We emerged out of nature, and when we die, we return to nature.

In the words of David Suzuki, “We emerged out of nature, and when we die, we return to nature. We need to know there are forces impinging on us that we will never understand or control. We need to have sacred places where we go with respect, not just looking for resources or opportunity,” there echoes the timeless wisdom of both philosopher and elder — a reminder that humanity is not master of the Earth but a child of it. His words are not merely about ecology; they are about humility, about remembering our true origin and destiny. We are not visitors upon this planet, nor conquerors — we are part of its breath, its soil, its eternal rhythm. To forget this, Suzuki warns, is to lose not only the world around us but the soul within us.

The origin of this quote lies in Suzuki’s lifelong devotion to environmental stewardship and reverence for the interconnectedness of all living things. As a biologist and a spiritual thinker, he stands at the crossroads of science and wisdom — a voice who has seen the wonders of progress but also its cost. His reflection arises from the recognition that modern humanity, in its pursuit of control, has become alienated from the sacredness of nature. Where once the forest was a temple and the river a teacher, they are now seen as mere resources — things to be extracted, measured, and sold. In reminding us that we “emerged out of nature,” Suzuki returns us to the ancient truth that life is a circle, not a ladder, and that every act of taking must be balanced with reverence and return.

The ancients knew this well. In the traditions of the First Nations, from whose wisdom Suzuki often draws inspiration, there is a teaching that every mountain, river, and tree possesses a spirit — a presence that must be acknowledged and honored. To hunt or to harvest was not to exploit, but to enter into a sacred exchange. Similarly, in the philosophies of the East, from Taoism to Buddhism, nature was never a thing apart from humanity; it was the mirror of the soul. The wind, the rain, the flame — these were seen as manifestations of the divine order, forces to be lived with, not ruled over. Suzuki’s message is a modern echo of this ancient harmony: that progress without reverence leads only to ruin.

Consider the story of Easter Island, where a once-flourishing civilization fell into collapse after cutting down its last tree. In their desire to build monuments of pride, they forgot the living temple that sustained them — the forest that gave them breath, shelter, and soil. Their statues still stand, silent witnesses to the folly of forgetting that we are made of the very dust we destroy. Suzuki’s words call us away from that same path. He asks that we remember the mystery of the forces we cannot master — the ocean’s depth, the storm’s power, the whisper of wind that no empire can command. These are not enemies to be subdued, but teachers to be respected.

To have sacred places is not a primitive notion, as some might think. It is the foundation of wisdom. A sacred place is a threshold — a point where the human heart bows before the infinite, where ambition is silenced and gratitude takes its place. When Suzuki speaks of such places, he is not only referring to the wilderness but also to the sacredness within the human soul — the need for awe, for silence, for communion. In a world driven by profit and possession, he calls us back to the discipline of reverence, to the art of standing still and remembering that not everything must be used, owned, or explained.

There is deep humility in the acknowledgment that “there are forces impinging on us that we will never understand or control.” The modern mind, armed with technology and data, often mistakes knowledge for power. Yet the ocean still swallows ships, the earth still trembles, and time still erodes all monuments. Suzuki’s insight is not one of despair, but of balance: that wisdom begins where arrogance ends. To live well is to know one’s limits, to act not as conqueror but as caretaker. The wise man, said the ancients, builds in harmony with the wind and water, not in defiance of them.

And so, the lesson is this: remember your place in the great web of life. Reverence is richer than conquest. Go to the forest not only to harvest its wood, but to listen to its song. Treat the earth not as property, but as kin. Let your progress be tempered by wonder, your science guided by compassion. Create spaces — in land and in heart — where the sacred may still breathe. For one day, as Suzuki reminds us, we shall all return to the dust from which we came. Let us then live as stewards, not strangers, and pass to the next generation not a wounded world, but a living one — full of mystery, beauty, and sacred life.