ISSN: 1941-0832
Teaching Land as an Extension of Self:
The Role of Ecopsychology in Disrupting Capitalist
Narratives of Land and Resource Exploitation
by Allison L. Ricket
“SYCAMORE,” BY MALCOM MCGREGOR
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I used to think the top environmental problems were
biodiversity loss, ecosystem collapse and climate
change. I thought that with 30 years of good science we
could address those problems. But I was wrong. The top
environmental problems are selfishness, greed and
apathy…and to deal with those we need a spiritual and
cultural transformation—and we scientists don’t know
how to do that.
- Gus Speth
On the first day of ENG 3100J, I did the expected first.
The students and I flipped through the syllabus
detailing the assigned readings, the required
textbook list, and the breakdown of the course’s
grading structure. I asked for questions and received blank
stares in return. Students, most of them juniors or seniors
in their undergraduate programs, introduced themselves
and their various intended majors: one plant biology, a
handful of business, more than a few engineering, a design-
your-own major, and a handful of social sciences majors
peppered with attached certificates. I also droned through a
conventional, obligatory introduction, listing my credentials,
my work in the field, and my goals for the semester insofar
as developing their composition skills were concerned. Then,
we left the realm of the conventional and springboarded into
my real objectives for the semester.
With half of the class time left, I told the students to
pack up their things, syllabuses and textbooks away, and to
meet me under the sycamore tree on the green. I delayed
packing my things, rummaging in my bag like I’d misplaced
my favorite highlighter. “Go on,” I said, “I’ll be right there.”
I wanted to see if the students could identify which tree was
the sycamore. There were only two among the towering
oaks and maples on the small college green, a grass
carpeted square criss-crossed with sidewalks and bordered
by buildings such as our English hall. Although almost every
student grew up in the midwest, most raised in this very
state, I bet that my group of young adults would have no
idea which tree was the sycamore. I was right.
When I emerged from the large brick building, I could
see the gaggle of students pointing at the canopy laced
above their heads, discussing, and looking around with
urgency. A few had attempted to Google the solution. I
walked up and smiled, directed them to the sycamore and
their first real lesson in ENG 3100J. “This is a sycamore,” I
said, touching the silvery flaking bark of my giant, reaching
friend. “I want you all to stand in a circle, around the trunk,
and just look at the tree and observe while I set a timer for
two minutes. Your only job is to observe the tree. Note in
your mind every detail you can about it. If your mind starts
to wander, bring it back to your eyes, to the tree, and notice
something else.”
The two minutes stretched painfully for the students. A
few looked uncertainly around them, behind them, before
catching themselves and looking back at the tree. One
student stepped back to observe the protruding roots.
Another student, his neck stretched to see the place where
the bark turns smooth and bone white, sighed audibly as his
shoulders relaxed.
At the end of the two minutes, I asked the students to
quietly discuss their detailed observations with the person
standing next to them. Then, I invited them to sit in a circle
next to the tree, backs to one another and bodies facing out
at the green. I invited them to close their eyes, and I led the
students through Joanna Macy’s (1998) “Opening through
Breath, Body, Sound, and Silence,” an exercise she designs
as an introduction to the work of processing environmental
despair to reawaken and connect to our deep love for the
planet (p. 83-85). “First, I’d like to invite you to feel down
through your body to where your legs meet the earth. Put
your hands in the grass if you like, feeling the connection
between your skin and the ground below. If a bug crawls
over you, or a fly lands on you, try to observe what it feels
like instead of instinctually swatting it away. Take a few deep
breaths; what does the air smell like? What does the air feel
like as the wind touches your skin? For a few moments, hold
your attention on the place where the air moves across your
body. Now, turn your ears outward, listening for the sounds
of nature above the human sounds. What can you hear?”
After five more minutes of listening, feeling, grounding, I
asked the students to check in with their breathing, the
beating of their own hearts. Had they noticed they feel more
calm? More relaxed and focused? With their eyes still closed,
I said to the students, “For centuries, for millennia, people
have told stories and written books and articles trying to
explain the connection humans have with the natural world:
the connection you are feeling right now. For some writers,
this connection with the Earth is love, biophilia. A love of the
Earth. In this class, we will read these writers and others,
and we will write about our own feelings of connection and
our own observations of the Earth. Welcome to 3100J,
Writing about Sustainability.”
Biophilia
“Most of us view nature (to borrow a phrase from
Thomas Berry) as a collection of objects rather than a
communion of subjects, as resources rather than relatives.
Sustainability will require that we re-envision the human-
nature relationship and develop a strong sense of
compassion with the nonhuman world” (Sampson, 2012, P.
24).
While environmentalism and eco- as a prefix attached
to other disciplines and forms of academic inquiry, such as
ecocriticism in the literary tradition, are certainly not new,
ecopsychology takes the radical, holistic position that views
nature and culture as one, without separation either physical
or philosophical. Ecopsychology, a multi-dimensional field of
study investigating the human-nature relationship,
effectively eliminates all bifurcations of the world into culture
and nature. Ecocriticism and ecofeminism preserve the
nature-culture dichotomy, seeking to investigate the
representation of nature in language, rhetoric, and artifacts
of culture, and “also how such representations reflect and
shape real-world environmental practices” (Bergthaller,
2015, p. 6). In these disciplines, “the starting point for the
ecocritic is that there really is an unprecedented global
environmental crisis, and that this crisis poses some of the
great political and cultural questions of our time” (Kerridge,
1998, p. 5). In these traditions, the unit of investigation is
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the cultural artifact: the representation of the relationship of
humans to nature and the consequent sense-making
humans do as a result of the arrangements of those
representations. Cohen (2004), in his essay “Blues in the
Green: Ecocriticism Under Critique” says “ecocriticism
focuses on literary (and artistic) expression of human
experience primarily in a naturally and consequently in a
culturally shaped world: the joys of abundance, sorrows of
deprivation, hopes for harmonious existence, and fears of
loss and disaster” (p. 10). While Cohen’s (2004) article also
confronted the challenge of the first wave of ecocritics to
adapt the school of critique to respond to the influences of
postmodern feminist critique, post-colonialism, and what
would become, later, post-human critiques of the canon of
“nature writing” and its activist orientations, the aims of
ecocritism stayed focused on “decomposing texts into their
constituent parts” as the process of understanding (p. 30).
Like so many activities sanctioned by the academy,
ecocriticism, environmentalism, and the “hard sciences” that
lead us to activism still glorify the logical mind and ignore
the subjective, feeling body as a place of knowing and
connection. This fragmentation and study of disconnected
artifacts we conceptualize as apart from ourselves falls short
of the radical starting point of ecopsychology. In
ecopsychology, the unit of study, critique, and investigation
is the self as an extension of the Earth. The self is nature
and culture is another manifestation of one Gaia, one natural
organism. Nature, then, is not a place separate from
industrialized society where one can escape to find
metaphoric teachings in the processes of nature’s cycles as
Thoreau sought at Walden. Nature is not Muir’s wildness to
save or a substitute for God. Nature is not a resource or a
gift or under our jurisdiction.
Ecopsychology rests on the Biophilia hypothesis. The
Biophilia hypothesis, developed by Harvard zoologist
E.O.Wilson (1984), posits that humans have the innate
predisposition to connect emotionally with nonhuman, living
organisms (Rozak, 1995; Sampson, 2012). More recently,
evolutionary biologist Scott Donald Sampson (2012) refined
the Biophilia hypothesis to theorize that natural selection
favored Homo sapiens who formed place-specific affective
bonds with local nonhuman environment (p. 27). Sampson
(2012) uses the term “topophilia” to describe the innate
affective bonds humans form with local place (p. 25).
Sampson (2012) describes the topophilia hypothesis:
“humans possess an innate bias to bond with local place,
including both living and nonliving components” and
“topophilia is an evolutionary adaptation that facilitated the
ability of humans to live in a diverse range of settings, each
characterized by its own unique suite of organisms,
landforms, and ecological relationships” (p. 25-27). To
Sampson, then, and other ecopsychologists, the love of the
Earth, the expansive feeling of bonding with living and non
living organisms is not a woo-woo feeling shared by tree-
hugging hippies and nature writers, but an evolutionary-
based characteristic buried deep in every man, woman, and
child on the planet.
Ecopsychologists across the discipline agree, our
current industrialized, capitalist society does not honor or
nurture our fundamental biophilia and topophilia (Sampson,
2012; Glendinning, 1995; Hillman, 1995; Metzner, 1995;
Macy, 1995; Brown & Macey 1998; Shepard, 1995; Louvre,
2008). Techno-addiction lures more and more children and
adults inside to the conditioned air of McMansions where
smart homes and smart appliances automatically order
groceries to be delivered by Amazon, separating humans
farther and farther away from natural spaces, the dirt from
which their food grows, and all of the psychological benefits
communion with nature offers (Louvre, 2008; hooks, 2008).
Ecopsychologists have warned for decades: the farther away
humans separate themselves from nature, the more we
neglect our topophilia, the more mentally and physically ill
we become (Barrows, 1995; Conn, 1995; Glendinning,
1995; Hillman, 1995; Metzner, 1995; Macy, 1995; Shepard,
1995; Louvre, 2008; Fisher, 2012). Our current
industrialized society has therefore created not only an
ecocrisis, but an “internal crisis of mind” (p. 24) because our
industrialized way of life cleaves topophilia from human’s
everyday existence. Further, as a result of failing to honor
or create a society which nurtures our fundamental Biophilia
and Topophilia, ecopsychologists argue that techno-
addiction and the globalization of the Western mind-body
split has created an epidemic of neuroses arising from our
failure to mature as holistic beings (Shepard, 1995;
Glendinning, 1995).
Capitalism, of course,
exacerbates the collective madness
we experience as globalization and
the need for consistent brand
recognition standardizes one city to
the next, one country to the next.
Capitalism, of course, exacerbates the collective
madness we experience as globalization and the need for
consistent brand recognition standardizes one city to the
next, one country to the next. If we have the refined
capacity for forming bonds with the specifics of a locality,
yet every place looks the same, then no “place” is home.
Captured in capitalism’s thrall to consume, we perceive our
natural resources as “other,” and as cosmic homesickness
sets in, our ability to attend to the details of local landscape
distort and dissolve into mental illnesses and ontological
crisis.
When A Tree Falls in The Forest, It’s The
Same As Losing an Arm
I deliberately set out to disrupt traditional pedagogical
approaches while teaching the junior composition course,
Writing about Sustainability. Traditional pedagogy demands
teachers keep quantifiable course outcomes in mind for all
assignments, however limited they may be. For this class, I
kept traditional course outcomes secondary to the real
outcome I held for my students: I wanted them to develop
“A Psyche the Size of the Earth,” an understanding that the
self cannot be extricated from the nonhuman world (Hillman,
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1995). Because Biophilia leads to the broadened identity of
the self to include “identification with all beings, even with
the biosphere as a whole,” I spent the first quarter of the
class using activities and readings to connect students to
their own sense of Biophilia (Conn, 1995, p. 163). To
cultivate an understanding and direct experience of
interconnectedness with nature, I assigned students weekly
nature journals. For this ongoing assignment, students
chose one place they could “observe...with love in [their]
heart[s]...look[ing] closely and steadily at nature, and
not[ing] the individual features of tree and rock and field”
(Burroughs, 2008, p. 150). They returned to this place at
least once weekly, at different times and in different
weather, to observe closely, document changes, and capture
their observations on paper in whatever writing or
multimodal expression seemed fitting. In class, we
examined the writing of great observers like Muir,
Burroughs, Austin, and Dillard.
I watched students struggle to capture in writing the felt
sense of awe and expansion they experienced while washing
their senses in the complex natural spaces near campus.
One student specifically agonized over the futility of her
writing skills to capture the pulse-quickening, joyful surprise
of observing a fox wander through her “place” while she sat
mindfully watching one day. The students’ biophilia
strengthened as they practiced observing and noticing the
ways in which the feelings in their own bodies responded as
the nonhuman landscape shifted around them. No longer
spatially isolated from the nonhumanized world (Metzner,
1995, p. 57), the students wrote about “interaction
patterns”: the core experiences humans have when
interacting with nature that catalyze deeply meaningful
feelings and produce fundamental shifts in perception
(Kahn, Ruckert, and Hasbach, 2017, p. 55). My radical
course outcome, not sanctioned by the university, in the first
quarter of my class was for all students to have an
experience of awe, joy, and wonder similar to the student
who saw the fox: an experience of “recognizing and being
recognized by a nonhuman other” in its own habitat, or the
experience of “being under the night sky” through
“interacting with the periodicity of nature,” experiences
which introduce and expand the idea of radical oneness
(Kahn, Ruckert, and Hasbach, 2017, p. 55). Without the
direct experience of interconnectedness, argue
ecopsychologists and evolutionary biologists alike, humans
devolve into comatose, fragmented shells either denying
their individual impact on other beings or descending into
madness.
During the middle of the course, I sought to accomplish
two objectives. First, we would work on being able to name
the flora and fauna in the places the students had chosen
for their journaling. Second, we would write about our
experiences with nonhuman nature past and present, and
try to imagine ourselves “in a kinship relationship”
(Sampson, 2012, p. 35) inside nature instead of separate
from or disconnected from it (p. 45). To accomplish these
objectives, I continued what I started on the first day of
class; we tore down the impedences of the classroom walls
and placed our class in “close physical contact with wild
things and wild places” (Albrecht, p. 250). I sought mentors
for my students across other disciplines in the university,
and those mentors took us on class field trips to the
greenhouse, the woods, to visit the non-native plants which
sculpt the the campus so we could begin to name, notice,
and appreciate the nonhuman “others” we walk with and live
beside every day. These mentors taught the students to
read nature as text and understand themselves as one small
element of that text.
With a firm beginning of biophilia and the work of
topophilia ignited, I invited the students to consider the
relationship of their development and identity to the land.
Before we turned the pen toward ourselves, we studied
Leslie Marmon Silko, Aldo Leopold’s serious Land Ethic, and
Edward Abbey’s hilarious misanthropy. We examined not
just the way in which the authors used the land as a
metaphor for life lessons or the writer’s representation of
relationship to the land, but the moments in the text where
the “I” or writer’s personal identity and the identity of the
Land became one and the same. We honored Camille T.
Dungy’s (2011) experiences in “Tales From a Black Girl on
Fire, or Why I Hate to Walk Outside and See Things
Burning,” which brought up conversations of deep time and
embodiment. We soaked in the disruptive position bell hooks
(2011) takes in “earthbound on solid ground.” hooks
reclaimed for us the spirit of “backwoods folks” and the
relationship of “black folks” to the earth; the earth whose
power and rights can never be taken away by a white master
(p. 184-187). hooks reminded us that, “when we are
forgetful and participate in the destruction and exploitation
of the dark earth, we collude with the domination of the
earth’s dark people, both here and globally” (p. 187), so the
class sought a new language of expression to name, identify,
and describe our bonds with the earth.
Using these texts as our guides, I asked the students to
write an ecobiography: an essay where students described
a moment from their life story where it was impossible for
them to see where “Nature ends and the Self begins: ego
and eco are inextricably intertwined” (Farr and Snyder,
1996, p. 203). The ecobiography is based on the dynamic
feminine: those features devalued and despised by
patriarchy, which encourage direct sensory experiences,
open attention to increasing complexity and beauty, and the
nonrational (Gomes and Kanner, 1995, p. 119). The
dynamic feminine stands as the antithesis of the current
narrative of domination and human-centric superiority. For
the ecobiography, students reflected on a time from their
lives where they were witness to ecological changes in the
environment or landscape, where they were humble
companions to the chaotic, wild, mysterious sensate
landscape (Short, 2019). The ecobiography used writing as
a means of developing what Anita Barrows (1995) calls the
“ecological self” (p. 107): the self that embraces nature as
a teacher, mentor, and friend, encouraging the loosening of
the boundaries of “self” and the feeling of “me” to include
the whole wide world (Barrows, 1995, p. 110).
The students uncovered deep layers of pain and
emotion with these ecobiographies. One student, studying
engineering, wrote delicately about the untamed wildflower
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field at the edge of his stucco, suburban neighborhood. The
field, edged with a thin line of trees, stretched to a small
creek, where he spent many boyhood days creating
imaginary worlds with the rocks and the plants he would
collect. This land became a haven for him, sheltering and
holding his grief when his parents were processing a painful
divorce. He knew this land as a trusted friend and confidant,
and wrote about the complete sense of devastation he felt
when he came home from school one day to find bulldozers
savaging the place he loved. What’s more, the boy had no
way of understanding the pain he felt at the sight of the
bulldozers “developing the land.” His father told him it would
increase the value of their house to extend the neighborhood
by building even bigger houses at the end of the street. The
boy buried his pain so deep that he went to work for a
construction company as his summer job in college where
all day long, he watched bulldozers and backhoes clumsily
tear through the earth. Through his ecobiography he
expressed distress and conflict about his career path, a
wondering about the ways in which his field could work to
reconcile the needs of humans with the sovereignty of the
nonhuman. Through acknowledging his ecological self and
integrating it as an innate, central part of his identity and
past, his relationship to his work, to human narratives of
land as resource, have changed.
Ecopsychology as Radical Approach
In the evaluations at the end of the course, an
overwhelming theme emerged. One student said that prior
to the course she was nervous about taking the course
because she expected the readings for the course would all
be specifically aimed to create fear through dire statistics
about climate change, overpopulation, and waste. She said
that she already suffered from depression and knew she
couldn’t handle the internal pain she would experience
through reading an onslaught of texts showing the earth
suffering, the earth hurting from the actions of humans.
These texts take the rhetorical approach of using the ethos
of fear and panic and the logos of overwhelming numbers as
a motivator toward actions. Similar to the approaches of
traditional environmental pedagogy, many contemporary
environmental writers and environmental activists also
unintentionally create despair and apathy through shock and
awe campaigns of fear or blame; images and statistics
meant to communicate urgency and the need to act or
donate immediately to solve the eco crisis actually create
Ecoanxiety, “nonspecific worry about our relationship to
support environments in the 21st century” (Albrecht, 2014,
p. 257) and lead to ecoparalysis, “the inability to
meaningfully respond to the climatic and ecological
challenges that face us” (Albrecht, 2014, p. 257).
The majority of students in the class echoed this young
woman’s sentiment; these students are aware of the
environmental disasters facing our time, but are forced into
apathy or numbness because they have no tools to process
or framework to understand the very personal sense of loss
welling inside them. In class, when we needed coping
mechanisms to deal with our sense of loss in the face of total
ecological destruction, we sought solace through writers
such as Joanna Macy to process our somaterratic illness
(Sampson, 2012, p. 36).
The latin root of education means “to lead out.” In order
to create curriculum and learning spaces that serve to draw
out students’ Biophilia and Topophilia, we must be radical in
our approach to imagining what school should look like.
Ecopsychology is a radical discipline which encourages us to
imagine and “commit ourselves...to a different society
altogether” (Fisher, 2012, p. 80) by examining the roots of
the problem to find the cause and ripping them out
altogether. To make superficial changes to education by
merely encouraging more isolated, clinical study of nature
will not be enough to combat ecoparalysis and insidious
myopic logic; we must completely remove the impedences
of the physical classroom space and shift the concept of child
development to not just include development of the intellect
or the human centered social-emotional development. We
must begin with and center educational philosophy and
practice on ecosocialization and the students’ somaterric and
pschoterratic well being (p. 241-259). Ecopedagogy, with
development of the ecological self at the center, would teach
all students what Native American Shamanism seeks to
impart: Health in all aspects “equals balanced relationships
with all living things” (Gray, 1995, p. 173). Under this
Ecopedagogy, the fragmented pieces of society are put back
together again, and the control of technology is relegated to
its proper place as an addendum to human life instead of its
current disordered place as the centerpiece of all life.
Instead, with this Ecopedagogy, love for life and its
component parts serves as the center of learning and
growing.
Ecopedagogy would “draw out”
the ancient wisdom of place, using
indigenous practices to remid
humans that just as the infant is
born into a social context, it is born
and grows in an ecological context
to which it is dependent.
To facilitate these new values and stages in marking the
development of the ecological self, we would turn to
indigenous ways of knowing. As part of our deep time
recollections of the histories of local places, we would invite
those indigenous and first nations people to teach us the
practices lost to European imperialism. Ecopedagogy would
“draw out” the ancient wisdom of place, using indigenous
practices to remid humans that just as the infant is born into
a social context, it is born and grows in an ecological context
to which it is dependent. Anita Barrows (1995) describes a
Hopi ritual where the mother presents the child, after a
period of time, to the earth saying to the east and the rising
sun, “This is your child” (p. 102). This ritual situates the new
human’s place beyond the human community into the Earth
community. Ecopedagogy would ask indigenous peoples to
guide in developing curriculum that follows practices such as
the naming of totem animals for young children, where any
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harm or benefit to the totem animal is perceived as harm or
benefit to the self. For adolescents, rituals of solo wilderness
treks as rites of passage, would allow students to
demonstrate their individual ability to live within and to
understand nature. Further, adolescents and university
students would be encouraged to develop more than just the
executive functioning of abstract thought; through practices
such as indigenous shamanism, students would learn to
value and access non linear, non rational ways to problem
solve (Gray, 1995, p. 174).
Ecopedagogy puts the relationship of humans to the
earth at the center of learning, instead of the current
practice of humans’ relationship to technology (STEM) or
humans’ relationship to other humans (Liberal Arts) at the
center. When we remove the impedences of walls and
developmental learning standards, and bring learning back
into the wild, with a new ecologically based vision for
education, we radically alter our understanding of our place
in the universe, of our own identity, and of our responsibility
to the rest of the extra-human world.
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