Connecting To Nature In The City

The concrete, the pollution, the noise, the intensity of zooming traffic—everything in the cityscape is fast, relentless, and unyielding. It often feels as if its entire infrastructure has been built to make us rush.

When it rains, even the water rushes to the drains; no longer meandering, curving, and snaking its way down towards the sea. I’ve walked past rainbow slick puddles, wondering if Taoist masters would still teach ‘to be like water’ if they knew the way it flows in cities.

In cities, it’s hard to learn from the movements of nature. In search of stability and control we’ve paved and flattened the world around us—hard to connect when surrounded by concrete.

Hard but not impossible.

As a big city kid, I never knew how much I loved nature until 2017 when I moved to Hamar, a small town in Norway, population: 30,000. Having grown up in Montreal, I never thought I’d be able to deal without the luxuries of a big city, but I loved Hamar.  

For one, because it was Norway there was enough money in the town for nice cafés, great restaurants, a library, a theatre, and lots of other ‘city’ things to do—but the best part wasn’t the big city stuff in a small place—it was how close I was to nature.

I could walk for 20 minutes, following the shore of Lake Mjøsa away from the center of town, and I’d soon be out of noise reach. It wasn’t difficult to find a chill spot where I could be alone with the wind and the shallow waves.

Then the ground became quicksand.

In September 2020, with the pandemic raging through Europe, my relationship of seven years—the whole reason I was in Norway—broke and everything I thought was solid began to fall away.

I suddenly realized that I owed a lot of money that I didn’t have. At the same time, I was waiting to hear about my visa application and woke up every morning with the fear that I would receive a rejection letter and be given three weeks to leave Norway and the life I‘d built there. I had rent that I couldn’t keep paying, and I had to find a new apartment that would let me move in without an active visa (as long as I didn’t get kicked out of the country).

I had no ground to stand on—none. It was easy to get washed into panic states of circular worried thinking because nothing was guaranteed beyond the day ahead of me. I didn’t know what to do.

Throughout my life, I had dealt with grief, and pain, and uncertainty by planning, strategizing, and thinking. Now, that wasn’t even a possibility.

I planned what I could, took care of what I could, saw the step in front of me, and then took it as best as I could.

There was one pivotal moment in the midst of all the uncertainty. I was getting dressed, thinking about what might happen. All the flying variables and emotions began to swirl in my mind and then—I stopped. I realized that the only thing I could do with any certainty was put my belt on. It sounds funny now that I say it, but it was true. I felt that if I didn’t just put my belt on without thinking about anything else at that very moment, I would lose myself.

That was a big realization for me. I stopped, slipped my belt through the loops of my pants, buckled it and moved forward from there. I planned what I could, took care of what I could, saw the step in front of me, and then took that step as best as I could take it. It was all I could do. I didn’t know where any of it would lead, and each day held the possibility of complete upheaval, but still, all I could do was do what I was doing while I was doing it.

But I kept getting caught up in these panic-states and worry

The summer went on, and though I tried to keep my realization in mind, I kept getting caught up in panic states of worry. I had some yoga and meditation techniques to help me when it happened, but quite honestly, the thing that got me out of my anxious worries and back into the moment was spending time in nature.

I would drink tea by the lake every day, or walk to a nearby farm (a secret spot where no one could see me) and watch the wheat grow. There was always an insect, or a bird, or something that invited me out of my head and into the present world.

I started to learn the names of all the trees and the wildflowers I passed on my walks. I picked flowers like a child and placed them throughout my house, because looking at them, and keeping them alive made me happy.

Nature—the movements of the natural world—saved me from panic, anxiety and the tendency to worry in a way that would not and could not help me.

I fell in love with nature.

The birds, the dragonflies and butterflies, the waving trees, and the bouncing ragweed—their beauty all helped me be in the moment with them.

I found this one little forest, with rowan, elm, and ash trees. Within it, I found a long staff-like stick from a rowan tree. Everywhere I have ever gone in my life, I have always found a stick to practice spinning with. But I had never practiced in a space with wood that had grown there. And when I walked through the forest with that staff I felt like I belonged—I felt like a walking tree. I felt like a part of it all, and when I danced with that stick, and played with the wind, I felt like a bird that had learned to use its wings.

I felt connected.

Now that I’m back in the city, it’s difficult for me not to have the option to go and find a secret spot in nature where I can drink tea and connect with the bees, the flowers, and the earth.

A Shaman once told me, that the route of all illness is disconnection. Difficult to make sweeping declarations, but his words rang true to me, especially now that I’m back in the city. When I look deeply, I see the symptoms of disconnection everywhere—pollution, violence, abuse, worry, anxiety, loneliness.

Loneliness is a big one.

Loneliness, as I’ve come to understand it, is not something that happens from being alone. I have been incredibly lonely in groups, and I have felt my most connected when in deep solitude.

Loneliness is a state of disconnection—and in the city, where we are more disconnected from nature than anywhere else, there is an epidemic of loneliness.

I was once told that to recognize the divinity in something, whether it be a mountain, a lake, the sun, a field, a tree, an animal, or another human being—whatever it may be—is to recognize the divinity within ourselves.

We have tried so hard to dominate the earth—objectifying her and treating her as something we can own that we have lost sight of her divine nature and in so doing we’ve forgotten our own. But who’s to blame? And what good would it do to point the finger? The truth is, it’s difficult to connect to nature in the city.

Back In Montreal

After being in Montreal for a few months without walks by the lake or in the forest I came to realize how desperately I need moments in nature. Not only to feel connected in the isolation of a pandemic-stricken city but to decompress. And so, even though I knew it wouldn’t be the same, I decided that city or no, I would find a way.

There are parks all over my neighbourhood. They’re small, mostly grass and surrounded by streets, but there was one that pulled me more than the others. I had grown up playing soccer on its field. I had brought my dogs to the dog park when they were still alive. I had drunk and smoked joints at the well-hidden picnic table on the bocci courts. In a way, I had already developed a relationship with it without realizing it.

I walked through the park, strolling along and exploring the space. There were railings that were good for stretches. There were lots of cement borders that I could walk on, benches to hop over, and stone walls to tread across. There were fences to jump and a playground to try various movements. I played and experimented, very aware that I was being looked at by most of the other people. But I didn’t mind. In my mind, something was happening.

This park, one square block in area, was going to become my home court. I would know this park inside out. I would connect with it, explore it, and understand it, as my ancestors knew the forest around their homes.

I would know the names of the trees, the grooves in the ground, the cracks in the pavement. I would learn to play on any surface in this park, without worry, without pain—I would connect with this last vestige of nature.

I decided to cultivate that connection.

When I came to the big soccer field, I hopped the fence, took off my shoes and walked barefoot on the grass. I took a deep breath and remembered. This field was where I had played so often. It was where I had lost myself in sport and movement for the first time in my life. It might not be a lake, but I already had a connection to this park—and so I decided to cultivate that connection.

I hopped the fence and walked to the far side of the field to a place I had never explored. To me, that side of the fence had always been the place where soccer balls went to die. Instead, I found a full grassy knoll, beautiful trees and a long, flat, unkempt cement walkway on top of the hill.

It was quiet and inconspicuous—a perfect place to practice tai chi.

The next day I came back to practice Tai Chi, and I did something some might consider strange. I asked the land if I could practice and teach there. I had brought an apple and pumpkin seeds; something that could be broken down easily or eaten by birds and squirrels, and placed them by a small pine tree. I touched the ground and whispered a humble request: may I practice here?

Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t expecting a response. It was just my way of showing respect and recognizing the divinity of the spot. From my perspective this wasn’t just a park—it was a miracle. I mean…think how special, how incredible it is that this park even exists. It is the land, the grass and the trees that survived not only time but, well… us.

This park is the nature that holds on. And I chose to cultivate that perspective by asking permission.  

As I asked, my logical, linear, very good at keeping me alive mind, chimed in and said, “why ask? Whether I ask or not, I can and I will practice here.” This was such an interesting thought. I mean, it was sort of spot on.

Barring an incredibly unlikely mystical experience, I would hear no response and I would practice there without a second thought. So, why ask? The thing is that the point wasn’t to get an answer. The point was to askeven though I knew the answer would be yes.

The Earth always gives and whether we ask or not we can take what we want.

But to ask is to connect—is the first step towards being grateful. And here’s the key point: being grateful to the earth is not for the earth’s sake. She does not need our gratitude to give her an ego boost. When we are grateful, we are acknowledging that we have in fact been given a gift. And to realize that you’ve been given something is the most beautiful experience.

To realize that your food, your breath, the sun, this life—has been given to you—is connection—is the opposite of loneliness.

I left the gifts and I asked. The asking was me recognizing that this land was not object, but mother. And the asking changed my perspective. Suddenly, the starlings and woodpeckers, the robins and sparrows, were no longer just flying by—they were welcoming me. A connection had been made.

Now, I bring gifts from time to time. I practice there, and I feel at home at Trenholme Park—the last vestige of what once was a forest. Call me crazy, but it helps me keep calm and connected in a world that is shifting in an unprecedented way.

Even in the city.

Much Love