Like most writers, perhaps all, I read a lot.  I’d never think of going to a doctor’s appointment or getting the oil changed in my car without a book in my purse, a habit I developed when I took an “Art of the Novel” class and had to digest Don Quixote, War and Peace, Gulliver’s Travels, The Red and the Black, Emma and Robinson Crusoe within the span of a semester.

Before moving to Tucson thirteen years ago, I’d spent most of my life in a region with four seasons, frequent rain, lush grass, tall leafy trees and abundant shrubbery.   Though nature had its angry aspects which took the form of floods and tornadoes, it would usually accommodate human needs.  Living in a desert is the reverse; more often than not, we must accommodate it. 

When I first conceived of May and the therapies she offered her guests at Summerland, I had never heard of ecopsychology.  It’s a relatively new field, only twenty or so years old, which asserts, like May, that our mental and physical well-being depend on our connection with nature, and that failing to connect can cause a “nature deficit disorder.” However, the problem is we’re often taught that humans are of a distinct and higher order than other animals (given our reasoning minds and “souls”).  As a consequence, we become estranged from our world.

Once nature becomes a consciously integral part of our lives, it acts as a stabilizer like ballast on a ship, keeping us in balance. The relationship is both primal and cosmic but also deeply individual …