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Going on a walk to stretch my legs is something I have to fit into my routine for my mental and physical well-being. I often have to invent my own sidewalk as cars roar by me, a lonely pedestrian.

Take a deep breath, close your eyes, and lift your face to the sky.

I attended a strange school in the mountains with strange classes and strange assignments. I only now understand the strangeness of it all after trading stories with classmates throughout college who flat out tell me, “That is very strange.”

I step out, my bare feet crushing the delicate blades of new growth, and feel the earthworms under the dirt begin to writhe and sing, pulling me down into their tunneled maze. For a moment, just before one swallows me whole, I can remember what it feels like to doze off on the sun-warmed pavement, fingers sticky from tearing into the flesh of an orange.

Ever since I can remember, I have always felt a longing to witness the continual birth and death of nature. Summer turning to Fall, Fall to Winter, Winter to Spring, and Spring back to Summer; a spellbound metamorphosis of the Earth’s natural environment.

Fruit trees to nibble from, ripe or not. Winding paths through the trees, littered with forgotten tools. And a set of almond trees, its perfectly positioned branches suggesting a game of “who can climb the highest?”

And to think, too, all of the space we need to direct traffic that can be transformed into the twisting paths of green. I can picture it now, whole lanes of traffic, asphalt broken and ripped up to make way for it. A shedding of skin. An urban cleansing.

There is a force that drives children to nature. To climb trees and make botanical potions. To pick through creeks for magic rocks and sit under the shade of a fruit tree.