We meet at a trailhead not too far away from the main road, yet less than a mile’s drive takes me winding further from the industrialized world than I’d expect it could. It’s early in the day to be talking, we agree.

The therapist asks about how I feel being in nature, what my experiences with it were growing up. I talk about how living in New York City, especially through COVID, my body craved a different kind of magic than the city offered – this kind. I talk about how the mountains remind me how small I am. Growing up on the beach. Feeling the sun. I talk about how there are days I don’t leave the house, sometimes days in a row. Especially when things are bad.

We set off on the trail. The therapist explains some of the science behind how nature is good for us, that there are actually chemical things the trees give off. When we get to an open gate, the therapist says it can be helpful to set an intention for the hike before we pass through. I set the intention to heal and to be present in this space.

He instructs me to focus on each sense individually as we walk. We start with sight. I remember the shock realizing people can actually see the shapes of individual leaves on trees when I first got LASIK. I’m transported back to what it was like not taking it for granted, that awe. I notice how many distinct plants there are around me rather than just the obvious categories. There’s so much to notice.

Even when I think I’m being present in nature usually, other than backpacking, it’s not quite like this. I’m really here. My only purpose in this moment is to see. So I see so much, appreciate it so much more. I’m surprised how similar it feels to the peace I feel backpacking.

We move on to sound. Almost immediately, I feel a shift towards fear as I focus on listening. There are some sounds that are pleasant, like the rhythmic walking, the gentle crunching of shoes on soft dirt. There are not a ton of birds, but an occasional chirp finds its way through the trees. But listening makes me feel unsettled. Was that a gunshot? Is that a plane overhead? I resist the compulsion to look for it. There’s some animal disturbing the leaves nearby. Is it a bear? A snake? I resist the urge to find it.

When we discuss, I reflect on how focusing on sound feels like a hypervigilant state. Even before PTSD, there was panic, and panic was often triggered by unexplained sound. And now and for all these years, one of my strongest, most consistently triggering triggers is the sound of a belt. How as long as I can remember since then, I instinctively cough or clear my throat to mask it.

I think about how my job makes me very discerning of sound – but human voices only, tune out the rest. About how differently John and I experience sound, how I’ve learned to hear some things the way he does. I wonder if it’s a defense mechanism for me to tune out sound, to try not to be in that hypervigilant state.

I’m surprised how instantly tuning into what I can hear unsettled me. Really before I even heard a thing, just telling myself to perceive that way unnerved me. I think about how much I closed my eyes during the abuse. About how once I realized what had happened to me, I stopped being able to relax with my eyes closed, and how that’s part of why I started really struggling with yoga and meditation. Without sight, sound is amplified. It’s a really fascinating realization.

We move on to touch. This forces me to slow down. In a clothing or furniture store, I’m the kind of person who touches everything; outside, I’m not. But I touch lots of things. Bark. Lichen. Branches. Leaves. Dead leaves. Dying leaves. Young leaves. The dirt. Rocks. I touch with one finger or two. I touch with my left hand and my right. Juniper berries. I’m surprised how soft some of the leaves are that with my eyes I’d never realize felt that way. I’m back to feeling some of that backpacking feeling. There’s nothing to think about. Just curiosity and the most mundane surprises about how plants feel.

We move on to smell. It slows me down even more. I put my face right up to trees and leaves. Immediately I notice how many bugs there are, so I am less settled. But I adjust and do a better job focusing just on the smells. I can barely percieve any odor on most things. There’s some soft piny trees that have a subtle woodsy aroma. But other than that, I’m surprised how neutral it all is. Inside, I would say I’m pretty sensitive to and aware of smell. Outside, not so much at all.

We get to a ponderosa tree. The therapist asks if I’ve ever smelled one, and I say I haven’t. He doesn’t want to spoil it. He smells it first, and his reaction suggests it’s a nice scent. I am cautious and distrustful, not in a huge way, but my first thought is “is it awful and he’s tricking me?”

He’s not, which in hindsight should be obvious, right? This is probably not a setting where he would intentionally mislead me, but that’s my brain sometimes. That’s in my head and me projecting the past onto the present and not about him or anything he did.

Ponderosa smells delicious, frankly. It is so sweet. I struggle to find the words, but the therapist mentions vanilla. It does smell like vanilla. What a treat. It’s lovely.

After that, I naturally shift back to touching and seeing more than smelling and hearing. It is peaceful. We make it back to the trailhead, and the therapist asks how that all felt.

I wish I could invent an extra hour and do this every day. I’m surprised that the kind of peace reserved for backpacking could be so accessible here and now, on a Monday morning before I go to work. Between this and the intentional choosing to think about and then stop thinking about the bad thoughts during equine on Friday, I am feeling in touch with my agency, something the therapist had mentioned before we started walking.

I’m realizing I can make simple choices I hadn’t appreciated would have a real impact on my thoughts and state of mind. It doesn’t have to be a whole hour long hike. But I could step outside every morning or even some mornings, spend five minutes just focusing on one singular thing around me or one sense. No matter how busy I am, I can make time for that. And that is a practice of focusing my mind somewhere I want it to go. I’m sure it won’t always be as successful as I want it to be. But I can see how the intentional practice of this can help those neural pathways form and strengthen – the ones that slow me down, that show me I am not at the mercy of my thoughts, that help me connect with myself and with nature, that help my body feel peace.

This was a really nice way to start my day. This is a really nice thing to realize is available to me. This is a really accessible thing to practice. This is an easeful way to make change.