Now that I am living in the cloud forest near Mindo Ecuador, I am distanced from urban areas and spend most of my time in blissful solitude. Every so often someone will ask, “Aren’t you scared?” or “Don’t you get bored?” or even “Are you sure you are happy out there?”
Sometimes I smile (smirk?) and reply, “I’m not wired like most…”
Even when very young, I preferred the sky as my roof and a fallen tree as my chosen furniture, and I’d seek out my favorite places in the woods and sit for half an hour or more before moving to another area. I craved the hushed quiet of the wilderness, though the nuances of subtle sounds filled my hours with joy. The wind whispering through the trees provided the most-constant soundtrack as I admired and inspected wildflowers that dotted the landscape. I learned to stomp on the ripened fruit of the ‘Maypop,’ and I sometimes tweaked my attention to a sudden splash in the water, which might have been a fish or a snake or a falling limb. I explored the thickets for Brer Rabbit, though I always failed at sneaking up on prehistoric-looking softshelled turtles basking on sun-drenched banks.
As an adult, I adapted when necessary, but I have always been my best when alone with nature. My senses come alive, and I merge with the subtle rhythms. Years ago when I spent a month in the city, I asked my birding friend, Michael Godfrey, “If I feel starved for connection with nature, what must the Indians feel when they’ve transplanted to the concrete jungles? How do they survive?”
Michael’s reply was a sobering one, “They don’t. They die a little each day from soul rot.” Continue reading