(Abridged)

To me, the sustainable lifestyle was about restraint, self-control, and discipline. I kept questioning why my desire to be in tune with the Nature is restrictive and constraining. If Manuel Arias-Maldonado argues that sustainability means to be freed from Nature, my ties, with which my relationship with Nature has been constrained, must be cut off (2013). Furthermore, tools to cut those ties were found in my reflections on literature class in high school, where I was taught imagination and deep discovery of the meaning of the unmaterial world. ‘The Seasons’ by Kristijonas Donelaitis is the most prominent Lithuanian poem taught in schools. It offers answers on how humans should embrace true change in their environmental journey. Every Lithuanian student is familiar with this poem written back in the XVIIIth century. Nevertheless, I never looked at it as something that could untangle my complex relationship with Nature. Only after I started studying Climate Politics module and was encouraged to explore Climate Action through the prism of creativity and freedom, I rediscovered ‘The Seasons’. Donelaitis’s extraordinary use of old yet simple words, illustrates the life of villagers in Lithuania. Nevertheless, I used to overlook the indirect yet rich legacy towards ecological empathy that Donelaitis offers.

“Now the sun rose again to rouse the world

And laughed to topple down chill winter’s labors.

And cold’s creations, with the ice, diminished

As foam of snow changed everywhere to nothing.

Soon the bland weather stroked and woke the fields,

Called up herbs of all species from the dead.’

Donelaitis opens his poem “The Seasons” by unravelling the parallel between Nature and humankind. He “humanises” Nature by endowing it with human qualities. Even though such an approach might seem anthropocentric, in this context, the humanisation of Nature is positive, as it does not ‘erase’ Nature but allows me to explore the linkage with the natural environment (Eden, 2001, p.83). It reveals the closeness humans and nature share and emphasises their interconnectedness. Donelaitis’ precise and vivid illustrations of the environment invite me to not only listen to what the author himself wants to say, but also to what Nature speaks to me. Donelaitis empowers the voice of Nature, which evokes not only the land and herbs but also my inner reflections on my place within this interconnected network of the natural world.

Suppose something fundamentally deeper and unable to get a grasp of, such as the mythical connection and commonality, necessitates escape from rational constraints and allows to build up new outlook (ibid., p.103). In that case, it is the standpoint from which Donelaitis’s poem is reborn as this moral liberation. His poem speaks about the acknowledgement of our, as individuals, role within the networks of Nature that plays the primordial part in leading tuneful and consistently sustainable lifestyle. It speaks about synergy with the Nature. Thus, there is something more behind the lines of Donelaitis poem in which the awakening spring calls up all the species. The sun rose to rouse the world, he says. With such a simple sentence, Donelaitis opens up a fundamental element that made me realise the problematic relationship between me and the ‘sustainable lifestyle’. And that element is harmony.

‘And rats with skunks walked out of their cold crannies 

As crows, ravens and magpies, with the owls, 

Mice and their offspring and the moles, praised warmth. 

Beetles, mosquitos, flies, a bounce of fleas 

Formed their batallions everywhere to plague us 

And sting both peasant and his genteel Sir.’

Donelaitis includes the smallest and seemingly insignificant creatures, such as rats, skunks, crows, and flies, demonstrating his deep appreciation of diversity. The use of personification in describing the animals and insects, such as “praised warmth,” indicates he saw creatures as having agency and a voice in the natural world. Additionally, the final lines of the passage suggest that Donelaitis recognised the potential for conflict and a struggle between humans and the natural world, with the insects and animals “plagu[ing]” and “sting[ing]” both peasants and their noble counterparts. Yet, the conflict Donelaitis writes about is not about ‘either you or me’ but rather the struggle of life and effort to coexist in complex natural relationships (Naess, 1973, p.96).

While reading Donelaitis, I realised that my concern for environmental protection was ego-centric and ignored the voice of Nature. I used to organise clean-up days and visit forests to “clean up the environment,” yet my urge to take well-intentioned actions stemmed from moral isolation, thus ignored real, lasting change (Ashley, 2022). Whilst less litter in the forest is an appreciated outcome, the instrumentality of my actions ignored questions on whether natural systems can thrive under continuing uncertainty for the Natural world within a wider context. An essential ingredient to my already existing understanding that I somehow must help the environment lacked compassion and equal concern for not only humanity but the overall environment (Fox, 2001, p.57). Donelaitis’ portrayal of the natural world as a complex web of relationships, where every creature has agency and a voice, has inspired me to approach environmental protection with a new perspective. Rather than imposing my will on the natural world, I will strive to listen to its voice and work with it to create a harmonious existence for all beings.

Reflecting on my journey with a sustainable lifestyle and environmental ethics, I realise that my ‘environmentally friendly’ actions reached me earlier than environmentally friendly thinking. Donelaitis wrote that a man’s life is a cyclical struggle dictated by the changing seasons.As Freya Mathews finds herself, one discovers wisdom not through strategic trial and error of science but through our own agency of ‘experimentation’ and discovery of creativity, which fits everything in Nature (2009, p.350). The scholar calls this ‘piercing it together’ approach con-frontational, stemming from science, counterarguing distance from rationality and subversion to mythical connections (ibid., p.251). Nevertheless, her point is that there is a need to embrace the dynamic nature of environmentalism and approach it with an open mind and a willingness to experiment and learn.

Donelaitis’s writing invites us to slow down and appreciate the natural world, reflect on the importance of mindfulness and being present in Nature, and cultivate a deeper connection with the environment and the world around us. And whilst Val Plumwood, in the face of environmental crisis, invites readers to create a new “we” and find new ways to live (cited in Gibson-Graham, 2011, p.2) I find myself looking back to how Lithuanians lived before and trying to adopt their approach instead of inventing something new. [Donelaitis’] poem demonstrated that true environmentalism, as many of us strive for, is not an unimaginable goal but something that was lost and can be restored on this Earth. And even though ways of how to restore it remain unknown to me, I will keep exploring and experimenting.

‘We need time, so let us wait the time in patience.

Till the fields bring yield, let us not tire of waiting.

You, dear God!

You, our heavenly benefactor!

You, in millennia before we could reflect,

Knew already how we should be brought to Light,

Knew our needs when we should come to meet that day …’

Josephine Tan-Sikorski

Jojo gives us a fascinating insight into ‘sonic rupture’, illustrated through a moment in a garden (abridged)

Escaping the anthrophony – exploring sonic rupture and connectivity

“Chirrup, chirrup, caroo, caroo” sing the chiffchaffs nestled among the blossoming hawthorn trees. Their call signals that dawn has come. A few yards away, they are joined in symphony by the willow warblers who sit perched atop several silver birch branches. Across from them and overhead a plot of daffodils which light up the sides of the garden are the coal tits. They flitter across a couple of nearby young oaks, taking short yet wistful breaks on each branch as they call out to those around them. Further down the winding garden, some red-bellied robins hide above a shallow, quaint stream. As the sun continues to rise, the garden of Bines farmhouse becomes encompassed by the sweeping birdsong of its many feathered visitors. Each species of bird calls out to one another sending distinct messages in their own unique voice. The multifariousness of each chirp and tweet begins to overlap and weave into innumerable harmonious melodies stretching across the busy plot of land. The stream murmurs and babbles as it feeds into a nearby river, adding further complexity to the musical score of the garden as the water gently trickles across scuffed rocks.

As the morning progresses, thick clouds paint the sky grey, and a gentle rainfall starts to fall. The gentle patter evolves into an erratic drumming. Rain droplets splash off the farmhouse’s faded red bricks before trickling down the drain, whilst other droplets bounce into quick-forming puddles. The natural soundscape is continuously variable and full of life. Different bird species congregate on the great sycamore tree, sitting at the heart of the garden. Its long, spindly branches reach out towards every corner and side of the garden. Some birds begin to feed as others use the canopy of leaves and thick branches to shelter from the downpour. The owners of Bines Farmhouse haven’t visited the garden in a few weeks, but these frequent downpours have kept the garden’s ecosystem content.

Slowly poking out from a patch of overgrown damp grass on one side of the garden, a seemingly timid shrew emerges. Letting out a series of sharp squeaks, often undetectable to human ears, the shrew’s high pitch call cuts across the air. It carefully waits and listens, using the sonic reverberations as a tool for echolocation. Having properly stabilised itself above ground, the shrew’s movement drastically changes in tempo as it begins to dart across the width of the garden, making its way towards the neatly sectioned off vegetable plot that the owners of Bines Farmhouse would usually tend to each afternoon. The now wet ground has provided enticing conditions for further walks of life as a crowd of slugs slowly make their way towards the plot. The shrew’s long whiskers find their way to the unsuspecting slugs as it begins its afternoon feast.

Suddenly, the garden’s melodies are joined by a faint rumbling in the distance. The rumbling begins to crescendo, turning into a disjointed and vociferous crunching. A shiny orange excavator followed by a dust-coated truck pull themselves up along the steep cobblestone drive and around to the front of the farmhouse. The engines grind to a halt and the vehicle doors swing open. The drivers brashly converse with each other for a few moments before getting back into their vehicles and driving towards the entrance of the garden. As the wheels press forwards onto the soft green grass, the garden animals freeze. The reverberations that the shrew is now feeling have drastically changed from earlier. This alien noise translates into alarming pulsations and signals danger as the shrew darts into a crevice of the sycamore tree, doing its best to burrow into the ground. The birds fly frantically away from the sycamore and surrounding trees as the vehicles move closer. Their calls have changed, turning from playful chirps into urgent squawks. The drivers do not notice as they nonchalantly clamber out of their vehicles. The whirring of the engines alone is enough to silence the melodic and diverse sounds of the garden. The drivers begin to survey the area before one climbs back into the excavator and proceeds to dig up the earth. The sharp metal claws pierce the spongy ground as the work begins. Disoriented, some birds linger on the garden walls. Their calls are now muffled and begin to still.

The other driver trots over to some of the thinner trees near the excavation site and revs up his chainsaw. As the blade gnaws away at the wood, splinters of history are scattered across the lawn. The air is filled with loud and turbulent cracking and crunching sounds before the trees fall to the ground with a loud thump. Time drags on as the metal machines continue to bellow and growl. As the sun begins to set, the engine noise abruptly stops. A brief silence washes over the half dug up garden. The drivers march over to the great sycamore tree and contemplate what to do with it.

The shrew, now burrowed underneath the ground, trembles with fear as each step above ground shakes the earth around it. Hesitantly, the drivers decide to spare the tree as they jump into their vehicles and head home for the day. An unsettling silence washes across the garden. The garden has now taken on a stagnant presence when hours earlier it was rife with character. What had once been a carefully cultivated garden, was now an uprooted plot of land. The previous vibrant colours which were once sporadically dotted around had been raked away by metallic claws. The sun is beginning to set and what would usually be a choir of birdsong is a disjointed series of soft and broken chirps. The carefully composed musical score of the garden which had been cultivated over several years has been stripped from the garden in a matter of hours. What is left is a strange stillness, unfamiliar and isolating to the garden’s remaining inhabitants.

A brief reflection on sound

To conceptualise the dynamics of sound between humans and non-humans we can look at the anthrophony, used by Pijanowski et al. (2011, 204) to describe human generated sound. This differs from the geophony, which refers to planetary sound and biophony, which describes the collective sound made by non-human organisms within a certain biome. Whilst urban city-dwellers are not the sole contributors to the anthrophony, noise tends to be much more prevalent in the city than in other areas (Pijanowski et al., 2011). Moreover, the anthrophony can be broadly split into positive anthrophony and negative anthrophony with the former encompassing sounds like music and communication and the latter encompassing sounds which have been described as ‘uncorrelated acoustic debris’ (Krause, 2012, 160; Calvino, 2022).

The consequences of the negative anthrophony extend immensely beyond adversity for humans and are illustrated more widely in the environment with noise acting as a powerful tool in silencing non-human species. This is especially problematic because whilst humans live in an ever-focused visual culture, many non-human species are dependent on sound (Robinsong, 2022). Even subtle changes, such as the increase in ambient noise in the Arctic, have created debilitating conditions for aquatic creatures when carrying out their daily navigation (Han et al., 2021). Moreover, whilst some species such as birds have learned to adapt and modify their songs to frequencies that are able to cut through the city noise, this has not come without the cost of driving huge numbers of bird species to extinction (Wood et al., 2006, Harvey, 2019).

Looking further into power dynamics, Haskell (2022, 258) terms the phrase maestro species which arises ‘from the Latin magister, he who is greater’ to expand on the hierarchical relationship between humans and non-humans, or perhaps what can be referred to as a sonic hierarchy. This concept of the maestro species is seemingly grounded in anthropocentric ideology which stringently separates humans from non-humans (Eckersley, 1992, 38). It seems bizarre to me that this sonic hierarchy should exist when it is so clear that the effects of the negative anthrophony pervade the lives of all species. Thinking [differently] means considering the sonic futures of all species, whether that is partaking in decision-making at higher levels and imposing noise restrictions, or in aspects of day-to-day life. For instance, in Ebenreck’s (1983, 42) farmland ethic, she asserts the importance of ‘learning to “listen to the land”’ which could mean spending time in an area of nature and looking closely at the terrain and over time gaining an understanding of what the land needs and how it changes as we interact with it. As Staddon et al. (2023, 350) eloquently explain, ‘listening attentively may help us better understand the ways in which our lives are entangled through interactions and mutual impacts, and how we can live in the world together’.

Skye Shortridge

Skye talks about our relationship with nature, the question of agency, and the work of Bruno Latour.