An Hour of Silence in Nature

Being in silence in nature is one of my greatest refuge. Yesterday I spent the day with a group of colleagues on a 100+ acre farm in the foothills of North Carolina. We’re all participating in a two-year program of study of presence and practice in nature.  Our teacher, Carolyn, instructed us to go outdoors to walk, allow ourselves to just wander and be led to a spot that invited us to linger, and sit in silence for an hour. We were invited to “remember that every moment invites possibilities of newness.”

Though I have spent hours in silence in nature, I don’t recall being so still and present with the silence or being so acutely aware of my sensory experiences. As I sat feeling aware of the degenerative condition of my corneas and how this is impacting my vision, I also became intensely aware of how acute my hearing is becoming. I looked at what had appeared to be two grayish white rocks move and turn into cows, but I had no difficulty discerning the surrounding calls of a hairy woodpecker, a red-bellied woodpecker, and a pileated woodpecker.

I was instructed to extend my circle of silence gradually to encompass more of what surrounded me, and as I did so, my circle became infinite. I felt a deep sense of belonging there in nature. As Carolyn Toben suggested, I greeted these creatures with the thought that “the same spirit that abides in you abides in me.” I watched as my little four-pound dog, Eos, who had accompanied me for the day, and one of the cows met one another with utter curiosity, wonder, and awe. The cow turned her head sideways to be able to reach it through the fence, and then she and Eos touched noses.

I listened to the distinct sound of deer running through the fallen leaves in the forest, and I sat motionless as a doe and her two fawns emerged and stood for several moments just 20 feet from me and then darted toward the fence. The doe jumped the fence. The first fawn ran back and forth for a moment along the edge of the fence and them climbed through the rails. The second fawn ran back and forth, back and forth, and then went around the fence.

The stillness of the day was so striking that when a flock of blackbirds flew overhead, their wing beats sounded like the rustle of soft wind through leaves on trees. In the afternoon, the snow came, and the stillness and silence deepened.

I experienced an utter sense of belonging there in the stillness and quiet of the woods. I realized that perhaps more than I love the ocean, I miss the silence of the woods. My circle was infinite, and I became the stillness in the center.

In the silence in nature, I am never alone. I am worthy of belonging just as I am—the stillness finds me so, as do the creatures of nature. As I sat in the silence, I recalled what Carolyn had said to us earlier, that there is love in beginnings, and there is love in endings. My hearing became more acute as I listened to the outside. It whispered to me what is true for me on the inside. Maybe it’s ok to see blurry and hear more clearly.

I encourage you to give yourself the gift of being outside in nature in stillness and silence for an hour (or two, three, or four), and attend to your surroundings with your senses of vision, hearing, touch, smell, and taste. Try to be open to observing what happens. When the hour is complete, try writing about your experience, and try to be curious about what arises in your reflections.

Jen Johnson is a mindfulness coach and therapist, photographer and writer. She teaches mindfulness workshops online and mindful writing workshops online. Jen has been teaching mindfulness for 30+ years. Learn more about working with Jen.