Allowing nature to heal us can take many forms. For me it is mostly in noticing tiny daily changes through the seasons, being fully present and mindful of my environment. Finding wonder in the small things is deceptively simple, yet in my own experience it has been one of the most powerful habits to repeat in order to build resilience and go through significant setbacks.
It doesn’t take much time: we can powerfully reset the brain and body in as little as 10 seconds. What matters is to be receptive and present. In that fullness of attention, miracles happen, especially when we use this simple tool in a repetitive manner. We start building an infinite resource of tiny memories, pockets of joy, peace and alignment that can sustain us when our strength is tested.
We don’t need to go very far. As most of you know, I rarely stray very far from home, but being present gives me ample access to endless sources of ordinary miracles right where I am.
Giving our full attention to the natural world is endlessly rewarding. It gives the mind a break, supporting it to be more equipped for problem-solving. If you don’t have access to nature, you can still fully build this practice, as many of my other posts on this blog describe.
Below is an evocative account of key Spring moments which have felt deeply healing and connecting for me this year while recovering from long-term grief. I hope you will find it soothing and inspiring. Feel free to share in the comments your own little moments of peace and connection, I’m sure we would all love to hear about them and try them out in our daily life!
Early May. I am standing in the woods, the leaves are tender green and let in the warm soothing hand of the Spring sun on my back. The bank is covered in blooms, the small sunny faces of lesser celandines, the happy carefree petals of yellow poppies and the mysteriously glowing purple of bluebells. Bumble bees are drifting noisily through the heady scent.
Behind me, the field glitters with daisies and the lambs curl up on the warm grass with beatific smiles. I stop by the hawthorn to chew on the young leaves. It tastes of fresh apple, opens the heart and centers the mind. The field beyond is a sea of glistening yellow, a profusion of dandelions so thick it shines a mile away.
A visit to the sheep. They are a friendly group and greet me like woolly dogs. As I sit they cluster around me, trying to nibble my hair, my jumper, my boots, they stand close to me and I enjoy their warmth and inquisitive little faces. I am fascinated by their perfection, dignified and handsome, the small hard heads covered in silky wool, the tiny little horns curling gracefully, the rich colours of their fleeces and the thick cushion of their woollen curls, indescribably soft and soothing to the touch.
As I walk away they run after me, jumping hilariously and playing together in clumsy confusion. Soon their meadow will fill with wildflowers in a dreamy landscape of summery richness.
In the evening, the golden light fills the woods with amber secrets. I am magnetised to the edge of the field where the sycamores are flowering. A primal sound grips me, stopping me in my tracks… it is the sound of the universe, oooooooommmmm, filling the air and resonating in the green orb of the canopy: hundreds of bumble bees are working in the sweet clusters of delicate blooms, their combined buzzing is one of the most expansive and grounding sounds I have ever heard.
This event is short lived, a few days at most, then we must all wait till next year for the sycamores to bloom again. If I keep an eye on the weather, I can attend several such spectacles through the Spring and Summer: the pink blush of the crab apple tree in May, the sticky sweetness of the linden tree in July, are some of the high spots of my calendar. Entire hives congregate to the trees for the day, and one of my favourite things is to sit under the canopy to watch and listen.
In those moments there is a connection to something so essential where the thinking process is redundant. All I have to do is be (bee?!). In those moments we remember that we are completely part of nature and we reset ourselves to this quietly magnificent, essential fact.
End of May. It has been very wet for a few days, but the swallows don’t mind. I take my usual seat by the window so that I can be the fortunate spectator of a significant event: the flying lesson. The family all line up on the phone cable, and the instruction begins. Twittering clear orders and essential advice, the parent is confident the youngsters can pull it off. One after the other, dripping with rain, the little birds take off and come back while the parent tirelessly guides with brief comments.
Sometimes the flight looks perilous, but with the mysterious programming of instinct hardwired into the species, it quickly becomes graceful, carefree, daring, perfect. The drill is repeated again and again, each time the young ones are sent further and further until they are able to fly out of sight and safely return—they have passed with flying colours. Soon they will zoom up and down at a dizzying speed, catching midges and allowing us to predict the weather.
If I was to pick a soundtrack for Spring, it would be Vaughan Williams’ Lark Ascending.
It lifts the heart and makes the soul ache just enough, tenderly, to remind us that nature gives the most loving, ever-returning gifts. All it wants in return is our kind attention.
