Field Note – Fostering Connections

July 15, 2026 – Freedman's Point

Today I realized I'm not collecting things.

I'm collecting connections.

A fallen trumpet vine blossom.
A morning glory.
Another day it might be a shell, a feather, a butterfly wing, a bee wing, or a dandelion waiting to open.

These are not trophies. I don't need to own nature. I want to remember that, for a brief moment, our paths touched.

Each small offering slipped between the pages of my journal says:

"I noticed."

The flower had already fallen.
The feather had already been released.
The shell had already completed its journey.

I simply became part of their story for a little while.

Today Dylan and I rode our bikes to the beach and swam beneath a wide summer sky. Later, Harris let me know, in no uncertain terms, that he deserved a beach adventure too. We hiked through the woods to beyond the fallen trees. I released him. He ran ahead, splashed down with fervor, circled back, and scratched a hole to lie in next to where I spread my towel across a fallen trunk, listened to music, wrote, took photographs, and watched the afternoon settle around us.

Before leaving, I tucked a trumpet vine blossom and a morning glory into my journal. Some grass blades too. An oyster shell in the pocket on the front.

Not because they were rare.

Because they were today.

Perhaps this is another kind of field guide—not to identify species, but to remember a life lived in relationship with the places that continue to restore me.

The pages are becoming a quiet conversation between me and the natural world, one small connection at a time.

For some reason, seeing the color of the items transfer to the pages i write on felt grounding and authentic.

Here a life was lived. Here a little life was left.