Finding Myself Among the Trees

"A walk in nature walks the soul back home."

~ Mary Davis, Author

Before the sun came up each morning, I stepped out of my cabin and into the darkness. The city girl in me was not entirely comfortable with this. In Las Vegas, the nighttime is lit up by streetlights, headlights and casino marquees. But here among the redwoods of the Sonoma Coast, it was truly dark. And things moved in the darkness.

Sometimes a deer bounded away as I walked toward the main lodge, both of us startled to see each other so early. One rainy morning, I narrowly avoided stepping on a large frog on the gravel road. Unidentified creatures rustled in the bushes. I told myself they were birds or hares, but part of me was certain there was a mountain lion waiting for an opportunity to pounce. It took several days for my nervous system to calm down enough to enjoy my 5 AM stroll through the tall trees beneath a star-filled sky.

For the first nine mornings of the Yoga Teacher Training, we gathered before sunrise for fire ceremony before asana practice. During our final week, we transitioned to pranayama and meditation. Always, we remained in silence until midway through breakfast. There was something beautiful about beginning each day this way. Together, but without words.

Eventually, of course, there would be plenty of words. I was at Ratna Ling Retreat Center to help teach a 200-hour Yoga Teacher Training, which meant long days of discussions, posture clinics, yoga practices, practice teaching, feedback, and preparation. The students worked hard. Those of us teaching worked hard too. By the end of some days, my brain felt as if it had done several rounds of Sun Salutations without me.

And outside the training room, another kind of teaching was happening.

First, there were the turkeys. A small gang of enormous male turkeys strutted through the grass near my cabin every afternoon. Most kept their distance, but one didn’t. Almost every day, I would catch him walking toward me. When I stopped, turned, and looked directly at him, he would stop and peck at the ground nonchalantly. But we both knew he was stalking me.

I also spent an embarrassing amount of time watching the turkeys walk, their heads bobbing dramatically forward and back. Eventually, I tried it myself. Why? Because it looked fun (and it was!). Yoga has taught me profound things about the body, breath, and consciousness. The turkeys reminded me not to take any of it too seriously.

Then there was the skunk. A very small skunk began appearing during the daytime, wandering along the road and resting in the sunshine. Since skunks are normally nocturnal, we wondered if it was sick or had lost its mother. What if a car came around the bend? What if a large bird carried it away? The little creature seemed completely unconcerned by our speculation, but I worried anyway. Still, I kept my distance, mindful of getting sprayed, even though part of me wanted to gather him up and keep him safe.

Each day, birds sang high up in the trees. Woodpeckers drilled holes into buildings and signs, then laughed about their vandalism. And a pair of enormous black crows followed me around, occasionally dropping rocks onto my cabin roof when I tried to take a short nap after lunch. It is said that these massive black birds are symbols of protection and transformation. Their ongoing presence gave me a familiar reassurance, a quiet sense of being held by something greater than myself. I felt grateful for the ways I’ve been guided to places where I can step away from the busy-ness of daily life to teach, to learn, to reflect, and to be changed by what I experience.

But my favorite teachers were the redwoods. They stood around us like ancient guardians. Enormous. Quiet. Rooted. Often, I would tilt my head back to look toward their tops until I almost lost my balance. They had been here long before we arrived with our yoga mats and lesson plans, and they would still be here long after we drove away. There was something comforting about that.

Inside the training room, we were learning how to offer one another that same sense of being held. On our first night, we agreed to respect one another, listen, and make room for learning and mistakes. One agreement was to “hold space for each other’s greatness.” Not perfection. Greatness. There’s a difference. Perfection demands that we get everything right. Greatness leaves room for uncertainty. It allows someone to stand in front of a room with a trembling voice and try to teach something for the first time. It allows us to forget what comes next, take a breath, laugh, and begin again. It creates space for grace and compassion.

For 18 days, I had the privilege of witnessing that greatness. The students practiced teaching. They asked questions. They struggled. They encouraged each other. They became more confident.

And somewhere along the way, I realized that the container we created wasn’t only supporting the students. It was holding me too.

There were evenings when I still needed to prepare for the next day even though all I wanted to do was crawl into bed. There were moments when I questioned whether I had explained something clearly enough or offered the right kind of support. And then we would gather again. We would sit together in silence before sunrise. My teacher would encourage me and push me to hold the seat of the teacher with dignity and confidence. Someone would make me laugh. Another would master a difficult posture. And I would remember why I was there and why community matters so much.

The redwoods reminded me to be rooted. The deer reminded me that sometimes the appropriate response to something startling is simply to bound away. The skunk reminded me that sometimes I have to live with the discomfort of caring without being able to guarantee that everything will be okay. The crows reminded me that as I learn and change, I'm always held by something greater than myself. And the turkeys reminded me that spiritual growth should probably include a little silliness.

By the end of the training, I felt tired, but I also felt deeply nourished.

For a few weeks, my world became smaller and somehow more expansive at the same time. There were fewer distractions, fewer places to go, fewer things demanding my attention outside the rhythm of our days. Within that simplicity, there was so much life: people learning, birds singing, rain falling, frogs hopping, fires burning, redwoods breathing.

As I reflect on it now, I realize that connection to ourselves doesn’t always require turning inward. Sometimes we remember who we are because someone else holds space for our greatness. Sometimes we remember because we hold that space for them. And sometimes we walk into nature thinking we're there to teach yoga, only to discover that the trees and the creatures and the humans gathered with us have been teaching us too.

I was grateful to come home to my husband, the neon lights, and the hummingbirds and bunnies in our backyard. And…another part of me stayed behind. She’s still standing beneath those redwoods before sunrise, surrounded by darkness, listening to something rustle nearby. Still a little afraid. Still filled with wonder. And remembering that those two things can exist together.