Discovering the Generosity of Nature in My Backyard

I live in a city I love. When I chose my home, I made sure it was within walking distance of a beautiful park—one with lakes and winding paths through old-growth hardwoods, fantastical, white-barked sycamores, birches with shimmering leaves, and patches of sassafras and pawpaw.

But somewhere along the way, I became fully absorbed in a demanding yet flourishing life. Layered on top were personal losses and a body carrying the wear and tear of time. I was tired. I wasn’t sleeping well. I had prioritized caring for everything else—except myself.

And yet, in the quiet corners of my little city backyard, something began to shift.

I have a small garden tucked behind my house and potted herbs lining the front porch steps. That spring, in my weariness, I found myself drawn to the soil. I began spending a few minutes each day with my hands in the dirt, coaxing small plants toward a bigger life. I’d take short breaks to check on them—turning on the hose, noticing new growth, gently pulling weeds.

In those moments, I began to notice more than just the plants. Pollinators buzzed around the blooms. City bunnies nibbled at the white clover. A neighborhood cat stopped by for an ear scratch, lounging in the sun like a guardian. Together, we listened to the birdsong.

After a rain, I’d step outside with a cup of coffee just to walk the yard. I’d breathe in the scent of wet concrete, watch raindrops pool on leaves, feel the breeze on my skin as sunlight broke through the clouds. I was observing. Noticing. Connecting.

At first, I thought I was caring for my garden. But slowly, I realized: my garden was caring for me.

I began visiting more often—mornings, lunch breaks, after work. I watched the light shift, the flowers open and fade, the bees arrive early, the butterflies dance in the afternoon, and the occasional dragonfly drift in from the park. These small encounters reminded me: I am connected. To this garden. To this land. To these beings. I am not alone. And this moment matters.

Over time, I found myself breathing more deeply. Sleeping more soundly. Feeling more like myself. My body remembered how to be present—how to feel safe and settled.

I remembered gratitude. Gratitude for the generosity of nature in my own backyard. For the way it welcomed me back with open arms, offering a small hug on even the busiest days.

This is the essence of forest therapy: connecting through your senses with the nature around you. You don’t need a remote forest or a grand escape. Sometimes, healing begins with a single step outside—to listen, to notice, to be.

2025 A City Garden