This morning, I dropped my husband off at work (they are doing overtime this week so he’s working during the day instead of at night), and dropped my baby off at daycare.
Then, I went to sit on a boulder and stare at a pond full of lily pads.
Finally, I felt a connection to a version of myself who is at peace, who is at ease.
Wisconsin has so many beautiful state parks and other natural areas, and when I spend time in them alone, especially if I am being “weird,” such as laying in the grass or sitting on a boulder, I feel a connection to the land in Wisconsin that is timeless, and comforting.
Of the various places in the world that I’ve been lucky enough to visit, Wisconsin is where I feel most at home. And when I say that, I mean I feel at home when I am outdoors in the natural landscapes (yes, I’m going to use the word natural even though I recognize we are talking about restored prairies and mowed walking paths) of Wisconsin.
Why? I could come up with all kinds of woo woo sounding explanations, but it’s likely not that deep.
Once upon a time, I spent uninterrupted afternoons swimming in Wisconsin lakes. As kids, we ran around barefoot outside, and I miss that caterpillar summer smell.
Our collie Sam used to nip at White Campion flowers, and we picked them for him, and called them his “treats.”
The hum and chatter of insects going about their business is as familiar and nostalgic to me as the memories of the family gatherings we used to have in our home. The wood furniture and banister would be gleaming with a fresh coat of lemon Pledge, and everybody would be chatting and munching on cake, little sandwiches from the Piggly Wiggly, and whatever other tasty goodies were available.
I don’t remember any anxiety back then. Only excitement at the prospect of all the family and friends getting together.
I can recall the smell of a sweaty summer dog, the feeling of picking endless burrs out of Sam’s tangled fur, a collection of wriggling little snakes in a 5-gallon plastic bucket (pick them up by holding them just behind the head), the old rough wooden treehouse, grasshoppers leaving little circles of brown spit on hot, dry skin, and a rough squirmy little toad peeing on your hand because no, he doesn’t want to get called Fred and be your little buddy.
It’s a cliche, but those truly were some good times. Looking back, I feel that my siblings and I were unbelievably blessed to have had those wild, unstructured moments.
I doubt I can recreate that for my daughter.
Of course, as with many good things in this world, we humans are ruining these natural little places of refuge as fast as we can.
I’m certainly not innocent in that, either. After all, I participate by shopping online, as just one example. But almost everything in modern life contributes directly or indirectly to that destruction: the technologies we use, the companies we work for, the flights we take to see family and friends, and go on vacation.
And even if I cut back on some of these things (and I haven’t taken a flight or vacation in over ten years), I don’t know how else to keep my family fed than to try and participate in this world.
Still, when I’m here, chilling on a big ol’ boulder on a rare cool morning in July, I feel connected to every other beautiful moment that I’ve had the pleasure of enjoying in these kinds of places. I’m grateful to be here for a few perfect minutes.
I even hope to be buried in one of these places. Natural Path Sanctuary is a place that is at the top of my list for that, but it better not be any time soon, damn it. Knock on wood.
I hope that we, as a species, can get our collective heads out of our asses –pardon the language– before it’s too late.
But then, here I go, off to try to make a few more bucks before we find ourselves without a home.
