Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts… There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature—the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter. – Rachel Carson
On the first Wednesday in November, I went to the river. The political news of that morning had knocked the breath from my body and sent tears down my face—visceral responses to the outcome of the most caustic and consequential presidential election in my lifetime.
The election result wasn’t a total surprise to me, even though I had hoped for a different outcome. A majority of Americans had loudly expressed unhappiness with the status quo and demanded a major shift in our country’s leadership toward a more partisan, authoritarian style of government. In history, change is the motivation for most political outcomes. What worries me—actually frightens me—is the steady decay of the truth in recent years. It has poisoned efforts to find common ground and solve problems, most consequentially the climate crisis. This aversion to the truth—to facts, data, and science—has amplified divisiveness among family, friends, and neighbors; there is no end is in sight.
I believe that policy decisions affecting our families and communities should be based on the truth, and on honesty, fairness, kindness, and justice for all. These are the values I was taught as a child and that I have taught my sons. The anticipated shifts in federal governance appear poised to harm millions of people, especially those less fortunate—as well as the air, land, and water upon which we all depend.
Refrains of nature
I have walked the same trail in Atlanta’s “backyard” national park—the Chattahoochee River National Recreation Area—for more than five years. During one of those years, I walked through the woods along Cabin Creek to its confluence with the river nearly every week, finding awe everywhere I looked, especially as the seasons changed. My journal notes from those visits spawned the idea for my book, “Keeping the Chattahoochee.”
On my post-election walk, the weather was warm, ten degrees above the “normal” average for a November day in Atlanta. Trekking pole in hand, I headed downhill toward the river, hoping to banish my negative thoughts. There were “too many browser tabs open” in my cluttered, worried brain.
A soft breeze and the sweet and spicy smell of decaying leaves began to quiet my internal noise. I looked more intently around me at the fall colors of this southern forest filled with hickories, sassafras, sourwood, beech, maples, native magnolias, oaks, and sycamores. The leaves of the deciduous sassafras tree, which grow in three different shapes, have long been a favorite. Every autumn, they turn shades of red and yellow. The elliptical, watermelon-colored version of these leaves bring back memories of my childhood in a wooded neighborhood on the outskirts of Atlanta.
I marveled, as I always do, at the hundreds of bigleaf magnolia leaves dominating the forest floor with their silver undersides facing up—now allowed a view of the sky. The massive leaves lay in still, pale ponds circling slender trunks. Some, caught on branches, looked like flags and banners celebrating the cycles of life.
At a bend in Cabin Creek, I found a dozen trout fry, darting about in the clear water and hiding under fallen leaves. Over the years, as I’ve walked this trail, I’ve seen generations of these little fish—hatching, growing, and then making their way downstream to the river: the comforting, repeated refrains of nature.
What to do next?
As I continued my downhill trek toward the river, I saw a woman walking toward me. Something in her face told me that we were both in the woods for the same reason. As a young Black woman, her experiences and challenges assuredly differed from mine, but as women and mothers of sons we found commonality in our worries about the future. We asked each other: “What is next? What do we do now?” The river and the woods were calming, but couldn’t answer our questions. We wished each other well and walked on.
At the river, I lay my jacket on the ground and sat cross-legged watching the gray-green water flow around the jagged rocks and islands on its way to the sea. I made a foolish decision and looked at my cell phone for news and messages from friends; the rapid breathing returned.
Finally, I put the phone down to lie on the ground, just inches from the edge of the water. Gazing skyward, I scanned the tree canopy above me, watched the sun periodically emerge from gray clouds, and listened to the river. An hour or more passed. My breathing slowed. Nature’s gifts of peace and healing filled me, as my mind and body seemed to merge with the river.
I’m still searching for answers to the question of what to do next, but I know it will include greater emphasis on family, community, and nature—and that indifference and surrender will not prevail. As philosopher Albert Camus wrote: “In the depth of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.”