In Springville-a town where the people are protected and caressed among Nature's great walls, the Sierra Nevada-exists a world that I share with my friends, the famous Transcendentalists of the nineteenth century: Ralph Waldo Emerson, Emily Dickinson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and Henry David Thoreau. Every evening throughout autumn, I leave the cold, trifling world behind-a life where I am socially inept because of my lack of commonalities with the public world-to my world. In my world, I no longer live in a town surrounded by people who feel humans cannot achieve or conquer the trials and tribulations of life without the Christian God-for humans are merely helpless sinners. In my world, my friends care not about which is the right god-only that I find god through the leaves of the Sycamore trees and love through the fragrance of the mystic lavender lupines. In my world, I am no longer shunned by religious conservatives, but I am one of the many who question "Who is god?" The many who search for god in Nature; the many who find love through Nature.

One afternoon, as I sit outside reading my book Emerson Essays and Lectures, I feel a beam of sun caressing my cheek with warmth. Looking up into the sky, I see the sun smiling upon Black Mountain. It is a moment of awakening-my call from nature-to walk down the street and meet my friends. As I am about to begin my afternoon journey, I stare down the straight and narrow road. Off in the distance I can see the small, nondenominational church; quickly, I reminisce about my naive youth. I revisit my seventh grade year, when every Tuesday I had to leave my home and attend Catechism classes in order to receive my First Communion. I think of all the lessons I took, how everything was straightforward-every Sunday I must attend Mass to listen to the Priest tell me how to go about life and live by the word of the Lord; I must go to Confessions regularly to share my sins with a man God has chosen to communicate with his "children," and I must live by the rules of the Church in order to go to heaven and see the light of God in death. I then turn my head to the left, and I see the slow curving road that passes by my neighbor's beautiful green pasture, leading me to a mysterious bench near the end of the road. I think of the mystery that lies in that path, and realize 'tis left I shall go.

I look into the beautiful blue sky, knowing that too many tears are cried in life and not enough smiles go around. I stare in awe at the enigmatic sky and smile, appreciating all the secrets Nature has kept to herself. Stopping momentarily, I hear nothing but the steady murmur of a small stream, which is cloaked by the dense blackberry bushes. Here, on the country road, the stress from the trifling world may be left behind, allowing me to confide within, leaving me with my thoughts. Thoughts not bemused with the homework at school, not bemused with the war in Iraq, nor bemused with the hurricanes in the southeast. Instead, I contemplate esoteric Nature, wondering if there really is an almighty being up in the mystical heavens, watching our every move and step. Is She in every leaf, every petal, every cell, able to interact with our daily lives, causing life to happen for a reason: serendipity? It is this time, while walking Springville's country roads, when tranquility engulfs me and I can realize how beautiful life can be.

I have grown a new identity, another life, another world-a world away from the conservative public-where I have grown to know every oak tree, every wild rose, popcorn flower and lupine, every deer and fawn, every raccoon during the night: all the treasures Nature benevolently shares with us. I walk down this peaceful road, exploring what we have been given, what we can never replicate, nor ever own. I continue walking to my destination: a small oak bench, which seems to have been there for an eternity-like Longfellow's Old Clock on the Stair -watching nature act as a mutable cloud, engulfed by the ever changing maple trees, evening primrose, and wild roses. As I walk along, I pass a pasture-abundant with fresh, sweet green grass-and glimpse a flock of turkeys where the males spread their ravishing tail feathers, gobbling, and trying to attract the tentative females. As I admire their beauty, the mother turkeys and their little babies take their time to cross the field-time not concerned with being to work at 8:20 in the morning or concerned with being at an appointment at 4:00 in the afternoon -but a time that is limitless to get to the other side, only to fly into the caring arms of the Eucalyptus trees.

To the left of me, I see one black-tailed deer family that consists of a mother and two adorable fawns that still have their white spots. This family of deer is intriguing to the eye, for while the mother and one fawn begin to graze, the other slowly follows while looking at the grass that surrounds him, the sun above him somewhere in the divine sky, and the mountain misery and farewell-to-spring flora -all that Nature has given him: food, time, and beauty. With this simple beauty, I find reasons to smile and topics that I may discuss with my dear friends sitting on the bench-my destination.

Finally, I make my way past the pasture where the wild turkeys echo in the wind, up the small-sloped hill where the mockingbirds dance and flutter in the air, and past the fence lined with climbing red roses that are filled with love, to the bench where my four friends sit. This journey I have made to this old weathered bench is like my journey to my heaven; a heaven, where I become one with Her greater presence: Nature. Here I can live eternally-becoming a part of every stem, leaf, petal, and wild rose. My four friends greet me and I receive a hug from Ms. Dickinson-who is like I, socially inept because of a lack of commonalities shared with the public interest. Finally, I am home in this great big world, for at least a little while, where I can discuss the wonders of the world, the wonders Nature has chosen to keep hidden. Sitting down on this bench, my friends and I experience the slow paced country life of Springville. As Mr. Emerson, Ms. Dickinson, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Thoreau, and I realize, we have the opportunity to just sit back, relax, and watch the quail flutter by. For a moment we sit back, appreciating the serenity of nothing but the ruffling leaves of the maple trees, which are caressed with love by the wind.

Sitting on the bench with these four erudite philosophers, I realize the importance of life: how we should explore nature, finding what god is to us, not just what the priest, pastor, or parent says god is.

After a relaxing moment in silence, Ms. Dickinson and I become effervescent with discussion. "So how are you dear?" she curiously asks.

I slowly declare, "I guess I've been OK."

"You guess you've been 'OK'," she quickly remarks. "By 'OK,' what do you imply? Through 'OK' are you frankly saying life is simply dear? Through 'OK' are you implying that you fit in not with society's commonalities? Or Through 'OK' are you implying life has been not swell?"

"Ok," I effortlessly say, "as in I feel displaced."

Upon her face, I see her concerned hazel eyes slowly replaced with a smile of knowledge and love. "I'm nobody. Who are you?/ Are you nobody too?/ Then that's a pair of us/Don't tell," she slowly adds and then playfully whispers in my ear, "they'd banish us you know." Then with a sigh of loneliness, a sigh that signals the desolate life she chooses to live, she begins to speak again: "How dreary to be somebody,/ How public-like a frog-/To tell your name the livelong June/To an admiring bog."

At first I feel quite sad-sad for my lack of friends that might give me a feeling of belonging-but after only the first few minutes of talking with my ghostly friends, did I feel right at home.

While deep in thought, Ms. Dickinson begins to give me more words of wisdom: "The soul selects her own society,/Then shuts the door./To her divine majority/Present no more."

"This is exactly what I have done," I slowly begin to say. "I have explored the philosophies of religion and chosen Transcendentalism. With my decision, I have become one of the only Transcendentalists in my town. With my decision, I have closed the door; no longer am I present in the majority. No longer do I fit in with my once dear friends who go to church every Sunday morning, living an austere life by the word of the Lord. I have closed the door between my friends who believe that females and males are not equal, for I am quite a feminist."

"Do not worry, Dear," she says. "There are many who are like you. I, for one am exactly like you. At the age of twenty-three I withdrew myself from social contact, for I was dreadful of the outside world-a world I could not understand-a world that was quite religious and expected all to attend church weekly. I, of course did not adhere with society's expectations. Instead of going to church, I stayed at home and wrote my poetry in secret. I stared outside at the green hills with the pines, or I talked with our friends sitting at the bench right now. After thinking of life's purpose, I decided 'This is my letter to the world/That never wrote to me,/The simple news that nature told/With tender majesty./Her message is committed/To hands I cannot see./For love of her, sweet country men/Judge tenderly of me."

Seeing the puzzled look she cajoled upon my face, she simply adds, "Once you find love in your surrounding environment, you will no longer feel alone, for once you find love in nature, you will see me in the sun smiling back at you with warmth, in the sweet wind that caresses you, and in the flowers showing off their simple beauty."

"Awww..," Mr. Emerson slowly chimes in: "The earth laughs in flowers." He sagely begins a new topic, "You know Christina, 'The simple perception of natural forms is a delight. The influence of the forms and actions in Nature, is so needful to man, that, in its lowest functions, it seems to lie on the confines of commodity and beauty."

"What do you mean?" I curiously ask.

"Well," Mr. Emerson begins, "'to the body and mind which have been cramped by noxious work or company, Nature is the medicinal and restores their tone. The tradesman, the attorney comes out of the din and craft of the street, and sees the sky and the woods, and is a man again. In their eternal calm, he finds himself again. The health of the eyes seem to demand a horizon.' As the tradesman and the attorney come out to enjoy and be replenished by nature, students need to as well. What I mean is, I am so glad to see you, dear, to take time out of the day to come and enjoy what nature has given us and benevolently shared-what we can truly never own and never be able to emulate."

"Mr. Emerson, sir," I say. "As though I would miss my time with you, Ms. Dickinson, Mr. Thoreau, and Mr. Holmes. This is the time of the day I most anticipate-it is my escape from the harsh realities of life." For a moment I pause, lost in thought.

Suddenly, my teenage spirit bursts out "Guess what dears! Next year I plan on taking an art history class and it appears to be appealing to the senses."

"An art history class you say?" Emerson asked. "Do you know where art was derived from? 'The creation of beauty is Art. The production of art throws a light upon the mystery of humanity. A work of art is an abstract or epitome of the world. It is the result or expression of Nature, in the miniature. Nature is a sea of forms radically alike and even unique. A leaf, a sunbeam, a landscape, the ocean, make an analogous impression on the mind. What is common to them all,-that perfectness and harmony, is beauty.'"

In awe, I stare at this collegiate man sitting next to me. Speechless, I sit.

Before Mr. Emerson can continue talking, Mr. Thoreau quickly bursts out, "Even though it is a little late in discussion, 'Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends... Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts.' Christina, my dear. I would have loved to have said this earlier, you see, but Ralph, I am afraid, ranted on before I could even talk."

"Heavens Mr. Thoreau! What do you wish me to become?" I inquire fervently. "Already do I have trouble finding friends, and here you wish for me to stay in my secluded imagination and live a renounced life away from people, just so I can keep my thoughts."

"Well, my dear. It is you who was discussing with Emily how you have no friends in which you share common philosophies or beliefs. You, like we do, feel that 'Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads.' For heaven is also in the soil that makes up our beloved Nature, while the many Unitarians in our society feel that below our feet, lies the devil and his fellow sinners," remarked Henry.

After this assertion from Thoreau, we all just seemed to sit and listen to the wind that whistled through the branches of the maple trees above our heads.

"You know, Oliver, I found The Dante Club quite a fascinating mystery novel. And might I add, you had quite a good part in it. However, I did find your statement so cryptic-how you and Longfellow feel that one's 'Beatrice' is a lady whom you come across while young and learn to love and gain inspiration from, but do not marry. Even James Russell Lowell agreed, that no one marries his Beatrice. Is it just because Dante could not have the hand of his beloved Beatrice Portinari? I feel quite differently, of course. I must say that I do not agree."

"Well," Oliver begins, "to each his own. There is no law stating a man cannot marry his Beatrice. Just remember Christina, 'don't flatter yourself that friendship authorizes you to say disagreeable things to your intimates. The nearer you come into relation with a person, the more necessary do tact and courtesy become.' All I do know, from my past experience in the mortal life that 'love is the master key that opens the gates of happiness' and 'love prefers twilight to daylight.'"

As I think over what Oliver just said to me, I then respond to him with gratitude.

"My, it is getting quite late and close to the time I will be having tea with my Dear John Keats," said Emily. "I am sorry, my Dear Christina, but it is time that I depart."

"Ah yes, it is getting quite late Christina. It is best that you go home now before it gets too dark," they all seemed to say.

Saddened at these words of departure, I slowly mutter, "I guess you are right. Goodbye my dear friends, until tomorrow."

After our long discussion, one-by-one, my friends stand up to say goodbye and turn to walk away, only to be picked up by the cool breeze, disappearing somewhere among the clouds. I am left alone sitting on the little country bench, when a cool breeze comes my way, kissing my lips with candor. This kiss is a gift from Her-Nature-a reminder that even though my friends have left my side, they are still indeed with me: engulfing me with every breeze that comes my way, every smile I receive from a passing deer, every sunray that tingles my senses as it soothes my cheek with warmth. I then smile: a smile from the realization that I do not have to wait another long twenty-four hours to meet up with my friends at the bench of time and share another conversation with my eternal friends.

As I get ready to depart my bench-my world-I glance at it one more time and think it has replenished my soul with a sense of who I am and the meaning of god. Comforted and eased, I make my journey back to my home, where I once again return to the reality of our arduous life. Walking to my home, I think about all that I have learned that day. Pondering, I realize what Ms. Dickinson was saying as I feel the warmth of the sun smiling on my back. No longer am I alone.