The Gold of August

August in New England begins in a blaze.

The sun burns hot, heavy with the weight of summer. Fields buzz with crickets, the air thick with warmth, and the days stretch wide, steeped in fullness.

Yet even here, where summer holds fast, change edges in. By the month’s end, the light softens and slants, shadows lengthen, and the nights whisper of coolness to come. Goldenrod flames across meadows and along roadsides, not as a midsummer fire but as a herald, bright and certain, that autumn is on its way.

In New England, August is both abundance and foretelling: the bold blaze of high summer and the first brush of fall carried together. To notice it is to hold both truths in the same breath, and to let the season’s turning remind us that change begins quietly, beautifully, before it fully arrives.

Photograph: Late August backyard goldenrod, Enfield, NH

The Art of the Pivot

Birthday plans: solo kayak to an island, camp under the stars.

Reality: thunder, lightning, smoke, and mud.

The trip had been planned for months. Gear stacked and ready, the kayak waiting. Moving with the current and sleeping waterside was meant to be the celebration itself.

The pivot became staying home. A deep breath, then another, and the choice to let it be enough. Drumming in the backyard, dancing barefoot, curling up with the cats.

The disappointment was real, and so was the loss. Yet in its place came a different kind of joy.

It was a minor loss in the scope of the world, yet even these small disruptions matter. They give the nervous system a chance to practice letting go, to notice what is steady, and to find joy in another form.

At work, the pivots come fast. A patient crisis, a staff shortage, more orders added. Patients feel it, staff feel it, families feel it. Everyone is touched as the energy shifts. The rhythm is relentless, like a dance that never ends: a quick change in plans, a step back to adjust, a turn to meet the next demand while trying not to lose footing.

What makes the dance hardest is not only the movement but the constant emotional recalibration it requires. Sometimes the pivot calls for celebration, a breakthrough, a breath of relief, a hand held in gratitude. Sometimes it asks for grief, a loss, a silence, a letting go. And sometimes both arrive in the same breath, the nurse moving from one room to the next, carrying joy and sorrow side by side.

The way through is the same: pause, breathe, and ground into what is steady before taking the next step forward. These moments build not only steadiness but meaning, the reminder that presence and care carry weight even when the day does not go to plan.

The way forward is found in the pivot, and the path becomes clear in the moment we turn.

Photograph 1: Dreams of kayak camping past, Connecticut River, VT

Photograph 2: Birthday brunch celebration in the backyard, Enfield, NH

Photograph 3: The path forward, Walpole, NH

Nourish your Wild with Nature

What is Forest Bathing?

The term Shinrin-yoku means “forest bathing” or “taking in the forest atmosphere.” It was introduced by Japan’s Ministry of Forestry in the early 1980s as a public health practice to promote wellness. The idea was simple: time in the forest could help people feel better.

Forest bathing is not hiking or exercise, but something slower and more intentional. It is a form of mindfulness practiced with the natural world. It invites a different pace, one that allows the body to settle and the senses to awaken. By walking slowly, noticing without rushing, and tuning in to sight, sound, scent, touch, and taste, the nervous system begins to soften. In the presence of trees, regulation returns, without effort.

In a world that moves fast and demands more, forest bathing offers a rare invitation to come back to yourself, one quiet moment at a time.

Research has shown forest bathing: lowers cortisol and blood pressure, improves mood, sleep, and focus, strengthens immunity through phytoncides, the natural oils released by trees, and supports the nervous system’s shift from stress to regulation.

But the roots of this practice are much older.

Across cultures, people have always turned to the forest to think, to feel, to heal. 

More Than Wellness: A Practice of Belonging

Forest bathing is not just about calming the body though.

It is about relationship, being in connection with the land and with the quiet intelligence of nature. This is not about escape. It is about return. A remembering. When people learn how to be with nature, they remember not only how to care for themselves but how to care for the world around them.

Nature Is Nearer Than You Think

You don’t need the forest or a perfect trail to begin.

Nature is wherever life is.

A tree in a courtyard.

A plant on a windowsill.

A breeze through a half-open door.

A patch of sky above the roof.

A birdsong in the early morning.

Wherever there is life, there is the possibility of reconnection.

Let the breath slow.
Let the body be still.
Let the living world, wherever you find it, begin its quiet work.

Some of the Science

In 2025, a comprehensive literature review explored over 30 studies and affirmed forest bathing’s ability to support cardiovascular health, sleep, and nervous system regulation. Read the full review →

A global overview in 2024 found consistent reports of lowered blood pressure, reduced stress hormones, and improved well-being across diverse forest immersion experiences. See the overview →

Another 2024 study documented meaningful drops in blood pressure among older adults following nature-based sessions. Explore the study →

References

Li, Q. (2025). Preventive effects of forest bathing (Shinrin-Yoku) on cardiovascular diseases: A literature review. Forests, 16(2), 310. https://www.mdpi.com/1999-4907/16/2/310

Denche‑Zamorano, Á., Tapia‑Serrano, M. Á., Villafaina, S., Sánchez‑Miguel, P. A., & García‑Hermoso, A. (2024). Global review of literature on forest bathing: A bibliometric analysis and emerging themes. ResearchGate. https://www.researchgate.net/publication/381879883_Global_Review_of_Literature_on_Forest_Bathing

Garibay‑Chávez, M. G., Curiel‑Ballesteros, A., García de Alba‑García, J., Borja‑Arreola, M., Moreno‑Ramírez, D., & Santos‑Zamora, E. (2024). Effects of forest bathing on blood pressure and heart rate in older adults in Mexico. Forests, 15(7), 1254. https://www.mdpi.com/1999-4907/15/7/1254

Photograph 1: Coastal Maine forest path, Cutler, ME

Photograph 2: Forest love, Enfield, NH

Photograph 3: Early morning light on the farm, Claremont, NH

Even in Grief, Green Things Grow

Grief is not linear.
It doesn’t wear a watch.
It doesn’t know what month it is, what year or even if time has passed.

It arrives uninvited,
stays too long,
leaves without warning, then returns
when your hands are full.

It waits in the body, in the throat, the spine, the belly.

It’s not always visible,
but it is always present.
It’s not a story with an ending.
It is something we carry.

The forest does not grieve.
Not like we do.

But it understands loss.

It knows what to do
when a branch breaks off a tree or its crown is sheared by the wind.
Energy is rerouted.

Life does not pause, it is redirected.

The tree does not stop growing.
It thickens the bark around the break.
It reaches toward the sun, the light.

What’s lost becomes memory of the whole.

A single tree falls, the forest feels it, 
roots brace, systems strain. Together.

Loss in the forest becomes nourishment.
The dead become a place for growth.

Nurse logs lie soft and split, their bodies a place for seeds to sprout and grow roots.
They cradle life in their decay,
offering shelter, nutrients, and quiet direction toward the light.

Some seeds only open after fire.
They’re designed that way,
sealed tight.
Until the heat of destruction cracks them
open.

It sounds violent,
but it’s not.
It’s precise.
It’s ancient.
It’s the forest’s way of saying:
this pain is not the end.

It is a beginning,
ash, soot, and all.

You, too, may have parts that only grow
after the break, after the burning.

The growing stretches us,
sometimes to the edge.
It makes you real.

The forest never rushes you.

It doesn’t say,
“You’re still sad?”
It says,
“Sit.”
“Breathe.”
“Listen.”

You can lean against a hemlock
and feel something older than language.

The stillness that says:

You don’t have to move yet.
You don’t have to fix this.
You don’t have to explain.

In that space,

in the care of the nurse log,
in the quiet after the fire,
in the filtered light shining through the canopy,

something begins again.

It is life.

Even in grief,
green things grow.

Photograph 1: New life grows alongside old, Sierra Mountains, CA

Photograph 2: Fresh spring growth, Arrowhead Recreation Area, Claremont, NH

Coming Home with Nature: Where We Belong, Now More Than Ever

In a world of constant notifications and glowing screens, it’s easy to forget that we are nature. We are not separate from the forests, rivers, mountains and ocean, or the quiet turning of the seasons, we are a living part of them. Yet many of us have drifted far from this truth, and it’s costing us more than we realize.

Today, anxiety, burnout, and loneliness are rising, even as we remain “connected” through devices. We scroll for comfort, swipe for hope, and often feel more disconnected from ourselves and each other. Meanwhile, just outside, a quiet world waits to welcome us back.

Coming home with nature isn’t about escape; it’s about returning to the rhythm of life. The forest doesn’t rush. The river doesn’t apologize for its flow. Mountains stand steady. The ocean moves endlessly. Animals do not question whether they belong. With nature, we remember our breath, our bodies, and the simple fact that we are alive. We belong. Research shows that time with nature can ease anxiety, lower blood pressure, and improve mood and focus. Even a few moments of mindful presence with nature can guide our nervous systems from chronic stress back into restoration.

Beyond the data, there is a deeper reason why coming home with nature matters now more than ever. The crises we face, climate change, social division, and mental health challenges are symptoms of a broken relationship with the Earth and with each other. Nature invites us to slow down, to listen, to notice, and to care. When we spend time with nature, we often rediscover a sense of stewardship and connection that can guide the way we live and the choices we make.

Coming home with nature is not a luxury. It is how we remember who we are, how we heal, and how we learn to live in right relationship with ourselves, each other, and the living world. In the forest, we find belonging. By the water, we find reflection. Beneath the sky, we find hope. Nature is everywhere, open to everyone, every day.

If you are feeling disconnected, tired, or uncertain, step outside. Let the breeze touch your skin. Listen for birdsong. Feel the ground beneath your feet, in your heart, wherever you feel it. You don’t need to go far. Even indoors, you can pause and turn toward nature outside your window, watch the clouds drift, notice the trees swaying, or feel the light on your skin. Or you can simply be with nature in your mind, imagining a place that brings you peace. These small moments of connection remind us that nature is here, inviting us back into relationship, wherever we are. Begin with a single breath, a moment of noticing, and allow yourself to remember:

You are nature. And it’s time to come home.

Photograph: Backyard forest path, Enfield, NH