Essay About Nature

It doesn’t take a trained eye to pick up some of the clues to old farmsteads of decades gone by. They’re everywhere: knee-high to waist-high mounds of rocks that punctuate the somber landscape with glints of quartz and mica.Solitary chimneys stand like cemetery markers, enduring monuments to homesteads swallowed by fire or rot. You might not give them a second thought, but other folks recall them with a groan, remembering how they helped clear the family’s fields, digging stones out of dirt and clay to pile them out of the way of the plow.Once you know what to look for, you find these ghosts in woods all over the place.

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A deep, dry gully is likely the remnant of some steep, eroded field ditch.We laugh at those “freaks” hugging trees in the park, or walking barefoot on grass.However, these people remember what is essential—what most others have forgotten somewhere along the race to progress and prosperity: the key to being healthy, emotionally sustained and resistant to everyday stress is staying connected to nature and allowing ourselves to put all business on hold and take a break (Swang 54).Nature is about balance and harmony—what we lack when we live inside the swirling pit of urbanized cities.Sometimes we escape, but so rarely and so abruptly, that such escapades can hardly help us reestablish our link with nature.Needless to say, back when humanity’s main achievements were the invention of a round wheel, or specific tools for farming agriculture, human beings were dependent on nature and paid attention to the changes of its course (George 24).Now, with technological revolutions and discoveries that made up our past history, we seem to pay little attention to nature, getting more and more disconnected from it every day.This is the season of unveiling, of trees gone bare, and shrubs and vines defrocked.Winter reveals the past lives of a landscape like no other season.Most of the time, it’s a rocking motion under my boots that gives me pause, an undulation, like I’m walking on the crests of an easy-going ocean. They are the remnants of some tenant farmer’s back 40 acres of corn, or some homesteader’s patch of long-gone beans or cotton or tobacco, now grown up in soaring pines and oaks and gums. But early and late in the day, when shadows pool in the bottoms of those old, forgotten furrows, they are as plain as day.


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