When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.

One fancies a heart like our own must be beating in every crystal and cell, and we feel like stopping to speak to the plants and animals as friendly fellow mountaineers.

Even the rocks seem talkative, sympathetic, brotherly. No wonder when we consider that we all have the same Father and Mother, and are all subject to the same law of love.

A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship.

But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease. Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life, every fiber thrilling like harp strings, while incense is ever flowing from the balsam bells and leaves.

No wonder the hills and groves were God’s first temples, and the more they are cut down and hewn into cathedrals and churches, the farther off and dimmer seems the Lord himself. So we will say our prayers here and sleep with our Mother Earth, and the God of the mountains will never fail us.

Excerpt:

from the mountains of California, 1984

(Describing the grandeur of Yosemite Valley)

John Muir