My Position Viewed Through Spirituality
“Rationally, gardening may have seemed like just a chore, but spiritually, it symbolized my loving bond with the earth and with my family.”
In the previous section, I described how I see myself as part of a whole and in relation to other animals, primarily from a rational perspective. While this offers insight into how I perceive my interaction with the world, it lacks an important dimension for me: the spiritual component. Spirituality, for me, is not a rational concept but an experience – something I feel and live without relying on theoretical frameworks from my academic or professional development. This spiritual dimension complements my rational perspective and deepens my awareness of interconnectedness with everything around me. The fact that some aspects of this cannot be explained within a Western empirical framework doesn’t mean it isn’t part of my truth and sense of meaning.
I grew up in a small village in the Netherlands, surrounded by beautiful natural landscapes. My father, a biologist, has worked year-round on his vegetable garden for as long as I can remember. When I lived at home, a significant portion of the food on our plates came from our own land. "Guess what’s from our garden today?" he would ask proudly. There was always a moment of appreciation for the fact that it all started with a seed, which, through my father’s care and love, grew into a delicious end product. During the summers, I helped out, mostly by weeding and picking green beans. While I often found it boring, I enjoyed the feel of the soil between my fingers, the butterflies in the garden, the sun on my face, and the quality time with my father. Rationally, gardening may have seemed like just a chore, but spiritually, it symbolized my loving bond with the earth and with my family.
The environment I grew up in was stunning: a river, a variety of bird species, wild horses and cows, and an abundance of rabbits and hares. My father and I would bike to school twice a week, and during these rides, we would diligently move frogs and snails off the road, while he pointed out different animal species that I would then loudly imitate. I built forts, climbed trees, curated a ‘museum’ for all the bones and stones I found, and started a club with a friend to rescue animals in need. When it rains, my parents still tease me sometimes, asking if I shouldn’t rush outside; as a child, I would burst with energy whenever it poured down. I’d hurry outdoors and perform my own made-up rain dance. I am still grateful for growing up in the open air. My parents once considered moving to the city, but they stayed because I couldn’t bear to leave the forests, meadows, and river behind.
As a young girl, I read Hasse Simonsdochter by Thea Beckman. The story is about Hasse, who, with her jet-black hair and eyes, is considered an “elf child.” She is misunderstood, mistreated, and bullied. One day, she ventures into the forest and learns to fend for herself, using a self-made bow and arrow. Hasse thrives and enjoys her time among the trees and fields. This book has stayed with me because I always felt like a kind of Hasse. In the predominantly blond village where I grew up, my brother and I were often bullied for our darker appearance. At school, I wasn’t fully understood by my classmates and was frequently excluded. Yet, for some reason, it never deeply affected me. I didn’t particularly enjoy it, but I found my happiness elsewhere – in playing in the mud and dancing in the rain.
During my teenage years, I spent summers around campfires by the river with friends. When I experienced my first heartbreak, I discovered that walking outside brought me peace. Everything fell into place when I heard the sound of water and smelled the grass.
When I moved to Amsterdam at nineteen, my connection to nature and animals became more distant. For a few years, I enjoyed city life without giving it much thought, but in my mid-twenties, I found myself visiting my parents more often. I would wake up before sunrise and head into the fields with binoculars. Gradually, I realized how profoundly connected I feel to non-human animals, plants, and the elements. Two years ago, during another heartbreak, long walks in nature helped me reflect and heal. I felt supported while sitting alone by the river, understood when running my fingers through tall grass, and small beneath the trees in the reserve. I realized how much strength I could draw from my surroundings, and I fully embraced it.
As my heart healed, nature transitioned from being a comforting friend to a loving family member. Now, I walk not only when I’m sad but also when I’m happy. I feel such unconditional love that I sometimes get goosebumps or even become emotional when walking through beautiful landscapes. This past summer, while snorkeling in Sardinia, I encountered an octopus. I gently placed her on my thigh, and together we swam through the blue sea for a while. That same summer, I watched as the tiny suction cups of a red starfish clung to my hands. Moments like these bring me to tears, a mix of overwhelming emotions flooding through me. When I feel lonely in the city and long for the countryside, I try to imagine the city built around the trees. Suddenly, the trees take center stage as powerful beings, rendering the buildings insignificant. It may sound odd, but in those moments, I no longer feel alone.
I wish everyone could feel this, with the emphasis on ‘feel’. That’s what spirituality means to me: even if it can’t be explained through empirical concepts, the fact that I can feel it makes me happy. It gives me a sense of harmony and love for everything on this earth.