It’s hard to do nothing. Once I had chosen my spot beneath the shade of a big tree, I tried to get comfortable. I took off my shoes and wiggled my toes into the grass. It was starting to turn brown, but there were still patches of soft, green blades left over from summertime. I took a deep breath of Sunday afternoon air. It smelled crisp and rich, like the beginning of fall should smell in the Midwest. I looked at my watch. It had only been 10 minutes and I was already feeling anxious. I wished that I could walk around or listen to my ipod or read a book. But I forced myself to sit there, determined to just be in nature.
It required concentration. I had to continuously bring my mind back to that spot, back to the arching of trees, the glimmer of sunshine, the hum of insects. It was beautiful, of course. It wasn’t difficult for me to admire nature’s general beauty, but I realized that I often don’t pay attention to the specifics.
The crickets sounded like a classroom full of little boys grinding their teeth and sloshing their spit. The bugs hid somewhere in the tall grass, chanting: wwheeeha wwheeeha, we weha we weha. After a while, I caught the subtle rhythm. One overzealous cricket could be heard above the others. I wondered if he was the “class clown” telling a joke above the ruckus, or maybe he was the teacher trying to get control of his English class. As I sat on the ground, a tiny one landed on my shoe. I inspected him for a moment, and then brushed him back into the grass.
After the bugs, I noticed the leaves. They waited anxiously for the wind, as if they were surfers waiting for the perfect wave. Then they made a calculated but chaotic leap from the branches to the ground. Once they landed, they flirted with each other. Swayed back and forth like giddy girls, dressed in gold and red and green, at their very first dance. The leaves bubbled up in a burst of excitement and then paused, breathlessly, on the floor until the next wind-song began.
Next, I thought about the trees. I thought about how they have been there the longest out of everything in the park. I imagined them with eyes; I wished they could talk. I wished they could describe how the world looked when they first budded out of the earth. It must have been a lot different. Things were probably slower, there were probably more trees and maybe they didn’t see people pass by for a while. Poets have always described trees as wise. I think they are right. Trees have watched it all, endured thunderstorms, learned to change with the seasons, stood patiently in one spot for their entire lives. Yes, they must be wise.
After my time in nature was over, I felt calm. I’m glad that I forced myself to be an observer and to sit quietly. The nothingness turned out to be beautiful.
As I left the park, a little boy ran up to me and said, “I hope you enjoyed your day, lady. It’s really a nice day and there are lots of creatures to see out here. I hope you got to see some.” His mother grabbed his hand and apologized, “He’s just too talkative.” I just smiled and waved goodbye to him because he was right. It was a beautiful day and there is plenty to see if you are willing to look.
