I am a woman who is deeply, crazily, unapologetically in love with the natural world. I am never happier than when I am surrounded by trees and rocks, wind and water and bird-song filled silence. I live in the city and enjoy the hustle and bustle of activity and culture and the kaleidoscope of interesting things that you can only find when large groups of people live together.
But if I don’t give myself regular time traipsing around in the dirt or the sand where all I can see for miles around is either ocean beach, desert expanse or mountainous terrain, I get extremely parched and cranky inside. My soul rebels. I lose my sense of purpose and direction. I become both listless and agitated and unable to focus on getting anything done in my daily life.
I need time in nature like I need food. Or air. Or sleep.
It’s where I make the most immediate contact with spirit. It’s both my church and my temple. Spending time lying on sun-soaked boulders or sitting with my feet in a chilly mountain stream while listening to the wind in the trees reminds me how important it is to take time to simply BE. And how the divine is available at any time as long as I am willing to open our door and go outside.
Nature is alive for me. And while I truly enjoy traveling to new and unexplored parts of the world, what I love even more is going to the same places over and over again. Doing this allows me to deepen my relationship not only with the place itself, but with particular rocks or streams or trees. These relationships with the plant and stone and water beings are intimate and visceral for me. Incredibly real. And profoundly nurturing.
But it wasn’t always that way. Or I should say, it was like that when I was a child, but when I became an adult, I lost my connection to that living connection with the natural world.
That all changed once I hit midlife. And I wanted to share a couple of stories that speak to that shift.
The first time I went to the Ghost Ranch conference center in Abiquiu, New Mexico (which is where I held yearly intuitive painting retreats for 18 years),it was to attend a workshop that happened to be scheduled during the full moon. One night during the workshop I couldn’t sleep because the moon was so breathtakingly intense. I got up from where I was sleeping and went outside, where I began exploring. I was also definitely in an altered state, partly because in the workshop we had been drumming and painting and moving out of our familiar sense of ourselves.
As I wandered around, taking in the magic and the light of the moons shimmering sparkle, I came across a huge tree that was transformed into something unearthly and enchantingly alive in the moons glow. I approached the tree and hugged it. And then I started talking to it. And I was completely shocked and surprised when the tree talked back to me. That was one of my earliest adult exposures of experiencing how alive the world really is .
I also have a yearly ritual every September, which is my birthday month, where I go to visit a place called Mono Lake which is located in the town of Lee Vining on the Eastern side of the high Sierras in California. Mono Lake is a saltwater lake, almost 3 times as salty as the ocean, and one of the oldest lakes in North America. It is home to teeny-tiny brine shrimp and is the nesting place for thousands of migrating seagulls as well is osprey.
And it is one of the most weirdly, hauntingly beautiful places in the world. It is surrounded by something called tufa which is a grayish white rock that is made up of limestone which grows up out of the lake into towers that surround it like ancient sentinels of the mineral kingdom.
This is another one of my sacred spots. I have a very strong sense of Mono Lake as my mama. I feel a deep connection to source when I go and sit on her shores. And when I visit her, I engage in a sacred practice called Pachamama.
The practice involves lying face down on the earth and allowing yourself to feel held and supported by the earth as your mother. And like a mother, remembering that she is always available to comfort you and listen to you. As well as being powerful enough to absorb, process and eventually compost anything you have to give her.
So, each September I lie down on my belly in the sands next to the lake. And I talk to my mother. I tell her about my past year. I share with her my triumphs and successes. I cry and sometimes sob into her huge vastness the griefs and disappointments and losses I have endured since the last time I saw her. And I also tell her my hopes and dreams and visions for the upcoming year. It’s how I pray. And it’s also the way that I allow myself to lay my burdens down, making space for them to be taken from me by something much larger than my tiny human self.
And to let myself have that exquisite knowing deep in my body and my bones that I am never, ever truly alone in this world.
