The natural world always has more to offer than you think.
By Isvett Verde Staff Editor, Opinion |
I boarded a flight from Kennedy International Airport in New York City to Miami mere days before the coronavirus pandemic took hold of the United States in 2020. When the country shut down about a week later, I asked a friend to check in on my plants as I settled into my childhood bedroom for the long haul. Like so many of us, I witnessed the death toll climb in horror. I'd lie awake at night, wondering what would become of us all. |
To cope, I'd set out every morning to walk underneath the canopy of majestic live oak and strangler fig trees in our neighborhood. On weekends, I'd borrow my mom's car and drive west to Big Cypress National Preserve. There I'd meet one of my dearest friends, and together we'd tread through trails the swamp would soon reclaim in the wet summer months. |
I can still feel the wind cooling my forehead, as it did when we pedaled through beautiful cypress forests. From time to time we'd stop and cede the path to alligators searching for pools of fresh water. |
As the weeks passed, I continued to convene with nature. At my mother's house, I began cultivating my own orchids. I'd step outside to check on them throughout the day, whenever I needed a break from the new working normal of virtual meetings. |
The Mexican American writer and poet Raquel Vasquez Gilliland grew up not far from where I did in Florida. In a soothing guest essay for Times Opinion, she captures what I felt so viscerally during lockdown, that "spending a few moments outdoors can help us feel more connected." When she feels anxious or stuck on a story, she too seeks nature, allowing its stories to feed her own. |
"If I have a plot hole I need to fix, I visit my lemon and lime basil, staining my fingers with their citrus scents," she writes. "If I need to make my writing more lyrical, I sit with the dahlias, imagining that their vast genetic possibilities fill me when I speak with them." She urges us all to find a patch of earth we can sink our feet into, and to listen to what it has to say. |
These days, I'm back in Brooklyn, where I've traded the alligators for what feel like equally large rats, and where the trees are less plentiful. I mourn the lush flora I took for granted for much of my life, particularly during the winter. But after spending time with Raquel's essay, I've resolved to take daily walks to our community garden before sunset. As the fall settles in, I'll contemplate how the light hits the trees that dot its perimeter as they "change from green to citrine, smoky topaz and shades of ruby." I just might even take my shoes off. |
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