Threshold

I stepped across a scattering of large gray rocks, remnants of an old stone wall, a threshold to mark my departure from home and yard and my entry to an hour long sit spot.  Once across the threshold I would slow my pace, shift my awareness into noticing, and proceed slowly to my destination.

Crossing the threshold was the easy second step in conducting a sit spot.  The first step, forming the intention was much more difficult.  Why, I asked myself, was it so hard to form the intention.  Why so much inertia and procrastination to overcome when I knew how beneficial an hour connecting with nature would be for my body, mind, and soul. 

And if it was hard for me to form an intention, how much more difficult might it be for others who wanted to deepen their nature connection but sttuggled to carve out the time.  Perhaps, if I carefully went through all the steps involved in a sit spot it might strengthen my resolve and might provide guidance for others.

Approach

The third step in the sit spot process is the approach, the easy, slow, tune-into-nature stroll to the selected location, in my case the edge of a beaver pond about a half mile away. Stepping slowly along the path, I inhaled the earthy, woodsy, fern-filled fragrance of the forest and asked myself, “What is the mood of nature?” The answer, “quiet” came immediately.

Asking this question, an important first step in tuning in to nature always seems a little weird. Then I am always surprised at how fast and clear the answer comes and how accurate it seemed. There was no wind, no leaves moving, a still blue sky overhead, all peaceful and quiet.

Walking on to a wide mowed path I noticed a cluster of tall milkweeds with dark green leaves, perfect food for any migrating monarch butterflies.  Further along I spotted a cluster of tiny white daisy fleabane interspersed with creamy-white, tightly knit umbrellas of Queen Anne’s Lace, a lovely nature bouquet.

Ahead a rabbit munched grass. I paused, took in the view, and snapped several photos.  When I began to walk again, the rabbit, reluctant to leave its favorable grazing spot, hopped over to the edge of the trail and let me pass by.

A bird flew into the high branches of a dead tree and lingered in plain view. I eased my camera up, and the bird, a blue jay, held still.  Usually, the instant you lift your camera, the bird flies away.  This blue jay kindly held his pose.

The plants, flowers, mammals, and birds were revealing themselves to me.  I recalled my belief that when I offered my time and attention, nature responded to show, teach, and inspire me.

The First Interval

Arriving at my sit spot location I had a definite plan in mind for my first 10-minute interval of observation.  I would as usual, draw a circle on the page of my journal, put a dot in the middle to note my location, and then conduct a systematic survey of my surroundings starting with the weather conditions—the sky, clouds, temperature, breeze, and feel of the air.  Next, I would proceed to a step-by-step sensory awareness survey of all that heard, saw, felt, and smelled.

So much for my plan!  As soon as I set up my camp stool, and drew my first circle, I was inundated with impressions.  The softening rays of the afternoon sun illuminated a fresh mown, hay field beyond the beaver bond.  Above the field a huge white puffy cloud floated slowly with the gentle northwest wind. Overhead the sky was a pure vast blue.  I was surrounded by myriad shades of green—grass green, dark oak leaf green, pale willow leaf green, and light pine needle green.

A chorus of bird songs filled the air, a surprise as usually by late July the birds, past their breeding season grow quiet. I heard two mourning doves repeatedly coo-cooing, heard the chak, chak, chak calls of red-winged blackbirds, the sprightly aria of a song sparrow, the enchanting witchety, witchety, witchety of a common yellowthroat, the rapid sweet, sweet, sweet, a little more sweet of a yellow warbler, the persistent mew, mew, mew of a catbird, and the bell like chinga, chinga, chinga trill of a swamp sparrow.   I detected the high pitched wheeza, wheeza, wheeza of a black and white warbler and a blue jay called a strident jay, jay jay. 

Enthralled and soothed by the songs and calls of the bird chorus I remembered a Facebook post I had recently seen noting that 10 minutes of listening to bird sounds reduces stress hormones, induces the relaxation response, and is as beneficial to body, mind and soul as 30 minutes of meditation. 

A dragon fly flew in, hovered in front of me, and darted off.   A bee buzzed by my ear. From time-to-time frogs croaked—the ker-dunk, ker-dunk of northern green frogs interspersed with the bass twang of bull frogs.  A robin flew over the pond and landed on a distant wire.  A woodpecker drummed. In the distance I heard the faint rising oo-eek call of a female wood duck.

I felt a soft breath of wind touch my cheek and saw the stems of field grass begin to gently sway and dance in front of me.  I inhaled the rich fragrance of wetland growth and the sharp smell of drying grass.

Noticing

During my third 10-minute observation interval I suddenly noticed wildflowers in bloom in front of me.  There were blossoms of Queen Ann’s Lace that I had seen on my approach and bright yellow alfalfa blossoms at my feet.  I also saw pod-like buds of creeping thistle opening into lilac-purple blooms and creamy white sprays of meadowsweet. These were easy to overlook flowers; the thistle often regarded as a harmful invasive, the meadowsweet so inconspicuous, yet each flower offered its own unique beauty, and as I read later each provides essential pollination and soil improving attributes to the matrix of nature.

The mourning doves continued to coo, their songs at times overlapping, creating a lovely harmony.  Two goldfinches looped over the beaver pond singing their sweet “potato-chip, potato-chip” call.  I confidently thought I was hearing and identifying all the bird songs and calls but just to make sure I decided to run a Merlin Bird ID recording.

I watched as Merlin detected the songs I was hearing—barn swallow, veery, song sparrow, red-winged blackbird, and goldfinch.  Then a surprise, Alder Flycatcher popped up on the screen.  I listened intently. There it was, a hoarse repeated rree-BE-o. Now I heard it loud and clear.  How had I missed it?

As I listened to the call of the Alder Flycatcher, I realized that this was an invitation to consider the very nature of listening.  I thought I was hearing everything, but I had to humbly acknowledge I can always hear more if I devote the time, create inner quiet, and fully, openly, and patiently listen.

I noticed a sudden shift in my mood.  Glancing up at the sky I saw that the puffy, friendly looking white cloud had morphed into long, gray-tinged blob that oozed across the southeastern horizon. It looked threatening, as if a storm were brewing.  How quickly and automatically I had perceived this change in the clouds and how fast the possibility of danger had changed my mood.

All this noticing was, I conjectured, part of a shift in the quality of attention that can happen during a sit spot, a shift away from directed, narrow attention to more open noticing. It was a shift away from seeing what I was programmed and expected to see, to seeing what was really around me.  The sensory inputs of nature seemed to facilitate this open attention which then allowed me to see patterns, connections, and relationships, and activate intuition. 

Blending In

I had been sitting quietly for more than 40 minutes; my camp stool set just into the tall grass at the end of the mowed trail.  Any disturbance that my arrival and presence created seemed to have abated. The song sparrows and red-winged black birds went about their business fluttering from bush to bush in front of me.  Bees visited the flowers right by my face.  Frogs croaked nearby.

Sensing a presence I looked up and spotted a deer across the beaver pond, stepping slowly, grazing on the succulent marsh grasses and the tender bush shoots.  It was a buck with large velvet-coated antlers, at least six points, antlers that he would soon need to establish dominance and win the right to mate.

The buck wore its summer tan coat, appeared muscled and strong, even regal as he stepped slowly forward munching away, fortifying himself for the challenges ahead.  And he was completely oblivious of my appearance until he heard the click of my camera shutter, stared me down, and bound away into the brush.

To my left, out on the pond I heard the mewing and squeaking of beavers, the way they communicate when taking a break from their work.  They too must be oblivious to or at peace with my presence.

I heard wing whirs right in front of me followed by a splash.  A duck had landed just feet away.  Hidden behind the grass I couldn’t see it but when I heard a series of plaintive ooo-eek calls I knew it was a female wood duck.  I heard her splash, flap her wings, and call out repeatedly.  I had never witnessed such constant calling before. Was it calling to flock mates?  Five minutes later I heard her take off and then watched her wing away over the marsh still calling ooo-eek. I had been granted a glimpse into the private life of a wood duck.

All these beautiful, awe-inducing sights and sounds were, I thought, the product of blending in, of becoming invisible, becoming just another part of nature.  It often took 40 minutes or more of sitting still to achieve, but it was, I figured, well worth the time investment.

Color Show

As the final 10-minute interval of my hour wound down, I felt a sudden shift in conditions right at the moment of sunset; a breath of coolness, a hint of the quiet to come. The light grew softer. Mosquitoes hummed by my face. The bird songs and calls grew quieter and less frequent, just the whinny of a robin, a single call of a blue jay and in the distance the melodic, ethereal, flute like ee-o-lay chant of a wood thrush.

Over the course of numerous sit spots, I learned that sunset and sunrise always provide a color show, sometimes subtle and muted, sometimes bold and spectacular, usually fleeting and transitory.  I wondered what kind of show this sunset might bring.

At first not much and then a layer of purple-pink clouds appeared to the south.  A few moments later a squadron of loose rosy-pink clouds floated overhead.  Then to the north I spotted a band of intertwined orange and pink and gray layered above the horizon. But the show was not over.  Looking up I saw a long diaphanous streamer of bright pink against a deep blue sky.  A spectacular sequence and then it was gone.  Thankfully, I was at my sit spot to witness another sunset color show.

Departure

My hour was up.  Darkness approached.  I packed up my gear and began to walk back up the path. I heard a few last bird calls, the mew of a catbird, the whinny of a robin.  It seemed as if the birds were reluctant to give up the day and somehow, I could relate to their reluctance. The day had been sweet.

Now the last light of day was quicky fading away. The first fireflies flashed in front of me.  A bat fluttered overhead.  A moth flapped by. Ah, I thought, the night shift, a whole new world of life was taking over.

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I came back to my threshold and paused for a moment to consider and consolidate my experience.  What had I learned? What had been revealed?

The answer came instantly. All that I had seen, heard, and experienced at my sit spot felt real, much more real than the state I had started with, a kind of pseudo reality formed by news clips, to do lists, the whir of technology, and the opinions and beliefs of others.  The experiences at my sit spot were abiding and fundamental.

Stepping back into my yard I remembered I had one last step to complete that I called anchoring.  Back in the kitchen I brewed a cup of peppermint tea, washed a handful of ripe Bing cherries, sat down, sipped the tea, and savored the fruit. This taking in of tangible nourishment was a metaphorical way and a literal parallel to the sensory, mental, emotional, and spiritual nourishment I had received during my sit spot.

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You can read more about the health and wellness benefits of time in nature and about guidelines for conducting a sit spot in my latest book, Pathways to Nature Mindfulness, available on Amazon.com and from the publisher, Shanti Arts.

Nature’s Pathways to Mindfulness: Harvey, John: 9781962082266: Amazon.com: Books

You can also read about my original year of sit spot experiences in my first book, The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning also available on Amazon and from Shanti Arts Publications.