All walking is discovery. On foot we take the time to see things whole.— Hal Borland
The most scandalous Hal Borland quotes that are little-known but priceless
Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us.
There it is, fog, atmospheric moisture still uncertain in destination, not quite weather and not altogether mood, yet partaking of both.
As I stood and watched the mists slowly rising this morning I wondered what view was more beautiful than this.
No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.
You can't be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of subversion or challenge the ideology of a violet.
You fight dandelions all weekend, and late Monday afternoon there they are, pert as all get out, in full and gorgeous bloom, pretty as can be, thriving as only dandelions can in the face of adversity.
If you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.
Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.
April is a promise that May is bound to keep.
Consider the wheelbarrow. It may lack the grace of an airplane, the speed of an automobile, the initial capacity of a freight car, but its humble wheel marked out the path of what civilization we still have.
Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it.
If you ever wondered why fishing is probably the most popular sport in this country, watch that boy beside on the water and you will learn. If you are really perceptive you will. For he already knows that fishing is only one part fish.
A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire, in magnitude at least, but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart.
To see a hillside white with dogwood bloom is to know a particular ecstasy of beauty, but to walk the gray Winter woods and find the buds which will resurrect that beauty in another May is to partake of continuity.
October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen.
It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations above them once again.
The longer I live and the more I read, the more certain I become that the real poems about spring aren't written on paper. They are written in the back pasture and the near meadow, and they are issued in a new revised edition every April.
The earth turns, and the seasons, and for all his pride and power man cannot temper the winds or change their course. They are the unseen tides that shape our days and our years.
Green, the color of growth, or surgent life, enwraps the land.
New green, still as individual as the plants themselves. Cool green, which will merge as the weeks pass, the Summer comes, into a canopy of shade of busy chlorophyll.
March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.
The earth's distances invite the eye.
And as the eye reaches, so must the mind stretch to meet these new horizons. I challenge anyone to stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see a new expanse not only around him, but in him, too.
Man is wise and constantly in quest of more wisdom;
but the ultimate wisdom, which deals with beginnings, remains locked in a seed.
To know after absence the familiar street and road and village and house is to know again the satisfaction of home.
No winter lasts forever; no spring skips it's turn.
A root, a stem, a leaf, some means of capturing sunlight and air and making food - in sum, a plant. The green substance of this earth, the chlorophyll, is all summed up in the plants. Without them we perish, all of us who are flesh and blood.
Each new season grows from the leftovers from the past.
That is the essence of change, and change is the basic law.
Time after time ... today's crisis shrinks to next week's footnote to a newly headline disaster.
The ultimate wisdom which deals with beginnings, remains locked in a seed.
There it lies, the simplest fact of the universe and at the same time the one which calls faith rather than reason.
Autumn is the eternal corrective. It is ripeness and color and a time of maturity; but it is also breadth, and depth, and distance. What man can stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see the span of his world and the meaning of the rolling hills that reach to the far horizon?
There are two seasonal diversions that can ease the bite of any winter.
One is the January thaw. The other is the seed catalogues.
All man has to do is cooperate with the big forces, the sun, the rain, the growing urge. Seeds sprout, stems grow, leaves spread in the sunlight. Man plants, weeds, cultivates and harvests. It sounds simple, and it is simple, with the simplicity of great truths.
Catch a vista of maples in that long light and you see Autumn glowing through the leaves.... The promise of gold and crimson is there among the branches, though as yet it is achieved on only a stray branch, an impatient limb or an occasional small tree which has not yet learned to time its changes.
Of all the seasons, autumn offers the most to man and requires the least of him.
For all his learning or sophistication, man still instinctively reaches towards that force beyond. Only arrogance can deny its existence, and the denial falters in the face of evidence on every hand. In every tuft of grass, in every bird, in every opening bud, there it is.
Man is not an aquatic animal, but from the time we stand in youthful wonder beside a Spring brook till we sit in old age and watch the endless roll of the sea, we feel a strong kinship with the waters of this world.
There is a leisure about walking, no matter what pace you set, that lets down the tension.
Time has its own dimensions, and neither the sun nor the clock can encompass them all.
Weekend planning is a prime time to apply the Deathbed Priority Test: On your deathbed, will you wish you'd spent more prime weekend hours grocery shopping or walking in the woods with your kids?
Two sounds of autumn are unmistakable.
..the hurrying rustle of crisp leaves blown along the street...by a gusty wind, and the gabble of a flock of migrating geese.
Summer is a promissory note signed in June, its long days spent and gone before you know it, and due to be repaid next January.
October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen.
There are no limits to either time or distance, except as man himself may make them. I have but to touch the wind to know these things.
There are no idealists in the plant world and no compassion.
The rose and the morning glory know no mercy. Bindweed, the morning glory, will quickly choke its competitors to death, and the fencerow rose will just as quietly crowd out any other plant that tried to share its roothold. Idealism and mercy are human terms and human concepts.
For the Fall of the year is more than three months bounded by an equinox and a solstice. It is a summing up without the finality of year's end.
Listen to it, and you are hearing the mighty currents of the air rushing down the latitudes of the earth, currents from the Mackenzie and the Athabasca and the Saskatchewan, and from the prairies and the white Tundra. It is a homeless wind, forever on the move.
No Winter lasts forever, no Spring skips its turn.
April is a promise that May is bound to keep, and we know it.
You can't be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or squirrel of subversion or challenge the ideology of a violet.
The most unhappy thing about conservation is that it is never permanent.
Save a priceless woodland or an irreplaceable mountain today, and tomorrow it is threatened from another quarter.
[The Christmas story] is as simple as was the Man himself and His teaching.
SA simple as the Sermon on the Mount which still remains as the ultimate basis ... of the belief of free men of good will everywhere.
The owl, that bird of onomatopoetic name, is a repetitious question wrapped in feathery insulation especially for Winter delivery.