My senses awaken to the sound of the howling wind, cold and dangerous on my bare arms. My eyes open slowly, taking in the site of the crumbling landscape before me. A heavy, unnatural fog blankets the grey buildings, its smoky tendrils moving lethargically in the wind. My eyes follow a lone leaf above me, too green and healthy amidst the smog of pollution, a smog that makes my eyes sting and my throat ache. The leaf dances in the wind, gracefully brushing my outstretched hand, only to fall and settle in the melting tarmac at my feet. I turn my back to the destroyed city and begin walking in the direction that the leaf had come from. My footsteps are slow and heavy, as if the fog was restricting me, slowing me down. Somewhere in my subconscious …show more content…
All of a sudden, my legs stop working, as they often do in dreams, and I stand stock still, taking in the new landscape. Here on the outskirts of the city, where the half-demolished structures are still visible on the horizon, I notice that the wind is silent. Instead, a soft breeze rustles the trees, trees that grow leaves like the one that now lies, suffocated beneath hot, black goo. I hear the sound of rushing water and turn my head to see a small brook at the base of a grassy hill. Above me, the sky is blue and the sun shines, and all at once I feel at …show more content…
Standing in the front row, are a small family. My mother, my father and my sister all wave to me, reaching out with filth-covered fingers and pale arms. They smile but their eyes are blank and reflective, their faces gaunt and sallow. I inhale sharply, shocked at their obliviousness to the disaster behind them. I try to beckon them over to me, but they shake their heads in shock and mouth words that are lost in the sea of voices surrounding them. A gentle tap on my shoulder and I glance back to see a concerned woman from the other group gesturing towards the trees. I look at her, then back at my family, hoping the confusion is clear in my expression. Then, all of a sudden it dawns on me; I have to choose. I have to make a choice between the small group of alternative and caring strangers behind me or the large crowd of conformists that stand in front of me, a group of people that are unaware of the damage they are creating due to their selfish ways, but also group of people that my loving, albeit blissfully ignorant, family belong to. My stomach drops and my hands begin to shake a little as I take in the two sides both waiting with questioning
There is a serene moment when reading John Muir “A Windstorm in the forests,” that rushed through me. Which can only be described as a rush of emotions that one might face when returning home after traveling for so long. I feel that this response is so far harder to write than I could have imagined it to be because the forest Muir is describing within his story, within the Sierra Nevada is one that I grew up with. The same ones that I spent my summers and winter breaks at, I feel a slight struggle when trying to describe my response because I didn’t realize how much I miss all of that and how many of my memories are surrounded by that forest. Reading Muir story brought back the images of seeing stretches of land covered in an endless amount
I prepared myself for the upcoming adventurous day. I set out along a less-traveled path through the woods leading to the shore. I could hear every rustle of the newly fallen leaves covering the ground. The brown ground signaled the changing of seasons and nature's way of preparing for the long winter ahead. Soon these leaves would be covered with a thick layer of snow. The leaves still clinging to the trees above displayed a brilliant array of color, simultaneously showing the differences of each and the beauty of the entire forest.
The arrival of winter was well on its way. Colorful leaves had turned to brown and fallen from the branches of the trees. The sky opened to a new brightness with the disappearance of the leaves. As John drove down the country road he was much more aware of all his surroundings. He grew up in this small town and knew he would live there forever. He knew every landmark in this area. This place is where he grew up and experienced many adventures. The new journey of his life was exciting, but then he also had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach of something not right.
I have never felt so calm and tranquil, I feel like this is where I belong. A sudden cold breeze blows through me making my hair stand on end, goosebumps plague my body as I start to shiver. The leaves in the trees rustle as the grass begins to blow circles around me. The velutinous clouds above start to swirl and race across the sky.
As I inched my way toward the cliff, my legs were shaking uncontrollably. I could feel the coldness of the rock beneath my feet when my toes curled around the edge in one last futile attempt at survival. My heart was racing like a trapped bird, desperate to escape. Gazing down the sheer drop, I nearly fainted; my entire life flashed before my eyes. I could hear stones breaking free and fiercely tumbling down the hillside, plummeting into the dark abyss of the forbidding black water. The trees began to rapidly close in around me in a suffocating clench, and the piercing screams from my friends did little to ease the pain. The cool breeze felt like needles upon my bare skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps. The threatening mountains surrounding me seemed to grow more sinister with each passing moment, I felt myself fighting for air. The hot summer sun began to blacken while misty clouds loomed overhead. Trembling with anxiety, I shut my eyes, murmuring one last pathetic prayer. I gathered my last breath, hoping it would last a lifetime, took a step back and plun...
The view was remarkable. The sun was peering over the horizon, casting a warm, rosy glow. The mountains were a rich green, they were the churning, passionate green that the ocean turned during a storm. The kind of green that thrusts out of the gritty snow to remind you that spring is coming. I felt the crisp, careless wind run through my hair while thinking that I never wanted to leave this ravishing place.
This morning I wake early from the light that creeps underneath my blinds and my bed next to the window. I wake floating on the streams of light, heated, like white wax spilled across the floor, dripping, soft. In bare feet I walk down the stairs, cold on the wood, and find my father in the kitchen, also awake early. Together, we leave the house, the house that my parents built with windows like walls, windows that show the water on either side of the island. We close the door quietly so as not to wake the sleepers. We walk down the pine-needle path, through the arch of trees, the steep wooden steps to the dock nestled in the sea-weed covered rocks. We sit silently on the bench, watch as the fog evaporates from the clear water. The trees and water are a painting in muted colors, silver and grays and greenish blue, hazy white above the trees.
I jumped up, the nerves leaving an unsettling feeling. A whiff of lemon verbena perfume flowed through from the treehouse door. The comfort of my treehouse swept from my feet and I felt that overbearing yet familiar feeling. Fear. My only defense against the cold, hard world was failing
The wind blows through my hair. The rough ropes are coarse against my palms. My legs are pressed tightly against the warm flank. Rays of sunlight hit the trail ahead of me, seeping through the openings in the foliage. The crispness of the approaching fall greets me with each step.
“Crunch,” whispered the crisp fall leaves blanketing Horizon Hill as I walked along the trail with the companionship of my dog, my mom, and my little sister. It was a clear blue-skied day. There were only a few cotton-like clouds in the sky and the sun was shining through the trees as if you were stuck in a juice box and the brightest light was coming through the straw. My tall brown boots folded and crushed the wandering leaves and sticks on the trail with every step. The mesmerizing fall leaves masked the trail with their bright, exuberant colors of fiery oranges, sunshine yellows, and deep reds and maroons.
My eyes stung from the sea salt that filled my lungs with each deep breath that I drew. My nose was icy, as usual, no circulation at the tip. Pulling the navy woollen fishing beanie over my ears, I paused to listen to the wind whipping and rustling the eucalyptus leaves of the gum trees that stood proudly alongside the back fence of our property. Our weatherboard homestead towered over the eucalypt trees, the crisp white timber palings sitting starkly against the crisp blue Autumn sky. Nothing beats a Tasmanian autumn morning, I thought to myself closing my eyes turning towards the luminous rising sun.
I look up at the flapping bit of cloth outside the window, watching it intensely. The wind gently brushes my face as it worms its way through the cracks in the bricks. I look back in front of me, the city lights shimmer like a party of fire flies. The sounds of the nights echoed, almost like everyone was trying to be the loudest. The skylines filled with skyscrapers, lit apartment lights scattered few between them.
We went to the lobby of the bed and breakfast, and we ate a little the food there wasn't that good anyway. As we were driving we got into another ¨rain forest¨ and it was exactly like the other one boring and wet it rained a lot harder than its little brother. Right as I thought it would never end it finally did the 12 hours and 27-minute drive was done. For a little break, we went to the bay and laid in the water for a second because then it started to rain like it did in the forest as we were diving to are the hotel we noticed that all of the houses were on stone stilts.
In the distance, the trail along which I had been walking wound through a thick velvet fog. Lining the path were tall trees that stoo...
awakens from its urban lethargy. Our inner biology readjusts to the rhythm of the pure air offered to us by the sacred garden. Our minds are slowly cleansed and we begin to hear the voices of the birds, the fish, the boa, the crocodile and the wind. For the first time we hear the powerful voice of the storm before it breaks into passionate rain.