On my final morning walk of a week spent on the farm, I hold fast to the dew-soaked toes of my boots and the stray grass catching a ride in the cuffs of my pants. Once home, I avoid laundering these pants and take heart in the widening water marks across my boots.  A return to my urban life is a return to organized days where I succumb to the grid that is of our streets and of our calendars and even of the way we stack our shelves and order our things. These romantic souvenirs- dried grass that will scatter on the floor when I unroll my cuffs, un-shined boots that do not betray where they've walked- keep me wistful about my time in the field. But longing for the wildness of nature from the civility of my sturdy wooden chair is to misunderstand my place in nature altogether. To pine for the pastoral is a way of keeping nature ever separate, a place that can only be either sacred or expendable.  

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