Climbing to the top of the hill, I pass some friends I see often when I walk this trail. They aren’t people, they are other-than-human relatives like the bees in the bee tree. And the tree with the hole at the bottom like a window into a shelter where a woodland sprite might live. The blue jays hollering at each other like schoolboys, and on really warm days, the Texas spiny lizard hanging on to a tree trunk watching for an insect to eat.

Many Native American cultures see the rocks, waters, trees, and wildlife as our relatives, and many of the rest of us are beginning to understand that wisdom.

From year to year I can count on these friends. No matter how crazy the world gets, they are nearby, doing what they do. It is never boring. That is partly because each season is different. The winter woodland is full of bare branches and beautiful brown colors of the leaf litter on the ground, with the calls of crows and songs of cardinals. It’s the deep blue water of the pond, with sparkling ripples from the winter breeze.

In spring, the angle of sunlight changes and the branches and twigs swell with leaf buds. Plum trees bloom and later, flowers like spiderwort, spotted beebalm, and toadflax cover the soft, sandy soil. The air is sweet, and the night comes alive with frog calls.

It keeps on like that in every season. The peak time for one thing ends, and a new thing begins, like a kaleidoscope in which each turn of the season brings a new pattern and new colors, and each one is beautiful.

The place is never boring, even after visiting it for twelve years. I walk past the same oak trees, say hello to the same Glen Rose yuccas, and I might see some of the same crows (I can’t tell individual crows, but they’re observant and smart, and they can recognize individual humans). It’s a comforting stability, with old friends and places that won’t disappear.

I think that sometimes when we are restless and need some new diversion, some new thing happening or new stuff to buy, it’s because we are anxious or feeling low even if we are not aware of it. We want to maintain this distraction from our distress, and if we don’t get it, we call that boredom. It’s like we’re careening downhill in a moving vehicle trying to dodge random crises, and we want something to take our minds off the fear and not fall into despair.

Something that I think helps is to find islands and refuges of stability. That could be friends and family who provide companionship, steadiness, judgment, love, and support no matter what. It might be found in works of music. And I think places in nature can give us a sense that the world contains goodness and that some good things will not abandon us or be taken away.

In nature there are many places we can get to know and count on. A creek does not pretend to be someone they are not, and a prairie will not “ghost” you. The woods will not assail you with news of conflict and violence, and the pond will gladly let you be still and watch the shimmering reflections of trees as the breeze kisses the water’s surface.

When you go there and stand among the trees or sit beside the water, it helps to be there fully, mind and body. If we can’t let go of the worries about tomorrow or the discomfort of something that happened in the past, we will barely be awake to the woods and ponds. That’s where mindfulness comes in. By paying attention to breathing, we bring ourselves into the present, and by noticing our thoughts and feelings, we can release them and not be caught up in them. And as we stay in the present, accepting whatever is happening without wanting to change it or add to it, those moments can be wonderful. They can be healing.

Some notes from my walk on March 3^rd: “Walking around the crown of the hill, I got a look – from 30 or so feet away – at a roadrunner who looked at me warily and then ran on along the trail. There are butterflies, the bee tree is busy, and at least some oaks are starting to leaf out. Lying under bare oak branches and a blue sky with wispy clouds, at least twice I felt the tiniest sensation of a droplet on my face, and there is a very small drop, crystal clear, on my glasses. I suppose it might be rising sap released where buds are starting?”

Each season is a deepening relationship with this preserve and all that lives there. I hope that you have such a place, whether it’s a National Grassland with thousands of acres or a little patch of wildness in a city park. Get to know it, let it seep into your bones so that you’re like family to each other. Bring your human family, too, and get to know each other.