Some days, I feel so at one with everything around me here in this wooded place. I cannot stare long enough at the trees, at how they offer themselves up to the whims of the wind as it tosses their leaves about, teasingly on calm days, forcefully during storms. I just finished reading Henry David Thoreau's "Faith In A Seed," his last published work dealing with his studies of the natural world written at a time that some of his critics saw as his abandonment of literature. What they didn't know was that this work, in which Thoreau's passion for nature is undeniable, was an affirmation of the close relationship that he believed exists between nature and words and that he made his dogma.
As a writer and one who has enjoyed a lifelong love affair with nature, I see myself, not only as the current steward of this wee bit of land, but also as its chronicler, as the one who will not allow the world to ignore its existence or to minimize its role, however humble and miniscule, in the greater plan. From the dew-dropped spider webs in early morning to the golden light in the pines in late afternoon, this place, as do all such places, sings to nature's perfection, to the deliberateness of her brush, as she continues to delight us with a symmetry that we, despite our best intentions, are incapable of.
I will go on, looking away in spite of myself, if only long enough to get the words down, hoping that I didn't miss the red-tailed hawk gliding by or the pileated woodpecker boring a hole in that distant maple. I'll tear myself away just long enough to share this experience with those who care to know, and then, in a mad rush, go back to my perch beneath the trees or at my window, where I will look, and look, and look again, if only to have something to take with me on my journey.
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