Facing a number of unknowns, I found myself searching for an encouraging sign.  Having departed before sunrise, I was on my way to Forestburgh, NY to meet Benita for a shared sit spot. The first and most pressing unknown was finding her house and then arriving on time. So far, my trusty GPS was guiding me accurately and predicted an on-time arrival. 

The second unknown was finding a suitable location for our planned hour-long nature sit spot.  Usually when trying out a new sit spot location I scout the place, and the approach route the night before so that things go smoothly in the morning when time is of essence.

But the biggest and most important unknown would be her reaction to the hour-long session of sitting in silence and observing nature.  I always enjoyed these sessions, learned much, and experienced a deep connection to nature, but would it be similar for her? Plus, even though we had communicated cordially via email would we work well together in person in the forest?

I continued to scan the surrounding fields and forests looking for a positive omen.  Then, as I crested a hill with a view of the mist shrouded Delaware River and the distant green forested Catskill Mountains, I saw the yellow orb of the sun pushing above a layer of pink and purple tinged clouds.  Bright yellow rays of sunlight beamed into the sky, an inspiring and encouraging vista.

Minutes later while crossing the narrow, rickety bridge over the Delaware River I spotted a bald eagle circling high above the river, sunlight illuminating its regal white head and tail, a stirring sight, another positive omen.  Nature was telling me to trust the process.

The Approach

I had met Benita through emails and a phone interview she conducted to write an article for a local newspaper, The River Reporter, about my recent book, Nature’s Pathways to Mindfulness.  The themes of the book explaining the health benefits from spending time in nature resonated with her.  We stayed in touch.  Some months later she expressed interest in writing a follow-up article based on experiencing a nature sit spot.  We agreed to find a location and conduct a session near her house along the shore of Lake Joseph.

I found her house easily and arrived ten minutes early. When she opened the door and we shook hands I felt an immediate and comfortable connection.  She needed a few minutes to get ready. I waited outside on a deck where through the trees I had my first glimpse of the blue water of Lake Joseph.

We hopped in my car, drove about a half mile to a parking lot, and set off down the Lake Trail, a wide path over sandy soil, edged by patches of lacy dark green Sweetfern and surrounded by a forest of pine, oak, and beech trees.  Given the name of the trail, I expected we would soon come to a pleasant open spot alongside the lake where we could set up the two camp stools I was carrying.

After fifteen minutes the Lake Trail disappeared into thick brush, so we turned right on to the Foundation Trail. We trekked for another fifteen minutes but the trail ran parallel to the lake which we occasionally could glimpse through the thick forest.  I felt strongly that we needed to make our way over to the lake where we would have edge habitat with an open view, two good elements for a sit spot location.

Time was zipping by.  The morning freshness, another good sit spot element, was fading away.  We talked it over and decided to bushwhack through the woods to the shoreline.  At first the way was fairly open through ferns and pines but then we encountered thick patches of brambles and dense thickets of Mountain Laurel.  We searched for a way through, found a narrow deer path, and followed it until we came to an impenetrable tangle of laurel branches. We noticed that the deer path continued under the branches. Nothing to do but get on our hands and knees and crawl through just like the deer.

Once through the thicket and back on our feet we could see the shoreline just ahead. We pushed our way through the remaining brush, arrived at a big rock next to the water, set up our camp stools, sat down, pulled out our notebooks, drew our first sensory awareness circles, and began our first ten-minute interval of nature observation.

Impressions

Looking out on the lake I took in a vista of blue and green—green leafed blueberry branches, the blue water of the lake, the green forested far shoreline, a pale blue horizon, a layer of white clouds, topped by a cobalt blue sky.  A fresh northwest breeze touched my face. I inhaled a faint fragrance of water, pine needles, and forest floor.  Tiny waves splashed onto the rocky shoreline. The leaves of a sugar maple branch above us whooshed in the wind.

Nearby a catbird called a mew, mew, mew.  Benita had wanted to hear a catbird, so I was happy that one came to visit. A pair of chickadees squeaked back and forth and then one sang its familiar chik-a-dee-dee song.

Listening to the bird songs, I recalled that researchers have documented that even two minutes of birdsong can dramatically reduce the internal stress response. I could feel myself shifting to a more relaxed state.

Distractions

My soothing reverie was interrupted by the insistent, high-pitched beep-beep-beep back up horn of a truck operating across the lake, the staccato sound carried directly to my ears by the wind. I heard the whine of an airliner flying high above probably heading to or from New York City.  These human made sounds caused a tinge of annoyance.

Then, across the lake I heard the crank-crank-crank of a garden tractor starting up and soon achieving a full, loud roaring sound that carried loudly through the morning air.  The tinge of annoyance morphed into a full-blown blast of irritation. 

At that moment I recalled a question posed by a woman at a recent book talk I gave.  She asked if it was possible to find a truly quiet location in nature.

Unfortunately, the answer is no. Now, I had to put into practice the advice I had given her. I evened out my breathing and relaxed the muscles of my face, neck, and shoulders.  I reminded myself that all these human created noises come and go, arise, and fade away. Returning my attention to the sensory inputs surrounding me, I again saw the green leaves, the blue water and sky, and heard the wind and waves.  The distracting noises faded into the background. A sense of tranquility returned.

Waves

Gusts of wind rose and fell.  I knew from studying the wind during previous sit spots that most gusts last 10 to 20 seconds. I felt the fresh breeze touch my face and then slowly fade away. I heard the waves of wind whoosh through the maple leaves, sigh through the pine boughs, and softly rattle the oak leaves.

I watched as the approaching gusts ruffled the blue gray water of the lake creating a complex maze of interweaving wavelets. I heard the wind-augmented waves splash more loudly and insistently against the rocky shoreline.  I watched as the water settled, and the sounds of the waves softened and diminished.

All these wind driven waves of sound and sight and sensation varied in strength and duration—some strong and long, some of medium intensity, and some so light I had to attend carefully to the rising and falling sensations.

Occasionally a gust carried a bouquet of incredibly fresh fragrances.  What were these fragrances?  I detected the scent of fresh, wind-stirred water, the smell of sap, the fragrance of earth, rocks, and moss—all blended into an invigorating mix.

Inhaling deeply and savoring these pleasing and complex olfactory inputs, I realized that not every gust of wind carried these forest and lake fragrances.  These fragrances of nature also came in waves.

Far and Near

Forty minutes had gone by. I had been directing my gaze out onto the everchanging water of the lake, toward the variously shaped and textured trees on the far shore, and to the strands of clouds drifting across the deep blue sky.

Turning my attention to the shoreline in front of me, I saw a long ago fallen tree, the bark gone, the trunk now a faded driftwood gray upon which a diverse colony of grasses and wildflowers had taken root. Reeds sprouted in the shallow sheltered water next to the old log. The old tree after its passing had become a home for a world of plants which then brought insects, fish, amphibians, and reptiles.

I looked straight down at the surface of the big rock upon which our three-legged camp stools were precariously balanced. The surface of the rock was covered with growth—pale blue-green lichen, light green and dark green colonies of moss, and leaves and plants of wintergreen surrounded by last years decaying leaves that would compost into soil allowing even more plants to grow.  It was another complete world of life at my feet.

Looking down and to my right I studied the big, shiny green leaves of a Great Laurel.  This wild member of the rhododendron is supremely adapted to life in a moist shady environment where its big leaves crowd out competition, where those same shiny perennial leaves can photosynthesize throughout the year, and where the toxins in its leaves fend off browsing animals.  I learned later that Great Laurel also has the capacity to absorb air pollutants and thus serves as a natural air purifier.

Three twigs of the laurel grew from the same branch: one ending in a flower bud ready for next spring, one offering the residue of this year’s flowering, and the third holding tiny new leaves, this year’s growth. One branch taught me about three aspects of the Great Laurel’s life.

Looking at the water in front of me I spied another chunk of driftwood protruding from the surface.  But wait, I thought, I had not seen this chunk before. Keeping my gaze on the chunk I saw it slip beneath the water and then reappear. It was a huge snapping turtle, its head as big as my fist, but faster moving.

To my left, just past Benita, in a tangle of Mountain Laurel branches I heard a rapid, husky tchep-tchep-tchep call.  This was a Common Yellowthroat, a tiny warbler that prefers the habitat of moist woods and wet thickets, another visitor for Benita.

Our sit spot location seemed completely wild yet was so close to civilization.  As we sat and blended into our surroundings there was so much to see, hear, notice, and learn.

The Story of the Place

If one sits in silence and engages in sensory awareness one can, according to nature writer Robert Macfarlane, pick up on the story of a place.  This is not just the story of the rocks, fauna, and flora but the deeper cultural story of the humans who lived, loved, learned, and connected deeply with this place in nature.  Macfarlane believes that the subtle impressions and vibrations of past human experience linger and can be perceived.

An impression that kept coming back to me was how fresh and invigorating the air was.  I felt as if my whole respiratory system was going through a fresh air wash.  I kept taking in and enjoying deep full breaths.

Later I read that in 1896 a sanitorium had been built along the shoreline of Lake Joseph to offer a respite from the ravages of tuberculosis.  In addition, a boarding school was established to provide a clean air environment for city children whose health was too delicate for crowded classrooms amidst urban pollution.

A 1900 promotional blurb for the sanitarium stated, “And as for the air, a better tonic could scarcely be found.  It braces up the most delicate person, so that a change is remarkable after a short sojourn there.”

Perhaps, as I inhaled this clean air I was picking up on the vibes of those who gratefully breathed in this fresh air.

There was another vague impression that I could not identify, something remarkably peaceful about this place, a kind of uplifting, soul soothing peace, almost spiritual in its completeness.

Later I read that an earlier name for the body water in front of me was Lake Saint Joseph. This name had been given in 1896 by the Sisters of Saint Dominic who established not only a convent, chapel, and grotto for forty nuns but also the above-mentioned sanitarium and boarding school and later an affordable summer camp for impoverished boys and girls from New York City. The sisters also established a working farm, a power generating dam and a summer residence for the Cardinal of New York.

All this service to humanity was accomplished through the vision, sacrifice, prayer, and trust in divine providence of the Dominican sisters.  Now, the convent and camp were long gone, replaced by lovely homes on and around the lake.  The cardinal’s summer residence was now the luxury Inn at Lake Joseph. Yet in some way I believed that the subtle impressions from the sister’s hours of prayer, from their heartfelt sense of purpose and their dedication to service lingered.

Departure

Our hour was up.  A kingfisher calling ke-ke-ke-ke-ke flew in and landed on a tree branch right above us displaying its jaunty blue and white plumage and formidable beak.  Coincidence or a final farewell from benevolent nature?

I had been dreading the return slog through the thicket and worried about finding the path back but somehow, we picked our way more easily through the brush and then discovered the faint, but walkable far traces of the Lake Trail.  Were we simply more in touch with nature now and better able to find our way?

Stepping along the path we emerged back into full sunshine and warm air which we welcomed after sitting in the shade.  The wildflowers we noticed on the way in, fireweed, pearly everlasting and goldenrod, were now in full bloom and eagerly visited by bees. As the path grew wider, we walked in companionable silence, exchanging just a few words, each of us savoring our shared sit spot experience, each of us in our own way feeling the healing and rejuvenating power of nature.

It is fitting that Benita’s article describing her sit spot experience will run in The River Reporter on September 11, a day of remembrance on which we all can use the healing resources of nature.