This morning, I went for a hike to seek patterns in nature. My mind was uneasy. I needed nature to bring order and a sense of calm.
A bit of backstory: I had been feeling anxious for a few days. While life wasn’t bad in my world, things weren’t exactly going my way, either. My mind felt chaotic as I contemplated what to do about a few situations.
With a day free of obligation, I found myself pacing around my house, wondering how to bring order to my life. I paced and thought, paced and thought. Until I stopped. My fidgeting was not solving any problems. In fact, it was creating more anxiety. I decided to get my body outside and do something productive. My instincts told me to go for a hike and seek patterns in nature. While I didn’t think patterns were going to tell me what to do, I believed they would calm my mind and unravel the chaos going on inside me.
I was right.
I drove myself to a wooded area near a lake. When I saw the blue water, I decided the lake was a good place to start. I walked to the end of the dock and admired the reflection of clouds on the water’s surface. Looking up, I saw the clouds had a pattern, strips of them that resembled spines. The clouds I saw are called cirrus vertebratus. Vertebratus is a Latin word meaning “joint of the spine.” Yep, aptly named. Some of them looked like spines and others looked like fish bones.
I looked back down at the water and noticed the cloud images were cast beautifully on the surface, but there were other lines as well. They were ripples in the water. The circular outward motion in which they moved provided me with another pattern. Outward moving ripples of water in an ever-expanding circle.
The circles reminded me of life and how it expands and moves forward. The rippling water didn’t know where it was going, it just kept on moving. I feel that. I don’t always know where I’m going, but I keep moving forward. My life keeps expanding when I meet new people, take on new writing jobs, or enlarge my space in any fashion.
Within the larger ripples of water there were a couple of smaller circular ripples. There were water bugs on the surface, making movement. Each movement created another small ripple that circled the bug and moved through the larger ripple on the lake. That also reminded me of life. The ripple effect in my life is sometimes interrupted by other occurrences. And that’s okay, even if those occurrences are “bugs.” They serve to remind me I don’t have a seamless, perfect circle in which to live. There are interruptions. There are ripples I didn’t count on or invite.
As I watched the water, a song came to mind. It’s called “Still Waters” based on Psalm 23. Some of the lyrics are, “Write scripture on your heart for when you need it ‘cause anxiety hates Psalm 23 … He leads me by still waters ‘til my fears are gone.” And I thought about how my morning angst was just that. Fear that life wasn’t going to go the way I wanted it to. And that line of thinking can make me freeze in my tracks (or pace and think, pace and think …).
While the water I looked at was moving, though ever so slowly, I thought about still water and realized without movement, life isn’t going forward. I need the ripples, the ever-expanding circle! The still waters of the song, of Psalm 23, are inside me. It is there, inside myself, God leads me to be still.
Gazing at the water, thinking about the song’s lyrics, I realized still waters were settling in. Life. Nature. My mind was already calmed by the first patterns I watched. I walked back down the dock upon a thin blanket of sparkling frost. Plank after plank of starlight sparkles beneath my feet.
After leaving the lake, I walked into the woods and admired the colors of fall. While some green remained, most of the foliage had browned and fallen to the ground. To my right was the lake. It was encircled by trees and cattails and red dogwood branches. Songbirds kept me company and a squirrel scampered along the ground keeping a watchful eye on me.
I noticed the fallen leaves, thick on the forest floor. They were wet with morning dew, some had frost on them, making a ground cover. I realized I had found my next pattern. Each leaf had its own distinct pattern. The leaves were from different sorts of plants and trees. I stopped to study some oak leaves that were the color of a brown paper sack.
The edges of each leaf were jagged, like teeth of a saw. The central vein had alternating veins running outward. There were other leaves amid the oaks, each with their own distinct patterns. They reminded me of art class in elementary school. My teacher had us collect leaves outside and put them under paper, shading them with a pencil to make an imprint on the page.
As I walked through the woods, I enjoyed shadows cast on the ground by trees and the sun shone. The browns and reds of autumn looked beautiful, and I noticed I was smiling. The colors reminded me of another pattern in nature. Really, more of a pattern of seasons, marked by signs and wonders that return year after year.
Walking along, I enjoyed the sounds of nature, things rustling in the wind, a squirrel scampering across dry leaves, the tap-tap-tap of a Harry woodpecker on a nearby tree, and the familiar call of a best-friend-of-a-bird, the chickadee. Chick-a-dee-dee-dee …
I took an obscure trail up a hill. It led me deeper into the trees and I saw many interesting things along the way. A burl (knobby growth on a tree), tree hollows that looked like good places for owls or other critters, more shadows cast by the sun. The crunch of leaves beneath my feet caused me to look up to see if the treetops were holding any other dying foliage. It was then I saw a few dreys (squirrel nests) up high. From the top of the hill, I had a good view of the area. I was glad I had taken the hill, and I resumed my search for distinctive patterns in nature.
I knew they were all around me, but I wanted something to jump out at me, something obvious to present itself. Nothing.
Eventually, I stopped looking and simply enjoyed my walk. My mind had calmed, and I had forgotten about the tangled web of chaos I had felt earlier in the morning.
On the other side of the hill, I began my descent. It was steep, and the ground was a little wet, so I was concerned about slipping. I almost turned back to go down the same way I had climbed, but I didn’t. I carefully descended the hill, holding on to trees that offered me support. I’ve always considered trees to be good friends.
At the bottom of the hill, I continued to walk and admire all the surrounding beauty, and I felt grateful to be outside. Then, when I wasn’t seeking it, another pattern emerged. It wasn’t something I saw. I heard it. It was another chickadee. And when I heard its Chick-a-dee-dee-dee call, I realized another pattern was its song. Bird calls have patterns. They are combinations of sounds, and each specific call has a specific meaning.
I thought about how humans have speech patterns, like birds. Expressions. Rhythms. Tones.
After a nice, long hike, I returned to my car. As I headed home, I thought about the state of dis-ease I had felt before my walk. The problems of the day, the uncertainties of my life, were still there. I could sense them in the back of my mind, but now they were quiet. I felt calm and orderly and creative and happy.
I was satisfied with my time in nature, pattern-seeking, and the calm it provided me. I knew I could keep this nature, this inner calm, like the Still Water song, throughout my day. I took a few deep breaths and gave thanks for all I had seen and all I had heard. I knew my life would keep moving, like the ripples on the lake. I didn’t know exactly where I was headed, but I knew it would be forward and outward, ever expanding.
