Get Out of the Concrete Cage
I live in a suburb of Los Angeles. My surroundings are those of gray sidewalks, clipped hedges, and meticulously-landscaped shopping malls. There are restaurants and retail outlets abound. Starbucks rest on every corner, mom-vans frequent the black paved roads.
Because I’m so close to the city, I have often spent day trips exploring Los Angeles. I always found the urban environment rather charming: pot-holed roads, graffiti-decorated buses, and niche boutiques selling assorted baubles.
On most days, my current residence a lovely place to live. I can’t complain: I have all of the necessities of life and then some. I consider myself lucky to enjoy the comfort and accessibility of suburban life.
For so long, I thought I was happy with the limited nature that my surroundings offer.
One vacation changed this.
This winter, I embarked on a journey into the Sequoia National Park with some family. We lodged in a small, COVID-friendly resort/RV park in the middle of nowhere, and during our stay played in the snow and viewed the towering trees within the National Park.
It was a stunning experience, to say the least.
What struck me most about the forests, however, wasn’t just the mere mass of General Sherman or the blanket-like serenity of the snow (which is an anomaly where I’m from). The core memory of the trip was one, seemingly mundane moment.
It had been a long day. We had spent hours making snowmen, hiking to visit the notorious General Grant, and navigating seemingly-perilous (and nauseating) winding roads. Although the adventures of the day had been grand, we were all glad to return to the cabin to warm our toes and sip some hot chocolate.
Our respite from adventure didn’t last long, however. This was our last night of the trip; we would be leaving in the morning. Curious to explore the property upon which our cabin rested, my sister and I made plans to venture out yet again to explore the premises before nightfall seized our last opportunity.
We embarked at dusk, marveling at the stormy sky and the shadowy trees as the sun slowly winked out below the horizon. Though we joked and talked some as we explored, there was a moment where we fell quiet.
I realized then that the only available sound was the crunching of our feet against a blanket of dew-frosted leaves. I stopped walking, drinking in the nothing-ness that I heard. The sensation of that shattering silence was akin to being locked in a windowless, door-less, bulb-less room. It was the auditory equivalence of pitch black.
The plants, the trees growing freely, the birds asleep in the trees — everything around me was so open and free. There wasn’t a sign of another human in sight — no lights or voices. No dogs barking or cars blasting music. Nothing. The falling night was quiet, undisturbed. And I was a part of that silence — I was a thing of nature.
Never before had I experienced such peace. Although I’d always loved escaping in a hike or two, I had never felt so at one with nature. The serenity, the unrestrained growth, and the lack of bustling human activity were all completely new to me.
I thought of home, and how little I wanted to return to my stucco abode, which borders a freeway of zooming and bustling cars. I didn’t miss the roar of 16-wheelers, or the scream of sirens, or the hum of countless electronics all at once.
I wanted to stay here, in the silence… it felt natural to do so.
Nonetheless, morning came and I returned to my suburb. The expertly contained nature, constant noise pollution, and utter lack of wildlife seemed unnerving when compared to the serene oasis from which I’d emerged. I felt trapped, closed in, claustrophobic, even.
As humans, we forget that we are a part of the very nature that we tirelessly attempt to control. We belong out there amongst the trees and the bees and the wildlife, if even for just a weekend.
If you live in an urban or suburban area, it’s important to escape once in a while to a free and open place — discover a change from the monotony of infrastructure. Get out of the concrete cage that we intentionally lock ourselves in. Visiting national parks and forests, hiking, camping… these activities are vital to those of us who sense our place as a part of the natural world.
I will never forget that vacation to Sequoia National Park. It taught me a lot about who I am in relation to the natural world, and I hope everyone is able to experience something similar at least once.
