Travel Perspectives: Remembering Who We Are in Nature

When I write about our travels in Europe, I realize I often focus on the cities, towns, and villages we explore. And it’s true - we love wandering narrow streets, admiring the art and architecture, lingering over long meals, and slipping into the rhythm of daily life. That kind of immersion always feels deeply nourishing.

Yet, I need to do a better job of highlighting our experiences in nature. Often, we venture into the natural world and spend considerable time there - immersing ourselves in landscapes that are vast, unspoiled, and full of life. And truthfully, as much as I love the beauty of Europe’s ancient streets and architecture, I find myself most deeply moved by these natural settings. They’ve become some of my favorite experiences of all.

When I think about it, even our love of exploring European cities reflects an underlying connection to nature. After all, cities and towns are human habitats - and we humans are, at our core, part of the natural world. Yet there’s a profound difference in how we build compared to other species. Birds weave nests and beavers construct dams in harmony with their environment, but we’ve often taken a different path. Our communities are designed not to integrate with the natural world, but to shield us from it. Towering walls, endless stretches of concrete, and climate-controlled interiors all serve the same purpose: creating barriers between us and the elements, rather than learning how to coexist with them.

This distinction shapes more than just our physical spaces - it shapes our relationship with the world itself. And in that separation, something essential is lost. When we cut ourselves off from nature, we are cut off from a part of ourselves. We forget that we belong to the earth just as much as the rivers, trees, and mountains do.

Cities can, of course, be breathtaking - beautiful, inspiring, alive with art and culture. But they also remind me of how far we’ve drifted from living in harmony with the rhythms that sustain us. I often feel this standing in an old European square, surrounded by stone buildings that have stood for centuries. These enduring monuments reflect our ambition to rise above the cycles of the natural world. But in seeking permanence, we risk forgetting one of nature’s greatest lessons - the wisdom of impermanence, and the humility that comes with recognizing our place within it.

When we step beyond the boundaries of daily life and into the wild - into forests, along coastlines, across mountain trails - something fundamental shifts within us. The noise fades, the distractions fall away, and we begin to remember who we are. We remember that our heartbeat has always echoed the rhythm of the ocean, that our breath has always been tied to the trees. It feels like coming home - a quiet truth whispering, “This is who you are. You belong to this, not apart from it.”

This remembering feels less like learning something new and more like awakening to what we’ve always known but somehow forgotten behind walls and windows.

For me, being in nature is like stepping into a sanctuary. It has always been my spiritual center - the place where I find peace, perspective, and connection. Nature gives me what religion gives to many people: humility, reverence, and awe. In the presence of ancient trees, powerful oceans, and sweeping landscapes, I come face to face with something greater than myself - something that gently places my daily concerns back into perspective. There’s a deeper kind of attention that emerges naturally in these spaces, a recognition of belonging to something enduring and magnificent.

Nature for me is a cathedral without walls, a holy place where the sacred pulses through every leaf, stone, and wave. The air feels different. Time slows. My heartbeat settles into rhythm with something older, something truer. In that stillness, life becomes audible again - the wind moving through trees, the steady crash of waves, the quiet strength of mountains. And for me, that is prayer.

We often call nature an “escape,” but for me, it’s the opposite. It doesn’t remove me from human life - it roots me more deeply in it.  When I stand before a stunning mountain range or watch a bird skim the water’s surface, I don’t feel separate from humanity; I feel more connected to it. Because if I belong to this vast web of life, then so does everyone else. The forests, the rivers, the animals, the people we pass on the street - we’re all woven together.

It reminds me that caring for people and caring for the earth aren’t separate things; they are one and the same. To love nature is to love humanity. To love humanity is to remember that we are nature.

What I look forward to most in these moments is the reminder that I am not the center of the universe. It’s so easy to forget that in daily life, when routines, worries, and even joys make my story feel like the story. But in places that overwhelm me with their scale, something softens.

Standing at the edge of the ocean, with waves pounding in rhythms older than humanity, I feel my edges blur. Looking up at mountains that seem to brush the sky, my thoughts grow quiet in ways they rarely do – and I begin to understand that sense of smallness that isn’t diminishing, but freeing.

That smallness restores perspective. It reminds me that my life, as important as it feels, is just one story among billions. And rather than making me insignificant, it gives me space to breathe. It’s like releasing a grip I didn’t realize I was holding on myself.

We all get tangled in our dramas. A disagreement, a disappointment, a deferred hope - they loom so large they block out the horizon. But then I remember that famous image of the Milky Way, with the tiny arrow pointing to a nearly invisible speck: You are here. That dot - our planet - is so small it nearly disappears into the immensity of space. Yet it holds everything we know: every story, every love, every heartbreak, every act of beauty - right there on that fragile speck.

Instead of emptiness, that truth fills me with belonging. My life is one thread in a vast, luminous tapestry. And the tapestry is only whole when all the threads are woven together. That, to me, is love in its deepest sense - not only the personal love we give and receive, but the greater kind: the recognition that our stories only make sense inside the larger story we all share.

When I am surrounded by the natural world, I am reminded again and again - by oceans, mountains, and deserts - that I am small, but never alone.

Nature always stirs in me a deep sense of gratitude. Gratitude for simply being alive - for having eyes to see, lungs to breathe, a heart to feel, and the chance to witness so much wonder. Every time I step outside, it feels like a gift. The way sunlight filters through the trees, how the wind carries the scent of earth after rain, or a sudden burst of birdsong breaking the silence - these are everyday miracles I might otherwise overlook. Yet in nature, they come alive again, reminding me how extraordinary it is just to exist.

That reminder feels especially important these days, when the news cycle is heavy and the world can seem fractured. Headlines shout about everything that’s broken, but nature whispers another truth: that beauty still outweighs the chaos. More kindness exists than cruelty, more generosity than greed, more light than darkness. It simply doesn’t make the news. The trees don’t announce their leaves turning gold in autumn. The waves don’t demand attention as they roll in, steady as they’ve done for millennia. And yet, this quiet goodness is always happening, all around us.

To me, that’s the real gift of nature - it restores balance. It pulls me out of tunnel vision. When I focus only on what’s wrong, it’s easy to believe that’s the whole story. But it isn’t. Every day, countless quiet wonders unfold: strangers help one another, babies are born, friendships form, seeds sprout, rivers flow. These small, steady rhythms rarely get reported, but they are life itself - abundant, hopeful, and enduring.

That’s why I believe time in nature isn’t just recreation or luxury - it’s medicine. It restores balance in ways we can’t always explain but can absolutely feel. It reminds us that beneath the noise and chaos, life’s deeper rhythm is still steady, still generous, still good.

I think we often underestimate the power of remembering what we already know. We chase after transformation as if it must be dramatic or life-altering, when in truth, it’s the quiet affirmations that sustain us most. A walk in the forest that calms the heart. A mountain view that shifts your perspective. A moment of wonder watching wildlife in its natural home that reconnects you to the larger web of life. These may not make headlines in our personal stories, but they shape us just the same.

And maybe that’s what gratitude truly is: a kind of remembering - a practice of noticing what’s already here and allowing it to be enough. If my travels and time in nature bring me back to that remembering - again and again - to be filled with amazement, humility, and gratitude, - then they will have given me a gift beyond measure.