The Nature that Raised Me

I believe in nature, because in truth, she raised me.

My life thus far has been touched by a never-ending series of the most wild and mystical landscapes one could ever hope to behold. And each place is so different, so phenomenally awe-inspiring, that the memories I hold of each one are still as vivid as though I were there yesterday.

I remember riding a camel in the Negev, covered in extra clothes and not enough sunscreen, greedily taking in the most exquisite stretch of stifling hot sand, rocks, and life I had seen at that young age. I remember the songs we sang at night around the huge fire and how amazed I was by the shocking cold wind that replaced the day’s scorching, still heat. I remember the busy markets in Israel framed by packed neighborhoods, the salty ocean kissing my feet, the screaming fans in Tel Aviv with their faces painted and soccer jerseys torn in excitement, my friends who translated for me and yelled and laughed loud. Their voices carried me to the plane and I swore I could still hear them in my headphones as we flew home over the familiar songs we’d played the whole time.

I remember without hesitation or any difficulty, the majesty of a moonlight-soaked beach on the island of Bonaire, each grain of sand illuminated like dark pink gems as they escaped easily from my disbelieving hands. I remember naming the fish and creatures, the need to keep my head in the water as much as possible, my hands outstretched to friends and family as we jumped off the piers. I remember telling people I grew up there I remember the stale cigarettes and Dutch beer we drank on white beaches, the bars and the free champagne at every resort’s New Years parties, the fireworks throwing colors past the trees and onto the black sky.

Even careening leisurely down to the Liberty Reservoir, no matter how many times I took the walk, was somehow spiritual and all-consuming. I remember the path so well, even today, that I know I could traverse it with my eyes closed, my hands outstretched. It was so generously placed a short walk from my house and I spent many weekends baking comfortably on sun-splashed rocks with my notebooks and pens, scooping handfuls of water into my hands and watching it drip away into inspiration. Sometimes I was so overwhelmed by the urge to swim or climb that I would forget to write. It was easy to feel called to the water, cold as it was. It was simple to get lost in electric green, dark red, and gnarled bark. I felt at home there. It was a place I had always belonged since I could remember. For no matter how many far-away places I visit, no matter what variety of nature I am blessed to experience, this is the nature that raised me. The towering Poplars, Maples, Oaks, and Elms that guide me to the water below have always been there, silent yet dynamic, unspeaking but alive, constant and beautiful.

I see my father on the trail with me, thankfully even today. His knees are plastic and his hips have more metal than bone nowadays, but still we trek down together on occasion. The dogs canter down the well–worn path ahead of us despite our commands to slow down, their feet crashing against the fallen leaves, pine needles and debris, without fear, without hesitation - with a deep sense of knowing the way and a deep need for getting into the water as fast as possible. We talk about everything under the sun as we pass endless groves and generations of trees, plants, and animals. We know the sharp stones and areas snakes like to sun, the places that sink with seemingly-perpetual mud no matter the season or weather, the uphill and downhill ratio of the fork in the middle of the trail. Even today, I touch the trees with wounded trunks, I stare longingly into the water and across to the other side of its expanse, I let my mind wander as I float in the water and skip stones.

I solve my problems here, make my most profound internal discoveries here, and although I have to travel now to savor the scenery, I still traverse it effortlessly - my eyes closed, my hands outstretched.