Coming back into our bodies
Most of us live from the neck up. Our days are filled with endless streams of thoughts, notifications, and to-do lists that keep us floating somewhere above our shoulders, disconnected from the rest of ourselves. We plan tomorrow while eating lunch, solve problems in the shower, replay conversations while driving. Our bodies become mere vehicles, carrying our busy minds from one task to the next.
I catch myself doing this all the time - walking through the forest while my mind races ahead to afternoon meetings, my feet moving on autopilot while I mentally compose emails or rehearse conversations. My body is in the woods, but I'm not really there at all.
The shift back into our bodies usually starts with something small. Maybe it's a cool breeze that makes you shiver slightly, or the warmth of sunlight on your face. Perhaps it's the uneven ground beneath your feet that requires just a bit more attention to navigate. The forest offers these gentle invitations constantly, little taps on the shoulder saying, "Hey, come back. Feel this."
At first, the return to sensation can feel strange, almost uncomfortable. We're so used to living in our mental spaces that simply feeling the weight of our feet pressing into the earth with each step seems foreign. But the forest is patient. It doesn't demand that we snap immediately into full embodiment. Instead, it provides a gradual path back to our senses.
The sound of leaves rustling overhead might draw your attention upward, making you aware of the muscles in your neck as you look to the canopy. The scent of cedar might trigger a deep breath, and suddenly you notice how shallow your breathing has been. The sight of a spider's web glazed with morning dew might make you pause, and in that pause, you might feel your whole body slowly coming to stillness.
This is how we begin to inhabit ourselves again - not through force or discipline, but through gentle awareness. Each step on the soft forest floor can become an anchor, drawing us back into the present moment, back into our bodies. Our thoughts don't vanish completely, but they begin to quiet, making space for other kinds of knowing.
In the forest, we remember that we are more than just our busy minds. We are breathing, sensing, moving beings, connected to everything around us. Our bodies know things our racing thoughts often miss - the shift in temperature as we step into shade, the slight tension in our shoulders that eases as we walk, the way our stride naturally adjusts to the terrain beneath us.
This return to our bodies isn't a destination but a practice, one that the forest teaches with infinite patience. Each walk offers another chance to make the journey from head to body, from thinking to sensing, from doing to being. Sometimes the shift happens in an instant, sometimes it takes the whole walk, and sometimes it barely happens at all. But the invitation is always there, as constant as the trees themselves.
And perhaps this is one of the greatest gifts the forest offers us - not just an escape from our busy lives, but a gentle path back to ourselves, back to the wisdom and peace that lives in our bodies, waiting to be remembered.
