"I hadn't yet encountered nature when I flew from NYC to visit my friend who had moved to Menlo Park in California. On the day after I arrived, she and some friends took me for hike in Humboldt Park, a nearby nature preserve. It sounded great, then there we were in this vast landscape with fields that went on forever and hills I couldn't imagine ascending."
"I didn't have another foray into nature for years. But then I rented a little house in Northwest Connecticut for some quiet to write my first book and on those long lonely days when I needed some distraction I started to explore the nearby trails. There was nothing else to do. I was older by then, too, in my 30s, and determined to face my fears."
"Little by little, with my dog Stanley at my heels, I inched up those trails. I had no idea where the trails would take me. I didn't know what trees, bushes, or flowers I was looking at. I didn't even have a water bottle. But I had my trusty paper trail map and just kept going. Remarkably, it was o-kay. Just."
An urban upbringing left the narrator unfamiliar and fearful of natural landscapes. An early hiking experience in Menlo Park triggered panic and retreat. Years later, renting a house in Northwest Connecticut prompted cautious exploration of nearby trails. Progress came slowly, often in small steps and with a dog for company. The narrator lacked botanical knowledge and basic gear but relied on a paper trail map and perseverance. Repeated, gradual exposure reduced fear and built confidence. Finding a preferred corner of nature created an emotional refuge that offered solace and quiet for writing and reflection.
Read at Psychology Today
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