Many of the subjects I photograph are within walking distance from my home. I’ve learned it’s not necessary to travel far to take good photos—there’s creative potential all around. I stay inspired by removing the conceptions I have of my subject before I take its picture. I look at it for what it is, as if for the first time. By paying close attention, I can begin to understand how an acorn is as great a wonder as the Grand Canyon. Observing my surroundings this way has allowed me to appreciate them more and I’ve come to believe that the wisest way for us to see the world is to stay where we are and grow deep roots.

Although I’m fulfilled practicing photography near home, I’m not yet immune to wanderlust and will sometimes drive to a neighboring town for different scenery. I like to drive slowly on back roads and time my arrival with the sun’s golden-hours. I’ll opt for the highway if the sun’s schedule is ahead of my own, which was the case recently when I left for a nature preserve southwest of Findlay. Attempting to shave a few precious minutes off my arrival time, I swiftly merged onto the highway like a blood cell exiting a vein for an artery.

As a teenager, driving fast on a road that endlessly stretched into the horizon was an exciting novelty. Now, as an adult who seldom drives (my work commute is a short walk from my doorstep) the “thrill” has been replaced with a combination of boredom and gloom. I’m hyperaware of our disconnectedness from nature when driving 75 miles per hour down an asphalt desert in a fossil-fuel burning metal box amidst countless other strangers. All of us hurtling past meaningless billboards, trash, and flattened animals, too many of us headed somewhere we’d rather not be. It feels surreal traversing vast swaths of land without being humbled by its magnitude or giving it close consideration as can be done on foot. The strangeness of freeways and modern society is easily ignored when we’re comfortably numb in our climate-controlled vehicles, listening to music or podcasts, our minds hazily focused on something elsewhere; another place, another time.

I arrived at Oakwoods in twenty mind-numbing minutes and eagerly stepped out of the car to bask and stretch in the golden light. I felt relieved, having broken free from the chaos of the morning rush hour… Almost. Though Oakwoods is beautiful, it is unfortunately situated right off I-75. A constant hum of highway traffic permeates the peacefulness of the park to its core. I paused and considered with a smile the irony of how just moments ago, my car was an active member of the same mechanical choir that nags me now.

The widespread, seldom considered issue of noise pollution (light pollution too, but that’s another essay) has been weighing on my mind for years. Up until recently, I've been fortunate to live in quiet country places. I suppose this time spent alone with nature has heightened my sensitivity to noise. Last June, I relocated to the quaint village of Carey. The diversity of man-made noise emanating from just one part of this small town surprised me. Our house is near a fire station, limestone quarry, brewery, factory, recycling center, and railway, on a road that gets more than its fair share of semi-truck traffic. Additionally, there’s a growing population of drivers with loud engines and exhausts who evidently enjoy being obnoxious day and night. Fixating on how these invasive sounds bother me has only made them more noticeable. I let the subject ping-pong around in my head for a moment longer before I decided it was time to end my cynicism. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and headed for the opening of a trail. If I couldn't find total peace in my surroundings, I’d find peace in my mind.

With the help of trees the freeway got quieter as I wound my way through the woods, yet it was still loud enough to be distracting, like standing in a room lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs. I felt a subtle stress simmer inside me, a feeling I assume is nearly constant in those who live in bustling cities. I removed my camera from my bag and reflected on how photography shows us the importance of perspective. I listened to the highway with its sound stripped of context, like how I sometimes look at the subjects I photograph. I mentally transported myself to a time before automobiles and imagined the noise of traffic as some shadowy beast groaning in the distant forest, occasionally letting out an abrasive roar—car tires drifting over rumble strips. The beast, a symbiosis of pavement and people, has existed since the 1950s and isn't going away soon. It's a part of the soundscape just as the birds and bees are, perhaps one day outlasting them.

With that in mind, I found it a little easier to forgive this one downfall of society. I need to remind myself that good and evil are two sides of the same coin and sometimes I struggle to see the good side. What if the universe is unfolding exactly as it should and all I need to do is ride out the wave? I let the beast’s calls blend into the background and my attention was free to shift to other senses. I eyed the squirrel on the branch above me, smelled the wildflowers below, and ran my hand along a log blanketed with moss. Then I took a deep breath.

Noise pollution isn’t a high-priority issue for many of us. The soundscape isn’t visible like the landscape, so we may not react as strongly to hearing traffic as we do to seeing bright lights, deforestation, a new parking lot, or a skyscraper. We also adapt well to slowly changing environments which means we don’t always realize how bad a problem is until it’s been made obvious or can no longer be ignored. The way we experience and understand this strange world is through our senses, so it’s vital that we not pollute our surroundings with toxic substances, sounds, sights, and smells. If we do, we pollute ourselves—physically, mentally, and spiritually. Albert Einstein once said “The greatest illusion in this world is the illusion of separation.” And I’d have to agree.

There are many aspects of our environment we cannot control, yet the older I get the more I'm aware of ways in which I can alter my surroundings. Like junk food, I can limit my intake of what I consider noise pollution. I’ll wear noise-reducing ear plugs when I’m trying to focus, relax, or be somewhere very loud. The buds reduce noise by 18 decibels evenly across low, mid and high frequencies. I still hear music and conversation, but not the neighbor mowing his lawn, the refrigerator running, or the “cool guy” in the big truck. Putting them in is a physical and mental relief, like stepping outside of a crowded space. I know earbuds are a Band-Aid solution, so I’m increasingly grateful to have close access to actual quiet spaces, some of which are spared the noise of the highway. I visit these areas as much as I'm able and hope they'll always be safe from unsettling sound. More importantly, I've found solace in knowing we all have the ability to create environments that are harmonious with nature and ourselves if we choose to.

I left Oakwoods and merged once again into the stream of automobiles. On foot, the same route home would take me six hours. So, this is the trade we’ve made. Highways are unsightly, cars are loud and spew pollution, but the two combined send us to faraway places much more quickly than our natural bodies can. What else have we gained? Today, we find ourselves largely dependent on the beast. In America, our cities are built for cars. Not many of us live within a reasonable walking or biking distance from a grocery store or our workplace. Around the globe cars are constantly in motion. From an alien’s perspective, Earth would seem to be inhabited by cars. Why do we make and justify decisions before considering what we’re giving up? Like the Internet, highways were supposed to connect us, bring us closer together. I’d argue they’ve done the opposite. Families move apart, members of a community shop elsewhere, work elsewhere, and vacation elsewhere. Why should we care for where we live if we can easily leave it behind for somewhere better?

What I like most about going somewhere else for a while is that it helps us break routine and look back at our lives objectively. Last month, my husband and I drove to the east coast on our honeymoon. It was novel and nice, but unnecessary. How much of travel is frivolous? Our greatest take-away was that we see ourselves growing roots and becoming an essential part of a place we’ve shaped with hard work, nature, and love—so that we don’t feel a desire to escape it. We tend to associate driving with freedom, but I feel most free when I don’t need to spend money on gas or time in traffic. I feel most free on two feet, moving in the direction of a simpler, quieter, life.