Prompt/Place Entry 8

A blue, enamel sky shelters me as I perch on the concrete sidewalk once more. Not a single cloud scuffs its surface. The trees, the parched grass, the glittering fragments of rock all glow in the unencumbered sunlight. I am warm. I am light. I am happy.

There is no evolution of place in a human lifetime. Seasons pass- that is not an evolution. It is simply a cycle. I will not live long enough to watch new mountains push from the center of the Earth. I won't see the centimeters as they rise up. It takes almost no time at all for what was strange to become usual. I have lived in this city for two months today. I have perched on this spot week after week, contemplated its totality and juxtaposition. I now belong. This is not a strange place; this is my place. Change is only the interval between two sames. This is a season passing.

In the distance to my left, I see the tops of Georgia pines. I think of Janisse Ray, whose book I have recommended to so many people. I consider the way I felt reading her work. It was the first time I have ever recognized myself in a nature writer.

There are moments that happen (randomly?) in life where you feel the infinite connectivity between yourself and the world you occupy. Suddenly you know that you are meant to be in the world, and the world could not be without you. Most nature writing, I believe, is an attempt to explore connectivity. There is something happening all around us, all the time. We are vibing, giving off and receiving energy. Everything is connected and nature writing attempts to parse it apart for a moment. There are infinite ways to be connected- being disconnected is also one. Encapsulating these points is what nature writing can/should do.

A couple stroll by with a baby and a leashed puppy. All of them smile at me while I sit with my notebook. I smile back, feeling the vibrations from my lips echo through them, into the clear, cerulean sky.