I love nature, I really do. I love the great outdoors, I love

The words of Hilary Farr—“I love nature, I really do. I love the great outdoors, I love the concept of quiet, peaceful solitude shared only with the loons calling to each other across the water, and Bambi and Thumper in the forest, and a simple tent between me and the starry, starry sky”—are a hymn of gratitude to the eternal sanctuary of nature. In her vision we see the great outdoors, not as wilderness to be conquered, but as a temple of peaceful solitude, where the soul rests in harmony with the call of birds, the whisper of water, and the silent gaze of the stars.

The meaning of her words is that in nature lies a refuge from the noise and burdens of the world. Amidst the chaos of ambition and the grinding weight of toil, there is a place where the heart may breathe freely, where one needs no more than a tent, a forest, and a sky scattered with lights to feel rich beyond measure. Here, solitude is not loneliness but communion—communion with life in its purest form, with creatures like loons, deer, and hares, whose songs and movements remind us of a world unspoiled by human hands.

This truth has been recognized since ancient times. The poet Wordsworth found in the mountains and lakes of England the power to heal the spirit, writing of how “nature never did betray the heart that loved her.” The philosopher Thoreau, dwelling at Walden Pond, discovered that true wealth is not in possessions but in stillness, where a man may count the stars as his companions and the forest as his teacher. Farr’s love echoes their song: that solitude in nature is not an absence of life, but an overflowing presence of the eternal.

History too bears witness to those who drew strength from the embrace of the wild. Theodore Roosevelt, broken in grief after the death of his wife and mother, retreated to the Dakota Badlands. There, beneath the vast skies and amidst the roaming of elk and bison, his spirit was restored. Nature gave him back his strength, and from that rebirth came the leader who would later champion the preservation of America’s national parks. Here we see the same lesson: that the outdoors is not only a place of beauty, but a forge for resilience and renewal.

The lesson for us, O seekers of tomorrow, is that we must not forget the ancient covenant between humanity and the earth. Too often we enclose ourselves in walls of stone and steel, forgetting that the soul withers without nature’s touch. To hear loons across the water, to lie beneath the starry sky, to sit in silence by the forest edge—these are not luxuries, but necessities of the spirit. For in them we are reminded of our place in the great chain of life, humble and small, yet infinitely connected.

Practically, this means making space for quiet encounters with the natural world. Go to the woods, even if only for a short walk. Pitch a tent beneath the sky, even if only for a night. Listen to the birds, to the insects, to the wind, for they carry wisdom older than any book. In solitude, let your heart be stilled, and you will find that anxiety and restlessness fade, replaced by a deeper peace that no wealth or fame can purchase.

Thus let it be remembered: the great outdoors is not only landscape but sanctuary, not only scenery but teacher. To sit among the trees and stars is to be reminded that life is vast, eternal, and beautiful beyond measure. Hilary Farr’s words call us to return to this truth: that in nature’s solitude we find not emptiness, but fullness, not silence, but song, and not isolation, but communion with the infinite.