Last Chapter Before the Fall

Chapter 18: When the Wind Whispers and the Water Knows

Theme: A Moment When Nature Spoke to Me

As a young boy, I never woke up early just to walk in the dark.

But now?

Now I crave that stillness.

I seek it.

My favorite place is the backside of the golf course, where the pond reflects the moon like polished glass. It’s quiet out there—except for the frogs, the ducks, the birds, and the low murmur of insects alive in the dark.

Sometimes there’s a breeze that skims across the pond, sending soft ripples through the reflection. When I see those ripples, I’m back on Lake Livingston again—just a boy on a sailboat with my dad.

He’d say, “Read the wind.”

“Watch the water. The waves will show you where the wind is going.”

And I’d look—really look.

Even now, I still do.

I still trace the invisible movement on the surface of the water and listen to what it’s saying. Nature has always been a voice that doesn’t speak in words but in waves, rhythms, and breath.

When I was little, I’d hop on my bike and go explore—cross the train tracks, down into the woods, through the backfield behind our house. There were trees and creeks and vines and mysteries to unravel. I built forts. I climbed. I got lost in the magic of it all.

Behind the elementary school playground, there were soccer fields. And behind the fields? A forest that felt like its own world.

Nature was my first teacher.

Now, as a man, I still find my soul in those spaces. Whether I’m walking the quiet golf course in the morning or out behind the house with cactus and mesquite and scattered coyote tracks—there’s a peace there I don’t find anywhere else.

Nothing grounds me quite like watching the sun rise—when the deep blue of the sky begins to lift, and the light peeks over the edge of the earth.

That’s when I breathe.

I do my breathwork. I sun gaze. I give thanks. I realign.

I remember the rain, too.

Back in Livingston, me and my brother Gabriel used to go “mud hogging.” That’s what we called it. We’d run through the yard, cover ourselves head to toe in mud—paint our skin until we looked like earth. Then we’d come up to the house, and Mom would be waiting with the hose, spraying us off, laughing as we shrieked in the cold.

That was our bath. That was our joy.

To this day, I still dance in the rain.

Bella laughs when I do it. Sometimes she joins in. Other times she just watches her dad spinning in the downpour like a kid who never outgrew the mud.

But that’s the thing about nature.

It doesn’t care how old you are.

It just invites you back—again and again.

It cleanses. It heals. It whispers the truth when the world gets too loud.

I will love nature for the rest of my days.

Because in it, I remember who I am.

Where I came from.

And what really matters