Walking After the Storm ~
I love to walk. I love walking through forests and mountains—witnessing the ongoing evolution of the seasons, the incredible creations of flora and fauna, ancient volcanoes, and the ever-moving tectonic plates that shape the world beneath us.
In the United States, our National Parks are preserved to protect their ecosystems—removing flora, fauna, or natural formations is prohibited. But our National Forests are conserved, allowing a more balanced relationship between nature and people.
When I walk in the national forests, I often see pieces of nature I wish I could take home—sugar pinecones, wildflowers, unique rocks, and weathered pieces of wood. Sugar pines, which grow only in Oregon and California, produce cones more than a foot long. Their beauty is breathtaking, yet much of that beauty exists because they are in their natural habitat.
My favorite time to walk through the mountains is after a storm.
When the rain and wind settle, I find the forest transformed—branches scattered, trees fallen, pinecones and leaves covering the ground, and sometimes a few delicate bird feathers lying in the debris. I pick them up to examine them to take in their quiet beauty.
And as I walk, I think about my own life—how it has been scattered, dispersed, weathered, and fragmented by the storms I have faced. I ask myself: Where is the beauty in all that I have experienced?
Trauma scatters us, too—memories, sensations, and emotions falling like feathers in the wind.
Healing begins when we start to notice these fragments—not to reclaim them all at once, but to gently recognize where they are and what they mean. Each “feather” or piece of nature represents a fragment of experience that deserves to be seen and understood.
Just as taking feathers or pinecones from nature requires reverence, revisiting our wounds requires respect—for the past self who survived, for the emotions that resurface, and for the gradual unfolding of the healing process.
When I walk through the forest, I must move carefully to avoid disturbing the ecosystem. When I walk through my own healing, I must do the same—moving gently within myself, honoring what remains fragile.
Each small piece of nature I encounter could become a keepsake, a reminder of that moment in the wild. Yet, it is not mine to keep. Healing is much the same. It is not about erasing the trauma, but transforming its remnants into meaning, beauty, and wisdom.
The scars left by a storm reshape the landscape: fallen trees enrich the soil, rainfall nourishes seedlings, and new flowers bloom where the ground was torn open. In both nature and healing, what is broken becomes the foundation for renewal.
The storm—like my healing journey—becomes a symbol of resilience.
My memories of walking through mountains and forests remind me of one truth: I cannot “fix” the damage of the storm.
What was lost becomes part of the story—woven into the living memory of the land and of myself.
If this resonates with you, I’d love to hear your reflections. How do you find healing in nature’s rhythms?
If you feel so inclined, please reply with your thoughts.
Note: JM Lane is NOT a mental health professional, nor does she carry a license to practice medicine. Posts, blogs, and content are based on JM Lane’s personal experiences, perceptions, and reflections. By no means does any material convey what others should or should not do.