Seneca, Moral Letters 41.2

If ever you have come upon a grove that is full of ancient trees which have grown to an unusual height, shutting out a view of the sky by a veil of pleached and intertwining branches, then the loftiness of the forest, the seclusion of the spot, and your marvel at the thick unbroken shade in the midst of the open spaces, will prove to you the presence of Deity. 
 
Or if a cave, made by the deep crumbling of the rocks, holds up a mountain on its arch, a place not built with hands but hollowed out into such spaciousness by natural causes, your soul will be deeply moved by a certain intimation of the existence of God. 
 
We worship the sources of mighty rivers; we erect altars at places where great streams burst suddenly from hidden sources; we adore springs of hot water as divine, and consecrate certain pools because of their dark waters or their immeasurable depth. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 41 

 
This only seems hippy-dippy to those who have never taken the time to quietly reflect upon the natural world. 
 
Since my move across the country, I now know many men who flock to the outdoors, and yet they seem mainly interested in drinking beer, smoking pot, and shooting at animals. The roll their eyes when I suggest we take a leisurely hike up the trail, instead of ruining the peace of the woods by driving in a loud and stinking truck. 
 
Some people find nature to be messy and chaotic, while the years have rather taught me to cherish it as an ideal expression of beauty in purpose and order. Wherever I find this, I also find God. 
 
Instead of getting caught up in the artificial diversions, which in the final estimation don’t amount to a hill of beans, I am as close to the source as I can get. 
 
Yes, it is frightening to face oneself without all the trappings, and it is unnerving to not have busywork as an excuse for avoiding the only responsibility that counts. We pity the poor man who picks up a bottle to hide from reality, when it is just as misguided to run away to the noise of the city. 
 
As important as this is to me, I find myself lacking the right words to express the presence of Divinity in the trees, the mountains, or the waters. It is far more than just a powerful feeling, but has its root in an understanding of how all the pieces are made to work together. 
 
A grove is preferable to a shopping mall. A cave makes for the greatest cathedral. Nothing cleanses like a cold stream. 
 
So I suppose I reveal my failings by quoting from Marcus Aurelius: 
 
Look round at the courses of the stars, as if you were going along with them; and constantly consider the changes of the elements into one another, for such thoughts purge away the filth of the terrene life. 
 
And from Henry David Thoreau: 
 
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. 

—Reflection written in 1/2013