“The fourth mode of symbolic immortality is that associated with nature itself: the perception that the natural environment around us, limitless in space and time, will remain.” - Robert Jay Lifton, The Broken Connection
There’s something about standing at the summit of a mountain, looking out over a landscape that existed long before you were born and will exist long after you’re gone, that puts things into perspective. Or watching a sunset paint the sky in colors that have been repeating for billions of years. In these moments, we feel small—but not in a diminishing way. Instead, we feel part of something vast and enduring.
The Natural Project is perhaps the most ancient of all the Immortality Projects. Before humans created art, built monuments, or formed nations, we looked up at the stars and out at the horizon. Nature was here first, and it carries with it a timelessness that our other projects can only aspire to. When we immerse ourselves in nature, we’re not creating something that will outlast us—we’re connecting with something that already does.
This is why people describe natural experiences in almost spiritual terms. That feeling you get when you finally reach the peak after hours of hiking isn’t just about the accomplishment (though The Status Project is certainly at play). It’s about standing in a place where the trees might be hundreds of years old, where the rock beneath your feet was formed millions of years ago, where the view has inspired countless others who stood in that exact spot before you and will inspire countless more after.
Unlike The Creative Project where we create something new, or The Community Project where we join something human-made, the Natural Project requires no creation or construction on our part. We simply bear witness. We breathe the same air that has circulated through this ecosystem for eons. We watch the same sun that warmed the faces of our ancestors and will warm the faces of generations to come.
This connection to nature offers a unique form of immortality: by recognizing ourselves as part of the natural world—as animals, as organisms, as matter that will return to the earth—we become part of a cycle that transcends individual death. The atoms that make up your body were forged in stars billions of years ago and will continue in some form long after your consciousness fades. When you stand in a redwood forest or watch waves crash against ancient cliffs, you’re not separate from that timelessness—you’re a temporary expression of it.
This is perhaps why environmental conservation resonates so deeply with people. It’s not just about preserving resources for future human use—it’s about protecting the very thing that gives us this glimpse of eternity. When we fear the destruction of nature, we’re not just worried about losing trees or animals; we’re worried about losing our connection to something that makes us feel less alone in our mortality.
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