While working on the sequel to The Stillness of the Living Forest I began to worry about the validity of the sit spot session, the hour long nature observation that had been the foundation of my journey to a deep nature connection.  I knew that it worked for me, but would it work for others as well?

To address my concerns I decided to conduct what I called shared sit spots.  After recruiting individuals willing and able to join me for an hour long sojourn in nature, I provided then with basic guidelines for observing and taking notes.  Afterwards, I asked them to reflect upon and write up their impressions.

My goals were to see if the sit spot experience was as profound and transformational for others as it was for me.  Also, I wanted to find out if there were any obstacles or difficulties that arose, information that I could then use to improve my instructions on conducting a sit spot.

I conducted four shared sessions all of which turned out to be memorable experiences.  I learned much from each of my friends.  Together we wrote up blog posts sharing our observations.  Often, I thought that each of them was more eloquent than me in describing key aspects of the sit spot experience.

But, then as I dug deeper into my writing project and as I reviewed the scientific literature on the benefits of time in nature I realized there were additional questions to address. Was the practice of systematic sensory awareness crucial to forming a nature connection?   Did each participant begin to individualize the experience?  I hoped so.  And did time in nature facilitate a subtle psychotherapeutic process where the just right insights arose at the just right time?

To address these questions I devised a structured interview with inquiries that I hoped were inclusive, touched on all the key themes, yet didn’t pull too hard for specific reactions. 

Below is my interview with Michael preceded by his original written reflections from our February 2021 blog, A Shared North Country Sit Spot. 

                                                                        Michael

Michael was my second sit spot friend.  I came to know Michael during book club discussion where the genre of choice was travel-adventure.  Listening to his comments I realized that Michael had a deep affinity for nature.  And I noticed that he could see and articulate the connections between the challenges faced during travel and the imperatives in these situations to know oneself, dig deep, and develop needed inner and outer attributes and skills.

Michael also chose, in spite of some degree of inconvenience, to live in the far north of the rural county where we both reside.  There, he enjoys his all-season walks, gardening, and tending his birdhouses.  He has no trouble feeding a wood stove throughout the long, gray, cold months of winter as long as he can feel the warmth of the fire, listen to the crackle of the burning logs, gaze out his skylight at the winter sky, and work his way through his pile of books.  He is also a photographer, his specialty black and white street photos, and thus has developed a knack for seeing beauty, poignancy and universality in everyday life. 

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                                              A Shared North Country Sit Spot

                                                         Michael’s Reflections

Prologue

I woke at 5:00 a.m. to prepare for a shared sit spot with John.  We planned to meet up at 6:30 and walk to the location we had scouted out a month before. 

I began my early morning routine by stoking the wood stove, dressing, feeding Jean-Luc (my cat), making coffee, and snacking on a little yogurt with granola.  I gathered what I needed per John’s suggestions; notebook, pencils (a pen might freeze, John told me), binoculars, camera, and a folding camp stool.

Approach

At a quarter after six, I drove to our prearranged meet up spot, where John immediately pulled in next to me.  Our timing was perfect.  We each quietly gathered our gear and started walking up Bucks Falls Road to our prearranged spot, which overlooked a hayfield, a beaver pond, and a forested hill to our south. 

It was still dark when we began walking; John heard a great horned owl hooting in the distance.  I suspected bird calls would be rare on an early January morning.  I took this as a good omen for what we might see and hear during the hour ahead. 

Call and Response                            

At seven, John left me to set up on a small knoll next to a maple tree while he continued south about a hundred yards closer to the forest.

Although it was only 30 degrees with a slight wind, I had to wonder if I had appropriately dressed for an hour of physical inactivity— moot now, I thought.  I pulled out my notebook, checked the time.  It was 7:02 a.m., time to finish whatever futzing I needed to do in preparation for an hour of silent observation of my surroundings. 

Almost immediately, to my right, came the distant, plaintive hu-hu-hu, hoo-hoo call of the great horned owl we had heard on our walk up to our respective spots.  Then I heard two distinct vocalizations coming from the forest near John.  Mating calls, territorial demands, or both?  I realized my knowledge of owls was limited, but at the moment, I felt lucky and just wanted to appreciate the subtle, sotto voce that was not meant for my ears. 

Sitting quietly, listening to owls calling in the distance, and watching an early morning winter sunrise, I suddenly felt an acute awareness of the division between my inner and outer life.  I’ve heard others refer to this mental division as the matrix, the hologram, or even a simulation.  I think of it as less a division than as a search for a signal in the noise. 

I reflected that we live in the constant noise of what we watch, read, and hear.  It shapes who we are, forms our ever-shifting emotional responses, and defines our mental life.  The problem is finding a direction or a signal within all the noise.   Sitting in this spot for an hour, thinking less about the constant noise in my head and more about the sounds in this immediate observable world, was a blessing I too rarely experience. 

Yeah, what a mystery life is!  The owls are preparing to mate.  The darkness of this late winter night gives way to daylight.  The world is changing, and I am changing too.  I’m growing older, remarkable and not remarkable at all, like winter itself.  Resignation?  I hope not.  I still want to take it all in before I reach my physical destination. 

On one hand I am nothing special, nor is anybody else.  Yet, on the other hand we all carry a singular weight and are very special.  I matter.  John matters.  The owls, I hear matter—this physical place matters.  Okay, time to turn off the mental musing (noise) and tune in to the signals in front of me. 

Rose D’or                                                                  

Bringing my awareness back to my surroundings, I noticed a featureless gray deck of middle and high clouds underscored by a narrow strip of light just above the eastern horizon.  It was here that the predawn light began to shift from dark gray to shades of azure and rose D’or.  I realized we were in for one of nature’s light show.  To the north, the sky was breaking into altocumulus and stratocumulus clouds racing across a cerulean blue background.

Sounds at Sunrise                                         

Above I heard the sound of a jet flying east towards one of the big airports nearer the coast—an intrusive human caused sound.  Grrr! (I would count five more before the hour was up.)   To my south, near the trees behind me, I could hear crows cawing.  Tune in, I thought, listen.  Nearby to my left, I could hear but not see a flock of foraging chickadees squeaking and chirping back and forth, working together on a cold winter morning.  The sound of the wind was barely perceptible but there.  The sound of the water flowing in the creek beyond the beaver pond, like the wind, was subtle and difficult to hear without tuning in.

A Celestial Kaleidoscope                                         

Visually I began to pay attention to the 180-degree panorama in front of me.   At my feet were a few stalks of goldenrod, their fluorescence still intact.  In the middle distance was the snow-covered pond with a beaver den near the southern shore.  Further away stood the hills above which the sun would soon rise.  

To my north, across an old farm road, was another open field with a tree line on the horizon.  Here the clouds were moving rapidly across a brightening sky.  They looked like cotton balls, gray in their centers, edges tinged with shades of yellow, shell-pink, and saffron.  I had expected a dull gray morning, but this one became subtly beautiful in the rising illumination.  One f-stop change every five minutes, I thought. 

Signal to Noise

Somewhere, carried on the cold air, I heard the drumming of a woodpecker.  I know when a woodpecker drums on a resonant object; the resulting sound can carry a great distance.  Was its fast tom-tom tempo a mating call or a territorial claim?  It would take a better birder than me to know the difference.

About a hundred yards away, near the edge of the open field; I saw a squirrel appear out of its burrow in the snow.  It ran up a small oak sapling, seemed to grab something, then scampered down the narrow trunk and back into its den, it’s overnight fast broken.

Cold                                                   

More crows cawing, a light wind, a rising sun, refreshes cold air in my nostrils and lungs.  Physically I was beginning to feel the cold in my butt and hands.  Mentally, all my senses had become more focused, my mind slowed down to match my surroundings’ tempo.  A cliché, I thought, but at that moment it felt like a blessing to be alive.  

Off to my right, I heard John’s footfalls crunching in the snow.  I hadn’t paid attention to my watch, so I was surprised to hear his approach.  So soon, I thought.  John expressed the same sentiment about how fast the hour had proceeded.   I attempted to rise from my low camp chair but instead fell backward into the snow—time to shake off the cold and stiffness and trek the farm road back to our vehicles.

Epilogue

We walked back to our cars without much speaking, both of us still in a pleasant reverie after our early morning experiences. Back at my house, we shared hot coffee and toast with jam and spoke about our similar observations.  Although our minds’ noises were different, we both tuned in to similar signals from the natural world. 

Now, I’m writing up my reflections on a hopeful February morning. I throw another log onto the fire, sip another cup of coffee, and catch some news on the radio.  I feel no urgent need to do anything on this cold Sunday morning except to recall and type up my memories of a glorious winter sunrise over a snow-blown field and pond, a quiet hour without and with John Harvey.  Thank you, John, for an hour I will never forget.

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                                                                One Year Later                                                    

                                                     Sit Spot Interview with Michael

Any general impressions you would like to share?

I think a lot about our sit spot.  I’m a visual person so I have vivid memory of the sit spot and can see it all clearly in my mind.  I remember the colors, the transition from predawn black and white to the bands of saffron and rose D’or, and the cerulean blue background of the sky.  I remember the soundscape, both the silence and the bird songs.  I remember the cleansing feeling of sitting still and breathing in the winter cold.

What motivated you to do a sit spot?

I like winter so I was interested in a January sit spot.  I also wanted a direct and different experience of being in nature.

What were your impressions and reactions while doing the sit spot?

I was surprised it only took about 5-10 minutes to let go of all my internal mental stuff and merge into nature awareness.  It was really satisfying for me to focus all my senses on my surroundings, and on the present moment. 

Was the experience different than you thought it might be?

Beforehand an hour sounded like a long time, but during the sit spot time passed quickly.  I was glad to have a whole hour to experience nature without any interruptions.  It gave me an opportunity to merge fully into the moment.

What were your reactions, thoughts, and reflections after doing the sit spot?

On the Sunday after the sit spot when I sat down to write up my impressions I gazed at the flames flickering in my wood stove, looked out the window at the snow covered ground, and felt as if I was reliving the sit spot.  I reflected on how complex beauty is. I thought how wondrous the universe was, and I contemplated on why all of this beauty was here instead of there being a void.

I realized that although the sit spot was a single tiny location that as I sat there it became vast.  The vista went on for miles literally and figuratively.  During the sit spot, I felt one with nature.  The small location of the spot became a doorway to a vast inner and outer world.

Have your thoughts about sit spots changed or developed over time?

When I reflect back on the sit spot I think on one hand how insignificant I am in the vastness of the universe and cosmos and yet on the other hand I feel unique, almost special to have experienced such a deep connection with my surroundings.  I’m reassured by the thought that when I am gone others will be here to enjoy the gift of life and feel the awe of being in nature.  I now see life as cup of time, a cup I want to savor and not spill.

Did the sit spot experience change you in any ways?  If so, in what ways?

The sit spot reminded me of the importance of living in and enjoying the moment.  I notice now that even if I’m working on a household project and run into problems or if I face some adversity in my daily life that I can choose to shift my attitude, to enjoy what I’m doing, to learn from what I’m doing.

Have you done any subsequent sit spots on your own or variations that you created?

I’ve done some modified sit spots.  I have a chair in the woods behind my house and I go there through all of the seasons, even in winter to sit and watch and listen.  In the spring and summer I like to sit on my front deck which overlooks a stream, a meadow, and has a view of a distant ridge.  I sit, sip my coffee, and listen to the birds, the warblers and robins and red-winged blackbirds and hear the stream flowing.  I’m able to let go of all my worries and thoughts and get back to that head space of being one with nature.

For me, it’s similar to reading a book.  I just become absorbed in the ever changing and compelling story of nature.  I sit still and let time turn the pages.

Do you have any other thoughts to share?

I was glad that we sat some distance apart.  I see the sit spot as a solitary experience.  I think you have to be alone, have to be left with your own sensory impressions, thoughts, and feelings to get to the heart of the experience.

I also notice now that when I walk the rail trail near my house I see locations that would make a good sit spots, places with a vista, with birds singing and with a view of and the sound of running water.    

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You can read about more sit spots and wander walks on this blog and in my book The Stillness of the Living Forest:  A Year of Listening and Learning available on Amazon and through Shanti Arts Publishing.

Stay tuned for Nature’s Pathway’s to Mindfulness, the sequel to Forest Stillness, scheduled for release by Shanti Arts in the autumn of 2024.