Low Standards Breed Gratitude
"I'm going to shoot that f*cking light out," my husband Tommy said.
Our backyard neighbor seemed to keep her own personal street light on her back deck that competed with the moon. She and her light had been there for years. We were new in town.
Our first week in Ohio, I had to help our then two-year-old daughter, Nell, poop in the wide open city park because she was used to going wherever she pleased. We kept our heads down, found a doggie bag, and disposed of it like a proper pet owner.
Prior to moving to Ohio, we'd spent five years in a secluded valley in Colorado. A small icy creek wound its way through two ponds, and mountain lions left their prints in the snow. We once walked out of our cabin with Nell in a wrap around my chest to see a bear 30 yards from us, standing on its haunches, staring at us. It turned and lumbered up the mountain and we continued on our walk.
I'd spent eight additional years in Colorado prior to moving to that valley, and by then, my idea of "nature" had changed from the small woods behind my parents' house to straight up wilderness. Where I could snowshoe for miles without hearing a car.
I hadn't meant for it to happen, but I'd developed a slightly arrogant point of view about nature. Once, when visiting my family in Ohio, we all took a bike ride down something called the "Tow Path." It was a straight, gravel path lined with trees that followed a large polluted river. "This is what they call nature?" I felt guilty for my judgment – For not appreciating the scenery as much as they seemed to be. I didn't want to be some sort of wilderness snob, but as Viktor Frankl wrote, "A man can get used to anything." And I had gotten used to elk grazing in my backyard.
Fast-forward to today. We've lived in Ohio for three years now, and something strangely pleasant has happened to me.
I said to Tommy the other day, "It's funny, I don't even notice Julia's light anymore."
"Me neither," he replied. It’s like the post-it note we hang as a reminder but it eventually doesn’t remind us of anything because it’s been hanging there too long. Our brains have stopped noticing it.
But I do notice the fire-red maple trees that are about to lose their leaves. I love them. We didn't have trees like that in Colorado. I notice the fog rising off that same polluted river on my early morning walks. When I ride my bike across the busy bridge by our house and drop into the now-familiar Tow Path, I notice how the woods silences all the traffic. I take a big inhale, grateful for the clean air.
I've become what I never would have previously wished… the opposite of wild... I've become domesticated. And that domestication has opened me up to more optimism and gratitude for the nature we do have.
While my eyes have gotten used to more pavement, concrete and street lights, they’re more appreciative of the green. I'm less critical of my urban surroundings and more easily struck by the beauty of a sunrise in the little woods near our house. I’m thankful that someone had the foresight to protect this little patch of land, that park rangers maintain the trails, that my kids have a place to climb and get their hands dirty.
I’ve become genuinely grateful with less. And that beats arrogance any day.
