The 6 to 12 inches of snow that fell last Thursday (depending on where you live in the tristate) was quite likely the last measurable snow we will see until winter’s chill again descends upon us 10 months from now. This snowfall also happened to be, I believe, the most beautiful of the season; the picturesque kind of snowfall that Robert Frost so beautifully described in his inspired poem, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” So, despite an overnight sub-zero temperature, on Friday morning I found myself at the Cincinnati Nature Center. By the time I arrived the temperature had risen to a balmy 6 degrees, but with three layers of insulation, warm gloves and hiking boots, topped off with a toboggan cap, I was warm and ready to hit the trail.
I had in mind to hike only 3 or 4 miles, thinking this would easily satisfy my hunger for a last hike of winter, but this was not to be. I had made my way only a short distance down the trail, kicking the soft powder as I went, when I realized this hike would be longer than planned. The shelter of the woods blocked a light wind, and, shining down from an ocean sized brilliant blue sky, the sun turned every snow laden tree into a natural work of art. I paused and stood quietly for several minutes. The only sounds to be heard were those of a few chirping birds and my breathing; and during those moment, like Robert Frost, I was utterly and completely absorbed by the beauty that surrounded me. And so, instead of hiking 3 or 4 miles, I lingered in the woods until I had covered more than 8, and then only quit because I had promises to keep.
It is not easy, even on such reflective occasions, to block from our minds the promises and obligations we know we must fulfill when we return to the unreal world. Yes, those every day tasks and duties are of the unreal world, for the real world is comprised not of cars, computers, paved roads, and manufactured food, but of flowers, sand, water, mountains, and trees, where naked creatures need no mechanical devices or brick and mortar shelters to survive and thrive.
There is within each of us, I believe, an inner longing to return to nature, to experience the beauty and simplicity of Eden, or at least the semblance of it that still remains. We seek out places (though not nearly often enough) where no man-made thing exists except the clothing on our backs, and there – by a mountain stream or on a rocky crag overlooking ocean waves – we sit quietly, breath deeply, and gaze upon the beauty before us; and then, after a time, we close our eyes, as though using our eyelids like the shutters of a camera to capture and imbed in our minds the beauty and serenity of the moment.
There is a reason for this longing – we need it! We are, after all. creatures of nature, as much so as the birds and bees and every other living thing. Have you noticed (and I know you have) that birds, when they awaken, do not immediately begin searching for food or building their nests? Instead, they spend the first 20 or 30 minutes of each new day perched on a branch, and sometimes flit about, as they sing a morning song to welcome in the new day.
Yes, even when surrounded on every side by the wonders of nature, it is not easy to block from our minds the promises, duties, and obligations of life. We are surrounded, hemmed in, overcome, and burdened down by the man-made things we have crafted to “make our lives easier”. From the moment the alarm clock wakes us up in the morning until we flip the lights off at night we live in a world dominated by things that disconnect us from nature. I’m not saying that these things are all bad. We not only want them, we do need them, at least some of them.
From the time Adam and Eve left the garden (or, if you prefer, from the time our first ancestors walked upright) we humans have been inventing and fashioning tools – things – to “make our lives easier”. And, true enough, our lives have been made easier by many of the devices we have created. But, unfortunately, instead of these devices freeing us up to spend more time in nature, we busy ourselves tinkering with them, and with creating new devices. For example, it is nice to be able to throw a load of clothing into an automatic washer instead of beating each piece on a rock to get it clean, but, instead of using the extra time the automatic washer gives us to enjoy a few moments in nature, we use the time to perform a thousand other “essential” tasks.
From personal experience I can attest that the shackles of career can be all consuming, if we let them. For 40 years I worked 50 hours per week, and often more, doing good things, not simply to make money but to improve the lives of others. It was important worthwhile work and I have no regrets, except this one. I did not vacate (as in vacation) the daily duties of life – the world of work – often enough to escape into the world of nature; and when I did I almost always, mistakenly, stayed firmly connected to the unreal world of tasks and promises through the umbilical cord of technology. But there is good news. Now, in retirement, I have the health, time, and good sense to make up for lost time and lost opportunities.
Whatever your situation may be, take the time – make the time within your physical abilities – to commune with nature, at least for a few minutes each day and for large blocks of time as often as you can. Just like the birds of the air you need it, and your body and spirit will thank you in the end.