Personal Reflection on Closer to the Ground by Dylan Tomine

There is something profoundly intimate about finishing a book that feels less like a narrative and more like stepping into someone else’s quietly reverent life. As I closed Closer to the Ground, I felt not the crisp finality of turning the last page but the lingering warmth of shared presence, as though I had been walking alongside Dylan Tomine on damp forest paths and rocky shores, sharing the same weathered boots and misted mornings.

The book is more than a memoir; it is a love letter to a way of being that many of us have forgotten. Tomine's words awaken an ancient pulse within—a rhythm of the tides, the seasons, the cycles of growth and harvest. His reflections, so rooted in the physicality of the earth and its gifts, carry the weight of a truth I have long suspected but rarely pause to honor: the sacred is not found elsewhere; it is here, in the soil beneath our fingernails, the salty tang of the sea air, the light that breaks through a canopy of cedar and pine.

As I read, I felt a curious ache, a longing not for something new but for something deeply known yet often ignored. How often do I sit with the stillness of the world around me, simply observing? How often do I allow my hands to connect with the earth—not to shape it, but to learn from it? There was a time, perhaps when I was a child, when the smell of rain-soaked leaves or the sight of my breath curling in cold morning air seemed like answers to questions I didn’t yet know how to ask. Tomine's life, his connection to his family and their shared journey of foraging, fishing, and harvesting, calls me back to that simplicity—not as an escape but as a homecoming.

I cannot help but reflect on how often I have traded presence for convenience. There is a certain hollow efficiency to our modern lives, where the bounty of the earth is so easily repackaged, sanitized, and removed from its source. Yet Tomine reminds me that the nourishment we seek is not just for the body but for the spirit. To gather wild mushrooms or dig clams from the wet sand is to enter into a quiet covenant with the land and sea—to give thanks for what is offered, to tread lightly, and to take only what is needed.

There is a humility in his words that feels almost foreign in today’s world. He does not romanticize the labor of chopping firewood or the cold discomfort of gathering in a winter storm. Instead, he embraces these moments as threads in the larger tapestry of life—a tapestry that does not shy away from hardship but finds meaning within it. His family’s shared experiences—their laughter, their struggles, the way they come together around a fire or a meal—offer a vision of abundance that cannot be measured in material wealth.

I think about my own life, the pace of it, the demands that seem always to pull me further from the ground, further from the source of all that sustains me. Tomine's words feel like an invitation to slow down, not in the sense of doing less but in the sense of being more. To walk outside and truly see—not just the broad strokes of sky and landscape but the intricate details: the glisten of dew on a spider’s web, the way moss clings to stone, the flicker of a bird’s wing in the corner of my eye.

I am struck, too, by the deep threads of connection that run through his stories—not just between people and the land but between generations. His children’s wide-eyed wonder at the world reminds me of what it means to be fully alive, unguarded, and curious. How often do I approach the world with such openness? How often do I allow myself to kneel down and touch the earth with that same quiet reverence?

Tomine’s reflections remind me that every meal, every log split for the fire, every wild blackberry plucked from its thorny vine is an act of participation in a larger story—a story where I am not the central character but a humble participant. There is comfort in that, in recognizing that I am part of something far older and more enduring than myself.

As I close this book and return to my own life, I find myself yearning for a deeper connection to the land and to those I love. Perhaps it begins with something small—cooking a meal from scratch, planting a seed, or simply sitting outside and listening to the wind in the trees. These are not grand gestures but quiet ones, the kind that weave a life of meaning from the threads of ordinary days.

Tomine has given me a gift, though it is not his alone. It is the gift of remembering, of returning to the ground beneath my feet, and of finding, within the work of living, the joy and grace that sustain us. There is beauty here, not in some distant, unreachable place, but right here—in the breath I draw, the soil I touch, and the hands I hold.

I am closer to the ground now, in every way that matters.

All my Love and Light,

An