Through my chronic pain saga, I’ve tried it all.
I’ve ignored the pain, pretending if I just kept busy enough, it would slip quietly away.
I’ve focused on it, making it my full-time job to “fix” it.
Neither worked.
Today, I practice something else. I notice.
I name what I feel and where it lives in my body.
I soften toward it, rather than tighten around it.
I work with my pain instead of trying to conquer it.
It sounds simple, but it’s a lifelong apprenticeship. This learning to befriend the body instead of managing it like a disobedient child.
When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.
— Henri Nouwen
Can we learn to do that for ourselves?
That’s what forest therapy has become for me: a quiet companion that doesn’t try to fix me. The forest listens. It holds space. It teaches me to listen, too.
A few weeks ago, one of my grands fell on my pinky finger. Such a small thing. My hand was resting on a toy, and when I yanked it back, it twisted and pulled. A teeny tiny trauma, I told myself. But that little pinky has been aching for weeks now. Every time I use my left hand to hold a phone, lift a spoon, or pick up that same grand, there’s an internal ow! 😣 And of course I am left handed. Isn’t that the way it always goes?
When I ignore it, I finish the day with an inflamed, angry pinky.
When I overprotect it, the rest of my hand rebels from overuse.
So today, I notice.
I hold space for that poor sweet pinky.
I breathe.
I ask, What do you need today? Not verbally, not out loud. But an internal question. My body always has an answer when I listen long enough.
Until my physiotherapist can put it back together, I do what I can: soften, listen, and allow.
And if that were all I had to do in a day, it would be enough. But these teeny traumas are always happening. For all of us, physical, emotional, spiritual. So I hold space for how hard my life with chronic pain is. I notice and name the struggles it creates. I practice compassion toward myself, the way I would with a friend.
It takes time. And it takes being in the right energy.
The forest helps me remember how to do that. To remember that some years hold questions. And other years will hold answers.
When I walk among the trees, I’m reminded that healing isn’t a straight line, it’s a spiral. The forest doesn’t rush its growth. It doesn’t apologize for the slow work of roots. It knows that rest and renewal are part of the same rhythm.
Autumn embraces change, even as she is falling to pieces.
— Angie Weilland- Crosby
Perhaps I can too.
If you rush it you will ruin it. Pause, pray and be patient.
— Success Minded
My body, similarly, doesn’t like to be rushed.
It doesn’t like to be cold, so as we edge toward winter, I keep a fuzzy blanket in the car.
It needs rest, so I try. Really try! To make sleep a priority.
And I often have to remind myself: this is not selfish.
Spending time in nature isn’t indulgence, it’s maintenance. It’s what can give you the strength to change another diaper, to wipe another snotty nose. To meet the demands of work, to hold the people who need holding. Or in my case to listen to my body. And find the strength to face another day of pain.
JOGAYOP (is this a thing? if it isn’t, it should be)
Joy of going at your own pace. Staying in your lane and adopting the rhythm and speed of living and working that feels just right for you. Letting go of societal pressure to be where everyone else is at.
When we live in any type of deficit, meaning in lack or shortage, we feel it. No system can continue to function long when it is continually experiencing a deficiency.
When our finances are in deficit, there’s pressure. A business that does not bring in sufficient income for its expenses will have no choice but to close.
When our spiritual life is in deficit, there’s darkness. Someone that is experiencing spiritual darkness and refuses to do the things that invite light to their life cannot expect anything to change. And even their light parts will become dim.
When our physical health is in deficit, there’s pain that grows louder and harder to ignore. We forget that this system will also eventually face breakdown if left unchecked.
After time in nature I can turn down the volume of my pain. I can see it in the broader perspective of life. Just like this jack-o’-lantern. Often things are actually smaller than they appear. Try taking a step back.
So I keep returning to the forest to notice, to soften, to reconnect. To see the bigger picture.
Not to fix.
Not to control.
But to listen.
Because the body, like the forest, is always whispering the way home.
There are four natural sanctuaries in life and nature holds them all. Silence. Solitude. Stillness. Simplicity.
Seek healing in these sanctuaries. It is available. It is real.
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
— Wallace Stevens
SUNBEAM ACRES 