I'm not Thoreau and this isn't Walden

Nature's tranquil silence is the ideal breeding ground for my insistent anxiety

Happy 10 month anniversary to this little Substack! The abundance of positive feedback I’ve gotten since writing on this platform genuinely encourages me to keep sharing, even when I worry that I don’t have anything profound to say.

Thank you for being here in the midst of our crumbling, burning, backwards world.

---

Everytime I’ve said I’ve felt peace in nature, I was probably lying. 

I’ve gaped at the Grand Canyon with my head cocked ever so slightly to the left, inhaled orange dust at Arches National Park and walked the swampy circumference of Walden Pond, all feeling just about the same as I did when I hadn’t.

I’ve half-heartedly exaggerated the healing promises of nature before, but only because it sounded like the appropriate reaction for the reclusive and introverted. I’ve been embarrassed to admit that my expectations of transcendental self-discovery were never quite met. 

The tranquil silence that most people find comforting is the ideal breeding ground for my insistent ruminations. My brain buzzes with 5G as I hike through dead zones, my mind wandering home to the carrots growing soggy in my bottom drawer crisper and the friend who I worry might secretly resent me.

I don’t know how to occupy my mind in nature because admiring rocks and trees seems cringingly unoriginal, and the Christian urge to comment on God’s creativity induces my acid reflux. I feel most relieved about reaching the scenic lookout of a hike because I get to turn around and make my way back to the sweet stale scent of my car’s air freshener.

I evade these immersive nature experiences for the same reason I avoid stiff meditation pillows: I feel inadequate over my staticky brain’s inability to mute itself. It’s like trying to fine-tune a radio to a clear station, only for the static to swell to a deafening decibel.

In a previous life, I’d spent many hours on culty weekend retreats sitting on scratchy leaves waiting for God to speak to me—my pastors always insisting that Jesus himself went to the mountains to pray. I’d sat in the dirt until the back of my legs itched and ants crawled up my sleeves, only to get God’s voicemail, all the while pushing away my irritable thoughts of self-loathing and disbelief.

Out of absolutely frustration, I vaguely remember filling a page of my journal with large, scrawled expletives and of course lying when someone innocently asked how my quiet time with God went.

I attend therapy more than church these days, and my therapist reminds me to acknowledge the emotions arising during our sessions, but not to associate them with any particular connotations. I’ve gotten a bit better at applying this practice to my life outside of our 50-minute time slots, especially when I’m out and about with my own thoughts.

On my most recent little adventure, I took inventory of all my feelings instead of fighting them for the sake of enjoying a vacation. Rather than forcing myself to meditate over the rhythmic tide of Lake Michigan, I let my mind wander to the friends I was missing—and noted the people I wasn’t. 

I allowed myself to be homesick, longing for the comforts of my chaotic life that were absent from a claustrophobic tiny cabin. I let my imagination wander to the aches of romantic love that seem to always be on my mind, instead of rearing my thoughts back to the colors of a hazy sunset.

Feature Photo by Wes Hicks on Unsplash