Visiting David Kline’s farm reminded me strongly of visiting my cousin’s house in Gallipolis, Ohio as a kid. As a kid I adored the hour and a half long drive to South East Ohio, up and down steep, hilly roads and through eternities of corn fields and forests. Eventually, the car would come to the gravel driveway leading up a final hill to the old dark-wood house. Far out of the reach from cell towers and highway noise, the house was a reminder of a hard labor and natural joy, with forests and yards meant for both playing and working outdoors.

Visiting Kline’s farm, It felt like returning to a family home; I was used to cows and horses, free-range chickens running through the yard and friendly faces walking up to your car to welcome you. I was happy to see Kline humble about his hard labor that showed all around him, labor that let him and his family live upon the work of their hands. The generator kicking on didn’t startle me; I was already used to the loud rumble of pickup trucks that shook my heart in my chest as a kid.

This place felt like a second home, but with more emphasis on the farming lifestyle and community. Although it reminded me of my innocent days of childhood, I couldn’t help but to compare to my present self, with an iPhone in pocket, severely under-dressed for the cold and following behind a trail of classmates, instead of leading or running freely. In my present state of mind, I found it hard to imagine myself living this lifestyle, I felt too burdened by the call of technology and “the Grid” pulling me back to the college. I greatly enjoyed being on Kline’s farm, but I was saddened I couldn’t return to the days where hard work overshadowed the alienation of society at large.

As I walked through the woods, my first goal was to take pictures of things I found intriguing or beautiful. I wanted to capture a spot, a phenomena that spoke to me, one that I would remember. Most of the woods besides the Wooly Alder Aphids were much like what I’ve seen in parks near my home. The same trees, the same paths and foliage, even the same carvings in the towering birches. Although after a while, I stumbled upon a spot that struck me with some significance; the woods seemed deep at this point and seemed to go on forever. Right at the turn of the boardwalk, maybe 30 feet away from a large patch of jewelweed and two benches, the trees seemed to continue on forever. I had seen places like this in other parks, but this seemed like a special place for this park. Through the trees, no opening could be seen, no end of the tree line, no sunny break in the canopies, no patches of tall plants. Apart from the sounds of the roads that could be heard, the woods seemed to continue on forever in that direction. As I sat to begin writing, I noticed chipmunks peek out from under the boardwalk; the sight of me startled them however, and they quickly darted back under to safety. I lowered myself quietly to avoid spooking them, and took out my paper. I took notes on the surroundings, trying my best to find what element inspired my awe. I scribbled about the hickory nuts, poison ivy and ferns scattered across the forest floor. I watched the chipmunks chase each other, flashing through the leaves, but becoming invisible when they stopped. The woods behind me seemed to shed more light down, but before me, the canopy was thicker, darker and more ominous. After a few minutes I decided to move on. I’m not sure if I’m quite able to describe the vibe given off by that spot, maybe it was one of the many spots you have to visit for yourself to understand. I continued walking the path, but nothing I saw quite took that place out of my mind.

When trying to weave natural elements into our modern lives, it’s interesting to see the ways in which we interpret the natural in mechanical ways. For a month over the past Summer, I worked on a tree farm for my Uncle’s housing development. I oversaw a few thousand trees that would be planted by the side of the streets in the community. Sycamores, London planes, white pines, hickories and oaks galore, I was in charge of making sure they were watered, fertilized, planted and repotted. Some trees were a year or two old, others just sprouting, but all to be treated with a mechanical mind, as I was taught. Often, I found myself staring in awe of each small woody branch reaching out of the ground, the chaotic dance of leaves in the wind, and the organic architecture of each green skyscraper-to-be. These trees would grow and become beautiful in the community that my uncle was creating, but the process of growing them felt alienating.

Each tree was to be watered twice a day for four seconds, each with 28 psi, but only within a strict time frame. The nursery was filled with lines of trees, nearly 100 in a row, three rows side by side and then a walking space, then another three rows. The pots were policed each day, weeds plucked, new branches snipped and deformities removed.  The open yard the trees were placed in began to feel like an open-air warehouse; I patrolled the aisles, strutting up and down the black plastic tarp surveying the goods. The process was mechanical, the trees were anything but natural. These trees would be used to give the community a natural element, but they lacked any sense of real naturalism of their own. This garden of trees felt worlds apart from the thriving forests I hiked through in my childhood.

The most natural part about standing in the middle of this tiny little forest was closing your eyes and feeling anything else. The blistering hot sun would turn any uncovered skin pink and tender, the wind would blow gently and the clouds would slowly drift across the sky. The red-winged blackbirds would chirp and sing a chorus as they swooped to and fro to chase the bugs interrupting their songs. A few times it would storm, and the bright flashes of lighting would shock the sky, and the rain would pound on the brim of my hat. These moments distracted me from my work, but reminded me of the nature that was truly present.

As the world modernizes, trying to keep in touch with nature by bring her to our doorstep is impossible. Any potted plant or flowerbed may be pretty for a decorative piece, but was planted and raised solely by the power of man. The trees will look fantastic next to the neighbor’s 2017 Honda, but they have both been built by similar processes.

Nature is not something we can adapt into our lives, we must adapt to it. To visit mother nature, we must walk to her doorstep and bow, humbling ourselves and respecting her power. One may try to pick a bouquet of flowers on a stroll through the woods, but they cannot live in the glass vase we place them in at home. The only way to preserve that flower would be to grow it from seed in our garden beds, or dig up the plant and the earth from underneath. In doing this over thousands of years, we have destroyed nature and our perception of “the natural world,” and we cannot force it back into our lives with sculpted sycamore trees or ornamental orchids.

In the abandoned radioactive town of Chernobyl, we see a beautiful anomaly; a man-made city abandoned, and an area reclaimed by nature. Albeit the trees, spiderwebs, birds and deer all show signs of radioactive poisoning, their beauty can be seen in the reclaiming of an abandoned city. Many scientists have grown fond of studying the effects on the radiation on the growing wildlife, and photographers and environmentalists have joined them on some trips, bringing back stunning photos of what happens when mother nature reclaims the land. True nature is found not only in undiscovered lands, but also in the absence of humans, adapting to places we could not. Nature does not fit inside the mechanical lives of humans, but only outside our reaches.