.png)
Right now, I’m savoring the peace of a friend’s secluded cottage. It’s only accessible by boat or by trekking through dense forest—a journey not for the faint of heart. Here in this tranquil corner of cottage country, an age-old conflict lingers, predating even my friend’s ownership. Fifty years ago, a road was built, but the last three cottages, for reasons lost to time, opted out of sharing the cost. As a result, half a century later, my friend and the owners of the other two cottages remain barred from using the road.
This situation presents a personal challenge. I’m preparing for a 300 km pilgrimage in less than a month, and I need to break in my boots with as much daily walking as possible. The thought of navigating through thick forest with the risk of getting lost or encountering a bear isn’t exactly appealing. My friend pointed out the path—marked by red flags—which seemed straightforward enough at the time. But with fall in full swing here in Ontario, on my own, the red maple leaves create a confusing labyrinth, and I find myself repeatedly losing my way. This has sparked frustration and a struggle to accept the situation. I respect the local rules out of consideration for my friend and the privilege of staying at this beautiful place. Yet, I can’t quite comprehend why these old resentments persist, forcing my friends to bushwhack to their cottage, especially during winter.
As I walk each morning, I notice where my mind lingers. Why are these neighbors so ungracious? What wounds remain unhealed, even after 50 years? What satisfaction could they possibly gain by barring access to the road? I realize these thoughts are disturbing my peace. The urge to mediate, to talk to the neighbors, pulls at me. But again, out of respect for my friend, I choose to stay out of it, though my mind still replays possible conversations.
This morning, as I navigated the forest trail, I found myself struggling but determined. Noticing my racing thoughts, I slowed my pace and anchored myself in the present moment, observing my surroundings. I observed the leaves shimmering in the cool breeze, the lush green moss blanketing the forest floor, and the fallen trees. The sounds of chipmunks scurrying about brought a smile, especially as the curious ones approached me. I spent time on a large boulder, covered in ancient lichen and moss. The colors were breathtaking—pinks, multiple shades of green, and maroon. How fascinating that they resembled coral in the sea. Some even looked like the miniature trees you might find in the scene of a model train set. The landscape brought back warm memories of a favourite book, Gathering Moss by Robin Wall-Kimmerer.
It was here, amidst the lichen and moss, that I found a deeper lesson in mindfulness. These humble organisms are masters of resilience, quietly thriving in environments where few others can. Lichen, a partnership between fungi and algae, symbolizes interconnectedness—how life flourishes through cooperation and balance. As Thich Nhat Hahn teaches--Interbeing--the interconnectedness of all things. Moss, with its slow, steady growth, teaches us patience and the power of gradual, persistent effort.
In mindfulness, we often talk about being present, about noticing the small details and embracing the simplicity of the moment. Lichen and moss embody this perfectly. They remind us to slow down, to appreciate the beauty in what is often overlooked, and to adapt with grace to whatever life presents.
When I finally released the preoccupations of my mind and accepted the situation as it was, I could fully appreciate the beauty around me, connect with nature, and enjoy the present moment. Much like the lichen and moss, I found peace by simply being where I was, into interbe, rather than wishing for things to be different.
Practicing mindfulness in the forest and in life is just that—a practice. It’s about noticing where the mind’s attention drifts, recognizing it, and gently letting it go. It’s about being fully present in the here and now, accepting things as they are rather than how we wish them to be. Mindfulness brings peace, calm, and joy into our lives, and practicing it in nature—amongst the quiet resilience of lichen and moss—is an added blessing.
About the Author:
Monique Giroux is a writer, Forest Therapy Guide, Reiki Practitioner, Coach, and Bestselling Author of Lost Intentionally: The Inner and Outer Journey of a Spiritual Nomad. As a spiritual nomad, she travels the world sharing the stories of the trees, people and sacred places she meets along the journey.
Connect with Monique at https://linktr.ee/flourishment or visit www.flourishwithmonique.com.
Comments