The Nature of Nature

No one thinks of Winter when the grass is green.
Rudyard Kipling



Ah, Spring ... I have long fancied the wonder and beauty of this magical time of the year, the delicious smell of the earth after a rain, all vibrant and alive, the grasses and buds of trees all verdant and green.

I am left thinking of the young boy who was me waking on that day, that first amazing day, when everything seemed new and possible, scrambling off to my best friend's house, delighting as we went to "our river" with our inner tubes inflated, and when there, we'd toss them into the water, scramble into them, and start our maiden voyage of the year down to the lake. This journey would take most of the day, and boys being boys, we'd have to stop a few times to check out a fallen tree on the bank, or look at some "amazing stuff "; that is just the nature of young boys.

Now I find myself looking for that young boy every spring, and he still exists behind every tree and around every bend in a stream, squealing with delight at every new find, every different bug, and in awe of each beautiful flower that Mother Nature shares with him; I find him still in love with that magnificent mistress of nature. I bend to smell the ground, and in so doing I see the boy I was dash ahead as if beckoning me on to all the sights, sounds, and smells that wait to be found on every new day.

I have a place now that I tend to visit every spring; it's a series of bush trails that link farms north of us that have been dedicated to hikers in spring, summer and fall, and to cross-country skiers in winter. This is a blessing bestowed to the public by the farmers and property owners to let us have a place in our busy lives to be able to go to and get something "real", to breathe and connect with that side that craves the sanity of nature. I'm sure those of us who go to these places, all of us, see the child we once were, and we all cling to the ability to feel the joy that was our childhood. Here are deer and fox, wild turkey and rabbit, all of the creatures that make us say to ourselves, "This is what I live for."

And so dear friends, at this point you must excuse me, for there is a little boy here who is begging my attention, and I have no choice but to go with him for a walk, a stroll if you will, down the lane called "Memory".

As always, Blessings on you and yours, and may your child find you on this day of days.