One fall morning while treading the parched earth through the woods, I veered from a narrow path to a short bridge hunched over a sleepy river. A pair of mallards commanded a “V” through water like plate glass. Oaks, in states of bright fall undress, hugged the banks. Peace and a soft landscape filled my vision. The sun’s rays had lifted just high enough to pierce the water, shattering the surface. Sparkles burst from the clash—like diamonds. I embedded in thought the place and the setting as if never to lose its magical effect. The memory continued to loop, replaying the burst of light, the morning’s silence, the sun’s energy, giving rise to my imagination. It was like mother nature holding out her hands to show me a teachable moment—that there’s story to be found here.

I learned from the organic experience that the natural world shows; it doesn’t tell, just as it is a prescription for writers for effective storytelling.

I suppose Mark Twain’s writing advice, “Write what you know,” offers a literal suggestion. But I wanted to read more into his advice—to write how I felt standing on the bridge looking down at just the right moment, how I was in awe and wonder of the sight, how it showed me to continue the enchantment with my imagination.

 

My observations of the natural world began when I was young with a birch tree that stood arabesque in the front corner of my girlhood home. One spring morning, I discovered four bunnies tucked inside a recess under its boughs. My birch tree would become a metaphor, symbolizing new beginnings, growth, and renewal. And later, in my memoir, Under the Birch Tree, my birch buddy would become synonymous with home. It was just the start of how I would understand what I was being shown: the natural world’s cycles of life, of birth and death, of thriving. I think of Darwin who suggested “the survival of the fittest,” that only those who adjust best to their environment are the most successful in surviving. I think of the natural world as being its own “survival of the fittest.” My second book, a novel, The Wisdom of the Willow, Margaret teaches her four young daughters under a willow tree about faith, of being hopeful, and to trust. Her wisdom reflects that of what she has learned from the natural world.

At the start of spring, I notice a shade of green in budding nature is never to be repeated. Hearing the chirps of migrating warblers and the songs of red-winged blackbirds, smelling a warming earth after a hard rain, or feeling the sun’s stronger warmth on the top of my head, the seasonal ways of nature’s cycling show that nothing really ends, but is a continuation of what is left behind. These are moments that can show a thing or two how to be present.

As I stand on the bridge observing below, I wonder about the muskrat, with his head settled just above the river’s stream, gliding without effort to a small mud island near the banks. Was he tired that he needed to rest? Was he foraging for food? Why was he alone?

Nature prompts me to wonder, to ask questions, to imagine, and to look a little further. This is a lesson that carries into my writing.

When called to that bridge to peer into the distance, the natural world showed me her invitation for my imagination. Of perhaps a small boy wearing a red cap and rubber boots poking the muddy banks with a stick, his father nearby taken in with the wonder of the sight. Until a chilling echo stops time.

When the natural world shows, I imagine. And from there a good story can be written.

“The green reed which bends in the wind is stronger than the mighty oak which breaks in a storm.” -THE OAK AND THE REED, AESOP’S FABLES

The final countdown begins to the release on May 7 of The Wisdom of the Willow.

Included in “The Most Anticipated Chicago Books of 2024,” The Wisdom of the Willow is set in the northern suburbs of Chicago. But don’t let the local setting stop you from reading “A richly layered, beautifully written, and deeply satisfying novel,” says Lynn Sloan, author of Midstream.

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