how my relationship to nature has changed

a pandemic plunge into the outdoors

I grew up in suburban Philadelphia, which is not known for its natural beauty, but I certainly had access to beautiful backyards and our beloved swim club. I played basketball as a kid, rotating from indoor to outdoor gyms each season. My version of nature usually involved a black top and a cooler filled with Gatorade and icy washcloths to cool us down at summer league. I didn’t like getting “dirty” or walking around with muddy clothes and shoes. I feared river tubing and camping because I felt uncomfortable, as if my skin was sticky and I needed to peel it off. The one exception was summers at the Jersey shore: with the sand in my toes and salt in my hair I was a happy girl.

My first experience totally immersed in nature was when I did a summer exchange program in coastal Norway at age 15. The sun was out for almost 20 hours per day. I was astonished at what I saw. I went rope swinging into fjords, attempted knee boarding on the lake, spent the afternoons trampolining with friends - I was almost never indoors and I never had any idea of what time it was. This was also the first time in my life I hiked an actual mountain; I remember feeling so relieved and in awe. The discomfort on the way up, coupled with the serenity at the top, was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. The joy of seeing para gliders taking off on top of Preikestolen will be forever forged in my mind. I got into a slower pace of life, during a very delicate teenage time, where I could be myself with friends. I was blissfully happy. I cried so much leaving Norway.

In my adulthood, I had brief stints that reminded me of my connection to nature in Norway, but for the most part I lost all of those senses, droning on, moving from city to city, the monotony of routines and life taking over. I never put any thought into how often I connected to nature. When the pandemic hit, the sudden loss of my intense, hectic schedule coupled with the confinement to 462 square feet was paralyzing. Like most people, I did not realize what a zombie I’d become, chained to what I thought I was supposed to be doing instead of what I needed. All of the things I loved about city life were gone, along with the nagging societal push to earn, innovate, travel, experience, achieve, improve. I escaped my studio with the daily luxury of neighborhood walks, giving me time and space to think about how I would like to design my day to feel most happy. I learned every nuance of every street corner: a hidden garden on Crease, the flower farm on American, the joy of a boat passing by in Penn Treaty park. I started to realize I am happiest when I am outside.

Since then, I’ve made a conscious effort to spend more time in nature, even moving to the other side of the country to profit from better weather. I’ve spent more time outdoors during the last 12 months than I have the rest of my life combined. I’ve biked across an island in Maine or to streams in Vermont, practiced yoga outside and felt the cool breeze touch my skin, paddle boarded across the ocean and took a dip at sunset in Sea Isle, hiked in muddy Hawaii and across the red rocks of Arizona. I have driven past mountain goats, heard whales singing under the ocean, locked eyes with a white tailed deer, saw two sea turtles kissing under the ocean, walked past sleeping sea lions on the beach, and woken up to birds chanting. I’ve seen deserts and beaches and snowy mountains and rainforests - often all in one day! As I incorporated this more often into my life, the more “well” I felt. Sometimes I think about pre-pandemic life, and all the hours I spent in a florescent lit, smelly gym, or commuting for hours in traffic and trash, and I wonder how I did it.

In nature there is no makeup, no mirrors, no wifi - just feeling good in my own body being more in touch with what I am capable of and what I need. The irony is that disconnection from normal life is what makes me feel more connected: to other people, to myself, to a higher purpose. I need to climb and think. I need to stretch and move. I need to swim and shiver. The feeling of “itchiness” I used to feel in my body while in nature is no longer there. They say earth signs need to be grounded - bare feet in the earth - in order to find calm. This has never been more true for me. I am grateful that the pandemic offered me an opportunity to live differently and experience the joy of slowing down and appreciating the beauty around me.

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Note: I am writing this from a position of extreme privilege. There is, in fact, a nature gap and people of color are three times more likely to live in nature deprived areas. For more information on the links between racism and the environment, click here.