It seems to me that nature has become easy to overlook. Not because it has disappeared, but because we’ve learned how not to see it. Trees become background. Rivers become something we cross without listening to. Mountains are admired from a distance, usually through a windshield or a screen. Even animals are more often encountered digitally than in the wild. Nature hasn’t changed. Our relationship to it has.
Modern life encourages speed and distraction. Phones, schedules, and obligations pull our attention inward, away from the simple acts of noticing. Sunrises happen whether we watch them or not. Seasons turn whether we acknowledge them or not. When I look around now, I often feel that nature has been reduced to scenery rather than presence. Something decorative, not participatory. And in doing so, we miss the quiet lessons it continues to offer.
How Childhood Shaped the Present
My connection to the natural world began early. Growing up in Oregon, I was surrounded by variety. Forests, rivers, deserts, mountains, and coastline all existed within reach. Those environments were not abstractions to me. They were places I spent time in. With my father, I hunted, fished, explored, and learned how to pay attention.
Those experiences taught me far more than outdoor skills. They taught observation. Patience. Respect. Whether it was hunting ducks on the Columbia River in winter, fishing for cod off the Tillamook Bar in summer, or simply walking through different landscapes, nature became a classroom without walls. Each environment had its own rhythm, its own demands, and its own rewards.
I remember noticing small things. Berries budding. Saplings emerging after fires. Salmon swimming upstream to spawn and die. Cacti surviving harsh desert conditions. These weren’t dramatic lessons at the time. They simply registered. Over years, they shaped how I understood life. Cycles mattered. Adaptation mattered. Presence mattered.
School never held the same appeal as being outdoors. My father understood that. He valued time in nature over conformity and routine, reinforcing the idea that learning doesn’t always happen indoors or on schedule. That freedom, and that exposure, left a lasting imprint.
Finding Calm in Life’s Challenges
Although I am of European descent, I was influenced by Native American thought through friendships my father had with people living on reservations in Eastern Washington and Northern Oregon. One idea that resonated with me later in life is Gerald Vizenor’s concept of survivance. Not survival as endurance alone, but survival as presence. Continuing the story rather than being defined by absence.
My life is not a parallel to Indigenous histories of displacement or oppression, but the philosophy of staying present, adapting, and continuing forward made sense to me. Nature reinforces that idea constantly. Animals adjust. Landscapes change. Life continues without commentary.
The book reflects how observing nature shaped my understanding of hardship. Mountains don’t react to our struggles. Rivers don’t pause for our grief. They continue. Not indifferently, but steadily. Watching that taught me that life is not about control, nor about waiting for reward elsewhere. It is about paying attention to what is here.
Over time, I learned to value earthly experience without needing to frame it through promises of future perfection. Storms pass. Calm returns. Joy exists alongside difficulty. That perspective helped me approach life with less resistance and more curiosity.
Philosophy in Practice
Those early lessons never left me. As an adult, I still turn to nature for grounding. Long walks. Quiet observation. Remembering that hardship is temporary, and that movement forward does not require explanation.
Western religion often emphasizes reward beyond this life. Nature emphasizes endurance within it. Through observation rather than belief, I found a way of living that values presence, adaptability, and acceptance. Growth happens through engagement, not abstraction.
In Such Is Life?, I try to convey that philosophy through story rather than argument. Nature taught me patience. It taught me how to hold difficulty without dramatizing it. It taught me that life continues, not loudly, but reliably.
The book is not just a collection of memories. It is a reflection on how immersion in the natural world shapes perspective. Forests, deserts, rivers, and coasts became teachers. They offered lessons that were practical, grounding, and quietly profound.
If there is an invitation in these stories, it is a simple one. Slow down. Notice what is around you. Pay attention to both the smallest details and the widest horizons. There is wisdom there, waiting, whether we choose to see it or not.