A Conversation with Nature — Remembering What Was Beautiful

A Conversation with Nature — Remembering What Was Beautiful

Nature has always offered us wonder.
The shimmering sunlight on the water, the quiet elegance of swans and ducks gliding across the surface — the lake I used to visit was a place of stillness and peace, like time had paused just long enough for us to breathe differently.
I loved showing this place to visiting friends. For a moment, we all fell silent and simply watched.
But nature doesn't always wear a gentle face.
With relentless heat waves, floods, earthquakes, and tornadoes becoming more frequent, I’m reminded of nature’s other side — powerful, unpredictable, and sometimes terrifying.
The lake I once cherished was recently swept away by torrential rains.
All that beauty, gone in an instant.
And just like that, a place I had turned to for serenity became part of a painful realization: nothing lasts, and beauty is fragile.
Perhaps that’s why I feel more drawn to painting these days.
There’s a stronger urge than ever to capture what’s beautiful while it’s still here.
To express the things that can’t be explained.
On days when the heat outside is too intense to venture far, I stay indoors with quiet gratitude — painting, reading, cooking meals with my family. These simple moments bring the deepest joy.
Recently, I looked back through some old photos — images of that lake, the birds, the way the sunlight danced across the ripples.
I’m thankful I captured them, because memory can distort.
Once something is lost or altered, it becomes harder and harder to return to how it once felt.
Relationships are like that, too.
I’ve been hurt before by people who cared only about themselves.
But I’m no longer someone who stays. I now recognize the signs and step away early.
If someone sees me as no longer "useful," that’s my cue to leave — not because I’m bitter, but because I now understand my worth.
I didn’t always know this.
I used to be endlessly patient, trying to understand and forgive, even when I wasn’t understood myself.
But some people don’t value shared memories.
They resent what they can’t control. They feel no true empathy — only frustration over what they couldn’t use.
I didn’t want much — only to walk together.
To have a conversation, to sort things out.
But in the end, I was the only one listening.
Years have passed, and now I return to nature.
It, too, seems to move in one direction, but I no longer think it flows blindly.
There is a quiet conversation happening.
We just haven’t been listening.
In that stillness, I hear it now.
A message:
“Remember what was beautiful.”
“Don’t destroy. Listen. Protect.”
I don’t want to forget.
I want to paint more, remember more, preserve more.
I want to keep listening — to nature, to others, to myself.