Nature-Writes

So, lately I have been enjoying some delicious reads by one Edward Abbey and one Robin Wall Kimmerer.   Mr. Abbey (RIP) had the classic radical view of how to approach protecting the good mother earth, and Kimmerer (very much alive) comes at it with all the love and kindness of walking mindfully, letting your "foot meet the earth like a greeting"< a paraphrasing of her words.  

Reading them at the same time sort of gives this elder heart a good balance, like sitting with a hearty group of friends who are unabashedly free to speak from their hearts (tho old Ed might say he was speaking from an organ less romantic).

Of course I have a naturalist crush on E. O. Wilson, and Rick Bass is my sort of local, Montana practical imaginary writer friend.   Doug Peacock is the mysterious exotic, having earned my deep respect, and I would not want to rile him by spouting careless attitude.   In my estimation each of these folks have the right and wisdom to see the holes in my own statements of cause.

I always feel that despite my deep passions for our wondrous natural world (and maybe because of them), I come off sounding like the eternal fool, because I say something that leaves out some important factor, or I cannot draw forth the latest fact from my brain to support an argument.   I would make a lousy lawyer.  

I am at my best when I am conversing with the plants by walking next to them, learning their names, smelling them, touching them to see whether they are spike or smooth or sticky.  I am at my best when I am stopping to wonder at the hawk overhead, or on my belly at nose level with the frog at the pond's edge, or when I am looking at just the right time to catch the eye of the weasel, muskrat, beaver, or deer.  

Hopefully there is a place for the fool in this world as well as for the gifted of words.