Notes from Being Outside

Growing up in Texas, snow came about once every five years. As a kid, there was much excitement waking up to a white backyard. It meant one thing: school canceled. A week full of freedom. And because it happened so rarely, each snow day felt nostalgic the moment it arrived. Snow created space for magic and adventure; it interrupted routine.  As I’ve grown older, the snowstorms have become more frequent. Now in college, we seem to get one every year. The most memorable was 2021. My house lost power and drinking water for four days. With Zoom classes normalized, the expectation was that students could simply attend class from home. I sat wrapped in a blanket, watching my laptop battery slowly drain, and told my art teacher I couldn’t paint because I had no running water. She suggested I scoop snow from outside and let it melt. At the time, the request felt absurd. But looking back, it was less about the assignment and more about adapting. If there's a will, there's a way. Someti...

It was February 5th, 1:45 in the afternoon, sitting at 64 degrees (my favorite running weather) when I stood at the edge of Marine Creek Lake . Looking over the lake, I thought, no way this trail is six miles . Yet, the striking blue water stretched wider than I expected. The day's breeze created soft ripples that rushed to the shore. I heard birds somewhere in the trees, their chirps telling my ears what my eyes could not see. Every gust of wind rustled the shrubs, creating a soft shimmering sound. The tapping of my running shoes meeting the pavement settled into a rhythm coordinated with my breath. Tall stands of common reed ( Phragmites australis ) lined the water's edge. Their dry seeds rattled; the deep rust color was complimentary to the azure blue. As I continued down the path, a stretch of bald cypress trees stood bare for the winter. Dense Texas live oaks shaded an empty bench. Clusters of mistletoe clung high in the branches of taller trees. Not everything was nati...