Why I Need Wild- Reflections

“Reconnect with nature” is something people my age say all the time, usually after a chaotic week or when everything feels overwhelming. I’ve said it too, casually, as just another way to say “I need a break.” But after this class, I actually understand what that means on a deeper level.

For me, needing “wild” isn’t about escaping to some remote, untouched place far away from everything. It’s about those small but powerful moments when I’m overwhelmed, and I pause, go outside, soak in my surroundings, and feel grounded again. I’ve realized that nature isn’t something distant, but it’s something that exists all around me, even in places I used to ignore. This class taught me that you can find “wild” where you least expect it, whether that’s a quiet trail, a patch of trees, or even just noticing the wind, light, and stillness around you.

Going to the nature center and volunteering made that idea feel real. Clearing invasive plants and working in that environment made me feel like I was participating in something meaningful, not just observing it. It slowed me down in a way that felt natural, not forced, and helped me feel more connected to the space around me.

One of the biggest things I discovered was that water, specifically, has an effect on me. Whether it is a pond, a river, or the ocean, I am immediately calmed. Being near the ocean makes me feel small in the middle of such a huge world, but in a comforting way. Instead of feeling insignificant, it reminds me that there is something much bigger than the stress and worries in my own life. I need this reminder to keep myself sane. It gives me perspective and makes everything else disappear for a moment.

Reading Desert Solitaire and other works by Edward Abbey also shaped how I see “wild.” His writing emphasizes both the beauty and the harshness of nature, showing that it isn’t just peaceful, it’s powerful, real, and persistent. Because of this class, I now see that I need wild not just to relax, but to feel present, grounded, and aware of something bigger than myself.

Ten Best Photos

My Best Photo: 

This photo stands out because it captures a moment between a human-made structure and the natural world. The curved balcony frames the picture and leads your eye toward the ocean, while the warm light contrasts with the cool blues of the water and sky. The bird perched on the railing adds a sense of life and stillness at the same time, emphasizing a peaceful connection to nature. The composition, lighting, and subtle details all work together to create a calm sense that feels both incredibly personal yet expansive.

Ten Best Photos: 

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost

After class, I went home still thinking about the Robert Frost poem we read. Something about it stuck with me. I decided to read the rest of the poems on the handout, and I kept coming back to this one.

In “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” Frost creates a peaceful, almost hypnotic scene. The speaker pauses in the woods to watch the snow fall, even though he knows he probably shouldn’t stay. The setting feels isolated, especially when Frost writes, “the darkest evening of the year ”, and when the silence is only broken by the soft wind and the horse’s bells. That stillness makes the moment feel like time has slowed down.

What stood out to me most is the contrast between beauty and responsibility. The woods are described as “lovely, dark and deep,” which makes them feel tempting, almost like an escape. But the speaker reminds himself that he has “promises to keep,” pulling him back to reality. The repetition of “and miles to go before I sleep” emphasizes choosing responsibility over what he wants.

To me, the poem reflects the tension between wanting to pause and appreciate life versus the constant pressure to keep moving forward.

My Outside Magic

 

This weekend, I set out on a five-mile hike along the border of Connecticut and New York under a very cloudy, dreary sky that drizzled ever so lightly. The air felt heavy, like everything was holding its breath. Without my phone, left behind on purpose for this assignment, there was nothing to fill the silence except the sound of my own hiking boots through damp dirt and the drip of water from branches overhead.

When I reached the pond, it didn’t announce itself. It just appeared, low and still. The water was lined with mud and scattered patches of skunk cabbage. Despite its misleading name, the plant carried no odor at all, sitting scentless next to the pond. A narrow stream cut through in front of me, winding its way toward the water. It wasn’t clean or clear, as it carried bits of dirt, carving a shallow path that looked temporary, seeming as if it would disappear as soon as the rain stopped. But in that moment, it felt purposeful, like a quiet connection between land and water.

The trees around the pond stretched upward in thin, uneven lines, their branches mostly bare, scratching softly at the gray sky. Closer to the ground, though, everything was beginning again for the start of spring. Small, bright green blades of grass push up through the wet soil, clustered in patches. The contrast was striking: above me, the last traces of winter, but below, the persistence of something new.

Across the pond, almost easy to miss, sat a small white cabin. It looked distant and still, tucked just beyond the waterline, as if it belonged more to the landscape than to any person. There was something quietly unsettling about the placement of the cabin. There was no movement and no sign of life, yet it added a human touch to the isolated scene. It made the place feel both peaceful and slightly mysterious, like I had stumbled into a moment that existed whether or not anyone was there to see it.

I realized how easily I reduce places like this to a quick glance, something to pass through rather than experience. Nothing about the scene was loud or dramatic, yet it held my attention in a way that felt unfamiliar. The “magic” wasn’t in something extraordinary happening, but in how long I was willing to stay with something ordinary. Nature did not change, but I did. Without my phone, I couldn’t rush past. I sat in the quiet long enough for the landscape to feel like something existing on its own, with or without me.

Nature Center Reflection

This past week out at the Fort Worth Nature Center and Refuge felt different. It's not because the work changed, but because I started noticing more. Maybe it’s from going consistently, but the landscape, the routine, and even the people around me all feel more familiar now.

Each time, we head out with ranch loppers to cut back privet, an invasive plant that seems to twist itself into everything around it. In the privet patch, there are also vines that are especially stubborn, lined with thorns that catch your sleeves or scrape your arms if you’re not careful. On Tuesday, I fell down and caught one of those thorns right in my leg. There’s a resistance in both the privet and vines, like they don’t want to be moved, but with enough effort, they give way.

The first two weeks were brutally hot. The kind of heat that drains you faster than you expect, where even lifting the loppers starts to feel heavy. It was tiring work, but there was also something grounding about just focusing on the next branch, the next cut.

What’s made it even better, though, are the people. Working alongside the same group of girls each week, we’ve started talking more, laughing in between cuts, playing small word games and connections. It’s funny how something as simple as clearing brush can bring people closer.

By the end of each day, you can actually see the difference. Areas that felt overgrown and tangled open up, the land pushing back through the mess. Even going just once a week, it’s rewarding to come back and notice the change. 

Beauty on the Road

The highway isn’t where you expect to find beauty. It’s loud and fast with cars rushing past, destinations somewhere else. But every now and then, if you look beyond the guardrail, something softer can be seen.

Today it was flowers.

They lined the side of the road, scattered in patches of yellow, purple, and white. Not planted, and not perfectly placed. It felt almost like nature chose the least gentle place and thrived anyway.

I couldn't keep my eyes off the flower patches. The highway changed. It wasn’t just a stretch of concrete connecting one place to another. It became a border between the rush of human movement and the unbothered persistence of nature. The flowers didn’t care about traffic or time. And they weren’t trying to be noticed. And yet, I noticed.

I love that kind of beauty. The kind that exists without permission, and without attention. It makes me wonder how much we miss by always looking straight ahead.

Maybe the best parts of the journey aren’t the destinations at all, but the small, unexpected things growing quietly along the way.

A Long Run

Since the Cowtown half, today was my first real long run again, and I could feel the small sense of return settling in with every mile. I ran 7.5 miles through the Woodland's trail system in Houston,

easing back into the rhythm of distance after letting my body recover. There is something so different about starting without the adrenaline of a starting line or the pressure of knowing I have to train for a race. I love just moving forward for myself and letting the miles unfold behind me.

I started my run along the river path, with a congestion of people nearby, enjoying their sunny mornings. About two miles in, I turned a corner and the footpath thinned out. The road ran along one side of me and a creek stretching along the other. Cars moved past, loud and fast, while the water beside me felt slower and muted, bordered by thick green growth that almost seemed to spill into the water. Even in the middle of the city, the creek created its own pocket of calm.

The greenery looked vivid, dense and bright in a way that made the air feel heavier, but more alive. The entire stretch felt more hidden than I would expect, like nature was trying not to be noticed.

At one point, I passed a bird near the edge of the river that immediately caught my attention. In the moment, it looked like some weird combination of a rooster and a mallard with dark feathers and a bright red face. Later I learned it was a Muscovy duck, but during the run it was one more unexpected detail my run offered.