A new year – and a vow to be in nature more often.
I’ve just spent the last couple of weeks spending as much time as possible in nature, including swimming in the ocean, walking along river banks and swinging among trees (more on that later).
The older I get, the more my heart is calmed by the breeze as it rattles through the leaves and branches of trees, the expansiveness of wide open fields, the promise of adventure at the start of a bush track, the beauty of towering mountains, and the mystery of the rolling ocean. I know I’m not alone in this longing to fill my life with precious moments like these.
As a child, I spent two years living in the mountains of Viti Levu, the largest of the Fijian islands. My father was working on a hydro-electric dam, and my brother, sisters and I found ourselves going to a small school, carved into the top of a mountain, alongside both local children and others from all over the world, including New Zealand, England, Trinidad and, of course, Australia. I was the perfect age to be let loose on a new school and a wilderness as expansive as my imagination. My ridiculously curious eight-year-old mind was ready to explode with possibility. And it was all there in this little village in the middle of a rainforest.
The village was called Koronio, which means village in the clouds. Our little house sat at the edge of the village with a fence around it, the last human made structure before the vastness of the rainforest spread out over the surrounding mountains. I remember thinking the fence was a strange thing to have. I didn’t quite understand the point of it. I guess, like any fence, it was trying to keep things out, but in reality it just sat as a boundary between us and nature. A pretty futile boundary. Some of the best memories I have are of jumping that fence with my older brother and younger sisters and venturing out (for the whole day!) into the rainforest where we’d encounter wild pigs and their young (I’ve never climbed trees faster), waterfalls and pools of crystal clear (and cold!) water where we’d swim. And then there was the fauna: I particularly remember the ‘wait-a-minute’ shrubs which were given their name because they’d snatched your skin and clothes with their prickly leaves, leaving a trail of small splintery cuts. You’d have to ‘wait a minute’ to detangle yourself from them before venturing onwards.
It was the early 80s when walkmans ruled, and no one told us to turn them down. We’d pack sandwiches early in the morning and not return until we heard the far-reaching whistle of our father calling us home at dusk. We learnt to speak Fijian in the playground and played games that I’d never played before or since. And I loved every moment of it. The kids from different cultures, the strange languages I’d hear, the trip down the mountain to the beach (on the only road in and out of the village that included hairpin bends), which we’d take every now and then. But mostly I loved being surrounded by nature and that we humans were the strange ‘other’ in a place where the wilderness was Queen.
Thinking back on my childhood now, I consider myself lucky to have spent so much time in nature—even back here in Australia where my dad delighted in taking us ‘for a drive’ on weekends, which always involved heading west toward ‘the bush’. We’d end up at either a country pub or a creek for a swim (or both).
As an adult, I’ve spent most of my life living in cities, including London. And I love them. But when I think of my ideal view from the window of my dream house, it’s always of rolling green hills, trees, animals, and the ocean on the horizon.
And today I took in a view like this as I flew above the trees in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales. Yes, my daughter decided she wanted to go zip lining at the Illawarra Fly, and I couldn’t think of a better way to start the new year. We flew above trees that were 150, 260 years old. We were with the grandfathers and grandmothers of this ancient rainforest, and their wisdom seeped into every pore of my being. In the distance and down the valley, we saw Lake Illawarra. From the mountains to the water.
What is it about nature—from the vibration of Mother Earth herself to her bottle green grass and her eternal blue skies—that casts its spell on me? As I walk in nature, I think about this. I think it’s about realising that humans are only part of the story. We are no more important and no less than the flower that blooms on the tree, or the orange that falls to the ground, or the ant that builds her nest. Nature reminds me of the connectedness of us all, and it makes me feel better to remember that. It makes me feel more significant to be part of something much larger than myself. It also reminds me of my responsibility.
Nature has a way of making the small worries of everyday life fall away. And the big worries tend to be re-evaluated the more I’m in nature. A way forward becomes possible. Paths open up, and the way is illuminated much more easily than if I tried to find a solution from the comfort of my lounge room chair.
With the meditative rhythm of my feet on Mother Earth, I’m reminded that nature is my kin too. And that these familial ties are unbreakable.
