This summer we bracketed the most intense months of heat with four days a mountain cabin, in northern Arizona. Neither of us are beach people; it’s the serenity pines and sound of the streams that rejuvenate our sagging spirits, especially mine. One morning, hanging out on the porch with the dogs, I was struck by the anomaly of the fast-moving stream against the stillness of the day. I jotted down these thoughts.
Juxtaposed to the pine-scented, serene landscape, the stream gurgles and gushes, polishing rocks worn smooth by years of relentless rushing. An inquisitive squirrel, tail held high, dashes about like Mr. Rabbit at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, stopping momentarily to chatter at the dogs: so much bravado from such a tiny creature. A Blue Jay drops in for a visit and squares off with the squirrel over a seeded hunk of bread. The squirrel’s fast, but the jay can fly, his swift swoop and departure leaving the squirrel dancing from foot-to-foot in fury. I assuage his annoyance by tossing out more bread. He grabs a chunk and runs to a rocky ledge, sits on his haunches, and eats daintily from tiny paws. We play the game over and over.
Fast forward two weeks. I’m rocking in a glider on my patio, watching butterflies and hummingbirds nosedive fall flowers. Two unrelated thoughts strike me: (1) a visual of an old lady rocking on the porch of a retirement home (a bit disconcerting), and (2) the realization that solitary time outdoors is what feeds my creativity.
I’m not the adventurous type. I wish I were, but there you have it. I’ve come to terms with who I am. It’s not likely I’ll ever see a wildebeest on the African savanna or meet a bear in isolated canyon. But I do find deep contentment in the simplest, everyday wonders of nature. A stroll through the nearby desert reveals marvels—the tiniest of wildflowers underfoot, dry seed pods of all shapes and shades, the shadow of hawk circling overhead, the marching of ants, or the first glow of a the sunset turning the underside of clouds a purplish pink. It’s all breathtaking to me.
My focus narrows when I leave the confines of four walls and step into my garden. My breathing stills at the simple sight of bees diving in and out of crayon-bright zinnias. I marvel at the dexterity of a spider shooing out sticky webby stuff, building a gigantic snare to trap his prey. Nature is as complex and beautiful as it is unapologetic. My mind calms as I work my way through the garden, clipping, deadheading, watering, and asking how everyone is doing. The superb listening skills of my plants give me permission to speak freely and thoughts and words flow with a clarity that eludes me at a desk. Note to self: carry a pocket notebook and pen.
I’m not sure what this all means. Maybe it validates the old saying, “happiness can be found right in your own backyard,” or maybe it means that if you can’t find beauty and wonder in what’s right under your nose, you probably won’t find it anywhere else either. Or, maybe it’s about staying still long enough to listen to that inner voice. Your soul will tell you what it needs.