Kristine Backes

Dear all,

How long has it been since you did a lot of nothing? Stared into space for an hour or more? Took a slow walk somewhere and observed some of the littlest things? 

I was fortunate enough to have a day of nothing in the mountains. Somehow I can’t seem to stop doing when I am at home and online. It takes a drive to the family cabin in the mountains to get me to unplug and reconnect with myself.

Like meditation, time spent staring into space, or watching a wild thing, or admiring a tree is a form of detoxification. Just as our physical digestion needs time in between meals to finish its work, so do our mind and heart. Sunday ended up a day of mental and emotional spring cleansing for me, with warm Sun making it easy to just sit.

We are in the ‘between’ season here. Winter is not quite over, and spring is just getting started. The old grass is still brown, and only in a few places are new plants appearing, such as the tiny yarrow leaves popping out of the bare, warm spots. I don’t know the round green beetle on the stick; I do know the moose calf from last summer and fall. And the huge, pale crescent Moon hanging above the trees was the only visible celestial object of the collection that included Saturn, Mars and Venus on Sunday.

There is a reason Nature heals, and modern science is a long way from understanding it. When you are surrounded only with trees, plants, animals, sky, Earth, you are yourself only. There is no need to ‘be’ anything or anyone else, no one to please, no image to project. Except maybe with the moose calf, with whom I made a little extra effort to mind my own business – the cardinal rule of the wilderness. He did the same, of course.

I am drawn to wilderness to remember myself, but the gift is available all the time, everywhere. It really just takes stopping, and doing nothing.

I hope you have the chance to do nothing, in the company of a plant, tree, animal, sky, and reclaim your natural wisdom.

Thank you for being here. More soon about this week’s podcast episode.

Kristine