One With Nature Quotes

“I had nature in my heart, she said. Like she did, and her mother before her. There was something about us---the Weyward women---that bonded us more tightly with the natural world. We can feel it, she said, the same way we feel rage, sorrow, or joy. The animals, the birds, the plants---they let us in, recognizing us as one of their own. That is why roots and leaves yield so easily under our fingers, to form tonics that bring comfort and healing. That is why animals welcome our embrace. Why the crows---the ones who carry the sign---watch over us and do our bidding, why their touch brings our abilities into sharpest relief. Our ancestors---the women who walked these paths before us, before there were words for who they were---did not lie in the barren soil of the churchyard, encased in rotting wood. Instead, the Weyward bones rested in the woods, in the fells, where our flesh fed plants and flowers, where trees wrapped their roots around our skeletons. We did not need stonemasons to carve our names into rock as proof we had existed.
All we needed was to be returned to the wild.
This wildness inside gives us our name. It was men who marked us so, in the time when language was but a shoot curling from the earth. Weyward, they called us, when we would not submit, would not bend to their will. But we learned to wear the name with pride.”
― Emilia Hart, Weyward

“There were bees somewhere---calling out to her, beckoning. She had wandered over to the tree and found the hive, hanging from a branch like a nugget of gold. The bees glimmering, circling. She drew closer, stretched out her arms and grinned as she felt them land, the tickle of their tiny legs against her skin.”
― Emilia Hart, Weyward

“When we are in skin, we are anfeald. Single fold: one and singular. Alone. But when we are wild, we exist beyond the limitations of our poor bodies and weak senses. We are ourselves, but we are also part of the land and the Pack. We are manigfeald, manifold and complex.”
― Maria Vale, The Last Wolf

“Whatever he touched burst into bloom, scattering the snow with leaves like beaten emeralds, red berries, pussy willows and seed cones, a riot of color and texture crackling through that white world. Soon enough our little wilderness path could have been a grand avenue decked out for a returning general's triumphant procession. Birds hunkered down for the long winter crept out of their burrows, chirruping their alarmed delight as they grew drunk on berries. A narrow fox darted across our path, a starling clutched in its mouth, sparing us a dismissive glance as it slunk back into the velvet shadow.”
― Heather Fawcett, Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries

“It was the most fleeting time of day, and maybe that was why it was her favorite. Because if you blinked, if you closed your eyes or turned your head for even the briefest of moments, you might just miss it. And like most things in life, the transient, fleeting nature of the moment made it all the more special.”
― Kelseyleigh Reber, If I Resist

“I am nature, and I am grateful.”
― Amy Leigh Mercree, Joyful Living: 101 Ways to Transform Your Spirit and Revitalize Your Life

“Currents of air and sea are vulnerable to my breathing. Metaphors of mountain ranges seem tiny compared to all I contain.”
― Laurie Perez, The Power of Amie Martine

“The surface of the water quieted into a mirror; it looked as if we were moving through two worlds, with trees living equally above and below the surface. A seal head emerged, and its liquid brown eyes watched us pass. I could smell magic in the air again, and I wanted to sob with the relief and pain of it.
This is who you are, the trees said.
"Oh," I said, so low I didn't think it was even a sound.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

“Funny... I'm looking at Nature, but I feel like she's looking at me instead.”
― Catherine Meurisse, La jeune femme et la mer

“The consciousness of a perfected yogi is effortlessly identified not with a narrow body but with the universal structure.”
― Paramahansa Yogananda, Autobiography of a Yogi

“She had reached her special tree: a silver beech that Dinsdale, the gardener, said was hundreds of years old. Violet could hear it humming with life behind her: the weevils searching for its cool sap; the ladybug trembling on its leaves; the damselflies, moths, and finches flitting through its branches. She held out her hand and a damselfly came to rest on her palm, its wings glittering in the sunlight. Golden warmth spread through her.”
― Emilia Hart, Weyward

“The jar quickly drained between them, with Kimmie drinking most of it, until only the soaked flower lay at the bottom. Kimmie reached in with her fingers and brought it to Lee's face with mischief glistering in her eyes. She tickled the tip of her nose and trailed it down. Without thinking, Lee closed her eyes and parted her lips. She felt it fill her mouth like a soft spider. The petals were jellied and lush as she bit softly and chewed.
The taste was an overwhelming version of the liquor itself. A phantasm of undiluted shifting flavors: honey, leaves, bubblegum, ash, blood. When she finally swallowed, she lay back on the ground with the force of it.
Her skin tingled like something was coming up through her pores. Thin roots sprouted from every inch of skin that touched the grass: the back of her head, her shoulder blades, her thighs. They probed into the dirt and snaked their way down, farther into the earth, branching and spreading below her. She could feel the roots glowing. An electricity crackled through her, and she knew it was the power of the land. They were connected.
She sensed the groundwater flowing below as it fed the wells of the houses tucked into the mountains. When she focused on the water itself, she could access the memories it held, of every living thing that ever made a home on this land. A dinosaur lapping from a creek with its long tongue. A prehistoric woman peering down into its reflective surface and seeing herself staring back.
She could sense the coal, the natural gas, the zinc, the marble, nestled like treasure deep within the clay and stone.”
― Alli Dyer, Strange Folk

“To harm nature is to harm yourself. To care for it is to care not just for yourself, but for the entire universe.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson, These Words Pour Like Rain

“She took another step into the wood, and then another, and as she moved in deeper, she was overwhelmed by the way the forest was attuned to her. Branches lowered themselves down, low enough for her to reach a hand up and stroke the bare bark, low enough for them to tickle the skin of her arms. Soon, her surprise turned into understanding. She knew what this feeling was now. She knew what was happening. It was the same elation she experienced when her garden's roses craned their necks out of concern for her. It was the same tingle that consumed her when the plum tree bent its branches to shade her on sunny days. Only now, in these dense woods, as far from her garden as she'd ever been, it was stronger than ever before. She became part of this forest as soon as she entered it, and it was a part of her. They could communicate. They could be as one, without a single word spoken.
Filled with wonder, Harriet sat beneath the biggest tree in the wood. As she did, she heard a familiar rustling noise. Within seconds, curious tendrils of ivy appeared at her side, wrapped eagerly around her legs, and climbed over her hands. Harriet stayed very still. This ivy was different from the ivy in her garden--- it was more childlike in its embrace, more impatient. There was a kind of discovery in the way the tendrils wrapped around and beneath her that was new to them both. But soon, all foreignness was gone, for Harriet was lifted off the ground to lie on a silken pillow of ivy created just for her. Harriet let herself relax into it. We move because of you, the ivy whispered to her, and the trees hummed in agreement. You are exceptional, the wood told her. The words did not come as a person's voice. They came as the warm, whistling breeze, the rustle of branches, the titters of a bird. A sylvan lullaby.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“Although Harriet found fulfillment in the vegetable patch and the food it provided them, she discovered that she was most drawn to the small mounds of untended earth that sat around the grounds.
Nearer to the house and along the rock wall, Harriet could feel traces of flowers too--- more intentionally planted at some point in this home's history. Whenever she placed her palms on the earth, she was both reading its vibrations and giving something of herself to it. It was an exchange that she was beginning to understand more, certain now that it started with her. She had a unique touch that somehow awakened an urgent attentiveness in flowers and other plants, and then, once they blossomed, they became whatever she needed them to be. A sort of call-and-response. Here, she could be her full self, and the plants responded beautifully to that. She supposed she'd never been her full self anywhere before, which was why she hadn't understood the depth of her own abilities.
This morning, she could feel the presence of once-grown peonies and lily of the valley in the earth beneath her. Her heart leapt as she watched the peony stems grow to life and then the layers of pink peel open before her eyes--- an offering, a blessing, a study in delicate beauty. It was more like a dream than her reality, especially as it was still not yet spring. With another touch, she prepared the way for the wispy, hanging flower bells, but she did not stop there. She moved her way around the stone wall, sensing which flowers wanted to grow here, and she gave them life. Growing these flowers gave Harriet something tangible to focus on, and she hoped the fragrances and colors cheered Eunice and Lewis as much as they cheered her.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“When you begin to learn how to not hunt birds, nor trample on plants, then you are ready to save humanity.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson, These Words Pour Like Rain

“Nature calls upon us to explore, and not to exploit; to preserve, and not to destroy.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson, These Words Burn Like Fire

“Love nature like your mother; nurture it like your child.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson, These Words Burn Like Fire