Throughout my life I have found been able to discover God and learn more about myself through immersion in Nature. Its much discussed rejuvenating effects allow me to take my problems and my singular life into perspective, that I am a single, miniscule unit in a grand scheme more complex than I can even comprehend. This is humbling, and soothes a soul distraught by petty problems and a urban/suburban lifestyle. Joseph Jones states that

“even the flintiest of the flinty-minded, who are to be encountered in Academia as well as in barracks or countinghouses, know that the spirit at times requires what the mind cannot supply. They recall at least a few moments when their lives have been profoundly touched by something reaching them out of nature. . . .” (Bump 745).

I relate to Jones’ statement as I, too, have spent much of my life appreciating the natural beauty of Texas’ creeks and bayous. Having resided the last 14 years in a neighborhood suburban West Houston (NOT the Woodlands, Cy-Fair, or Katy), I have had the unique experience of growing up in a pocket of urban woodlands, my own “. . .green break in a densely populated area” (Epstein, Bump 759). My neighborhood is surrounded on three sides by Buffalo Bayou and Rummel Creek, and at its entrance stands the Edith L. Moore Nature Sanctuary, a bird preserve sponsored by the National Audubon Society. As a child, I took for granted this amazing expanse of trees, creeks, ponds, and meadows that I would explore daily, whether picking wild dew-berries, catching minnows and turtles, or building secret forts and tree houses with my friends.

I didn’t realize how special this place was for me until about four years ago, when the City of Houston made the decision to create a paved bike and jog path along the bayou as an extension to Hershey Park, a public park several miles from my home. Despite the tremendous uproar of the community, the bumper stickers, news protests, petitions, etc., the construction was not stopped. However, we did win a major battle- the original plan was to create a massive flood plain by bulldozing many of the trees in the area to dig giant valleys for holding flood waters. We are incredibly lucky this was not enacted, however even the effect the new asphalt trail has had on this sacred place of my childhood, and my present as I return home, has been monumental.

Where I once could escape the hustle and bustle of Memorial area life, I am now confronted with soccer moms and high-strung middle aged men jogging or biking furiously down a black, unnatural path through my wilderness. I feel selfish in my dislike, as I realize the benefits the new path affords these people, who may be stuck in cubicles or minivans the majority of the day, and who now have a chance to see the beauty that envelopes this manmade construction. However, I cannot help but miss the old winding dirt paths I used to tread. With the new construction, I feel a certain “wildness” of the place has disappeared. I know that the majority of my wilderness has been preserved, but I can’t help but feel that this invasion is only one of the “‘progressive’ mutilations which finally add up to municipal suicide” (Jones, Bump 750). After several hiking and back packing trips in the Rocky Mountains over the past few years, my love and appreciation of Nature has only grown. I feel that it is vital to our well being that we take time to experience its beauty, to shift the focus from our own hectic lives to the divine creations that have not yet been scarred by human mistakes. Because of this outlook, I believe that if parking lots and suburban developments threatened an extremely significant area of a sacred, natural environment in an irreversible, unnecessary, and selfish way, I may be willing to die for it.