Today in a walk in an urban preserve, what nature offered was a stark contrast to what many humans offered. Nature offered examples of beauty and harmony. Humans, not so much today. I am grateful for nature’s gifts this afternoon, and I’m hoping for all of us to make more progress toward an attentive and respectful relationship with nature (and with other people).
A red admiral rests for a moment
Butterflies and dragonflies are still active at the preserve. A hard freeze is just days away, and these insects bring their beauty and their skillful flight as if today’s warmth was the only reality. They’re right – today, this day right now is the only reality and they were making full use of it.
A young juniper growing in the shelter of an oak tree’s trunk brought to mind the harmony and tolerance that humans sometimes fail to have. I’m aware that the oak did not invite the juniper, and that the oak will take water, nutrients, and sunlight without much regard for its small neighbor. Regardless of intentions, they grew side by side and appear to be thriving.
Juniper, sheltering beside a blackjack oak
Every winter, a little below the crown of the hill, standing cypress begins to grow. They first emerge as feathery green rosettes, and they grow through the winter and spring. Eventually they produce a spike of the most beautiful red flowers before dying back later in the year. When everything else seems doubtful, standing cypress won’t let you down.
A new standing cypress
Maybe standing cypress isn’t high on everyone’s list of priorities. We need an affordable place to live, and we need people who are willing to set aside their momentary impulses and follow rules for the good of the community. Next to that, being able to count on a plant’s annual re-emergence might not seem like much. But the more other things fall apart, the more valuable seem the parts of the world that are dependable.
Silhouettes
I sat on a boulder in the warm sunshine and wrote a little in the journal. The temperature had reached the middle 60s in the shade, and sitting there in a t-shirt, the radiant sun felt great. Then it was down the trail to the big pond. There were a few places where some leaves still held on to some color, and the sun shining through them was like nature’s stained glass.
Another gift from the afternoon sun – light in the tops of the grasses
I ended up at one of the other ponds, watching the low sun light up the trees at the end of the day. It was a time of day that felt quiet. I had not heard any birds (with my ears or with the Merlin app) during my walk, and no turtles were basking at the pond. The water was still, and everything seemed hushed. Was the preserve ready for a rest? I know that communities of invertebrates, fish, and other animals continue their activities into the night. I also know that the one who was ready for a rest, after unleashed dogs, unruly dogs, and dirt bikes that have no business in a preserve, was me. The peace of a quiet pond was a welcome end to my walk.
I will be focusing more time on inviting others to some semi-wild place and experiencing it mindfully, doing some nature journaling, and learning a little about the plants and animals that live there. I’ve led nature walks before (with the LBJ Grasslands Project, for example), but these outings will more explicitly focus on mindfulness and nature journaling. If you are reading this in the North Texas area and would like to join me, please use the Contact page to send me an inquiry. At this point there is no fee, but I’ll check the status of the “tip jar” at this website in case anyone would like to contribute! Some of these outings may be more for adults, but some will be for families with kids at least ten years old or older.
Getting children out to experience nature mindfully involves their being less “somewhere else” and more “right here, now.” Somewhere else is thinking about something that happened this morning or hoping you can do something tonight, wishing your friend was here with you, and imagining how Batman could knock that tree down. Being right here is noticing the shapes of clouds, feeling how the ground feels under your feet, listening to a frog call, and recognizing prickly pear cactus and walking around rather than through it. Mindfulness involves paying attention to the present moment, without judging it as good or bad and without wishing it was different.
Some kids may like the idea of taking a walk in which we will see everything more clearly, hear more things, notice smells, and touch a few things to see how they feel. I might explain to them that we will “turn down the background noise” of our thinking and talking while on the walk, so that we can experience the walk more fully. I will mention that this is not always easy for any of us. Our brain wants to turn the volume back up, and that’s normal, it’s what brains do. So when we notice that we’re thinking about something else, we just let the thought go, let it float away, and bring our attention back to what is happening now. We may have to do that over and over, and that’s OK.
Some kids may be used to blasting through a nature walk while talking to friends. If a nature walk seems unfamiliar or boring, they may be escaping by thinking of other things and going through the walk on autopilot. The job of a teacher or parent is to invite them in and make it seem worth a try. One way to do that is with nature games that provide a little structure for paying attention to the things around them. Or it might add interest to offer some natural history information (“That bird over there is getting ready to fly to South America!” “That rock is the silt and seashells from a beach where dinosaurs walked”). We may want to alternate periods of quiet attention with times when kids talk with each other and with us.
A nature journal is your own personal story, in words and pictures, of places you visited and things you experienced. You write a little and maybe draw a few pictures in a blank book or notebook – nothing fancy is needed. The idea is to stop and think about what you’re experiencing and preserve a little bit of it on paper. For some people, an entry might be mostly contain information about the place, the weather that day, and seeing a kingfisher fly over the pond. Someone else might write a poem about sun reflected on the water and the flight of that kingfisher, or maybe they would just draw the bird with a few notes about seeing it. There’s more than one way to keep a nature journal.
The only way I know to do this with kids is to have a responsible adult (family member or family friend) who brings the child and stays with us. It really cannot be a drop-off, but we would be happy for the adults to join in the activities. The ideal group, with kids or adults, is small – perhaps five or six. A small group just seems quieter, more focused, and better able to get to know each other, and so I will limit the group size.
What is my background for doing this? I have been licensed as a Psychological Associate for over 38 years and have led walks in nature for adults and kids. I’ve written two books about reptiles and amphibians and, most recently, a book about mindfulness in nature.
We have this urge to mark the end of the old year and welcome the new one, so we gather to wish each other a happy New Year. We think about the coming year as a new beginning. Sometimes we want to try for a new beginning for ourselves, with new year’s resolutions to start doing this or to do less of that. Midnight on December 31 marks a change, for good or ill (mostly for good; it feels like a bad omen to even consider that it could be a change for the worse). Another year older, another chance, another spring.
LBJ National Grasslands, in Unit 29, on the last day of 2023
But spring is months away and our transition to 2024 is completely arbitrary, unless you consider that it’s pretty close to the winter solstice when everything really does begin to change, in ever so gradual degrees toward greater light and warmth. Nevertheless, yesterday was the end of 2023, and among some members of my nature tribe the right way to mark the occasion was to walk the woods and prairies one last time.
Alaina, Sheryl, and Jake met me at LBJ National Grasslands under a warming sun with scattered clouds. It is a familiar and welcoming place, and if we needed reassurance that some good things can be counted on to stay consistent despite the turning of the year, this was it. We did not talk about it, but I expect that this dependability of nature is part of the appeal of a walk here on New Year’s Eve. Many of us are ambivalent about change, considering what we have been through in recent years. The pandemic, a worsening climate crisis, the creep toward fascism in many places across the world; these things make the woodlands and prairies more precious than ever. The cycles of growth, flowering, the shedding of leaves and winter dormancy make up a background of dependability. That, and the love that truly close friends and family have for each other, keep us going when everything else seems to be falling apart.
Alaina and Sheryl
The earth tones of the prairies have become quite “earthy” and the straw and sienna colors have faded, but there was still some warm brown in the woods. And the liberal scattering of junipers adds some touches of green, so it was hardly a colorless winter scene. When you add the ponds with reflective water and surrounding bare trees, the grasslands in winter have a visual beauty beyond compare. Spring and summer are also lovely, just in a different way. The Western Cross Timbers is an amazing gift that every season makes into something new and wonderful.
There is life in every season. We saw a few dragonflies, and I mentioned to my friends that I believe seeing a dragonfly on the last day of the year should be a sign of good luck. Spread the word – let’s make a “lucky dragonfly” tradition and invite urban folks into a new little connection to the natural world. These insects are already associated with good luck in some Asian and Native American traditions, so it shouldn’t be a stretch.
A common buckeye
We also saw some butterflies. We often see them deep into the winter if the day is sunny and has some warmth. They flutter along and bring extra movement and color to the day. One of them was a buckeye, a species with colorful round “eye spots” on their orange, brown, and white wings.
Our walk helped end 2023 in a good way, and we are ready to carry that through into the new year. Here’s to everyone having a year with beauty and wonder, surrounded by those you love (even if from a long distance*) and filled with empathy, compassion – and healing whenever that may be needed. Happy New Year!
Right now the earth in our little spot is tilted about as far away from the sun as it ever is. Sunlight reaches us from lower in the sky, from a sharp angle rather than high overhead. Thursday, December 21st is our winter solstice, after which the days slowly begin to lengthen again. But in these shortest days the light is different; not only does midday seem like late afternoon, the light spectrum has shifted and is a bit more golden.
Not long after noon, the light looks like it is the end of the day, and I get a sense of things coming to a close. Daylight will soon end, and so will the year. What needs to be put in order before this season and this year is done? What has slipped away while we weren’t looking? It is only a vague emotional tone, nothing more, but it can bring an elegiac feeling to the day.
The light is beautiful, perhaps in part because it contains more of the warmer part of the color spectrum, and because its slanting angle produces more shadows and clearly defines what it touches.
On a recent walk I was particularly struck by all this. There was a large oak whose leaves were becoming quite yellow, and underneath it a small sumac with crimson leaves. The ground beneath was carpeted with leaves in shades of brown and yellow. I thought, “What is this trick of the light that makes everything so much more clear, deepens the colors and highlights things so that I see each one clearly? What is this, that makes it feel like the end of the day, things coming to a close, deepening the emotion along with the color?”
I would be interested in knowing the extent to which others experience these things. If you notice any of these qualities of autumn light, I encourage you to write a comment about it. If you haven’t thought much about it, then find a sunny day while the days remain very short and take a walk somewhere in nature. See what your perception tells you.
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.
L to R: me, Alaina, Kat, & Sheryl (photo courtesy of Alaina Graff)
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.
Water on stems and leaves (photo courtesy of Sheryl Joiner)
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.
The Pedernales River (photo courtesy of Sheryl Joiner)
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.”
Roots seeking the water (photo courtesy of Sheryl Joiner)
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.
An American alligator (Alligator mississippiensis) seen by the group on our first field trip
It is fun to learn some of the details about the reptiles and amphibians that live in North Texas, getting a grasp of how they live in woodlands, marshes, and other places. It’s great when people get comfortable being around these animals and understand the conservation challenges they face. Those have been my goals as I’ve been teaching a great group of people about reptiles and amphibians (herps) and how to look for them in the field (herping).
Almost all the participants are Master Naturalists, so they start with a certain level of understanding about nature and wildlife. Because I teach incoming trainees for a couple of Master Naturalist chapters on the subject of herps, I had already met some of these folks. But two or three hours introducing herps seems like just scratching the surface. So I came up with a plan that involved four class sessions and several field sessions.
Alex, Kristina, Triniti, and Alaina
I have offered it in October and November as a sort of trial run. This is not exactly prime time for finding herps in North Texas, though we’re doing OK. We’re grateful to Fort Worth Nature Center & Refuge for offering facilities and time in the field. In the first session, after we talked about some basic concepts, Dr. Jared Wood (Natural Resource Manager at the refuge) shared some of his knowledge of the American alligator. He has been studying these reptiles in southeastern Oklahoma and will continue the nature center’s research on the alligators of Lake Worth.
We then headed for Greer Island to look for good herp habitat. While walking down the causeway, members of the group spotted a small American alligator cruising along a few hundred feet out in the water. What a wonderful follow-up to the discussion by Dr. Wood!
Green treefrog (Hyla cinerea)
On the island, we wanted to see what we could find without damaging habitat or collecting anything. Our goal was to identify fallen logs that offered good refuge underneath and could be investigated without tearing them up. We also talked about what species would more likely be seen in spots like the water’s edge among tall reeds, or dense mid-story vegetation in the woodland. We did not really expect to see much on a cool October day, but these are very observant folks. We found a little brown skink, a green treefrog sleeping on a reed at the water’s edge, and a Texas spiny lizard before we were done.
Texas spiny lizard (Sceloporus olivaceus)
In our next session we focused on the amphibians of North Texas. We are fortunate to have a number of frogs and toads, and even a few salamanders (occasionally seen in a few locations). We talked about diet, drinking through the skin, secreting toxins through the skin that may confer some protection from infection as well as from some predators. We talked about frog calls and played audio samples of many of them. And then we headed out into the field.
The group, on their way to finding frogs and toads at the marsh
One of our goals was to practice the amphibian monitoring protocol that involves systematically listening for frog or toad calls, identifying for each species whether we heard a few individuals (isolated and non-overlapping calls, which would be Call Index = 1), a larger group (numerous overlapping calls but you can identify individuals calling, which is Call Index = 2), or a full chorus (lots of overlapping calls and individuals cannot be identified, Call Index = 3). The end of October was not the best time for frog breeding, so we were not surprised when we did not hear any calls.
But earlier we had seen several species; they were present but not breeding. People in the group saw leopard frogs, and then we found a small green treefrog. As we watched, it spotted an insect, then jumped, caught it and gulped it down. More green treefrogs were seen, and Alex found a juvenile western ribbonsnake and a couple of cricket frogs. Sheryl found a Gulf Coast toad.
Young green treefrog, in the moment just after catching a “bug”
We’ll turn our attention to turtles next, and in the last session tackle lizards and snakes. To get some good field time for these last species, we may have to reconvene next spring when snakes and lizards are more active.
I’m having a great time getting to know this group of herpers and sharing what I know. They are showing me what good observers they are, and how willing to ignore some mosquitos as we sit in darkness, listening for frogs. Kristina held a snake for the very first time. Some of them are interested in volunteering in the nature center’s alligator research efforts. All of this is great news for reptiles and amphibians and for the broader natural world.
Some of you download and read the Letters to Nature Kids that I write periodically. They’re available within the “Publications” page. I may not post about each one, so they may be overlooked by some who might want to read them. (Parents or teachers might download them and pass them along to kids, but adults read them at least sometimes.) This time I thought I’d put in a word for the Halloween issue.
The first thing I thought about was, of course, how we hijack things in nature, presenting them in ways that make them fearful. Bats, spiders, owls and such. On the one hand, I don’t want to get on my high horse and spoil the fun. I even tried to join in the fun a little by saying: “Bats live in the opposite of the bright daytime world in which we see and hear birds. When people think of angels, they give them feathered wings, but images of demons often have bat wings.”
On the other hand, after Halloween is over, kids should not be left with fears of these things. So I said, “People make up stories, either for fun or as a way to try to explain what they don’t really understand.”
The issue I feel most strongly about is kids (or anyone, for that matter) who take it too far. Halloween should not be an excuse to badly scare some child. I said, “It can be fun to be scared just a little, when we’re with friends and we know the scary thing isn’t real. … Sadly, some people enjoy scaring others because it makes them feel more powerful or stronger than the person that they scared. I’m not talking about kids having fun with each other, I’m talking about a person who enjoys seeing someone really afraid in a way that’s not fun. That’s bullying and it is not OK. Stay away from someone like that.”
If you know someone who might enjoy this Halloween issue, download it and pass it along. And have a safe, fun Halloween!
“To sharpen our gaze is to behold not only the passing beauty of this world, but also its deep suffering, and I’m afraid of the pain and purgation such vision will entail, that it will break my heart open in ways I’ve only begun to fathom.”
– Fred Bahnson
We know the trouble we are in, and we feel the stress of it. The Sixth Assessment Report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) tells us that human-induced climate change has caused widespread damage to nature and people. This does not just represent normal weather variability. Over 3 billion people live in situations that make them very vulnerable to climate change, and a “high proportion” of species is vulnerable. Further, “current unsustainable development patterns” are increasing our danger.
The danger includes more wildfires in various parts of the world, “100-year” floods now happening every few years, glaciers melting, stronger and more frequent hurricanes, drought, and extreme heat. Warmer climates allow mosquitoes and other pests to thrive, leading to disease for humans and trees (milder winters let bark beetle populations expand).
Our sense of safety erodes and the world feels less familiar as we watch world leaders make excuses and see too many fellow humans who are unconcerned or too preoccupied with their immediate challenges to take action. That can lead to helplessness and despair if we’re not careful.
How did we get here?
How did we get to a point where things are so crazy? Who is to blame? We elect leaders, we use fossil fuels and buy all kinds of stuff – are we to blame? I’ve been on the planet for over seventy years, surely there’s more that I should have done. On the other hand, we were born into a culture of growth and consumption. Many of the world’s cultures see nature as a sort of big-box store where it’s all for sale and the more you buy, the higher your status. Western culture enshrines unending economic growth as the only possible path to a satisfying life. It’s hard to swim against those cultural currents. And no matter how much I recycle or try to live “off the grid,” the fracking wells keep getting drilled and Congress keeps giving about $20 billion a year to the fossil fuel industry.
We can’t wait for the culture to change. The culture is us, even if each individual is a drop in the ocean. But we do what we can, even if it’s just for our own sense of integrity. And we reach out to others, pulling drops together until we fill a bucket, and buckets become waves, until we can get something done. Our actions can be guided by what is good for more than just “me,” we can place the well-being of living things above the acquisition of more things, and we can be satisfied with what we have.
The toll it takes
The damage to the planet takes a heavy toll on us, whether we’re watching from the sidelines or working hard in climate activism. A report from the American Psychological Association and others discussed the impact of the anxiety and loss that people are experiencing. There can be trauma from climate-worsened disasters such as tornadoes, floods, and fires. Sometimes the images and fear of future harm can lead to pre-traumatic stress.
There can be a loss of a physical place (a home, a favorite creek, a glacier, etc.), and a person may experience pain and longing when such a place is gone. Such an experience has been termed “solastalgia.” In the opening chapter of Richard Louv’s Last Child in the Woods, there is a fifth-grade girl whose loss of an important place sounds like solastalgia. The girl loved being out in nature:
“I had a place. There was a big waterfall and a creek on one side of it. I’d dug a hole there, and sometimes I’d take a tent back there, or a blanket, and just lie down in the hole, and look up at the trees and sky. Sometimes I’d fall asleep back in there. I just felt free; it was like my place, ….
“And then they just cut the woods down. It was like they cut down part of me.”
– Last Child in the Woods, p.14
Some environmental losses may be very significant, even when they are on a smaller scale than melting glaciers or burned forests.
Many people are experiencing anxiety and other emotions. A survey of 10,000 teenagers and young adults in various countries found that 59% of them were very or extremely worried about climate change. Most had feelings such as sadness, anxiety, anger, helplessness, and guilt.
It’s not just the kids. Many of us – whatever our age – are grieving for the loss of a healthy and familiar climate. This past summer reminded us how much has already changed, and how we took for granted summer days when you could take a walk or work in the garden without risking heat stroke. We might not have thought about how good it was to live in the old climate. With the new climate, we watch the sense of normal and safe begin to slip, and it’s slipping on a planet-wide basis.
Is it too late?
In some places, especially among young people, you hear considerable hopelessness about climate. We have missed many opportunities to act, and the further we go, the harder it will be to slow down that enormous freight train of climate warming. The question that keeps coming up is, “are we doomed?”
A recent book by Rebecca Solnit, Thelma Young Lutunatabua and other contributors has the title “Not Too Late.” It is certainly not an optimistic book, if optimism is believing everything will be OK, don’t worry. Solnit writes that “to hope is to accept despair as an emotion but not as an analysis.” She makes the case that there are still possibilities for action and she reminds us of all the times that something looked impossible until it actually happened. Public opinion has shifted, over $40 trillion has been divested from fossil fuels, and renewable energy is becoming more feasible and affordable. The outcomes are still uncertain; the authors’ point is not that everything will be fine. Maybe it won’t. But uncertainty means that things could turn out better than our fears suggest.
Taking care of ourselves
Even if we accept that things are not hopeless, we are still left with more frequent, climate-driven catastrophes and losses. What do we do about the resulting grief and anxiety? We can share grief – including grief for losses we see coming – with trusted others. We can put anxieties into words and make them more manageable. We can figure out ways to keep from being overwhelmed and actions that reduce our sense of helplessness.
There are already some avenues for doing this, such as the “Climate Cafés” provided through the Climate Psychology Alliance. These are online gatherings where people can discuss climate fears and anxieties, led by the Alliance’s facilitators. There is also the Good Grief Network, “a peer-to-peer support group for people overwhelmed by eco-anxiety, climate grief, and other experiences of eco-distress” (quoting from their website). At least in Texas, all such events are available online only.
I recently started a small face to face discussion group where we can talk about environmental anxieties and grief. There are real advantages to talking with a few trusted others in a situation where we feel heard and understood. The group is for adults – people 18 years old or older. Children’s understanding of these issues and ways of coping with them and expressing feelings about them are somewhat different, so the group does not include children.
My professional career and training has been in psychology and I am a licensed Psychological Associate. That does not mean that this is group therapy, and participants are not clients. I simply support and facilitate our discussion and gently keep us within the boundaries of supporting each other and encouraging self-expression. There is no charge for the group.
One of the central issues for the group will likely be what we can do to take care of ourselves. I recently wrote about coping with the record-breaking heat this summer and I outlined the following ways to help cope with the anxiety and loss:
Express yourself – talking, journaling, drawing, etc. Most things are easier to carry when we share them with people who listen with empathy. Writing in a journal or drawing are other helpful modes of self-expression.
Practice mindfulness and acknowledge beauty. When in natural settings, paying attention to the present moment, with an attitude of acceptance, is a helpful way to let go of persistent thoughts and emotions. The beauty we find in flowers, a woodland, or a sunset reminds us of the good that still exists.
Accept uncertainty. Mindfulness is a good way to work on this one. It is hard to live with uncertainty, but letting go helps more than trying to control what is not controllable. We can still take helpful action (see below) but with less struggle.
Engage and act. We can easily feel helpless with a problem this big and complex. It helps to find something to do (as noted above, drops come together to fill buckets and buckets become waves). We can be part of something bigger, such as Arlington Conservation Council, 350.org, or other groups.
Find a therapist. If things become too heavy, we can seek out a counselor or therapist. Climate Psychology Alliance-North America maintains a climate-aware therapist directory.
It’s easy to be anxious or sad in an uncertain climate future, with painfully slow progress in fighting climate disruption. If those are your feelings, you’re not alone. A recent poll by the American Psychiatric Association found that more than two-thirds of Americans are “somewhat” or “extremely” anxious about climate change. Do what you can, find a community of people who understand, and take care of yourself.
(The epigraph at the beginning of this article is from Fred Bahnson’s “The Ecology of Prayer” (2017) in Orion, v.36 No.4. More information about my climate grief/anxiety group can be found on the climate anxiety & grief page of this website. This article was also published in the November issue of The Post Oak, newsletter of the Arlington Conservation Council)
Sharing the adventure, being a partner in discovering the world,
feeling the excitement when the fish stirs beneath the water –
the joy and wonder are mine, too, because we are connected.
We are connected by experience together, the shared looks and little acts of attunement.
I step up to help or protect and she answers with confidence, love, or protest,
and the dialogue continues.
She is on the ground observing an inchworm and I sit with her.
Afterward, she climbs the boulders while holding my hand, and so
I am the scaffolding that keeps her upright, her partner again.
Fearlessly pushing her coordination and balance to the limit,
she has that smile that says, “I got this,” and she does for a while.
When she falls, I comfort her, safe harbor and a little repair and back out again.
Words and roles change, the scaffolding takes other forms at different ages.
But shared looks, partnership, those little acts of attunement, with
understanding and empathy – that’s always how love works.
(For Halloween, I’m sharing a story I wrote some years back, based on a favorite place, a crazy legend of the ‘goat man,’ and those who may get a little too caught up in such stories, crouching over a fire and gibbering to themselves.)
The car windows were down as I crossed the bridge back over Lake Worth, and the Allman Brothers were on the CD player. After all this time, still putting out high-energy rock and roll, with the new release taking me back to 1969 when “Eat a Peach” came out. The wind whipped by as I exited for the Nature Center.
After an autumn day looking for reptiles and amphibians, a group of us had called it quits and headed home. However, once on the road I realized we had not picked up some minnow traps we put out at Greer Island. A minnow trap is a sort of wire mesh bucket with a wire funnel leading in from each end. In the hands of herpetologists, minnow traps don’t catch minnows so much as frogs and snakes. We placed several of them in shallow water along the island’s shore, partly exposed so that anything that got in could breathe. However, I could not leave any animals trapped, and so I was headed back into the Fort Worth Nature Center and Refuge.
As I drove along the road at the edge of the lake, Greg Allman sang:
“Can’t you feel a cold wind is howlin’ down, blowin’ my song?
Well I ain’t an old man, but you know my time ain’t long.”
I thought about the cold wind that would soon be blowing on the refuge as fall changed to winter. Oh well, I was ready for a change. The end of summer had been unusually humid, and cool weather would feel good.
The sunset glow still provided some light as I walked the causeway to Greer Island. The wind picked up, scattering yellow cottonwood leaves to drift down through the remaining light. I felt a slight shiver. The thought of walking around alone on Greer Island in the gathering dark did not bother me, did it? I’ve been on the island many times, and it is as peaceful as any other part of the refuge. Maybe that Allman Brothers line about a cold wind howling down had gotten to me.
On the island, I pulled the first minnow trap up from where it had been nestled beside a fallen tree branch at the water’s edge. Inside was a water snake, its chocolate brown scales glistening as it frantically tried to find a way out. I put on the gloves, unfastened the trap and reached inside. The snake writhed and bit at the glove, with the small needle-sharp teeth barely penetrating to my skin. Although nonvenomous, water snakes defend themselves by repeatedly biting and by expelling a nasty-smelling musk. I wanted to get this done as soon as I could. Just before I released him, up came a small leopard frog the snake had eaten earlier in the day. “More data for the survey,” I thought, as I recorded the details of both snake and frog.
I searched for the next minnow trap with my flashlight, as it had now gotten dark. Pushing through buttonbush and stepping carefully among the deadfall, I squished through the saturated ground to the next trap. When I found it, it was open. This was very puzzling, because the two halves of the trap fasten pretty securely. I looked around, certainly not expecting to see something. No one else should be on the island at night, and besides, it was ridiculous to think that just because the trap was open, someone had opened it.
More wind whispered and sighed through the treetops, and the flashlight’s beam caught the flicker of a few more leaves fluttering to the forest floor. I reached the site of the third trap, but did not see it in the water. I moved the light around and caught a flash of metal. There! Hanging from a tree branch was a tangle of smashed wire dripping in the flashlight beam – the minnow trap! My hands felt numb and the two other traps dropped from my fingers to the ground. Not bothering to pick them up, I turned and walked quickly back toward the trail. I wanted out of there in a hurry. I pushed through underbrush and spider web, resisting the urge to run and trying to keep my bearings. The flashlight illuminated a narrow section of woods, and everywhere else the darkness seemed menacing. Some of the fear dissipated as I walked, and I emerged into an upland area where the woodland was less thick and the image of the mangled minnow trap was less immediate.
Finding the trail, I set out toward the causeway. Just a little bit now, I reassured myself, and I would be walking on that narrow strip of dirt and gravel under the stars toward the safety of the car. The path re-entered thicker forest and I concentrated on the circle of light from the flashlight. I kept it on the trail, unwilling to risk a glance to either side. The dirt path narrowed, understory shrubs and then tree trunks increasingly closing in. The trail ended! I must have gotten turned around, I told myself, but there were no trails on the island that simply ended. I turned, backtracked, and shone the light around. Nothing but oak and understory shrubs around me. Finally it occurred to me to get into the backpack for the GPS. It constantly plotted my path on its screen, like an electronic version of the trail of bread crumbs in “Hansel & Gretel.” I had used it on more than one occasion to help me backtrack through the forest. As I felt inside the pack for the GPS, I heard something some distance away. It was something like the wail of a large animal, rising in misery and then strangled in a series of barking or coughing sounds. I was frozen for a moment, staring stupidly at the flashlight beam shining where I had set it down, illuminating a tangle of greenbrier and Virginia creeper. Another wail pierced the forest, greater in intensity and ending in several guttural cries like shouts of rage.
Snatching up the flashlight, I ran back along the trail and then cut through a small clearing in the direction I thought I should go. My mind raced back to another memory from 1969 – what was it? The Lake Worth monster? A goat-man that had been seen numerous times but never found? The memory was cut short as I tripped over a downed branch and fell. I picked myself up and tried to run again, but a snare of entangling greenbrier brought me down like a staked dog reaching the end of its tether. I made a bleeding mess of my hands trying to pull the tough, thorny vines away and then finally yanked free. Back on my feet, I set off in a blind panic, the GPS lying useless in the dirt somewhere behind me.
I’m not sure how far I ran, and I’m even less sure of the direction. As I staggered breathlessly up to a higher elevation, the roof of a small pavilion came into view. My heart sank. This structure, with its concrete slab and two protective walls, was far from where I wanted to be. I took a few more steps up the slope, and saw the glow of a small fire burning on the concrete floor. The fire itself was obscured by someone or something sitting with its back to me.
I hesitated. The figure poked the small fire in front of it, without turning toward me.
“Ain’t no gittin away, try as y’might.” The high, thin voice spoke as if we were in mid-conversation. It had some of the hard edge of a threat, but the unsteady quality of a man barely containing his excitement, or maybe fear. Still I stood immobile, wary of doing anything.
“Sit right still, he’ll come,” he added, while drawing distractedly on the concrete with his stick.
I turned and ran, and after me came his high, unsteady shout: “Ain’t no gittin away!” And as if in answer, over to my left came another screeching cry, clipped off and followed by two short bellows of fury. I heard a large branch snap, up in the treetops. I turned and focused the light to see a large figure in the trees, eyeshine reflecting back at me. And then it dropped straight out of the treetops and out of sight. Running away from it would take me away from the causeway. My way out was blocked.
I crouched by a log in dense brush, waiting and trying to think. Bits and pieces of old news accounts returned to me. In 1969 there had been a series of frightening encounters with residents describing something half-man, half-goat covered with light gray fur and scales. Once it was said to have jumped out of a tree and onto a car parked at Greer Island. On another occasion, several bystanders at Lake Worth watched it until it supposedly hurled a car wheel (tire, rim and all) 500 feet in their direction. The mystery had never been solved.
My thoughts were shattered by a voice right beside me – “Ain’t no gittin away, told ye.” I jumped and fell backward in leaf litter and twigs, and when I was able to sit up I saw the old man from the pavilion. His eyes were too wide open and they darted around, not really connecting with mine. He had a desperate look about him, and he was covered with filth. As I started to say something, he swung a bag with something heavy in it, like gravel, and clubbed me.
In my next moment of awareness, I was slung over his shoulder watching the ground go by as he carried me. My wrists were bound. My captor was muttering crazily, “Billy brekkist, Billy lunch, he’ll come, oh yes.” We reached the pavilion and he put me down, and then set busily to work tying me to a support pole. Here and there he paused to look at me with a sick grin that exposed broken teeth and receding gums.
He sat down beside the flickering little fire and looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for some sort of performance. Away and to the side, I saw lightning flash on the horizon.
“Billy! He’ll come – oh yes oh yes. You’ll see.”
In the nearby woods, another wail – chopped, at the end, into staccato yells. The old man became agitated, gibbering “Billy, Billy, Billy, no gittin – no!” He backed away and stumbled into the darkness, eyes as big as saucers.
Why did he keep repeating that name? And suddenly it hit me! It was the children’s story about the goats who try to cross the bridge where the troll lives. I was the bait, and he was going to catch his billy goat.
I exhaled as far as I could, rolled my shoulders forward, and dropped down. The first loop of rope slipped, and I started working out of the bonds that held me. My captor flew into a rage, squealing “No gittin, no gittin!” as he jumped back up onto the concrete. As he got close enough, I kicked him away. I slid further down, escaping more of the rope and then was able to get free. My tormentor made another run at me, screeching “No gittin! No – no!”
Just then, an enormous form jumped in front of me, hitting the old man with such force that they both rolled ten feet away. There was a sickening sound of snapping bones. I looked toward them and in the dim firelight I got a glimpse of fur and horn – and a head turned and stared at me for an instant with the horizontal slitted eyes of a goat.
I leapt away from this horror and ran through the woods, branches and vines slapping me as I went. Somewhere I found the trail and was able to go faster. Behind me a long wail arose, riding on a gust of wind. Lightning flashed. I was aware of noise in the treetops, but could not tell if the trees were disturbed by wind or by some terror pursuing me. The trail widened and big raindrops began to spatter down among the leaves. I followed the bend in the road and emerged onto the causeway.
The rain came down in sheets as I reached the car and got in. As the cold wind blew through the treetops, I made my way out of the refuge. I could not get the old man’s shrill voice out of my head as I drove along Shoreline Drive. I had not gone very far through the heavy rain when a gust of wind blew something onto the road in front of me. I stopped the car and leaned over the steering wheel to look. It was a minnow trap.
Our Lives In Nature 