In forest therapy, we cultivate awareness—mindfully tuning into the land around us. Indigenous knowledge of plants, animals, and weather helps us live safely with nature’s elements. On walks, I highlight how to recognize healing and harmful plants, respect local wildlife, and navigate varying weather conditions with safety in mind.
I also guide awareness of the sounds we encounter, both natural and human-made. Human sounds, while initially distracting, are simply part of the soundscape. Rather than judging them, we learn to accept them as they are—inviting equanimity and fostering a deeper connection to the world around us.
A recent forest therapy walk stands out in my memory. As I guided a group through the woods, we came across a small cabin. Outside, there was a rustic bathtub and laundry setup. The cabin’s owner was singing—loudly and from the heart—as he went about his daily chores. When it came time to share reflections, many in the group commented on the joy they felt just witnessing this man- empathetic joy. "I’d like to be like him—singing as I go about my day!" one participant mused. His unfiltered joy was palpable, carrying through the trees and touching each of us.
As we began our return walk, we found ourselves cold from sitting in the shadows of the forest. I invited the group to step into a sunlit patch to warm up. As we sat, ironically across from the same cabin, the man started whistling, again not just any whistle- you could once again feel his joy. I couldn’t help but smile, almost to the point of audible laughter, I felt like a kid with the giggles. The partnership of the forest and this joyful heart, yet another reminder—joy can be a choice- always deep within us, waiting to be tapped into. I will long hold a picture in my heart of all those beautiful faces in our group, basking in the of the sun like lizards, smiling as we all warmed with the joyful whistling in the background. Chills.
But can we choose joy in the midst of suffering? I believe we can.
When my mother was in hospice near the end of her life, she hadn’t eaten in weeks. My sisters and I were deep in our sorrow, grieving the loss we knew was coming. Then, on a bitterly cold night in Wyoming, in the middle of a blizzard, my mother suddenly declared, "I have to have Chinese food!" For a moment, she was her old, enthusiastic, joyful self again.
Despite the slim chances of her being able to eat, I ran out into the storm to find a Chinese restaurant that was still open. Sitting on the bench, waiting for the food, I felt an overwhelming wave of sorrow and allowed a few quiet tears to escape. A couple of strangers who walked in to pick up their take out, noticed and without hesitation, reached over to hug me. Even now, as I write this, I feel the warmth of that moment—proof of the power of noticing, of connection, of simple human kindness.
When I returned to my mother’s bedside with the food, she was so happy, so appreciative. Then, with a twinkle in her eye, she said, "Oh honey, you know I can’t eat this. But I wanted it so much, and you got it for me." We laughed, then cried together. Joy in a moment of despair.
How do we gain greater access to these moments of joy? How do we bring forth the deep well of joy that is always within us?
We feel it. We share it. And in doing so, we offer it to others—those who may be in their darkest moments or simply having a rough day.
My hope for you is to take this to heart. Write back to me and share your stories of everyday joy—of noticing, sharing, and receiving. And I wonder: how might you weave the idea of joy into your own forest therapy walks? How could you share joy with one of your favorite places out in nature, what would you notice? I am going back to the Redwoods today with this very intention.
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