It was a short trip, but it did wonders for me. Yesterday afternoon I was crashed out in the tent, filtered sunlight streaming through a pleasant haze, after a day of hiking through the lush canyons of the Ohio River valley. We would awake at sunset, and go seek the waterfalls under the influence of dusk.Three nights, I fell asleep under the sound of gentle rain and bull frogs, even before my head hit the pillow. Meals were simple and prepared over a fire or eaten cold or raw.
I haven't felt this refreshed or recharged since maybe that evening in Joshua Tree late last Spring at the Harmony Motel, watching the sun go down over a painted desert.
It's because of the green.
The green of the forest is the most refreshing color, and the sound of water falling the purest sound there ever was. The climbing was strenuous but not necessarily rugged. The temp was mild, a mixture of deep blue sky with white fluffy clouds and a deluge of straight-down rainfall. What they would call a "spring shower."
And yet, we hiked the forest at all times of day in all kinds of weather. The rain brings its own brand of misery, but without it, what would there be? The waterfalls, rivers, and creeks would trickle and dry up. The wildflowers would choke before they bloomed.
Who knew this deep forest opportunity existed just two hours from Indy? Who knew the plant life in Indiana could be so diverse and so fascinating? Who knew I could be so transformed to another dimension when home was so close.
Monday I was mowing my lawn, pulling weeds, admiring all the things my yard and garden would become by summer. But coming back from Nature's landscape, my yard looked depressing, monochromatic, repressed.
This is perhaps the best part of traveling. Coming back to a place you recognize yet can't really remember. Even after only two days have past. A lone cardinal sang this evening in my yard, and he made me long for the symphony of cardinals that surrounded our tent every morning, awakening us to a chorus of perpetual happiness.
And yet this cardinal still sings.
Oh, to sing like the birds, and to beckon the sun with such gratitude. Just a few short days ago, the sun awoke me, and I hid under the covers.
Once again, I am forced to ask myself why I live the way I do.
Urban.
More and more I am less and less urban, losing interest in being urbane. And these things were of the utmost importance to me at one time.
Social progress. Upward mobility.
These quench not my thirst.
And yet. What hardship did I really endure during this brief camping trip? Although the hikes were strenuous at times, we were never more than five miles from our tent, our comfort zone. And yet, we were out of our comfort zone. All the simple things become grand gestures.
And that is how you lose yourself.
Survival is the best therapy of all.
All around me are beautiful trees, precious flowers, a chorus of sounds, a vast sky, and clean drops of falling rain.
All I need is the air that I breathe.
Here is my favorite piece of classical music.
Satie's "Gymnopedie."
To me, it always sounded like water.
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