By Caleb Clarkson
In my personal life, there are times when my brain feels like it is moving a million miles per minute. Whether it is personal struggles, friction with friends, goals and aspirations, or the mental list of random items I need to grab before leaving the house, it is always changing and evolving, and my brain is always thinking. Some days, it seems like the orbits of my thoughts align. These are the days I feel overwhelmed, and the days I tend to be most critical of myself. Fortunately, one thing has always seemed to help me clear my head: a quiet walk in nature where I can find a spot to sit, reflect, and be alone.
I have my spots: the benches and winding trails that cut through the Gulf Coast Bird Observatory, where I work; the end of the jetty at Surfside Beach, where you can hear nothing but crashing waves; and the scenic stretches of road forgotten by the masses, where pulling over with the windows down feels both natural and special. Often, I bring a book to read or a journal to sketch in, but most of the time, I am perfectly happy sitting, watching, and waiting.
When I give myself that space to exist quietly, the sharpness and urgency of my thoughts soften. Sometimes I envy the wading egrets and herons, beacons of patience, as they move through the marsh, watching and waiting for an opportunity to catch a fish, frog, or snake. Behind their glassy eyes, there are no thoughts of taxes, shopping lists, or travel plans, only focus and presence. They do not worry about who they are. They only concern themselves with what is in front of them: still water and its hidden snacks waiting to be found. I am not ashamed to admit that I take lessons from them. I try to emulate them by moving my attention to the tangible, the present, and the here and now, stilling the ripples of my thoughts.
Other times, I notice the trees around me: small saplings bending in the wind, moss-adorned live oaks wearing pale green veils, and fallen, decomposing trunks whose nutrients from years of living reinvigorate the soil around them. The ones that interest me most are the gnarled and scarred elderly trees, often standing proud above the canopy. Even at that age, they never stop growing. Through hurricane seasons, they fill in limbs they have lost with new life, and every winter, when old foliage falls to the ground, and the tree is barren, new buds form and fresh leaves return in spring. I am a student of the trees, too, and try to remind myself that, like them, we never stop growing. When I remember that, the voices of self-criticism lose some of their bite.
So when your thoughts begin to pile on, one after another, I invite you to find your own spots in nature, or revisit old favorites, and spend a few quiet minutes simply watching. Sometimes, seeing nature undisturbed, just as it is, can bring clarity and peace to our chaotic lives.
Picture: Buffalo Camp Bayou
Photo credit: Celeste Silling
