Chapter 3: A New Way

I am a solitary person. Maybe I was born this way, or maybe I just became it; I know not. But even when I was little, it wasn't to other people that I ran when I longed for comfort or connection. Instead, I would retreat to the forest around my childhood home. It was here, surrounded by a hundred shades of green, that I felt seen and heard and known. It was here that I was home. 

Perhaps it was my sensitivity that drove me to become solitary, the propensity to be easily affected by everything. Or maybe it was that when I expressed my ideas, I would often be met with quizzical looks that even my young self could sense judgment from. Eventually, as I grew into my teen years, I learned to repress what I felt, keep my thoughts to myself, and found ways to numb it all. This had many consequences, one of which being that I walked through life with an eternal sense of loneliness. It felt as though no one knew the real me. How could they? I was hiding, after all. But at the time, acceptance felt more important than authenticity, so I carried on.

By adulthood, I had accepted the conditioning that modern society feeds us: that sensitivity is a weakness, that thinking differently is stupidity, and that one must prove their worth through suffering. The hours of rest and play amongst the trees became an indulgent childish notion that I needed to leave behind. It was time to trade dreaming and adventure for something else. I bowed to the perpetual pressure to conform, and so began a long cycle of striving. 

By my mid-twenties, even my connection to nature had been turned into work, and persistent feelings of sadness and emptiness began to haunt me. My spark was fading, but I accepted it as a part of maturing. I told myself this was just how life was, this was being an adult, and I kept going. For almost a decade, I pushed through. And then, one random day, my body just stopped. 

I lay down on the couch one morning before work, feeling exhausted even though I had slept, and when I attempted to get up, I couldn't. It felt as though my legs were made of concrete, and I didn't possess the physical strength to lift them. I remained there, terrified that something was horribly wrong with me. After a while, it passed, and although the experience scared me, I brushed it off. About a week later, it happened again. And again. I searched for an explanation, but there was none; I was in perfect health. My mind took this to mean that I was lazy and weak, and I needed to push harder, and for a while, I did. But eventually, I had no choice but to accept that my body was sending me a very clear message: stop, or I will stop you, by any means necessary.

That was the beginning of my long lesson in surrender. I didn't realize it then, how deep I would be called, but my body already knew something I didn't. And although my mind fought on for years, berating me with panic, and guilt, and incessant thoughts that I needed to keep forcing, within me, underneath all the noise, something softly whispered, "It's time to remember, there is another way". I chose to listen to that tiny voice, and over time, that whisper has become my mantra. 

It's taken me years to exit survival mode, to bring my nervous system into a state of balance, to erase the societal programming from my mind, to let go of the addictions and distractions that numbed me for two decades, and to shed the belief that I needed to work myself to death just to be worthy of living. It has felt like an impossible, never-ending road, but I somehow managed to traverse it, and my return to nature had everything to do with it. 

We tell ourselves all kinds of things that keep us from connecting with the natural world: I don't have the time, I don't like the outdoors, I don't live near nature. But connection doesn't require any of these things. We don't need to go into the remote wilderness to find her, because she is everywhere: a single tree, a patch of grass, a rogue dandelion growing through a crack in the sidewalk. You don't even need to leave your house; a glance of sky through a window, a pet, a houseplant. She is always there. And even if we are bedridden in a windowless room, she is still with us. Because we live within her and her within us. There is no separation. This is what she has been patiently waiting for us to remember. 

It feels as though the Earth knows me. Like we are old friends and she has seen, accepted, and loved every part of me since I took my first breath from her. When I am with her, I feel completely understood without having to speak, completely accepted despite my shortcomings, and completely loved without having to prove my worth. I suppose this is why I went to her when I was little and why I returned to her as an adult. It was through her unconditional love and acceptance that I realized I would rather have nobody and nothing in my life than trade joy, peace or authenticity for approval. And so, I began the long (and still ongoing) process of shedding the beliefs and masks I have been wearing for a lifetime. And through it all, she has guided me home to myself. 

We are taught that nature is one thing, and we are another. And that she has no value aside from what she can give us materially. She is seen as just a dead thing to take from, conquer, and even fear. It is these lies that have disconnected us from her and, inevitably, from ourselves. It is these lies that make us forget who we are and why we are here. 

For a time, I did forget. Not only who I was, or who she was, but also my connection to something higher. I was raised within an organized religion, but something about it never aligned with me. Even as a young child, I couldn't overlook the dark threads of corruption and control that humans had sewn into the teachings, twisting divine truth to suit their whims. Everything felt tainted, so even though I felt a connection to a higher power, because I couldn't make sense of it, I chose to believe in nothing. I became an atheist. But that meant that years later, when my soul called for me to awaken and my life began to fall apart, I had nowhere to turn for guidance. So, I returned to the one place I had always felt safe. She welcomed me home with open arms and reminded me that no matter how lost I felt or how solitary I may be, I am never truly alone, because she is always with me. She comforted me. She healed me. She made me believe again. And then, she became my greatest teacher.

While the world had taught me force, Gaia taught me flow. She showed me that everything is cyclic and that I must learn to allow. I beheld her acceptance of death and learned to let go. I watched her winter, and realized that rest is holy. I witnessed her bloom and gathered the courage to do the same. I observed her creations and began my own. First, she gave me the strength to keep going, and then she showed me a new way forward. This is what she wants to do for us all.

The old ways of force are dying, and a new way is being born. But the old will not go quietly. This is why we need Gaia now more than ever. As the manufactured chaos of this world threatens to drag us into the cage of suffering and keep us there, Earth offers her eternal invitation of healing and remembrance. So, as the old ways rage to remain relevant, we must not allow our minds to be closed, nor our hearts hardened, for this is a trap laid by expiring forces. Instead, we must listen to the wisdom Gaia whispers to us through our hearts: it is time for a new way.

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