I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again—I want to start writing about nature.
I don’t know how I’ll do this yet; I only know why:
Because nature is one of the only things I could never get bored of.
Now, I’m not anti-21st century. In fact, I’ve come to realize that I do enjoy civilization. I enjoy being around people, and in the AC, and at gyms, and restaurants, and museums.
But I can only be around it for so long. After a time, I need freedom. I need to return to what we all came from.
I’m staying at this Airbnb on Isle of Palms, South Carolina (which I’d say is a much more naturey place than where I’m from—the suburbs of Chicago), right now. And I just got back from a solo golf cart ride around the island.
The wind, the air, the rain, the ocean, the cicadas and the crickets, the deer, the frogs—no alligators this time. I took it all in. And I feel refreshed.
I feel, despite the fact that I was alone, like I just did something meaningful, something worthwhile, something real, something along the lines of living my life to its fullest.
It wasn’t anything crazy, obviously. (And perhaps I simply needed a break.) It’s just that the world around me—as compared to the more sterile environment I’m used to—felt alive, and I felt closer to it. Though I wasn’t with another human, I felt much more in relationship with my surroundings. (After all, there’s a reason paradise, any way you think of it, is rife with greenery. It’s no coincidence, put differently, that riding around in a golf cart on a subtropical island made me feel a little more relaxed.)
And now I’m sitting here back at the house, wondering, eagerly, “how can I have more of that?”
When I’m in civilization, be it the suburbs or the city—whether or not I’m with other people—I feel deep within like I’m waiting. For the real stuff. For the stuff I was put on this planet to do and be a part of. I feel like, yes, I know, I’ve got to go to the doctor. And yes, I know, I’ve got to go to school. And yes, I know, I’ve got to make some money. But after this, I want to get back to the pond.
It’s not like I’m viscerally miserable . . . It’s just that if I quiet myself down, it becomes painstakingly apparent that I’m yearning for something.
And I feel, especially after that golf cart ride, like I now know for what.
I’ve always wondered how and why millionaires and billionaires keep doing what they do. I mean, I get it—it’s nice to make money, not to mention the fact that it seems to cost money to get out there and enjoy nature. And yes, I’m sure, too, that they love their careers.
But I just don’t understand how and why they don’t, once they’re rich and all, build a house out in the middle of nowhere and go fishing and hunting and raise their family on homegrown harvests.
Like, why would you stay there if you could leave? At least, if not full-time, intermittently? Why would you not go on fishing trips, and camping trips, and ski trips, and scuba-diving trips as often as possible? Why would you not want to be a part of nature? Why would you voluntarily ingrain yourself in the concrete chaos?
As I said, I like being a part of civilization too. I like nice houses, I like seeing my friends and family, I like the comforts of contemporary technology. And honestly, I probably wouldn’t like being isolated from all I know out there in the wilderness.
But when I’m in urbanity for too long, when I can’t clearly see the stars at night, when I can’t smell the wood of some cabin, when I can’t step outside and hear the sound of trees swaying or waves crashing, when there’s not a chance some fox might crawl by the door, or some frog might greet me on the driveway in the morning, or some owl might hoot at dusk in the trees above, I just feel, as I said, like I’m in life’s vestibule.
I’ve been taking a lot of advice from well-off people recently—these rich people I mentioned.
And it’s great advice.
But I’ve also realized that this advice is coming from people whose lives I don’t want. It’s nothing against them, of course. It’s just that I don’t want to be fifty years old raising my family in some city because that’s where my company is located (unless I get to get out of the city every month or two for a couple of weeks). Though I’m sure it’d be nice, I don’t want to be a billionaire. I would much rather be something like the legend himself, Steve Irwin. Or better yet, maybe I’d rather be like someone who I don’t really know, because he hasn’t made himself known, because he’s been content living a more quiet, naturey life, raising a family, and having a good time.
Yes, I want to be successful, but I see success as a means to an end, not something I want to do every day. I see success as a way to return, to get closer to where I’m meant to be. Not to push myself further and further from what God made for us all to so simply enjoy.
Perhaps, though, I just need to change my definition of success.
So, once more, the question isn’t why I’d write about nature. I’d write about nature so I could have more of a reason to spend time in nature, and so that I could bring more people close to nature—I’d say that’s a far better target, or measure of success, for myself.
The question is, how? How could I write about nature such that I’d provide something worth reading, especially considering the fact that I’ve not spent much time in nature recently? What would I have to do, or change, so as to make myself like, yes, a literary Steve Irwin?
There’s really only one thing I can do: I’ve got to write what I know. And if I don’t know nature that well right now, then I’ve got to get to know it. I’ve got to get out there, share what relationship I have, and then nurture it.
Because I think there are millions like me living in those more urban places who yearn to escape, to get back to the America our people were familiar with decades and centuries ago.
I think there are, in fact, a whole lot of people out there in the world who feel something is missing—who feel like they’re waiting in life’s vestibule—but don’t know why, and don’t know how to articulate it.
As has been the case with a lot of my recent work, I’m not exactly sure where this is all gonna go, or where it’s gonna take me. But it is an idea, something that lights me up on the inside.
Thank you all who’ve joined me in this journey so far. If you haven’t yet, I’d love for you to step out of the vestibule and into the real stuff with me:
Until next time,
RB
Amen brother. I feel the same way