A wild, warbling stream, the chill claws of a winter wind slashing across my face.
Nature calls to me like a siren song, and I constantly feel drawn to it, in a moth-to-flame like fashion.
I enjoy the feel of the bare earth beneath my feet, the way tree bark digs against your back as it supports you, branches atop the trees curling into beautifully mangled spires.
Nature helps make life a little more bearable, when writers block or drama clogs the creative well in my mind.
If I need it enough, if I focus on the things I can feel, see, and touch, I almost forget how many bloodthirsty mosquitos are out to get me. The cicadas are silenced by my quest for peace, and the worries I carry on my back melt into the background of my life.
I use the time I spend outside to unwind from the monotony and never-ending responsibilities that life entails, from chores to homework. It fills me with joy and peace that I can’t seem to acquire anywhere else. I use what I see to help visualize scenery for writing and drawing, and often try to do these things while in nature before my brain becomes overrun with thoughts.
Sometimes the alluring idea of the sun on my skin isn’t enough to draw me out of the air conditioned palace I’ve become accustomed to, and I constantly pay the price for it.
Last year was, in the simplest terms possible, a dumper fire. Grounding myself in nature for half an hour kept me from losing my mind, even if it seems unorthodox sitting next to my mother’s garden and listening to the whispers of the air. Every hike up a mountain or swim in the ocean makes me feel more alive.
Maybe it’s because of my longing to connect with the world, because I’ve grown up in an age of electronic entertainment and maximum comfort, or because it runs in my blood. Either way, I don’t think I could keep myself sane without listening to the chatter of birds every now and then.