Walking The Soul Back Home
The Restorative Power of Nature
“If someone had just ten minutes and no history of spiritual practice, what’s something they could do to get in touch with their spiritual side?”
This question was posed to me during a podcast I was a guest on the other day. In a rare moment of clarity and succinctness, I replied:
“Take a walk outside.”
“A walk in nature, walks the soul back home.” – Mary Davis
When I ask about a patient's spirituality, some reference being in nature as how they connect to the transcendent.
Many of us are renewed by time in nature. Whether you prefer the beach, the forest, the mountains, etc., being outdoors offers opportunities for introspection, self-discovery, and spiritual growth. The communion with the natural world is restorative and a chance to engage in mindfulness, curiosity, wonder and peace. It is a way we experience our interconnectedness with the world around us.
Studies have shown what a significant positive impact that being in nature can have on mood and mental health, from reducing stress levels to alleviating symptoms of depression and anxiety.
There are all sorts of spiritual practices that one can do outside. From rambling in a valley to sitting on a porch listening to birdsong, we tend to be more present and tranquil when we are removed from the comfort of our typical physical surroundings.
One practice that has gained a lot of popularity in recent years is the Japanese concept of shinrin-yoku or “forest bathing.” It was created to bring psychological well-being to an increasingly indoor and tech dependent society. The concept involves immersing oneself in nature. It is often practiced as slow, mindful walks through forested areas, taking in the sights, sounds, smells and textures of the surroundings.
If you’ve not yet tried it, here’s a meditation you can use to go for a walk in a forest (or anywhere outside).
Embracing the Serenity of Nature Meditation
Find a quiet spot in the woods or any natural setting.
Sit comfortably or even lie down(!), allowing yourself to be fully supported by the earth beneath you.
Soften your gaze or close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. Inhale the fresh air, exhale any stress you are carrying.
Bring your attention to your senses:
Notice the earthly scent that surrounds you
The warmth of the sunlight filtering through the trees
Feel the cool breeze caressing your skin
Listen to the sounds of the leaves rustling and birds singing
Take slow and deep breaths, feeling your chest rise and fall. See if your breath can match the rhythm of the forest.
Reflect on the interconnectedness of all living beings. Feel a deep sense of gratitude for the beauty surrounding you.
Allow yourself to be fully present in a moment of quiet contemplation. Feel a sense of peace and unity with the natural world.
When you feel ready, slowly bring your awareness back to your body, re-awakening yourself. Take a moment to reflect on this sacred time.
What then happens when we don’t have the opportunity to breathe fresh air, feel the sunlight and smell the dew on the grass?
Here’s a story from my hospital chaplaincy work of someone who experienced the significance of that loss.
A Farmer No More
Jonah was in the ICU following a lung transplant. His wife, Sue, sat beside him either getting some rows of knitting in or typing away on her laptop for work. They lived on a farm a few hours away from the hospital. When she was unable to be there, Sue asked me to visit with Jonah. “Knowing that someone is there with him and he’s not alone will make me feel so much better.”
Jonah had respiratory complications following the transplant. He was awake and alert, but couldn’t speak since he was on a breathing machine full time. In such instances, I ask the patient or the family if there is something they’d like me to read with them or music to play for them. Most people will ask me to read scripture or play hymns or turn the television on. Sue’s answer was a new one: “Farming magazines. You’d like that Jonah, right?” Jonah nodded and grunted his assent.
I’d never read farming magazines before. Coming from a suburban upbringing, followed by years of city living, it had never occurred to me that such magazines existed. But here I was, reciting features of the latest combine harvesters and happenings at local livestock auctions. I read to him articles about agricultural regulations, pest control, soil maintenance and harvest-yield ratios.
As I read, Jonah would face the window and close his eyes, as if he was looking past his view of the brick wall his window looked on to. It was as if he was transported somewhere else, back in his fields, looking around his barn, surveying his equipment and tending to his animals.
As the weeks wore on, Jonah mouthed to me how much he missed breathing on his own and being outside. He grew more despondent. There is a medical diagnosis called “Failure to Thrive'' which denotes a person is not improving medically. I think it has deep spiritual significance as well. He was not able to thrive because he was not able to be fully himself. For Jonah, this meant being connected to his land.
One day he asked me to stop reading the farming magazines. “I’m not a farmer anymore” and a single tear rolled down his cheek. He knew he would not return to his land again.
We arranged to get him outside. Sue had championed the effort to “help get his spirits up.” It took some coordination between his doctors, nurses, and respiratory therapists. On a crisp autumn day a team of people navigated multiple elevators and long hallways to wheel Jonah, in his bed outside to give him a few minutes of fresh air. There wasn’t much of a view, no trees or grass, as we were in a city. The sun was shining on the gum speckled sidewalk. Jonah mostly had his eyes closed, but at one point, he took Sue’s hand and looked up.
The next week I got a page to the ICU and found Sue leaning on the window ledge in the hallway, crying. Jonah’s condition had worsened. His organs were shutting down. “We are going to extubate, it’s what he wants. I don’t want to, but I know it’s the right thing.” Sue and I had been discussing this decision all week. I knew it had not come lightly.
When the hour came, Sue asked me to put on some classic Southern rock music. I pulled up an online radio station on the computer on the wall in his room, usually reserved for charting. At some point, I heard Lynrd Skynard’s “Free Bird.” The irony was not lost on me. After staying with them a bit, I suggested to Sue that she might want some time with just the two of them to say goodbye. She nodded and climbed into bed with her husband for the last time.
I left and went to the nurses’ station outside of the room. As I talked with Jonah’s nurse, he kept his eyes glued on the monitor feed. I kept my eyes on the room. I had drawn the curtain across the glass door to give them privacy. All of a sudden, a huge beam of sunlight shone through the room and flooded the hallway. The whole unit was enveloped by the warm, luminescent glow.
“He just died” the nurse said, watching the monitor.
“I know,” I said with my gaze fixed on the radiant light.
The nurse looked up, his eyes following my glance, and noticed the sunlight. “Oh that’s so eerie.”
“Perhaps.” I replied, although I had a different opinion.
A minute later, Sue came outside, wiping her eyes. I was at the door in a flash to hold her up. She whispered with a faint smile, “He’s breathing easy now.”
"A minute later, Sue came outside, wiping her eyes. I was at the door in a flash to hold her up. She whispered with a faint smile, “He’s breathing easy now.” Every time I read this I cry and I've read it multiple times. This is so sacred, Christine. Turning a grueling situation into forest bathing saved me near the end of my journey this past Saturday. Honestly, being present in nature, being aware of the oneness of it all is what draws me back time after time, mile after mile. Thanks again, friend.
ah, ya made me cry. the sacred mystery of it all. thank you for sharing.