Green

It is unfortunate that we often do not value what we have until we no longer have it. Those earrings weren’t nearly so treasured until I misplaced them. That relationship gained a different significance when it fizzled out and I was left with a realization of how much it reshaped me. Those gummy bears didn’t taste particularly good until there were none left and I wished there were more. That room of opportunity didn’t seem so appealing until after the door was firmly shut to those possibilities. 

Thankfully, while we’re sleeping life leaves little gifts of graciousness on the pillows damp with our tears. These gifts are the chances to value what we do have, when we have it -- not out of fear of loss, but out of unadulterated joy and appreciation. 

My grandpa and I were trudging through my grandparents’ woods on a short hike reminiscent of bygone summers spent exploring the verdant foliage. We brushed past elegant ferns, stepped gingerly over fragile snail shells, clamored over fallen trees padded with carpet-like moss, shied away from grimacing nettles, pointed out almost every slug we saw (you’d think you’d stop commenting after sighting the twelfth slug in five minutes, but you don’t), inhaled that redolent aroma of cedar and evergreen and decomposing leaves, and admired the gray-green beards of lichen festooning the bark of the tree trunks’ faces. I’d walked through these woods many times...sometimes with an avid imagination, collecting smoothed stones from the creek bed to build a faerie house in a gnarled old stump...sometimes with practicality or Grandma’s orders in mind, picking huckleberries and thimbleberries...sometimes with disgust and impatience, shuddering off spider webs and barely listening to my grandparents’ enthusiastic explanations of flora and fauna. 

But this time, I soaked in the thousand shades of green. I was sad I’d missed the fiddleheads in their tightly-curled glory. I commended my grandfather on his feat of engineering and handiwork in the form of a new bridge arching over the stream bed. 

And I genuinely appreciated it all. The chance to spend time with a beloved someone growing tired with old age. The untamed, delicate, vigorous, folk-tale-like beauty of the woods. 

When we were studying abroad and spent a stretch in Israel and Palestine, we visited the Sea of Galilee. Everyone exclaimed how breathtaking the view was, how peaceful the atmosphere was. The Sea of Galilee is indeed a stunning place. 

But my thought at the time was, “This looks just like home.” 

Maybe it’s unfortunate that we sometimes need to roam to the other side of the world and back before we realize that we live amidst breathtaking beauty ourselves. Sometimes you don’t realize how lovely a familiar face is until you’ve encountered lots of unfamiliar ones. 

Travel is, with good reason, alluring. It’s a new patchwork quilt of sights, tastes, experiences, and conversations to wrap around yourself for days and nights to come. It inherently fosters in you a deep appreciation for exploration and discovery and a fascination with what is for you the uncharted. 

But then there is the well-mapped territory of your ‘normal’ life, of your neighborhood, of your childhood memories, of a wrinkled face. And after months without this in the forefront of your mind, newfound immediacy can take on its own charm. 

Sometimes, some of the most beautiful places on earth you will ever discover are minutes away from your home. Some of the most incredible people you will ever meet you’ve already known for years. But sometimes, you just need a reminder to value them.