An Invitation
(Originally written in 2021)
‘Stay safe. Stay inside.’ That familiar pandemic phrase was the not first time I was issued this advice. When I was 21 and starting my final year at university in New York City, I received a call from my doctor letting me know that a lump removed from my neck was cancerous. I had Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. During chemotherapy and radiation, I was told to stay indoors to be safe. Despite having a love of the outdoors as a child, my family penchant for the indoors pulled me in over the years. Later, when all my friends would talk about their hikes- the gear they had and scrambling they did- I felt too intimidated to go along. And so, the outdoors became a stranger in my life; and it was easy to stay indoors. It felt safer after treatment to watch the world from a window.
The isolating and deeply internal experience of cancer is indescribable and hard to share with loved ones who just want to see you healthy. Once treatment was over and my friends and family moved on rightfully to live their lives, a dark weight of depression arrived. Often cancer is discussed in battle terminology. You are a fighter; you are in the trenches; and, if you are lucky, you become a survivor. And we’re told to wear this survivor badge with honour. Yet as with any battle, there remains the destruction, the muddy abandoned trenches. How do you begin to repair that? For me, it was much easier to stay in that metaphorical muddy field, dug in.
Then the weight became unsustainable, and the old muddy trenches started to feel claustrophobic. I found myself needing space, needing air to breathe. This need brought me outside where I began walks with my dogs on a nearby forest path. I returned from each walk feeling refreshed. And so, I would go again. Through these quiet wooded walks, the nature-loving child inside me was able to resurface. I was reminded of Mary Oliver’s poem Sleeping in the Forest: “I thought the earth/ remembered me, she/ took me back so tenderly…” I began remembering the earth just as much as the earth remembered me. It was a homecoming of sorts.
The welcoming came again when I worked at a family members’ farm. Coming home covered in soil, bone tired, and happy, I learned much about earth. Then, I started a garden at my parent’s house. Being outside, working with the ground became a happy and humbling hobby. I would see plants grow and die back with the seasons. I would see birds, bees, and butterflies make a home in this little garden I built. I could sense the larger connectivity of the world slowly replace my feelings of isolation. My time in the garden taught me peace and patience both with myself and the world around me. I began walks with friends. That muddy trench of depression started filling in with regrowth.
During the pandemic’s familiar recommendations of isolating inside, I stumbled upon a program that would bring me to Scotland to study the connection between landscapes and our health and wellbeing. While my studies have theoretically and practically explained the benefits of nature for our wellbeing, it has been my actual walks around the green spaces of Edinburgh and around Scotland that have made me feel it. Time spent walking along the Water of Leith, in the quiet forests of The Hermitage, the glens of the Cairngorms, or the shores of the Isles have shown me that I have a place in the wide expanse of time and that I am connected to this story. Despite sometimes going alone on these walks, I never feel as isolated as I did indoors. I have the quiet sound of my boots treading on a trail, the birds hopping in the trees, and the crisp air hitting my exposed face. While gear and skills are needed for some trails, most times I can just make a go of it if I have the curiosity.
The dawn chorus begins again this spring with migratory birds returning to a place they remember. The outdoors filled with birdsong and longer days is inviting us for a reconnection with our Earth. The heartbreakingly beautiful thing of it all is that the Earth will always welcome us back, tenderly, no matter how long it has taken us to find our way.
