I can see why Emerson retreated to Canterbury and John Muir ached to share the beauty of nature through words. Its effects are profoundly healing and internally blissful.
As the world continues its never-ending gravitational spin and New York City is still sleepless, I find myself in a place of comparable movement but differing character.
Here I sit in the Black Hills, still except for the movement of my pen. Everything I see is anything but that. Ripples on the lake dance forward as the wind passes by. Leaves whistle in the airspace overhead, filling a visually empty space with noise that engulfs the mind. Birds flit, fly, and call unbeknownst to the campers in their cocooned tents.
Nature exists so extensively beyond our knowledge.
In these moments it is easy, and important, to forget the continuous craze that exists just beyond the trees and mountains. They show me all that life should be: peaceful, balanced, and humbly powerful. That is the way of nature, and from her I would like to learn.