"Nature has been an artist’s inspiration for centuries. It is through nature that we get the truest sense of ourselves. The washed up froth of the raging seas to the virgin snow on a hidden peak—it stirs something inside all of us. Maybe this is because it is unavoidable; there is no escaping the wind or the sight of a fleeting blackbird. Or maybe it is because everything in nature is personal.
A snowy field on a crisp day is a father and child’s winter wonderland. It is Frosty the Snowman and snowball fights. It is hot cocoa and icy fingers. Bird watching from a lake’s shore is time spent between and mother and daughter. The way the bald eagle bobs in and out of the tops of evergreens is the even breath of a moment shared. The tender arch of the moon’s backside is the way her bare back looks beneath the sheets. A stunning morning glow highlights her golden curls.
It has been said that nature is all around us, and although that is no doubt true, it is even closer to our being. Nature is apart us. Instead of being the greedy consumers that we as humans fall victim to, the organic life that pristinely grows without poke or prod is our reminder that life is delicate. Taking the time to pause in admiration allows for this vital shift from superficial big picture to the smaller details. In this issue we are exploring this attention to detail through a series of pieces that all compliment one another, some in more obvious ways than others. Every author holds their own moments of understanding and admiration for the life that we have each been given—one that rests like a hummingbird on the lip of a petal, fragile and fleeting.
I was six when I realized there was more out there than Sesame Street and school recess. We took a field trip to an apple orchard, it was autumn and my family and I had just gone to pick out pumpkins days before. I didn’t know exactly what we would be doing there, our teacher kept calling it an apple squeeze but that just confused me more. Apples were too hard to squeeze, weren’t they? When we got there, an older man in overalls told us to circle up while he explained how they turned the fruit into apple juice. It was a crisp day; my nose was cold and pink from the wind. Huge trees lined the farm, their leaves looked like the bold colors from my Crayola box.
Some kids started out at the big juicer while others, like myself, were taken out deeper into the estate to learn more about apple trees. Up until this point I held onto the notion that fruit came from somewhere, of course, but the “somewhere” part hadn’t been completely worked out. We followed the man in overalls like a row of perfect ducklings, winding in and out of trees and scattered wheelbarrows.
The man led us to a small dirt clearing in the middle of all the trees. He took a seat in the dirt and motioned for us to do the same. The ground felt soft and damp under my palms. The man cleared his throat, ran his dirt-caked hand through his full head of graying hair, and began to tell us a story. Wide-eyed, we listened. I felt the wind stop—I don’t think it wanted any of his words to get lost. He spoke of a man named Johnny Appleseed and I was captivated. I remember the way he spoke, slow and methodically, with purpose.
It all made sense. The life in the dirt below my palms, the tiny seeds that held so much. The man finally gave me a reason to tolerate cloudy days—the seeds needed the rain to grow. So many things came together for me at that moment, on the floor of the apple orchard on a day nearing Halloween. I had this overwhelming appreciation for all the life I couldn’t see but knew was out there. Johnny Appleseed knew it, too. "
