In 1998, I moved to Querétaro in central Mexico in order to be with my now-husband, Alejandro. Querétaro (pronounced “keh REH tah rō”) back then was a medium-sized colonial city that was growing fast. We lived in the center of town a few blocks from the Alameda, a lovely urban park that covers the area of several city blocks. Despite the fact that I lived a stone’s-throw away from this urban oasis of nature, within about 18 months of moving there I fell into a depression and made the decision to leave Mexico (with Alejandro in tow) for what would turn out to be a period of almost twenty years, except for occasional brief visits.
We ended up spending that entire span of time in my hometown of Cleveland, Ohio, located on the shores of Lake Erie, the smallest of the five beautiful Great Lakes. In 2005 we purchased a home within walking distance of the lake; Edgewater Park, with her tree-lined bluff overlooking the lake and quiet beach became my home-away-from-home. The twelve years that we lived in that house were extremely challenging for me both personally and professionally, but the beach and the lake kept me grounded and supported me through the worst moments. How many tears did I shed while walking along that lake? I will never know. But I do know that I probably wouldn’t have made it through without her.
(Lare Erie in Cleveland, Ohio)
As life would have it, we ended up selling our home, business, and most of our possessions in 2017 and found our way back to Querétaro, planning to make it a sort of base of operations for a more fluid lifestyle. Remembering the depression that I had fallen into twenty years earlier there, without fully understanding the cause, I felt a bit of apprehension about returning to this now bustling city. And wouldn’t you know it, soon after arriving and settling in, I began to feel that familiar sense of being caged in, surrounded by concrete and unable to breathe, not because the air quality is that bad, but because I felt that I couldn’t get enough contact with nature to satisfy my needs. The Querétaro River, which is a mere three blocks from our home near the historical center, had been “developed” or “improved” in the early 2000s, the riverbed lined with paving stones and meandering walkways with wooden benches installed on her tree-lined banks. The already polluted river, while lovely to look at and charming to wander along, simply sickened and died, the stench of stagnant water wafting through the dry desert air around her.
(Querétaro River in Mexico)
As you can imagine, strolling along the river was not something that felt very inviting. As a matter of fact, I made it my practice to take any other route that I could to avoid any contact at all with what I viewed as a festering cesspool. And in a high-desert city like Querétaro, which was not well-planned to provide for contact with nature for its burgeoning population, I soon began to feel grumpy and cranky and, yes, depressed as I pounded the endless pavement searching for a cool grassy patch to lie down on or a peaceful tree canopy to relax under in order to commune with nature. Oh, and on top of it all, I needed my “spot” to be pet-friendly as well since our little pooch, Flaco, was my daily companion on my walks. This situation was a challenge indeed!
(Flaco)
At some point just before our move I had worked with a woman (Damaris Chrystal1) who does shamanic healing rituals in order to help people to connect with the natural and spirit worlds. One practice that she told me I should be doing regularly was to go outside at night. And she stressed that it didn’t have to be anything complicated like a hike in the woods or camping out, but just to go outside at night. So with these instructions in mind, I set out to reestablish my connection with nature in the middle of the city of Querétaro.
The centrally-located apartment where we were living was on the second floor of my mother-in-law’s cinderblock duplex and it had a large, flat roof that no one ever used for anything. As a matter of fact, I soon discovered that virtually no one in this middle-class neighborhood used their rooftops at all, so I had this little space all to myself. I grabbed my trusty yoga mat and a cozy blanket and started going up there to be alone in the evenings after the sun had gone down. Mostly I would lie down and gaze up at the couple of dozen stars that I could make out being in the middle of the city, but amazingly for the first time in my life, I began to follow the cycles of the moon: the new moon, the full moon, the waxing and the waning, the rising and the setting. And it was comforting and calming being up there, so close to the sky, the birds, and the clouds. I felt like I was in heaven! I soon started going up to the roof in the early mornings as well to watch the sun come up, and just as I had discovered the cycles of the moon, I began to notice the movement of the sun across the horizon as one day flowed into the next. I used the buildings in the distance to track the advancing weeks and months by the location of the rising sun, much like our ancestors had done so very long ago in order to design the modern calendar. (Although I guess that they used natural landmarks as opposed to buildings.) I had never had access to a wide-open space like this before and I quickly became addicted to it. Sunrise, sunset, moonrise, the moon in the middle of the day, storms rolling in, the bird songs and their flights just above the rooftops. All of it! Any excuse was good enough for me to go up to the refuge of the roof! Sometimes I could even feel the breeze from the beating wings of the birds as they whizzed so close past my head, unaccustomed as they were to crossing paths with a human being at that height.
One day near the beginning of the Coronavirus pandemic, maybe in early 2020, I was up on the roof enjoying the 360-degree view and my focus was gently drawn to the lush treetops lining the river just a few short blocks away. While I had been relishing my time spent up on the roof, no doubt, I still felt a strong urge for the presence of some grounding trees in my life. The city parks were ALL closed at this time due to the pandemic (a policy that I never understood or supported) and so I was feeling exceptionally deprived of my tree friends. At this moment, though, I was suddenly able to look at the river in a completely different way and it hit me like a brick, “THIS is my green space. This IS my connection and it’s only three short blocks from home, and while it may not be paradise, how about if we at least give it a chance? We literally don’t have any other options.” So, I grabbed Flaco’s leash, hooked him up, put on my mask, and we set off for the river.
As Flaco and I crossed the busy street and approached the fetid water, the familiar stench of pollution began to seep behind my surgical mask. My initial reaction was to hold my breath, hunch my shoulders in a protective posture, and walk fast until my first opportunity to turn down a side street and escape. But as we made our way along the stone path several meters up from the water’s murky surface, I realized that the smell was not quite as bad as I had expected. I pulled down my mask a bit to expose my nose and took a whiff. Yech. Still stinky, but the mask actually helped to make it bearable. Determined now to find the beauty in this beast, I continued on with Flaco by my side.
An interesting feature about the river and its adjoining park (although maybe “challenging” would be a better word to describe it), is the fact that it is situated down the center of a busy thoroughfare with three lanes of traffic buzzing down each side, including buses and some light trucks. Since the width of this “median” (for lack of a better word) is only about 100 feet (30 meters), the surrounding commotion simply doesn’t allow for slowing down and connecting with nature, or so I thought. But as I began to immerse myself in the greenery and observe my surroundings, I thought, “Wait a second, maybe it’s me…” After all, there were definitely people sitting on the benches having a snack, friends chatting through cotton masks, lovers in warm embraces, and a few solitary souls lost in thought, their eyes absently gazing toward the water. Maybe it was me who was CHOOSING to focus on the traffic and the smell and the litter on the ground as opposed to the grandfatherly weeping willows arched gracefully over the river, or the busy swallows zigzagging up and down the length of the river munching on unsuspecting insects, or the way that the sunlight and shadows played upon the foliage of the trees and the surface of the water.
And so it was that my focus shifted. And so it was that I became addicted to this place: the stinky river, the stone pathways, the elegant trees, the playful swallows, the light and shadows. And so it was that I felt like I had a refuge to come to escape the bustle of the city even though I was literally right in the middle of it. And so it was that I was able to take my relationship with nature, MY dear nature, to another level, in what most would consider a less-than-optimal state. And for this, I am eternally grateful.
From then on, I began to visit the river daily. Flaco and I would spend our mornings (and afternoons and evenings!) walking along her stone and brick paths, pausing again and again to observe everything that was there: the swallows weaving their way through breakfast; the tall grasses that had pushed their way through the cracks in the lining of the river banks, and the critters that called that home; the foamy bubbles that formed in the murky water as it cascaded over the tiny manmade waterfalls and how you could follow the languid course of one single bubble for minutes until it finally burst and disappeared; the play of sunlight reflecting off the surface of the water and onto the fresh green leaves suspended over it; and all the while the busy traffic zooming past on either side of me. I would emerge from under the canopy of trees and be amazed at how right in the middle of the city I actually was! By choosing to focus on the play and presence of nature instead of the roar of traffic, I could be transported to a place of serenity and grace.
Soon after, I began my training with ANFT as a Forest Therapy Guide and I used this area as the location for some of my practice walks, intentionally wanting to share what I had discovered with others who perhaps had a similar mindset as I had had. And each time, the participants, who had started the walk with a sense of doubt and apprehension due to the location, came out of the experience with a new appreciation of and a sense of connection with the river and the surrounding area.
As so many of us are city dwellers nowadays, it can feel extra challenging to cultivate that relationship with nature in our urban lives surrounded by concrete, especially in cities like Querétaro that didn’t effectively plan for major growth. It is imperative that we not feel like we need to get out of the city in order to be with nature. Indeed, I invite you to find the opportunities in what might be the most unlikely of places: an overgrown vacant lot, a puddle of muddy water, a tree ensconced in concrete, or even a tiny piece of sky visible between skyscrapers. Make the decision to shift your focus away from the manmade and toward the natural and see what happens. And if you find yourself in a place where there appears to be absolutely NOTHING natural, in a windowless room, for example, you can draw your attention to your own body: the touch of your clothing on your skin, your heart beating and the blood pumping through your veins, your breath going in and out of your lungs, the feel of the earth beneath your feet. After all, we ARE nature beings too and we are always with ourselves.
1 https://www.damarischrystal.com/damaris