immersion into a place. The significance of all this comes to us, then, when we realize our greater connection to the natural world around us. This realization motivates feelings of veneration for the sacred place and the surrounding landscape, which we demonstrate through acts of silence or other forms of reverence that embody an I- Thou perspective of the natural world, or otherwise realize a non-anthropocentric relationship with the Earth. This merge of eco-criticism and literature analysis gives us another way to examine Man’s behavior as it becomes, a new kind of social critique of the values found within [the] text. This perspective allows us to examine the social norms that affect not only the way we perceive and act upon the natural world around us, but also how we perceive and act upon our fellow man. That is, in other words, it gives us a different way to examine literature and the values of man found within it, while shedding new light on social issues that are often topics of discussion amongst scholars of literature. It would be interesting to see how other issues influence the journey to the sacred experience in nature. Social Class, for instance, might play a role in one’s openness to sense of place, if we subscribe to stereotypes and associate wealth to pampering, privilege, and higher education. The latter and the former might be of special interest, as it could be argued, 67 perhaps, that a lifestyle that includes high-society pampering and much indoctrination into Western theories and philosophies—that separate the mind and body, effectively masking the sacred in Nature—would lead to an inextricable alignment with the Constructed Self. Or would it be, because, as Emerson puts it, “Nature always wears the colors of the spirit” (824), that the poverty-stricken man, who might be more in-touch with his own body, would simply be closed to the sacred experience because his perspective is focused on his life’s misfortunes? This is one question raised of many possible when considering the spectrum of available avenues.

WORKS CITED

Abram, David. The Spell of the Sensuous. New York: Random, 1996. Print.

Allen, Paula Gunn. “The Sacred Hoop.” The Ecocriticism Reader: Landmarks in Literary Ecology. Ed. Cheryll Glotfelty and Harold. Athens: Georgia UP, 1996. 241-263. Print.

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Cather, Willa. “Tom Outland’s Story.” The Professor’s House. New York: Vintage, 1990. 159-229. Print.

Christ, Carol. “Rethinking Theology and Nature.” Reweaving the World: The Emergence of Ecofeminism. Ed. Irene Diamond and Gloria Feman Orenstein. San Francisco: Sierra Club, 1990. 58-69. Print.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Nature. 1836. Ed. Hamlin Hill. San Francisco: Chandler. 1968. Print.

Evernden, Neil. “Beyond Ecology: Self, Place, and the Pathetic Fallacy,” The Ecocriticism Reader: Landmarks in Literary Ecology. Ed. Cheryll Glotfelty and Harold Fromm. Athens: Georgia UP, 1996. 92-104. Print.

Ferrer-Medina, Patricia. “Wild Humans: The Culture/Nature Duality in Marie Darrieussecq’s Pig Tales and Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” Comparatist: Journal of the Southern Comparative Literature Association 31 (2007): 67-87. Print.

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Hutchinson, E. P. Legislative History of American Immigration Policy 1798-1965. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1981. Print. 69 Jewett, Sarah Orne. “A White Heron.” The Night Before Thanksgiving, A White Heron and Selected Stories by Sarah Orne Jewett. Ed. Katharine H. Shute. Cambridge: Riverside, 1927. 1-15. Print.

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Smiley, Pamela. “The Role of the Ideal (Female) Reader in Tim O’Brien’s the Things They Carried: Why Should Real Women Play?” Massachusetts Review: A Quarterly of Literature, the Arts and Public Affairs 43.4 (2003): 602-13. JSTOR. Web. 1 Sep. 2011.

Smith, Lorrie N. “‘The Things Men Do’: The Gendered Subtext in Tim O’Brien’s Esquire Stories.” Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction 36.1 (1994): 16- 40. Academic Search Premier. Web. 1 Sep. 2011 California State University, Fresno

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