By Lee Steppacher

Most often, as we begin our sitting meditation, we first bring attention to our body. What does the body need in order to be as comfortable as possible? We might stretch our muscles before we settle into practice. Often we use pillows to help support our knees and backs and shoulders.

Feeling the softening that this caring attitude towards the body brings, I have been wondering how best I might support my nervous system, which feels hyped up so often these days, and encourage my mind to settle in order that it too may be as comfortable as possible?

This seems to be the topic of many recent conversations, especially among my Dharma friends. How can we best support ourselves in the midst of these unprecedented and unsettling times? Can our practice help us to find calm and to sustain an open heart when we feel threatened, angry and frightened by the changes happening around us? 

This is what I have been exploring and experimenting with  recently. I sometimes find that quiet music in the background is helpful, or beginning to practice the very first thing in the morning before I have been activated by the news and phone calls and to-do list. But what I have found to be most supportive is taking my practice outside, into nature.

There is a reason that the Buddha advised us to go to the forest, to sit at the base of a tree, and to bring mindfulness to the forefront of mind. Nature can be a great teacher and a strong support both for our tranquility and for our seeing clearly, with interest and joy.

As the weather is warming here in the Upper Valley, I am going out on the porch each morning to watch, listen, and feel the day begin. Mindfulness, with its quality of being present in this moment, here and now, seems to arise naturally. I feel invited  to join in the experience all around me. It doesn’t feel hard. I can easily rest in the felt sense of presence: feeling the warmth of the sun, smelling the fragrance of damp grasses. Even just a small breeze against my face offers the gentlest reminder to return to presence. It holds the gentle power of a mindfulness bell.

Often I use the Merlin app on my phone, which identifies birds by their call, to learn what birds are here practicing with me today. I am told which warblers are moving through on their migration north and which of the more familiar local birds are  present. Generally, I listen to the Merlin app for a bit, and then I put it down and turn my attention inward, listening and receptively knowing the myriad of sounds––so many bird calls, the truck in the distance, the wind passing through the just-emerging leaves. It is like a symphony, and I can feel a growing sense of aliveness wash over me. My heart lightens with the joy of the moment––such a simple moment in one way, but also a very important one to notice.

Here, I am in the middle of a vibrant, living world: one I am not trying to control. I am simply knowing. I am not building any sense of self into it. It is not about me, yet I am a part of it, I belong to it. I feel surrounded by calm, and it begins both to permeate me and to arise within me. I know with an unshakable faith that, yes, it is possible to find calm in the midst of the world.

Ajahn Chah, who died in 1991, was a beloved Forest Tradition monk in Thailand who influenced many Western practitioners of Buddhism. He spoke often about this nature-based gift of calm. He called it “stillness.” In his book A Still Forest Pool, he said:

Try to be mindful, and let things take their natural course. Then your mind will become still in any surroundings, like a clear forest pool. All kinds of wonderful, rare animals will come to drink at the pool, and you will clearly see the nature of all things. You will see many strange and wonderful things come and go, but you will be still. This is the happiness of the Buddha. 

In that spirit, here is a story of a “strange and wonderful thing” that happened to me while meditating on my porch:

One morning, several summers ago, I was sitting quietly, meditating, when I heard a flittering in the air nearby. The next thing that I experienced was a light weight at the back of my head. A small bird had landed there and began picking at my scalp. It was an odd feeling, but I was able to stay very still until the bird flew off. This happened each morning over the course of a number of days, and so my husband was actually able to take a video of the little tufted titmouse. I think, perhaps, he was attracted to my grey hair, knowing it would add a comfortable softening for his nest! I think maybe that small, vulnerable bird could feel my calm––or at least, the absence of agitation––and he felt safe, as did I.

I realize that this delicate, bucolic, care-filled moment in nature may seem like a far cry from the answer to my question about finding calm in the midst of our latest news cycles, which are filled with instances of almost incomprehensible cruelty, terrible dangers, and the disruption of much that we value. However, in the face of the First Noble Truth, “Life is challenging, often very difficult, for ourselves and for others,” it is very important to remember, through direct experience, the third Noble Truth, “Peace is possible.” 

Practicing in nature can help us to see, stabilize, and more easily access a calm stillness within, even as we open our eyes to what is happening all around us. Slowly, we learn to be better able to hold ourselves and the fullness of this world, which so deeply needs moments of our calm presence––even as our own hearts tremble with the suffering. It is seemingly paradoxical to hold both, but this is a fruit of our Dharma practice, our increased ability to bear witness to the pain of the world and hold it with care and calm.

The practice of calm stillness and the moments of knowing “strange and wonderful things” are a start. We often say to start where it is easy and use what is supportive. So we bring attention to the tension in our body, stretching our muscles, using cushions as needed for support. And we enter into the forest; go to the foot of a tree; let our nervous system settle; and encourage our mind to become still––trusting that this practice will support us.