Listen to a random forest

Adventures in nature therapy #2

(NOTE: In any posts I publish about my psychotherapy clients, the person’s name and some identifying details have been changed to protect their privacy. Also, I always have the client’s permission to share their story here. If anything you read in this post triggers a trauma response in you, please consult with your own therapist if you have one — or call the national mental health crisis lifeline at 988 in the U.S. and 0800 689 5652 in the U.K.)

Found something I want to share with you, my friends. I discovered this gem a couple of days ago. And it’s my definition of magnificent.

(Kudos and a bow of thanks to my local chapter of the South Carolina Native Plant Society. They mentioned this in their latest newsletter.)

Tree.fm is a website that will teleport you, instantly, to a peaceful forest somewhere on planet Earth. Where? Anywhere you want to go! Pick a continent, a country, an ecoregion. Or click on “Listen to a random forest” and it will choose for you.

In my first astonished, joyful minutes on this website, I was transported from South Korea to China to India to Madagascar to Ghana to Russia to Turkey to Romania to Spain to Estonia. A greened-up world tour!

In each of those places, someone with a recording app on their phone stood in a natural area and tapped the “REC” button. After one minute, they took a photo of where they were standing while they made the recording.

That’s it. That simple. That stupendous. Pure genius.

I can happily report that in Ghana, I heard a rainstorm. In Spain, a brisk wind and ocean waves crashing against a cliff. Romania had a symphony of birdsong.

And the photos—oh, my gosh! Such natural beauty, such diversity, such an array of different trees and terrain and sky.

Here’s what it looks like on your screen:

As some of you know, I’m a psychotherapist. I specialize in nature therapy. On days when the weather or the schedule prevents me from meeting my clients outside, we do our sessions online. Which of course pales in comparison to being out there in the natural world.

Well … Tree.fm is a game-changer, folks. I’m going to plug this into my sessions whenever I can, maybe start every one with a minute of aural bliss from the forests of the world. Also, I’m going to prescribe a daily dose of Tree.fm to my clients with anxiety, who need help calming down their nervous systems. I’m going to assign it to my clients with insomnia, who can’t quiet their brains when it’s time to sleep. And of course I’ll share it with my depressed clients, who need the uplifting effects of beauty and joy.

The Tree.fm website has a world map showing the locations of all the recordings. They invite anyone and everyone to download a sound clip from wherever you are. You don’t have to be an expert, just someone who’d like to contribute to this global experiment in peace. (I hope you will. Please do! Here's where you go to download yours.)

Today I had a chance to make the audio recording I’ll contribute to Tree.fm. It happened during a nature therapy session in a mountain cove only 10 minutes from my home. This is one of my favorite spots to meet clients.

Long Shoals is a natural gorge where Little Eastatoee Creek tumbles past ancient granite monoliths, some of them as big as a bus. The scenery here, the sheer wildness of it, is clutch-at-your-heart beautiful.

On hot summer days, this is a local swimming hole. It teems with vaping teenagers, dogs running loose, toddlers in diapers, and picnicking families. It’s noisy and chaotic. Lots of screams and laughter as people bounce down the natural water slide, their legs flipping into the air.

During winter, though, Long Shoals is a completely different place. Deserted, peaceful. Primeval. Perfect for communing with the power and presence of nature.

My client this morning was Holly. You might remember her if you’ve been with me here at Rx Nature for awhile. I wrote about a session with her last summer. Holly loves nature therapy. We had an online session scheduled today, but last night she messaged me: “Any chance we could do it outdoors?”

You can guess my answer.

“It’s been a rough week.”

That’s how Holly greets me as we pick our way down a muddy hillside and into the gorge. She tells me she hasn’t been sleeping well, her temper erupted several times in the past few days, and she had a panic attack at work.

Holly’s adoptive mother is dying. Their relationship has always been difficult and fraught with emotional challenges for Holly. She has spent years sorting through the tangled knot of feelings about her mother.

As we settle down on a flat expanse of rock next to the rushing water, she lets me know just how bad it has gotten for her.

“I’m afraid I’m gonna cut again,” she says.

For years, self-injury has been Holly’s go-to method of dealing with distress. It helps “bleed” out emotions that are overwhelming. We’ve been working to curb that. It’s a long, slow road to recovery.

She had been doing much better, refining her ability to regulate her emotions. But the extended drama of her mother’s illness, and Holly’s deep ambivalence as she prepares to lose her, have strained her coping skills to the limit.

I suggest that Holly take a few moments of silence, connecting with her breath and using the five senses to ground herself in the peaceful environment around her.

“What can you see?” I ask. “What can you hear, and smell? Can you taste anything in the air? Can you feel the solidness of the rock beneath you?”

That sounds so elementary—but it’s a vital exercise when someone needs stabilization. It helps us transition from monkey mind to a calmer, more mindful state. It brings our nervous system back to baseline.

Holly gets quiet. Her head dips. Her eyes close.

I give her a minute or two, then a couple more. While she’s centering herself, I hold up my phone, tap REC, and make the audio file I’ll download later on Tree.fm. The full-throated voice of the stream fills my ears.

I hand Holly a small spiral notebook and a pen. It’s time to write down whatever wisdom might emanate from these conifers reaching toward the sky. From all this water flowing around rocks. From the rocks themselves, so steady in the midst of turbulence.

It’s time to listen to a random forest.

Holly jots down a few sentences. Thoughts about courage, and presence, and the strength of stillness.

“It’s not always going to be this hard,” she says softly. “That’s what the rocks are telling me.”

“Write it down,” I say.

This piece of paper will be Holly’s Ground Zero the next time there’s an urge to cut. These reminders will bring her back to a place where we felt calm, and cool air, and sun on our backs. I can only hope it will help.

As we stand to leave, I send up a silent thanks. I always try to remember to praise the Earth, my co-therapist.

That’s when I notice a halo wrapped around the sun, high overhead. A perfect circle in the winter sky. A promise.

This is why I do therapy in the natural world.