Three Mentors

We often find that our passions were once stimulated by a teacher, whose message touched a resonant chord in us—either because it came along at just the right time or that it awakened a latent inquisitiveness in us. Maybe either the career we chose or the interests that we eagerly pursue were suggested by this person. Maybe we found ourselves wandering about with little direction and the path became clear once we met the teacher.

Three literary naturalist writers have become my mentors in recent years—individuals who wrote about the natural world and who have inspired me. They’ve given me ideas and a direction in which to point myself, as I try to respond to the example they have set for me.

John Burroughs wrote in the mid to late 1800s, Hal Borland wrote columns for the New York Times in the middle of the 20th century, and Bernd Heinrich is a biologist who writes today. All were keen observers of the natural world that surrounded them. All lived in remote regions of the woodlands of New England and all wrote in an engaging personal manner, describing their special encounters with the natural world.

All three of them stayed home—choosing to become deeply and intimately familiar with their personal neck of the woods—rather than travel and describe the wonders of far-flung locations. Although I find it fascinating to read the marvelous experiences of a vagabond like John Muir, his stories are more like travelogues than the deeper encounters told by my mentors. While Muir’s descriptions are wide and not very deep, my mentors’ explorations are deep and detailed.

These three wordsmiths were attentive watchers; they kept a “sharp lookout,” in Burroughs’s words. They logged many hours observing the flora and fauna immediately about them—becoming increasingly familiar with their locale. They noted details and asked themselves questions and sought underlying reasons. When the unexpected happened they increased their scrutiny, realizing that a deeper understanding was waiting them, if they could figure out the anomaly.

These men were humble before nature. They knew they were surrounded by the sacred and they treated their world reverentially. They became so absorbed and awed by nature that they literally became a part of it. Animals sensed their respect and sensibility, allowing them access to their world and often treating them as members of their community.

Inspired by my literary mentors, I try to practice the disciplines they have taught me. They’ve shown me the wisdom of reading prodigiously—soaking up the knowledge that others have gained and thus not waste time rediscovering simple truths. But they’ve especially taught me to keep a sharp lookout, so that I begin to pick up on the details of the fascinating lives of the many critters around me. Give me three lifetimes and I’d make some real headway.