Whenever I come across a cairn in a woodland just down the road from our home, I feel a tingle, perhaps even a slight nudge in my heart. Ah, an old friend… Invariably drawn to it, I often pause, approach it, and at times, peer more closely. Careful not to knock over any stones, I never touch it. After all, precarious by nature, many cairns are about defying gravity. By pushing the limit they are asking us to be aware of their impermanence. And impermanent they are. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Lately, I’ve been bringing along my camera and pausing longer to take photographs. I want to record their presence in this little nook of the Berkshires that abounds more and more with “No Trespassing” signs, making the cairns all that more special, almost illicit.
Sadly, just when the idea arose to create such a series, I discovered some of my favorite ones knocked over, destroyed. While I’ve always been intrigued by who was behind building these, I can’t help but wonder now who is behind destroying them one by one.
While some people consider a cairn a pile of stones, for me, even the most basic and simple one — such as one in my garden, is far more — particularly when it’s graceful, elegant and whimsical. Yes, this is a form of Earth Art for which Andy Goldsworthy is known.
Most of all I love how cairns possess a borderline quality – not just by defying gravity or remaining anonymous but in straddling randomness in nature with creativity. Each cairn makes for a small gift. An offering. It also serves to remind us that we’re in a natural sanctuary.
While out on a stroll or kayaking on a river or a lake where I’ve also seen some pop up, they continue to catch my eye and whisper “someone’s been at work here.”
Over the years, as I’d be walking along paths or old logging trails bordered by maple, ash and sumac with outbursts of mountain laurel in the spring, I’d sometimes snoop about for similar stones at the base of a cairn. Rambling stone walls easily tell us that farmers once tirelessly cleared here. But near the cairns I could never figure out where the small slate gray, golden beige and white striated rocks came from. For sure I’ve never seen someone jog by with ear buds attached to an iPhone concealing a few in one hand. Perhaps a team of gnomes or fairies had been busy at work on a full moon night?
A mystery. Without pondering it further, or expecting any answers, I’d remind myself to appreciate how this small structure simply is. Fitting perfectly in the very spot it occupies, it looks like it’s always been there. When perched on a boulder dating from the last glacial age it bears a timeless, often ancient quality.
And indeed creating cairns is an ancient practice.
The word used by us for these stone works comes from the Scottish Gaelic term, cairn. And while the term may be of Gaelic origin, cairns are universal and as ancient as cave petroglyphs. Coming in all shapes, forms and sizes, their geographic range extends from the Arctic north to Southern Patagonia and Australia.
While they can serve a utilitarian purpose such as marking a trail, signaling a mountain summit or acting as another landmark, they also hold magical and religious functions and abound in symbolism. They are landmarks in more ways than one. For example, in the mythology of ancient Greece, cairns were associated with Hermes, the god of overland travel.
The Inuits of the Northwest call them inuksuit which, as a Canadian friend wrote me, “symbolize spiritual health and fulfillment.” Often found in burial grounds, they are used for ceremonial purposes.
While some Native Americans in the Southwest assemble cairns in the shape of turtles and other animals, the Quechua peoples of the Andes create them in honor of the Inca goddess Pachamama, the powerful earth mother.
In researching the subject and even receiving a friendly Facebook comment on my photographs stating how cairns might be spoiling the pristine quality of nature, I discovered they can be the subject of controversy.
Thus, with the proliferation of what some call “recreational cairns” in the American Southwest, a small conflict has arisen between function and art. Issues might involve how they provide navigational trail markers, allow for creative expression all with protecting the remaining natural condition of the landscape. Viewed as misleading markers and even eyesores (for the beholder) lead certain park rangers and land managers to routinely disassemble them.
I doubt any park rangers have been roaming these Berkshire woods. By recently discovering some dismantled my motivation to return and “catalog” them has simply been reinforced. And since I’m not a savvy builder, I’m hoping their creator doesn’t give up and they all disappear.
Of course, since they stubbornly and perhaps, randomly seem to pop up in our environment, this probably won’t happen. Instead, upon stumbling over what I’d now call a “pile of stones,” I need to be reminded of wabi sabi, a Japanese Zen worldview. Nothing is permanent. Nothing is perfect.
