My happy place
When I spend too much time indoors, on the computer or on my phone (and I still do too often), I start to feel anxious without realising it.
Fortunately, there are places to escape from the suburban area. I go to these places when I'm suffering from hypervigilance, dehydration, digital fog, brain fog or when I'm feeling down. But also in a good mood.
Studies have found that people have fewer health and mental health problems on average if nature is no more than 300 metres from their home. Let me sign off on this: you are less likely to have the time or energy to go further afield, and a significant part of your life will revolve around the same square kilometre.
A short walk from my home is a little paradise, tucked away on the busy ring road. Despite the buzz of traffic, you can reach another dimension and state of being in just a few minutes. The nationally rare manor park and oak grove is charmingly situated at the confluence of two rivers, along a historic postal and transport route, on the grounds of a royal manor house founded in the 16th century.
Even in snowy weather, turning off the motorway into an oak forest brings a sense of relief.
The large, centuries-old oak trees exude peace and dignity. They have not been felled by the ravages of the world, but have calmly continued to grow their annual rings into their thick trunks and extend their wide-reaching branches, with the kind help of the estate's arborists. The artistic shapes of the sinuous trunks and sinuous scales are a must pause to admire in a neck canoe. Here and there a branch has snapped, a trunk broken or cracked, but they have survived. Scars are signs of life on them too.
The trees draw you close, to touch their mossy bark, and instinctively, reverently lean in. The thickest of the trees in particular has become my friend. With arms outstretched, I can't even reach halfway up its mighty trunk. The bark feels warm against my cheek. I shyly make sure there are no other outdoorsmen nearby, hide behind the trunk, and hug my wise friend with my whole being. I sigh, get in touch with the tree and myself, let go. I let go of the doing, the responsibility, the rush, the control of my emotions, the strength. I rest against the tree like a tired child in a parent's arms.
The tree seems to speak almost audibly:
Don't worry, my girl. It's all right, it's going to be all right. You'll be fine, you'll be fine. See how deep my roots are, see how strong, old, but still alive I am. I've seen everything that life has to offer. Growth, blossoming, sickness, death. People, animals, storms, rain, frost, heat, wind, drought. The silence and the noise. I have given up my leaves countless times and always grown them back. Life has always gone on, even when the darkness and cold have seemed eternal.
Even though I look dead for half the year, there is a seed of new life in my heart and a desire to live. In my lifetime, I have given a home to hundreds of starlings and other winged creatures. I feed squirrels and small animals on my terraces. I protect a small nation of thousands of bugs, spores, microbes and mosses that help me, you, the earth and the forest.
Lean on me, my child, and I will not be moved by your little worries and tears. I understand your sorrow and your burden. Leave them to me. I will not leave you, I will be rooted here as long as there is life in me. Even when you no longer have the strength to come and greet me. Do you see that your sorrows are transient after all, and that many of them are only the product of your thoughts? Don't hurry away yet. Be with me for a moment. Do you see how my strength begins to flow into you?
Having comfortingly left my burden of the day to my oak friend, sobbing my unspoken sorrows against her motherly frame (so that my emotional state begins to change to one of serenity and healing) and sucking in her powerful life force, I continue my journey.
A step already lightened, accepting my own small size and my own sorrow, accepting a life of ordinary human size. Joy begins to sprout somewhere deep inside. I too am this same substance and life as these trees, this air, this water. My heart beats and my blood flows steadily like the river beside me, my breath and sighs join the great wind that blows freely. I walk as a stranger, yet known, in this garden, part of the landscape.
There are also two points on my regular route where I tend to pause say hello to the river. The second is a river junction, with sandbars surrounded by steep sandbars, where different coloured waters mix and flow with greater intensity towards the bay. The Suvanto breathes the promise of hay and dragonflies, tempting almost to swim, and is full of birds, freshness and life in summer. The lower reaches of the cove resound with a soothing sound.
Fed up with watching the water and light play, I continue along the path towards a small bridge that crosses the rapids where its wild rapids calm down into a wider stream. Many times I head straight for the bridge to flush the stresses and tensions from my body and mind. Whatever the season, it does not disappoint. The rapids roar, churn and splash, making their entrance under the old stone bridge and rushing down the slope through the large boulders, with a particular roar in spring. Reliable, constant, determined. I close my eyes and sink into the soothing white noise that sinks into my gut. The power of the Koski seems to move into me. I myself become a rapids, its essence unresponsive and powerful.
Koski's message is always the one I need at the time. It speaks of courage, life, loyalty, perseverance, determination. Joy, playfulness, mischief, freedom. Water runs, leaps, renews, rinses, purifies, refreshes. It celebrates indomitable life, summer or winter. Not even a frost can stop it, but creates a magnificent work of art with ice and snow sculptures in its bed.
Another part of my ritual is to turn my back to the roaring rapids and look downstream, where the stream widens and widens. The view is like the pages of a book or a movie. The rich green of the foliage that curves over the river plays with the sunbeams that glisten off the surface of the river. What a home this is for many birds, bats and small creatures. Not even the noise of the motorway can be heard here, as the sound of the water is louder. The human handprints, the weathered red brick mill buildings, the sloping barn and the arched bridge sit beautifully in the picture, without emphasising themselves. This was a long time ago, in the days of horse-drawn carts.
After spending half an hour in the grove, sometimes longer, I'm ready to go home. Accepted, comforted, supported, refreshed, recharged, renewed, more balanced. The good in my life is once again unhindered and I feel gratitude inside. Likewise, what in my life at that moment may not be entirely sustainable or wise, becomes clearly visible, as does what needs to be done about things. Or not to do. There is again more peace, calm and order in a confused mind. A new courage to continue on my own path, without being forced or rushed, but steadfast. An unspoken prayer of thanksgiving flows from within me, unfinished but carried.
I say goodbye to the river and the oaks, and take their strength and wisdom with me.
Thoughts return to everyday plans and activities - not so important ones after all. On the path home, I enjoy the light steps, trusting that the ground will bear and the path will take me in the right direction.
