Written by David Schuurman
In Daylighting Chedoke, John Terpstra traces the Chedoke Creek in Hamilton, Ont. Chedoke Creek is an important part of Hamilton’s watershed that flows into Lake Ontario. During the city’s major suburban expansion southward in the 1960s, much of the creek was fed through pipes and buried underground.
Terpstra became fascinated with doing everything he could to catch a glimpse of this underground creek so he could connect with it and learn about it. He reflects on how the world is so much more than what we plainly see before us. Collectively we have chosen new landscapes and forgotten what was before. As he put it, we now find ourselves left with a “highly engineered environment made mostly of concrete.”
Terpstra quotes Indigenous writer Thomas King who says, “The truth about stories is that that’s all we are.” The physical landscape of the Earth—its divots, curves, cracks, hills, valleys, and watersheds—all tell a geological and geographical story about where we are. And where we are is deeply connected to who we are.
Terpstra also quotes British poet William Blake who says “everything that lives is holy.” Humans are not the only thing full of life—so are creeks, green spaces and soil. And that life is sacred and special.
Maybe when we look down a sewer grate and catch a glimpse of daylight on a creek that has been buried, we are catching a glimpse of the story that makes us who we are. Maybe when we crack through unused pavement, we will see daylight shine down on dormant soil that is ready for life to once again take root. What if some of what we’ve unnecessarily paved over in our “highly engineered environment made mostly of concrete” is actually holding truth that we desperately need?
I’m not saying that we should worship nature, but rather that there is something deeply true about the Earth. Our human-constructed landscapes provide us with luxuries attached to lifestyles we’re accustomed to (such as modern transportation methods, food systems, digital technology). These constructed landscapes are influenced by city planning ideologies, government agendas, budgets, real estate corporations, and perceived constituent needs.
In contrast, something profound occurs when we get to witness untouched, pristine, unmanipulated Earth. A creek babbling through a wetland. A forest of natural trees. Ecosystems that run their uninterrupted course akin to how it was in the beginning.
A few years ago I learned about depaving. Depaving refers to removing unnecessary, impermeable ground surfaces (such as abandoned parking lots) in order to replace them with permeable ground such as soil and green space.
Depaving is a form of restoration. It is intentionally putting to death something that is old and void of life in order to replace it with something new and full of fresh life. As I’ve observed depaving projects in action around me in Hamilton I’ve realized that there are even more parallels between depaving and restoration than I initially thought.
Depaving is not only restorative because it’s replacing something lifeless with something new and living, it’s also restorative because it strips away unused infrastructure influenced by limited human ideologies and agendas and reveals glimpses of God’s truth.
Let me take the depaving metaphor a step further. How much of my spirit has been metaphorically paved over and built on top of with our modern world’s unprecedented access to ideas and information? How have cultural and behavioural expectations, perceived enlightenment, convenience, and my inability to be satisfied with enough paved over the Truth within me?
I wonder if collectively we have chosen our new inner landscapes as we’ve built on top what was before. We’ve buried creeks, have we also buried our childlike wonder? We’ve flattened hills, have we also flattened ourselves under the weight of information, convenience, and the constant pursuit of more?
This is not a loud call to deconstruct what has been constructed in our spirits. We still need frameworks and constructed ideologies to provide us with understanding and guidance. But we can also peek under what has been unnecessarily paved in our inner environments. Maybe when we start to crack through that unused pavement inside it will feel like the light of Christ shining down on dormant parts of our spirits.
Maybe when we start to crack through that unused pavement inside it will feel like the light of Christ shining down on dormant parts of our spirits.
Atlantic salmon are a good illustration of this. They hatch from eggs into freshwater streams and rivers, and soon they head thousands of kilometers downstream to saltwater where they mature and grow to adult size. Eventually they sense it’s time to head back upstream into freshwater to spawn.
Many salmon go back to their freshwater streams of origin. Scientists believe salmon use Earth’s magnetic field to navigate back upstream. Salmon use their internal compass, this map hardwired into them, to go back to where they were created.
Similarly, the act of depaving ourselves is a form of trusting the inner map given to us by the Holy Spirit. Of course, we need outside help and guidance from the corners of the Church we belong to, but we also have to realize God’s truth can also always be found underneath all that has been built up within and around us.
Somewhere inside our foggy selves we each have an internal compass showing us back to our Creator. Paying attention to places and spaces that are unmanipulated and true is one great way to access what is true in us. There we can encounter the Spirit communing in hope with a wild God.
David Schuurman is a community organizer and outdoor enthusiast from Hamilton, Ont. He spent many years building and leading the Act Five gap year program, helps run 541 Eatery and Exchange, and teaches at Hamilton District Christian High School.
