We headed south, full of optimism that the sprinkles and mist would not get in the way of a good walk at Pedernales Falls State Park. Being in good company outweighs getting wet, and after the drought we have been going through, none of us were complaining. When we arrived at the park the river was softened by a little mist and the trees were dripping. It was going to be great.
The path, on its way down to a place overlooking the falls, goes through a juniper woodland where every small plant, mushroom, or insect snagged our attention like velcro. Among nature folks, it’s called “walking at the speed of botany.” We kept up that pace, weaving around boulders all the way down the stone steps to the riverbed. Sheryl took beautiful photos of water drops on leaves, and Kat and Alaina examined seeds and leaves and discovered a straggling monarch butterfly feeding near the steps.
This leaning into fascination and wonder is a trait shared by many friends and family, as if hard-wired into our being. Love and gratitude follow as naturally as rain lilies after rainstorms. So many things for us to be grateful for – the sound of tumbling water in the river, the red and orange autumn colors of cypresses and Virginia creeper, and spiders whose webs still held beautiful water droplets.
Gratitude and affection for the natural world (and for each other) is, along with wonder, what fuels all my visits to places in Texas. There are a handful of people with whom visiting a forest, wetland, or prairie is like worship. Not worship as a practice of religion, but simply a shared reverence. Together we re-connect with something bigger than us, yet part of us, and which nurtures each of us. This creates what Robin Wall Kimmerer describes as a sacred bond:
Knowing that you love the earth changes you, activates you to defend and protect and celebrate. But when you feel that the earth loves you in return, that feeling transforms the relationship from a one-way street into a sacred bond.
Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass
This is a good week to talk about these things, because the Thanksgiving holiday should be about recognizing what we’ve been given and what sustains us. A big feast, all that turkey and pumpkin pie, should just be a metaphor for the abundance that so many of us have been given, and which can be answered with gratitude and thanks. We can give thanks to the land that gives food, water and shelter. We can give thanks to each other for the ways we care for one another and embody what religious folks would call the image of God or a spark of the divine. Another way of saying that we are made of stardust and should recognize that in each other.
We walked downstream, along a beautiful stretch of river lined with cypress trees. I wrote in my journal:
“The sound of the riffles – a deep tumbling noise – was mesmerizing. The river corridor is lined with old cypresses and boulders and stones with roots winding among them. … There is the river and the conversation among Alaina, Sheryl, and Kat, and no mechanical noise (not even a plane). Beautifully musical.”
On Thanksgiving Day, I will think about this place and the friends who were with me, remembering them with gratitude and joy. I will be thankful for so much – my human family as well as those other wild relatives out there without whom our lives would be so much smaller.
Our Lives In Nature 