“How wonderful that the universe is beautiful in so many places and in so many ways. But also the universe is brisk and businesslike, and no doubt does not give its delicate landscapes or its thunderous displays of power, and perhaps perception, too, for our sakes or our improvement. Nevertheless, its intonations are our best tonics if we would take them.”

-Mary Oliver, Upstream: Selected Essays

Nature demands we be still.

It’s something I found myself pondering after having spent twenty uninterrupted minutes watching the sun set. The green expanse of trees before me—towering pine trees of Mountain Pine Ridge and lush broadleaf species of the neighboring Elijio Panti National Park—were awash in the warm orange hues of a late summer evening.

At one point, a pair of parrots, wings flapping almost in sync with each other, passed overhead. And though I sat among half a dozen strangers, everyone and everything was silent, save for the rushing waterfall behind us.

I found myself contemplating the same thing, years later, after completing a four-hour hike through the mystifyingly grandiose Actun Chapat, a cave system hidden away in San Jose Succotz.

During that hike, which included a heart-pumping trek through the rainforest, a steep ascent up, up, up some stairs and into the mouth of the cave, and then a descent deep into the belly of the earth, I became enveloped in a kind of quiet that, for me and my overactive mind, is rare outside of when I am in nature.

And it felt absolutely amazing.

We scrambled up rocks, trekked through mud, and looked on in awe at limestone formations that had once similarly entranced our Maya ancestors. Through it all, two things remained constant—my labored breaths (I need to hike more, is what I thought) and the sheer silence in my own head. My mind had gone from running at 100mph to standing completely still.

As someone who spent much of their formative years glued to a computer—in other words, has been chronically online since before there was a buzzphrase for it—I was surprised the moment I understood just how much I loved being not just outside but outside and surrounded by nature’s splendor. Today, I frequently long for it.

Whether it’s looking up at stars framed by the tops of pine trees while camping or trying my hand at identifying birds, or embarking on an insane spelunking adventure with a coworker, being out in nature affords me the serenity that I am often unable to afford myself. And in realizing this, I have become somewhat of an advocate for being outside. (My sister can attest to this.)

I understand now why poets like Mary Oliver and Ada Limon write odes to Mother Nature. How could they not? How can I not?

Both have often found themselves inspired by the sheer beauty of their surroundings.

Oliver spent her days observing how spiders spun their webs, looking at birds, learning the patterns of sea turtles who came to nest on the shores near her home, and literally hugging trees. (She was a weird and whimsical woman, and I adore her for it.)

Limon has seen the need to highlight the fact that we are losing more and more of nature, and the importance of loving our planet more, especially as we stare the climate crisis in the face.

More often than not, we get so sucked in by the hustle and bustle of day-to-day life (what other choice do we have?) that we forget, sometimes, what it means to be still. We forget, sometimes, how to be still, whether in body or in mind.

Nature, if we allow it, can help remind us. The best part? It doesn’t even require us to travel very far if we cannot or do not want to. Sometimes, it simply requires stopping and looking up or looking outside.

“Attention is the beginning of devotion,” writes Oliver in her essay Upstream.

These days I find myself wholly and unconditionally devoted to nature. And in doing so I find myself, even if only momentarily, at peace.

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