Return to Nature
Why Our Hearts Need Nature
Somewhere along the way, we forgot our true Nature.
We started to believe that trees, oceans, moss and clouds were things we visit on weekends, not the wider body we belong to. Our days shifted indoors, under artificial light, surrounded by screens and straight lines. The seasons change outside our windows but our internal climate stays almost the same—same routines, same glow of screens, same pace.
That nameless longing people sometimes feel is often a longing to connect with Nature again
How we became strangers to the living world
Modern life is efficient, but it is not very alive.
We move from car to shop to office to apartment, touching more plastic than plants. The air is conditioned, the light is constant. In that controlled environment, our nervous systems become over-stimulated but under-nourished. We’re flooded with information yet starved of simple, sensory contact with the world: the feel of bark under fingertips, the uneven rhythm of waves, the way eucalyptus smells just before rain.
One of the clearest examples I see of this is in the park.
I watch people walking their dogs while staring down at their phones. The dog is attached to the human only by the lead, because the heart-connection has been cut, lost down a rabbit hole of synthetic meanderings. The dog’s face says everything—blank, almost joyless. This small creature is out in the grass, under the sky, ready to play, to explore, to connect… and the person at the other end of the lead is somewhere else entirely.
Every time I see it, I want to gently shake them and say, “Look up. Connect with your dog—he adores you. Enjoy the park together.”
This is what disconnection from Nature looks like in daily life: we’re physically present in the living world, but our attention is trapped inside a tiny screen.
Nature as medicine, not backdrop
For me, Nature isn’t scenery. She’s an intelligent, responsive presence.
I’ve watched my own body and heart change from the simplest things: walking under a canopy of trees, sitting with my back against a rock, listening to birds for ten unbroken minutes. There is a grounded, effortless order in the natural world. When we spend time with it, some part of us remembers that same order inside ourselves.
Plants are especially powerful. They don’t hurry. They don’t pretend. They grow towards light, rest in darkness, and accept change without argument. Just being near them can soften our breath and bring us back into our bodies.
This is why I work with plants on the skin and in my art; they’re not just ingredients or motifs. They’re friends, teachers, mirrors.
How art can reopen the door
Art is one of the gentlest ways I know to bring people back into contact with Nature.
A painting of a lily isn’t just a picture of a flower; it’s a slowing-down device. It asks you to pause, to really look. To notice the curve of a petal, the way light moves across it, the shadow that holds it in place. In that moment of looking, the world becomes more alive again.
The same is true for raw botanical works, fragments of leaves and seeds. Art takes an element of Nature and frames it so we can see what was always there: pattern, intelligence, beauty, resilience.
When we stand in front of a work of art, we have a chance to feel something we often ignore: I am part of this. This is my language too.
Returning to Nature through the senses
Reconnection doesn’t have to be dramatic. It can be sensual and simple.
Sight – noticing the way sunlight hits a plant on your windowsill, or the shadow your own hand casts on the wall.
Smell – breathing in the scent of a flower and letting it take you somewhere: a childhood garden, a forest, a memory that opens your heart.
Touch – massaging oil into your skin slowly, as if you were a beloved person you’re caring for rather than a body you’re rushing past.
These are tiny acts, but they change the conversation we’re having with ourselves and the world. They say, I’m listening. I remember you. I remember me.