Autumn Nature Walk: Reflections on Shedding, Renewal & Listening to the Land

Each walk lately has felt like a quiet lesson from the forest. The trees, the light, the slow release of leaves—each reminding me that nature doesn’t rush. It unfolds in its own rhythm. The oak doesn’t become strong overnight; it takes years of stillness, seasons of surrender, and patience with change.

In forest therapy, I’ve been shown again and again that nature releases slowly. It doesn’t cling. It lets go when it’s time. The leaves don’t fall all at once—they dance their way down, each in their own moment of release.

Learning Through the Practice of Forest Therapy

Every forest therapy walk is its own living conversation between people and place. Even when we share the same path, we never quite have the same experience.

One person might notice the shimmer of light through the last golden leaves. Another might be drawn to the sound of water moving slowly through the creek. The forest speaks differently to each of us. It offers what we’re ready to hear.

I’m continually reminded that the practice isn’t about finding one meaning—it’s about being truly open and listening with the heart. Each time we step into the forest, we’re invited to notice what story, lesson, or reflection nature wants to share with us in that moment.

Highlights from This Month’s Walks

This month has offered so many moments of deep connection and beauty on the land.

There was laughter among friends, a sound that reminded me of the simple joy and strength found in community. A song arose from one participant—“Every little cell in my body is happy”—and it rippled through the forest, carried by the breeze. Later, a choir member added her own song among the golden trees, and for a while, the woods were filled with music.

I’ve walked beside two dear friends moving through grief and loss—both experiences held wonderment, sorrow, joy, and a profound sense of connection. Others have come simply curious for more natural connection, and left with eyes wide in awe at how powerful the simple can be.

And then, a group of brave mothers. They walked side by side, allowing the earth to hold them and one another after losing a child. In their courage and tenderness, the forest held us all.

These walks have reminded me that the land doesn’t just reflect our stories—it carries them with us.

A sole and a soul-a beautiful recollection the land held of man and nature which found on our walk.

Shedding as a Way of Healing

This season, the theme of shedding has been speaking clearly to me. I see it in the maples, in the tall grasses beginning to lean toward the ground, and in the quiet shift of energy all around. Everything in the landscape seems to say: it’s okay to let go.

For me, shedding has meant releasing old ways of living that no longer align—habits built from hustle, beliefs rooted in overdoing, and patterns that keep me rushing instead of receiving.

The land shows me that release doesn’t have to be dramatic or loud. It can be subtle, steady, graceful—a quiet kind of courage.

A Season That Feels Different

This autumn feels unlike any I’ve known before.

After many years working in retail, the holidays once meant long hours, fluorescent lights, and a sense that the season passed by without me. There was always something to get done, another display to change, another sale to prepare for.

Now, my days are spent in the woods—with participants, family, fellow practitioners, or simply in solitude. I walk. I listen. I breathe in the scent of damp leaves and rich soil. The forest feels calmer now; many of the birds have moved on, the insects quieter, and yet life continues in smaller, softer ways. Beneath the stillness, there’s preparation and rest—important parts of the cycle that I’m learning to honor within myself.

A rainy day walk with family and friends -recognizing how deeply rooted we are to this land.

Reflecting on the Year of the Snake and What Comes Next

As the year draws to a close and we begin to approach the holidays—and soon, the Chinese New Year—I’ve found myself reflecting on the energy that has carried me through these months.

The Year of the Snake has been one of transformation for me: a time of shedding, reflection, and renewal. The Snake teaches us to move inward, to release what’s old, and to trust in the slow process of becoming.

Now, as we prepare for the Year of the Horse, I sense a shift ahead—an invitation to move with more freedom, purpose, and vitality. It feels like the natural continuation of what this autumn has been asking of me: to clear space, so that new life and movement can return.

A Tea That Carries the Land

This season, I’ve been savoring a tea that feels deeply personal—a soon-to-be-released blend crafted from our own land. It’s a tea that holds a sense of place, one that brings me right back to the woods even when I’m far away.

It features holy basil, calendula, and echinacea, among other herbs grown with care. It’s a tea of balance, medicine, and health—soothing to the nervous system, anti-inflammatory, and clearing to the mind. I love its earthiness, softened by a gentle brightness that feels like sunlight filtering through late-autumn leaves.

For me, it’s more than a beverage—it’s a way of staying connected to the land’s rhythm, a reminder that healing can be both grounding and uplifting.

A Poem for the Season

“The Peace of Wild Things” by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Preparing for our final invitation - the tea ceremony.

 As autumn deepens, I’m learning that release isn’t loss—it’s space. Space for stillness. Space for new life to begin. And space for us to listen, again and again, to the quiet wisdom of the land.