Nature itself can be a healer – not just through the scientifically evidenced healing effects of green spaces, water, birdsong or being among trees, but also through the realisation that we are nature, not separate from it. This idea is central to a growing body of research, particularly in the fields of nature writing and ecotherapy (Brazier, 2017; Jordan and Hinds, 2016). Yet we can find ourselves disconnected from the natural world and this can have a negative impact on our wellbeing. 

Writing can nurture a re-connection with nature and shift our attention away from stuck patterns in the way we see ourselves or others. Through the practice of description, we can challenge our preconceptions and change how we perceive and sense our environment. 

One of the key skills of creative writing is describing in a way that allows a reader to ‘see’ (in their mind’s eye) what we see (whether in reality or in the imagination). The ability to render something vivid depends on heightening our awareness and establishing a connection – both with the objects we focus on, such as a fallen leaf, and with ourselves.

I would suggest that writing activities can be therapeutic if they allow us to represent something we have not yet found a way to express. Additionally, an experience can be therapeutic if it forges the kind of connection I refer to – whether with ourselves, each other, or nature. As we do so, we might also explore our senses. This could mean not only describing how an acorn looks, but also how it feels between our fingers or how it smells. By doing this, we bring ourselves closer with something in our physical surroundings. Writing can also take place at different times, considering changing weather patterns and the seasons, enabling us to see new things and change in ourselves. 

Nature writing activities might begin with a short grounding meditation. This can involve focusing on the present moment and bodily sensations – like feeling our feet on the ground or our breath, to anchor ourselves in the here and now. Such a practice can help to reduce anxiety and foster a sense of connection to the body and our environment. 

We might then find ourselves drawn to something, like a squirrel, and engage in freewriting. This involves the activity of allowing ourselves to write in a spontaneous and uninhibited way – doing our best not to censor ourselves and to keep our pen moving without interruption. We might try to do this for around 5 or 10 minutes. What we produce could include descriptions alongside any thoughts or emotions evoked by our observations or interactions.    

After this, one suggestion is to explore a dialogue with nature – perhaps by finding a face in a tree and reflecting on how it might represent us or someone we know. We might see our heavy burdens in a branch bowed down – imagining the tree feels burdened – then examining how this could be our anxiety projected outside of us. Again, this can be therapeutic, as seeing our anxiety contained outside of us may help release some of our feelings.

Work generated from these activities might be developed into a poem or story. The process often involves redrafting or revising, where certain ideas can be expanded and placed into poetic form or narrative structure. Techniques may also emerge. However, the freewrite or first draft holds its own value, existing in the private space of a notebook – a secret garden – where we can reflect on insights about our life or inner world. 

In some of my poems a garden serves as a lens through which I write. In other words, rather than write directly about grief, my experience is mediated through my response to a garden; but in your case, this can be another backdrop or object. This approach has allowed me to access thoughts or feelings that were otherwise hidden. An example is my poem below:  

Anniversary 

The season assails me: flashbacks—daffodils linked

with nausea, pinks of cherry blossom fallen

in my stomach’s pit, the sickness of spring evocations …

Like surgical gauze left behind, hurt comes in waves—

the burn of how we abandon each other.

When our film clips are stitched everything is vaudeville.

Skinless I drift through the manicured beds

through bluebells by the haunted parsonage.

I ask, ‘God, what do all the symbols mean?’—

robins that land on benches, distant ice-cream vans’

nostalgia. Everything a beautiful catastrophe.

The rays of May penetrate. Spring blossoms,

torn crate paper ready for decoupage. As if the body’s

stasis chamber knows the date—

anniversaries through springtime, through springtime …

Are we on pause or between sentences?

‘Acceptance’ is a word like the cigarette scar on my arm—

the scar my watch face hides.

The mind says it’s create or die—create or die.

I cling to our love like a rodeo. I write your lines

sous rature. And still, we are star-crossed:

you on your side, me on mine.

Why not try your own writing activity now? Follow the steps that are set out above: 1) Begin with a short grounding meditation; 2) Describe, attending to detail and the senses; 3) Write a dialogue between yourself and the object, imagining it can speak; and 4) Investigate the meaning of your encounter, paying special attention to symbolism and how your perspectives have changed.

Author: Patrick Wright