Full Circle.

Image: Georgia pines.

My deep love of the forest has been ingrained in my soul for as long as I can remember. As a child raised in the ’60s and early ’70s, I came of age in a time before the fear of stranger danger, before tales of the “big bad wolf” or the wicked witch made us question the safety of the woods. Being afraid of the lush, green shade—a sanctuary from the sweltering mid-July Georgia heat—was simply unheard of.

Summertime for my four sisters and me meant: “Get outside and stay there until I call you for lunch!” I can’t imagine my childhood without the forest full of tall Georgia pines that bordered our subdivision. Our backyard quickly became the neighborhood hangout for all the kids whose mothers had similarly banished them outdoors for the day.

Back then, I believed our mother didn’t like us very much—someone was always in trouble, always drawing her wrath. But now, as a mother of three daughters myself and someone who has done a great deal of inner child healing, I see things differently. My perspective has softened. Raising five strong-willed, rebellious, empathetic, independent, and powerful young girls could not have offered many moments of peace. Especially if you’re carrying ancestral pain—unhealed.

She did the best she could with the tools she had. I now see that those summer banishments weren’t punishments at all—they were essential to her sanity.

Thank God for the forest.

Anyone who has lived through the heat and humidity of the Deep South knows you learn how to adapt. Our most active games—bike riding, kickball—were reserved for the cooler mornings. As temperatures rose, we retreated to the woods for games of robbers, cowboys, and Indians. I remember how grateful I was for the refuge those tall timbers offered. I didn’t yet know they also brought wisdom and healing. If I had, perhaps we could have invited our mother to join us among the pines. Her tired heart could have benefitted so deeply.

It’s a shame it takes us so long to remember who we are—and how to heal.
The forest has always called to me. Drawing me in. Even when I wasn’t aware.

In high school, I signed up for a semester of forestry classes. Two full periods outside, surrounded by boys, sounded just right to me at sixteen. I needed two electives, wasn’t allowed to play drums in the high school band (girls weren’t), and had no interest in sports. Forestry was perfect. I loved the woods—and I didn’t mind the company.

We learned how to climb trees with gaffs and belts. We learned to identify different species. Still, I had no idea why I kept being pulled into the comfort of the trees.

Ironically, my first husband was just starting a residential tree trimming and removal company when we met. I loved watching him climb, listening to him name the trees. But something inside me felt sad watching them come down. I thought I was imagining it—but I wasn’t. I was feeling their grief. I understand that now.

Now, at 61 years young, I’m beginning to truly understand my love and connection to the trees—to the forest, the mountains, the lakes, and the streams.

This journey into the forest through sylvotherapy has been incredibly healing and enlightening. When we slow down and engage all of our senses, even for a moment, the magic defies words. The restoration is real.

To walk among the trees is one thing. But to stop and look up beneath their towering canopy… to stand still, breathe deeply, and feel their presence—it’s another experience entirely. The storm they’ve weathered. The strength they hold. As you gaze upward, inhale the fragrances—pine, hemlock, spruce. Touch their bark, feel the texture of their leaves or needles. The moisture. The vibrant, self-sustaining ecosystem.

Then listen—truly listen. The caw of a crow. The hum of a dragonfly. The gentle wind rustling the leaves above your head. Inhale again. Close your eyes. Stand still.

Trust the wisdom of the forest to offer the medicine your soul needs.

This stillness brings peace—like I’ve never known before. Breathing in, even tasting the air, draws you into full sensory immersion.

Some may think I’m strange, or a little eccentric—and I’m okay with that.

Because I have walked among the trees. I have spoken to them. And they have spoken back.
They’ve been calling me my whole life. Preparing me.

The healing is real. It is tangible. Palpable.

And although our upcoming sylvotherapy retreat is already sold out, this is just the beginning.
There will be more to come—more chances to return to the sanctuary I call the forest.

Until then, my heart is full. I have come full circle. And I can’t wait to share what’s next.

Stay tuned!