We were on Day 4 of the Salmon River Slowdown trip. Eleven of us plus four guides and two trainees were rafting 82-ish miles of the Main Salmon River in Idaho’s Frank Church Wilderness of No Return.

It had been a fun day of rafting and paddling the inflatable kayaks.

We’d gotten to camp early and people took naps, hiked to the creek, or simply rested their weary bones.

Around the campfire that evening, there were BIG breakthroughs. BIG emotions. Truths were told. Realizations where had. Commitments were made.

Everyone eventually headed to bed, as did I.

But then around 3am...

I was suddenly aware that something was approaching me. Not an animal, not a person. Something...else.

My spidey sense was alert but I didn’t feel alarmed. I lay quietly as whatever “it” was floated in the air about 4 feet off the ground and floated towards my tent.

I was aware of it and I was aware that it was aware of me.

As it floated directly over me, I felt “noticed.” Not measured. Not threatened. Whatever this was simply had a curiosity about me. The interest was more than a glance, more than a “drive by,” and perhaps not accidental. Definitely NOT a dream.

And then there was a nod, and the something disappeared as quietly and steadily as it had come.

Knowing the history of this wild place and all the peoples who have inhabited the wild mountains for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, I figured this was simply a curious spirit coming to check out the camp, the people in it, and perhaps was attracted by the uptick in emotional residue from our time around the fire.

Or maybe things like this happen all the time and I just happened to awaken at the right time on the right night.

Curious.

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This isn’t the first spirit encounter I’ve had and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

How about you? Do you have the “extra perception” all the time, or even once, where you experience spirits?

Two deer were hightailing it (literally) through the woods, leaping over the creek, and then skidding to a stop to look around.

Shortly after, I heard the high, excited voices of kids and the patient answers of a deeper voice…probably their mom.

For me, the world has been a lot recently. Or maybe for years. I feel both totally numb about it and very activated by it all. It’s jarring.

So I’d taken myself to the woods for a very long sit spot.

Coming into the woods with no particular destination in mind, I wandered the trails at my favorite local hiking spot, Daniel Stowe Conservancy. As I walked, I picked up some trash, spotted a variety of mushrooms, and swatted away pesky mosquitos.

A bit of a clearing under the pines off to my left called out to me. I walked atop the thick carpet of needles and chose a spot encircled by trees and free of branches both fallen and with potential to fall.

Spreading out my ground cloth, sit pad, journal and pen are a familiar part of my sit spot ritual. I’d brought an oracle deck with me as well.

Settling in, I just sat and looked. Noticing nothing and everything. Hearing the birds and faint traffic noise behind me. A horsefly fly buzzed a complete circle around me four times, almost a blessing, but also pretty annoying.

Pulling out my journal 20 minutes later, I jotted down some thoughts and notes. Nothing profound, just emptying my mind.

I sat longer, felt more, drank water, and enjoyed the sound of the wind ruffling the tops of the trees.

Those two deer tore through around hour two. The kids and their mom didn’t see or hear them, but I was delighted to watch their crashing and jumping as they cleared the stream and made their way deeper into the forest.

Maybe 15 minutes later, I heard…or maybe sensed…something behind me. Then, the unmistakable “bark” of a very unhappy deer.

I’d been spotted!

Very, very slowly, I rotated my entire torso and head. Behind me, there were a couple of does watching me intently. Tails UP, ears FORWARD.

I just sat calmly, breathing, watching and being watched.

I relaxed my body and turned away. Still just sitting, unperturbed by the deer.

About five minutes later, I hear more noises - stamping, snorting, and more barking.

Very, very slowly, I rotated my entire torso and head again. Behind me, there are now THREE does watching me intently. Tails UP, ears FORWARD. As I scan the forest, I see movement off to my right. I spot three MORE does! No, wait…there are FOUR does over there!

I continue to sit quietly as the does eventually settle down to graze. They wander behind me, switching positions, nibbling the ground, stamping their feet, lifting their hind legs to scratch their enormous ears.

I’d relaxed my position by turning my whole self slightly so I could watch their activity. Dropping my head to give my eyes a rest, I “watch with my ears” for awhile. When I finally raised my head, all seven deer had lined up behind me. Not close, mind you…I didn’t feel in any danger. They were just ultra-curious about this new Being in their woods.

I watched them watching me. Seeing and being seen.

It was sublime.

And then the spell was broken. The chatter of hikers could be heard in the distance and one by one the deer moved off deeper into the forest.

I said a prayer of thanks for the experience, gifted the forest some of my water in reciprocity. Slowly, I gathered my things for the return walk home.

I spotted a beautiful Luna Moth on the side of the trail, saw faces in the trees, discovered more mushrooms, and gathered trash as I found it.

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There’s no big revelation here. Just the delight and the magic I encounter in sitting in the forest for long stretches…and sometimes the boredom, too. Is there hubris in sitting and doing nothing for such long stretches? All the #maxxing folks would say so, though I guess sitting for that many hours is its own form of #maxxing, yes? But without a purpose, maybe not.

But, really? Who cares about productivity or efficiency or scaling or hustling or grinding when there are friends to be made among the rocks and with the waters and the birds and the deer and the trees?

A Prayer for Those Who Sit with Oaks

May your life grow slow and wide.

May your roots deepen even when the winds scream.

May your branches shelter the trembling ones.

May your bark remember the fires it has survived.

May your acorns be planted with laughter.

May you trust the fungi.

May you know…

you are already part of the forest.

- by

I shared all this in a group I belong to and thank goodness for this community of sensitive, awake, and generous Souls.

One group member offered a connection between the lanes of my suffering.

As I reflected on what she was offering, at first I didn’t see. And then…poof!…a flash of insight and the connection was clear.

Another group membe offered a simple practice: if cannot go outside [which was a part of my lament about the unrelenting heat + mosquito attacks], she suggested laying down on the floor for 10 minutes.

And this is how I ended up holding hands with a tree.

As I lowered myself to floor, adjusting my back and shoulders, I released a huge breath. It felt good to surrender.

A few minutes in, the tree in my front yard came intoy awareness. No words, just PRESENCE.

I physically extended my hand and felt a calming energy on my hand.

The image of the tree extending her energy to me via her root system to my hand was clear in my mind and “felt” in my body.

I settled further into connection to the tree. I smiled. And relaxed further.

Shortly, my 10 minutes was up. I sent waves of gratitude and thanks to this generous tree, and to my group mates for their guidance.

And my learnings were clear:

• Reach out for support. We don’t and shouldn’t have to do life alone.

• Allow wisdom to be shared. Receive the gifts when offered.

• Do your practices. Even 10 minutes of stillness can radically change your mindset.

• Nature is always there. Believe that Nature wants to be in relationship with you.

• Practice reciprocity. I feel Nature loves to be noticed, talked to, and definitely cared for.

• Practice connecting, especially when you don’t “need” anything. Just practice being together!

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Maybe today, gentle reader, allow something in nature to tug at your sleeve. Go sit with the more than human world for ten minutes. No doing. No expectations. Just be together.

And I’m headed over to hold hands with my tree!

The fallow field is not lazy. It is not behind. It is not doing nothing — underground, but out of sight, it is rebuilding everything the next season will need. To the impatient eye, what looks like stagnation is actually restoration.

You, precious human, need fallow seasons too. So do I. Nature has never once believed that rest is a failure of will. Only we puny humans believe that — only we, of all the beings, have decided that lying fallow is something to be ashamed of.

And that makes me so very sad.

When the old form ends

I want to talk to you today about the hardest kind of rest. Not the tired-after-a-long-week kind. The other kind. The kind you need when your whole life is unraveling and you cannot, for the life of you, figure out how it happened or what to do next.

My teacher Martha Beck calls this the first move of the Change Cycle death and rebirth. It is the catalytic event for everything that follows it — the job that ended, the marriage that shifted, the diagnosis, the move, the loss, or sometimes just the slow quiet realization that the life you built no longer fits the person you’ve become. Beck calls it by its messy name: bug soup.

Her metaphor is about the caterpillar becoming a butterfly. Here is what actually happens inside the cocoon: the caterpillar does not sprout wings and fly. No, the caterpillar spins herself a little sleeping bag of a cocoon and dissolves. Then she digests herself, becoming this formless, unstructured soup. Eventually, inevitably, a switch turns on that instructs the bug soup to transform…right into a butterfly with wings! WHOA! There is no becoming without the dissolving first. And, you cannot help the butterfly through the struggle of becoming. It must endure the struggle of busting out of the cocoon, drying and hardening its wings, and then flying. Only then!

So if you are in a season where everything you knew about yourself has turned to soup — where you keep asking what is going on? How did I even get here? — I need you to hear this: you are not broken. You are not lost (not really). You are simply between forms. And the work of this season, the only work, is to not hold yourself together.

It is to let yourself come apart.

Why we can’t

Nature knows how to do this. Watch any animal that isn’t running from something or hunting something. Those animals drop fully into rest mode. Big yawns. Stretching out in the heat or curling up against the chill. Not scrolling. Not planning. Not bracing. Just resting.

Our modern world is not built for us to drop into rest mode, not for a day, let alone a whole season. There’s endless work to fill our bank accounts, pay our bills, save for retirement, pay for college, and cars and groceries. The endless news telling us how dangerous everything is. The screens. The lights and sounds and to-do lists. And our own imaginations, filling in the danger even when there isn’t any. We are held in a low hum of fight-or-flight and told, on top of it, that if we just try harder and work more, we’ll be fine.

I love a Harvard Business Review article that explains how resilience is about how you recharge, not how you endure. Most people think toughness is about endurance. That working harder makes better work. That you need to grit your way through. But to endure, as a verb, simply means to continue to exist. And nothing continues to exist without resting. The field that is never left fallow turns to dust. The land that could never rest would exhaust itself trying to produce.

You are not a machine that has broken down because it stopped. You are a living being in the fallow part of your own cycle. The rest is not the problem. The fallow dark is where the new form is made.

The invitation

So here is nature’s invitation to you, gentle reader: she invites you — anytime, at no cost — to lie fallow with her for a while. A moment. An hour. Even a season, if that’s what it takes.

Go outside and find something at rest. The bare tree in winter, doing nothing visible while everything it needs is happening underground. The still pond. The fallow field itself, bare and quiet and restoring. The seed in the dark soil that looks, to any sensible eye, like nothing at all is going on. Sit with that Being a while. Let it reach toward you. And notice how Nature is never ashamed of her stillness. She is not behind, labeling herself or her Beings as lazy. She knows exactly what each season asks to be and she is with it.

Next, softly, let the knowing unfold: Oh. Here I am. In my fallow season. Not broken. Between forms. Allowed to lie bare and rest completely, because that’s how the soil rebuilds and the new thing gets made. Or how the caterpillar dissolves and rests as bug soup. No doing, just being. In anticipation that the right something will trigger the next change.

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You do not have to fix this season or yourself. You do not have to solve the soup or rush the wings or force a harvest from ground that needs to rest. You just get to lie fallow. To rest, and trust — the way the field trusts, the way the seed trusts — that the fullness will come again.

Rest. Rest. Rest. It is not the thing you do so you can get back to the real work. In this season, it is the real work.

Remember: as a human Being, you were built for this. Because you are nature, and nature knows and honors her seasons.

This is the second of a five part series detailing The Change Cycle. This series rests on one foundational skill — paying attention to what’s alive – and then walks the four phases, one at a time: the fallow rest of Winter; the bold bursting-out of Spring; the hard, worthwhile middle of Summer; and the generous harvest of Fall. We begin by learning to notice what’s alive. We end by trusting it, remembering it, practicing it — all the way down to our Core of Peace.

Did you miss the first two articles in this series? Click below to read:

An Outside Perspective

The Change Cycle

The hardest thing about a hard season isn’t the season. It’s not knowing where you are in it…

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2 months ago · 3 likes · Angie Stegall

An Outside Perspective

Paying Attention to What's Alive

One Sunday a few years ago, my husband, a friend, and I were paddling the French Broad River near Rosman, North Carolina. We were a mile or two from the end of the trip, floating along, talking and laughing, enjoying our time together and enjoying the river…

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a month ago · 1 like · Angie Stegall

And as we drifted under a bridge, I looked down and something colorful caught my eye. “Hey!” I called out. “There’s a piece of pottery or something down there, buried in the sand!”

I turned my boat and paddled upstream against the current, plunged my arm into the cold water — and couldn’t quite reach it. My husband saved the day. He reached in, snagged it with his fingers, and pulled it up into the light.

In his hand was a vase. “There’s not a crack on it!” he marveled.

And thus the river gifted me a vase. And for a few days, that’s all it was. A funny little wonderful gift.

But, I couldn’t stop thinking about this vase. So I dug a little deeper into what a vase might mean — and what I read took my breath away. The vase turned out to be a near-perfect metaphor for the exact changes I’d been moving through, professionally and personally. It was as if the Great Mother had reached out and thumped me on the head. Pay attention, Darling. Great things are already here, if you’ll dig just a bit deeper into the magic and mystery life keeps handing you.

“I got it,” I thought. And gave deep bow of thanks.

So that’s the thing I want to talk about. Not the vase, exactly. The paying attention.

Here’s what I’ve come to know and share more and more:

The natural world is always alive, and they are always inviting you to be part of it.

Not in a woo way — or, okay, maybe a little woo. I don’t mean the vase had a message stamped on the bottom like a fortune cookie. I mean something subtler and, honestly, stranger. When something in the natural world reaches toward you — catches your eye, snags your sleeve, halts your steps — it catches you because it’s mirroring something already alive in you. Something you hadn’t quite let yourself see yet.

The vase captured me because I was in the middle of becoming something. Being emptied out and refilled. Cracked open, except — like the vase — not actually cracked. Whole, and changed. Some part of me that my thinking mind had been talking over for weeks recognized itself down there in the sand, and said: See? There you are!

The river didn’t send me a message. The river let me find one that was already in me.

This is the whole practice. It’s the biggest thing I try to share, and everything else — how to rest, how to trust yourself, how to bend without breaking, how to find and follow what lights you up — is just part of it.

Let’s go slower. I want to show you how it actually works because it’s not complicated but it is backwards from how most of us try and move through the world.

How It Usually Goes

See, when we want to know how we’re doing, we often go inward first. We interrogate ourselves with our own thoughts (in a previous article, I said: we narrate). How am I feeling? What do I want? What’s wrong with me? And for a lot of us — especially those of us who live up in our heads — that inward dive keeps us tightly in the swirl. The thinking mind grabs the question and runs laps with it.

In my world, we don’t start inside. We start outside.

We go where things are alive. It can be somewhere dramatic (a big river out west, a national forest out east) or it can be somewhere much close (think of a nearby park, nature preserve, or even your backyard). In a pinch, sitting with a houseplant or even a weed coming up through a crack in the sidewalk works. Just pick something alive outside: the sky. A bird doing bird things. One tree on your street.

And then — this is the part that matters — you don’t choose what to look at. You just…LOOK. And you let something choose you. You get quiet enough, and slow enough, that you can feel it when something catches. A tug. A pull. That. You don’t decide it’s meaningful. You notice that it already is simply because you noticed it. Similar to the way the vase was already there in the sand at the bottom of the river, whole, waiting, long before I floated under that bridge.

And then, once something out there has caught you, you turn gently inward and ask one question:

What in me might this mirror?

That’s it. Outside, then inside. But really it’s one motion — the outside is just the doorway to the inside, because the thing out there that caught you is already something inside you. You’re not looking at nature and then looking at yourself. You’re finding yourself, out there, in the green. In the sand. In the water.

I want to be honest about why I go outside first, because it’s not an accident and it’s not just because nature is pretty (even though most of the time it really, really is).

I go outside first because the natural world is a gentle way to approach looking at our own insides. You know how you can look right at the sun? Well, sometimes it’s a bit too much to answer the question, “look inward and tell me what you feel?” It can be too raw, too fast, too flooding. But a vase in the sand? A tree? A moth fluttering? Those are just themselves. You can look at them all day. They ask nothing of you. And while you’re safely, easily looking — noticing how the light comes through, how the Being is somehow still whole after a storm — nature does the work of showing you yourself just off of center, gently, at an angle you can bear. Kind of like a side hug with someone you may not know very well.

The mirror of nature, I’ve found, is a kinder view than straight up interrogation. That’s why I like it, use, and share it.

So. My invitation to you (and everything I offer is an invitation, if I haven’t explicitly said that before):

Sometime soon…today — not later, not when you have time, because I know you’ll get busy with life and move on to the next thing — go find something alive. Out a window is fine. Slow yourself down and be with this alive Being. Linger long enough to let something catch you. And when it does, don’t worry about rushing to name it. Stay with it for a time. And when you feel yourself relax and soften, something about that Being might “catch” you. From that place, gently inquire: how is this Being showing me part of me?

You might get a whole flood of information or insight, like I did with the vase. You might get nothing but a nice minute looking at a plant, which is also completely fine and still good for you. There’s no wrong way to do this. There’s only sharing attention, or not.

And here’s the part I most want to share: you don’t have to do anything with what you find. You don’t have to fix it or make a plan or turn it into a lesson. You just get to know it. To say, “Oh. There I am. I’m still alive out here. I’m still whole, even changed, even now. Just with a tiny bit more insight about myself.”

We’re not beginning a to-do list here. The attention is the whole thing. Coming into contact with something alive, remember we are nature, which is the only work that matters and the one we keep forgetting to notice.

The world is alive and it is holding up a mirror, all the time, everywhere, for free.

All you have to do is look up. Or down. And see that whatever you are seeing, might be seeing you, too.

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This is the first of a five part series on The Change Cycle (see link to article below if you haven’t read that one). Everything else I’ll share — how to rest when it all falls apart, how to trust what you know, how to bend without breaking, how to follow your own aliveness forward — begins right here, with this one skill: paying attention to what’s alive. We start by learning to notice it. By the end, we’ll learn to follow it.

An Outside Perspective

The Change Cycle

The hardest thing about a hard season isn’t the season. It’s not knowing where you are in it…

Read more

2 months ago · 3 likes · Angie Stegall

You were built for this because you are nature.

The way I understand change owes a great deal to my mentor Martha Beck, and to the tracker Boyd Varty, who learned from her too. I walk their wisdom through my coaching, my forest therapy, and my immersive retreats on rivers and in wild places.

He regularly paws at the windows or picks at the screens in an attempt to get outside.

This strikes me as HILARIOUS because less than three feet from where he was pawing at this window was his cat door TO THE OUTSIDE.

It reminded me of listening to Trevor Noah's excellent podcast "What Now?" where he was talking about a famous dude having thoughts about some awards.

Trevor got quiet, sighed, and said, "It really is amazing how in life you can have everything, but if you do not get that thing you WANT, then everything else can seem like nothing in comparison."

What we focus on matters.

What we're grateful for matters. And sure, dreams and goals matter, too.

But if you lose sight of what you DO have, unhappiness and dissatisfaction are sure to follow you all the days of your life.

Kinda like being three feet from the door that will actually take you outside...but you're scratching at that one closed window in front of you.

Not day one, when you’re still decompressing from travel and to-do lists. Not day two, when your body finally stops reaching for your phone (which doesn’t have a signal anyway).

Day three is when something shifts. I’ve felt it rafting through Grand Canyon, the Main Salmon, the French Broad, and kayaking 340 miles across Florida. Day three is when your senses recalibrate. You start smelling things you hadn’t noticed. Hearing water differently. Your body and brain, finally released from the constant threat-assessment of modern life, begin to do what they were actually designed to do.

That’s the moment I keep returning to in my work.

For years, I’ve been leading women into wild places — multi-day river trips, forest immersions, threshold journeys. Not because I think nature is a nice backdrop for self-improvement. But because I’ve seen, over and over, what happens to a woman’s body when she unplugs long enough to hear her own unique thoughts.

And she doesn’t just get a feeling. Whether it’s a three hour forest therapy experience or a five day river trip, she gets to practice. To recalibrate. To remember HERSELF. That’s the perspective she gets from being OUTSIDE that simply doesn’t happen in modern environments.

What Actually Happens Out There

I used to think I went to the river to escape. I deeply understand now that I go outside because it’s the place I return to myself.

Something real happens when you swap the unrelenting noise of modern life for moving water, wind through the trees, and birdsong all around. And I’m not talking about the kind of “nature is nice” memes. I mean the way our brains and bodies actually change.

David Strayer, a cognitive psychologist at the University of Utah, spent years studying what happens to the brain after extended time in wilderness. His research found that people scored 50% better on creative problem-solving tasks after four days in nature. Not four hours. Four days. His research shows the three-day threshold matters. It takes that long for the prefrontal cortex — the part of your brain running constant executive functioning — to actually power down and rest.

On day three your brain relaxes out of fight/flight/freeze and fawn. Instead, it slows down, gets quiet(er) and begins noticing.

Walking barefoot in the forest, your brain and body work together: where to step, ooops watch your balance, oh the leaves are so warm in the sun. Standing in a current, your brain and body note the cold water teasing your calves, spot the minnows zipping around your toes, and feel the hot sunshine. Spending a night in the desert under a sky so full of stars, your mind goes completely mute and all you feel is AWE. Suddenly you have a new perspective – the OUTSIDE kind. There’s been no trying. You’re just BEING in the moment with all five senses. Here. Now. Nowhere else to be, nothing else to do.

This is what I mean when I say I go outside to return to myself. Not for ego; for deep presence.

Awareness, Acceptance, Action

Here’s what I’ve learned from years on rivers: you can’t fight the current. You can’t stop the water. Your choice is always about how you navigate what’s already moving.

That’s the frame I bring into my coaching. Awareness, acceptance, and action — in that order. Always in that order.

First: notice. What is actually happening in your body right now? Not what you think should be happening, or what you’re trying to make happen. What’s here?

I learned this the hard way. For years, my body was trying to tell me something was wrong. Tension that never fully released. Migraines that wouldn’t quit. An exhaustion that sleep didn’t fix. I ignored all of it because I didn’t know how to listen. It took an autoimmune diagnosis to force me into a different relationship with my body. Awareness.

The wilderness helped me become more sensitive to my body signals and nature signs. I am more away of the wind and the changing weather it brings. I can smell something before I see it. I look with my ears. I taste with my nose. And I notice what’s happening all around me in ways I never used to.

Second: release. There is a part of acceptance no one likes (it sounds a lot like surrender). This means sitting with what’s uncomfortable instead of immediately trying to fix it or explain it away. Here, we’re releasing control of the outcome and accepting what is.

On a river trip, this often looks like day two. You’re tired. Maybe you’re questioning your choices. Your body aches in places you forgot you had. This is you having crossed the threshold from “there” (regular life) to “here” (nature). Now you can begin.

As your comfort zone expands, so does your confidence in yourself. But the expansion only happens through contact with discomfort. You can’t think your way into resilience. Instead, you’re invited to feel your way through it.

Third: act. But act wisely. From what you’ve learned from your body and your emotions, not from fear or habit.

I teach women to read their bodies like they read water. Tight or open? Heavy or light? Fizzy or flat? Here, we aren’t working in metaphors. I want to know literally because these signs are your navigation tools.

What Gets Transferred

The question I hear most often after a wildHER trip: How do I keep this feeling at home?

My answer is always the same: you remember the feeling by keeping the practice.

The same awareness that helps you read the weather helps you read a relationship. The same acceptance that gets you through day two on the river gets you through minute two of a difficult conversation. The same action — one turtle step, then the next — is how you navigate a life transition without losing yourself (because you always know how to find your way back to yourself).

What wilderness does is remind your body what it already knows. And the skills don’t disappear when you return to your regular life. They have to be practiced, yes. But they’ve always been yours, embedded in your DNA.

Everything moves in cycles — tides, seasons, living things alternating between growth and dormancy. Your nervous system is no different. It needs periods of effort + act and periods of stillness + soft fascination. Modern life mostly gives you the former and starves you of the latter.

Multi-day time in wilderness — not a hike, not a weekend, but actual immersion — is one of the most reliable ways I know to restore that balance. Your senses recalibrate. Your creativity returns. Your body remembers how to be in relationship with something larger than your to-do list.

An Invitation (Two Paths In)

I am a certified Martha Beck Wayfinder life coach, a certified guide with the Association of Nature and Forest Therapy, a wildHER guide, and someone who has spent years learning to navigate by feeling the current rather than fighting it. I’ve written five books, led women on multi-day adventures through forests and down rivers. I’ve watched the day-three shift happen in real life.

So, if something in this piece is tugging at you, here are two ways to follow that current:

Invitation #1: If you’re ready to start right now — from wherever you are:

Trust the Current: A Four Compasses Journey is a four-session, one-on-one virtual immersion designed for women who live in their heads. Smart, thoughtful women who can analyze a situation from every angle — and still feel disconnected from their inner wisdom.

Each session works with one of the four inner compasses: body, emotion, spirit, mind. In that order, always. Because the mind, powerful as it is, works best last.

This isn’t about blowing up your life. It’s about building the kind of inner trust that no one can take away from you. One turtle step at a time.

Investment: $993. Reply “COMPASS” to Angie@AngieStegall.com and I’ll send you everything you need to get started.

Invitation #2: If you’re ready to feel it in your body — in the actual wild:

Join me and my co-guide Sylke Laine as we raft through Gates of Lodore this August 29 – September 2 for a five-day wildHER women’s river retreat on the Green River in Utah.

The Gates of Lodore are exactly what they sound like: towering canyon walls, a river that narrows, the noise of your ordinary life, gone. The kind of place where your truth gets easier to hear.

We’ll raft, camp, journal, move, and sit with the questions that don’t get asked at home: If I had the nerve, I would ____. If I had the freedom, I would ____. This is wildHER’s third river retreat for midlife women. Three spots remain.

Investment: $3,300. Learn more and register at coaching.mrslaine.com/wildher-gates-of-lodore-womens-river-retreat.

Both paths lead to the same place: you, more yourself than ever. Thank goodness!

The current is already moving. You don’t have to prepare. You just get to step in.

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I know he was probably talking about himself. I feel envy, because I also want to be that person…am that person a lot of times…but not all the time.

And so when I am feeling the chaos, the doubt, the anger, the bitterness…I go to the trees.

Why the trees?

This is a great question, and my answer might make you roll your eyes: it’s because trees are convenient.

Truly! See, I don’t live near the ocean, though if I did, this article might be about going there. And I don’t live near the desert. If I did, this article would surely be about going there. But I am surrounded by trees and they are a sure and steady force for peace among the chaos of the world.

Also, trees emit phytoncides, which are essential oils they share with one another for their own health and wellness. We puny humans get the benefit of breathing in these powerful phytoncides when we walk amongst the trees and bushes. Studies show breathing in these essential oils, combined with the viewing of nature and company of trees, plus the walking we do among them, work together to boost our immune systems.

So, I go to the trees to find inner peace, but when possible I’ll find the same peace at the ocean, floating a big river out west, or hiking in the desert.

But since trees are easy for me to access, it’s my consistent practice.

To let the trees do their work, let’s get really present.

Step One: Look around. Simply notice what’s happening around you. The trees are always in motion, side to side, up and down (internally), even when we have not idea it’s happening. But your only invitation is to look around - what in motion? What do you smell? Hear? Taste on the air?

Step Two: Breathe deeply. Be here, right now. Nothing to do, nowhere else to be. Acceptance without forcing, pushing, or changing anything (including yourself).

Step Three: Check in with your body. This is the first of the four powerful inner compasses (where your inner wisdom and instructions live). Are you feeling at ease? If not, can you locate your source of tension? Can you just sit with whatever your body is communicating and be present with it?

Step Four: Release. Once you can “be with” whatever is happening in this moment and relax all your compasses (a form of surrender, if you will), can you begin to notice where you might go if there was no pressure or resistance in your body? This might feel like leaning towards something. Or feeling a curiosity bubble up. There might be a subtle yearning for something. Whatever happens, notice it. Honor it.

Take a few breaths, as normal, noticing the sensation of breathing in and breathing out.

For us to do our own work, let’s get powerfully grounded.

Notice right now that you are here in this place and in this thing called “your body.” I wonder what it feels like to be in your body?

Noticing your body…is there something it wants or needs? Go ahead and give it that if you’d like.

Noticing your body again…you might be doing this thing called sitting. What does it feel like to sit? What parts do you feel as you stand or sit? You might scan your body from head to toe or toe to head…

Noticing your body again, I’d like to invite you to notice your feet. Maybe shift from side to side to really feel them. Even sitting you can do this. As you’re feeling your feet connect with the earth, I want to invite you to imagine roots coming out of your feet and body and sinking down into the Earth. As those roots sink in, feel the aliveness of them. Feel them connect with the other root beings under the earth. What else might these roots be encountering? I wonder what other more-than-human worlds and beings are down there?

As you’re allowing these roots to sink and spread from your body and feet, let it bring you to presence in the here and now.

Stillness and Movement Matter

There’s something particularly peaceful and beautiful about sitting with the trees. The biggest ones are so solid at their bases, even when they are animated at their crowns.

And I think that’s the lesson of going OUT to go IN matters: we can be still on the inside, powerfully grounded and centered in our peace, while moving ourselves in ways that matter for our lives, our communities for our good work in the world.

If we’ve gone out because we’re feeling the external chaos of the world or our own internal chaos, going outdoors invites us to step away from other people’s input; it invites us to turn off our technology; and it invites us to engage with our sensory body.

When we go for a wander outside, we move our bodies, breathing deeply, stretch our muscles, settle our minds. Our lungs fill more deeply. We MOVE the energy through and out of our bodies.

The Next Right Action

I am in love with being my own wayfinder, tuning into my inner compasses, and letting my inner wisdom come through to guide me (or pull me towards) my next right step.

The more I practice listening to my inner voice and following its wisdom + direction, the in tune I feel with the whole world, as if it is conspiring with and for me.

And that’s why I go to the trees - because going out for me is really about also going in.

Maybe you can give it a try, too?

Interested in learning how to reliably read your own four compasses? I’ve created a four-part program called “Trust the Current” to do just that. You and me, 1:1, practicing together. Details are HERE.

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I’ve been thinking about what it means to find your way when there are no maps, no compasses, not even a trail.

And not thinking about it in some abstract, philosophical sense. I’m moreso thinking about it in the very literal sense of: the world is changing so fast that the old ways of navigating aren’t working reliably anymore. The standard maps suddenly seem wrong, upside down even. The trails that exist are way over-used. People have even re-routed trails or created roadblocks for their own benefit. For instance: watching several thousand people being laid off from a company who claims to be making record profits. Systems so complicated and/or expensive to navigate that you give up (and it’s designed that way). A tax code that is thousands of pages long. Benefits you paid into your whole working life and now there’s chatter of that system going bankrupt? You get the idea.

It feels like in the U.S. of A our government is imploding. Politics are deeply divisive. The standard “college, career, marriage, kids, 2nd career, retirement with a pension” path has essentially been wiped off the map. The social contracts we thought we understood feel like gibberish now. We cannot rely on our institutions to help us decide ethically, morally, socially, societally, things humans have relied on for hundreds of years..

And a lot of people are freaking out. Which I totally understand.

But here’s what I’ve noticed: some people aren’t freaking out. Or they are, but there’s something else happening too. Something underneath the fear: a kind of awakening.

And the group of people I notice having this awakening are people who are creating/have created their own way. They start their own business and/or have several ways of making money. They grow their own food, know what to do with basic ingredients, and compost with gusto (or maybe that’s just me?). It’s the people doubling down on art, writing, and making music. It’s knowing your neighbors and caring about them. And it’s living for the NOW, not for some later date deemed acceptable when you have enough money and have worked a proper amount of time. We seem to navigate our own boat, choose our own path, read something different in the stars. Those of us who think of ourselves as wayfinders focus on the bigger picture of what we’re meant to do in the world: figure it out for ourselves and then help others do that, too.

The good news is that we have everything we need inside us. Let me explain how…

What Is a Wayfinder?

A Wayfinder, as Wade Davis, author of The Wayfinders: Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World is defined as: “individuals or cultures that produce valuable worldviews and environmental knowledge crucial for navigating earthly existence.”

The term wayfinder originally was a label describing Polynesian oceanic navigators. But Davis groups many such ancient people under the label “wayfinder” because they navigated by reading currents, winds, stars, flora and fauna, and sea life. Looking at these abilities with our dulled, modern senses, they seem magical in thinking and action.

But here’s the thing: those abilities weren’t magic. They were just deeply, incredibly human. Humans who deeply practiced the art and science of NOTICING.

Here’s what I know for sure: one of the biggest practices I teach my clients is NOTICING. In fact, one of my core questions is, “What are you noticing?” Because we only ever have RIGHT NOW. Recently I was watching the last episode of the final season of Poldark (I do love me a good period drama!) where Demelza and Ross were saying goodbye. They hold each other and say, “And the past is gone. Tomorrow doesn’t exist. All that matters is now. And we.”

When the systems are failing or simply cannot keep up the rate of change in technology, or the environment, or within people themselves, when the path isn’t clear anymore, we can become our own wayfinders. We can create our own maps. And how do we do that? We quit listening to what we’ve been taught is proper and acceptable by our families, communities, religious, and educational institutions. Instead, we rely on our own inner wisdom.

Now is the time for you to discover and build your inner wisdom. To discover and practice trusting yourself. And you do this by tapping into your own inner navigation system.

Wayfinding – The Art of Building Inner Trust

There have been Wayfinders since the beginning of humanity. And while these people might not have been “literal” navigators (like my dad was in the Navy), these ancient wayfinders acted in service of their families, tribes, communities, and nature in the same way my dad acted in service to his crew and mission.

The world is changing and fast. Structures that seemed permanent are dissolving. Ecosystems are collapsing. Social norms are shifting so fast we can barely keep up.

For a lot of people, this brings anxiety and confusion. Or apathy, hopelessness, and despair.

But for Wayfinders? This time is an INVITATION.

Because when our modern systems begin to fail or outright collapse, something inside us wakes up.

We start remembering things long buried inside ourselves.

As my mentor Martha Beck writes, “Wayfinding doesn’t deny that the ship is pitching in high waves. Instead, it teaches us how to find our true bearings within the storm.”

I am certainly not pretending everything’s fine. What I am doing is learning to navigate when nothing’s fine by trusting MYSELF (and building community, because no wayfinder goes it alone).

I’m not a Wayfinder because I’m immune to fear, but because—as Beck says—”we can sense a deeper current running beneath the chaos, a wisdom that never stops flowing and can keep us safe.”

I’ve felt that current. On a 16-day trip through Grand Canyon. On the French Broad River, where my husband and I rafted 140 miles over 16 days. When I lead trips for women (the wildHER river trips) (Main Salmon and the Rogue). Even (especially) when I work with clients in the forest when everything’s quiet. There, I can feel the stillness. And in the stillness, everything is moving, growing, changing. My inner wisdom is alive there if I’m willing to step into the current of energy.

That current is real. And you can learn to read it.

Inner Connection, Inner Wisdom, Inner Compass

I was recently guiding a private forest therapy walk for a long-time client. What looks like wandering and talking is actually a deep practice of quieting our minds, asking deeper questions, and tuning into our inner voices.

Towards the end of our time in the woods together, I invited my client to sit for 20 minutes next to a being (a tree, plant, rock, etc.). In this practice of “sit spot” there is no doing, only sitting and noticing what is happening in this moment. As we settle into our sitting, we might notice the wind, our breath, a feeling in our body, a bird flying by, an emotion might bubble up. The longer we sit, the more we notice. Sometimes we feel a deep connection to something in nature, or even something larger than ourselves.

And often, we figure out the answer to a problem we are having. Not always, but I’ve seen it happen enough to know it’s a reliable outcome of the practice.

My client came over to where I was sitting after our individual sit spot experiences. She said, “I didn’t even get a chance to tell you about this problem, but while I was sitting the answer came to me. I know exactly what to do.”

That is the art of tuning into your inner wisdom. To identifying where your inner compasses are leading you. And the first step is always connection: with yourself and (hopefully) with Nature.

Your Inner Compasses

I want to share the concept of the “Four Inner Compasses” because they map almost perfectly onto what I’ve discovered learning and leading on rivers and working in and with nature.

The Four Inner Compasses

#1: The Body Compass is where you identify those subtle (or not so subtle!) physical sensations. Clenching, softening, flowing, drooping. Your nervous system knows what’s true way before your mind does.

I learned this the hard way. My body was always communicating with me but I couldn’t understand until I developed an autoimmune disease and could barely get out of bed. Monthly migraines came weekly. My body stayed TENSE and TIGHT. I was exhausted. And I ignored it because I just didn’t know how to be with my body…or learn with and from it. Spending time in nature, immersed for days or weeks, is what opened up my senses and helped me trust and honor my body.

#2: The Emotional Compass helps you navigate every decision. Unfamiliar with naming emotions? Start here: mad, sad, scared, glad.

Want a deep, deep dive? Try Brene Brown’s book The Atlas of the Heart. It’s a textbook stuffed with the nuances of every emotion imaginable. There are no bad emotions and learning to identify them and receive their messages keeps you in integrity rather than duplicity (also known as abandoning yourself). No judgment, just awareness. And courage to say what is so.

Walking barefoot in the forest taught me SUBTLETY. My husband hugging me helped me identify LOVE. Kayaking on my favorite river in the world helped me identify PEACE. My cat purring and making biscuits on my chest taught me JOY (and maybe pain…those claws can be sharp!). Discovering ANGER showed me where I was over-giving. It also taught me to recognize the first signs of RESENTMENT. Paying attention to the emotional compass simply means being aware of the present moment. No judgement, just awareness. With clarity to name your emotion, no matter what it is.

#3: The Spiritual Compass connects you to the vast awareness that contains everything. It teaches you that you’re part of something bigger, something loving, and something powerfully benevolent.

I’ve suffered from religious trauma and talking about “God” or “Jesus” sometimes makes me feel squirrely. But no matter what I call it, I know it when I feel it: a huge energy under me, around me, above me. It surrounds me and holds me. I become filled with awe, wonder, and the deepest sweetest love. And the thing I love most: feeling so, so small. This connection to all that is and ever was and ever will be helps me put things in perspective. And not labeling “it” works for me.

Where do I feel this divine energy that flows through everything, including through me? On a quiet morning floating a river in a raft or in my kayak. Laying in the desert sand at night watching shooting stars and seeing the Milky Way as we move underneath the heavens. Realizing how VAST our Universe is, how many other Universes there could be, and how very, very small I am. These are comforting thoughts that bring me deep peace – and make life’s problems feel a whole lot smaller in comparison! And truly, I am small and puny, but part of this vast and beautiful world. Who created it? Why? That’s the mystery that surrounds me, brings me joy, and opens me to the magic and miracles of life.

And finally…

#4: The Mental Compass helps you discern clear thought from fearful noise. Your mental compass, if used well, moves you toward curiosity, invitation, and creativity and away from fear, lack, and worry.

The mental compass is always engaged last because it requires deep knowing and practice with your body compass, exquisite attention on your emotional compass, and a trust of and connection to your spiritual compass. Only then do you allow the mental compass to act. And act you will, taking the next action that is pulling you towards what’s right for you.

You were born with these compasses. They work. And now my invitation to you is to practice noticing them and working with them and following where they are leading you.

Finding Your Way

Before you can use a compass, it’s very helpful to know where you are, and to have a sense of where you’re going.

HERE: Your “you are here” point is simple: it’s this moment. Right now. Exactly where you are.

Not where you wish you were. Not where you “should” be. Where you actually are.

THERE: And your destination? Only you know. And YOU KNOW, even if you’re scared to say it.

I can’t tell you what yours is. Neither can anyone else.

But you know…and your Inner Compasses can get you there.

When you learn to read them, they’ll point you in the direction of your next right step. And your next. And your next. Until you wake up one day living the life you dreamed and thinking, “How fortunate am I?”

How to Start Right Now

Starting to work with your own inner compass is simple:

Step One: Look around. Simply notice what’s happening around you.

Step Two: Breathe deeply. Accept the here and now. No forcing, pushing, changing.

Step Three: Check in with your body. Are you feeling at ease? If not, can you locate your source of tension? Can you just sit with it and let it be present?

Step Four: Release. Once you can “be with” whatever is happening in this moment and relax all your compasses (a release, if you will), can you begin to notice where you might go if there was no pressure or resistance in your body? It might feel like leaning towards something. Or feeling a curiosity might bubble up. There might be a subtle yearning for something. Whatever happens, notice it. Honor it.

Beck writes: “This simple act of release and re-focusing will begin pulling you toward your purpose like a powerful magnet.”

This one practice, repeated over and over, engages your inner compass. It will pull you towards the direction that is right for you.

You Were Built for This

You too can be a Wayfinder. Consider this your invitation.

The old systems are dissolving because they need to. They aren’t serving the WHOLE of life.

And Wayfinders are the people who can navigate this new world using the ancient technology of inner wayfinding. They can find the current beneath the chaos. And they will help others do the same.

Hey, Wayfinder! You have everything you need inside you already. Your compasses are built in because you were born with them.

Let me help you learn to read them.

Here’s What I Know

You might think you know how to use each one of these compasses, but over and over I’ve watched people confuse their emotions for their body sensations, or share a thought, thinking they are describing an emotion. Other times they aren’t even realizing what connects them deeply and easily to their spiritual compass. And most people just lead with their mental compass and call it done. NOPE!

Because I know there’s so much wisdom available to you right now and it’s located in these inner compasses!

Start where you are. Notice and accept what’s happening right now. Feel for curiosity, yearning, or even a subtle invitation of “this!” vs. “not that!”

And know that you were built for this journey because you were born to have tough feet and a tender Soul.

Whatever’s happening is real. But so are the internal compasses that will carry you through.

Author’s Note:

This piece is inspired by Martha Beck’s essay “Desperate Times Call for Wayfinders”. The concept of the Four Inner Compasses, the characteristics of Wayfinders, and the core navigation practice all come from Martha’s teaching.

I’ve reframed her ideas through my own lens of nature practices, but the foundational wisdom is hers. All quotes are attributed to Martha Beck.

And if you’d like help with your inner compasses, I’ve created a 4-part immersion to help you .

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Maybe I should start with a little backstory first: this house I currently live in and now own is the longest I have ever lived anywhere. These two trees were a huge part of the quarter acre plot of land this little house sits on.

Seven years ago my husband Nelson and I were living in our motorhome, traveling the country and taking life slower after a season of real burnout (hello both people owning small businesses). Our plan was to stay on the road for a decade.

We arrived in Gastonia just after Thanksgiving in 2018, intending to stay with Nelson’s mom until January, when we’d head down to Florida for a 3-month volunteer work camping position at a nature preserve.

Sitting at the kitchen table in Gastonia in early December, I noticed Nelson’s mom was having trouble putting the lid back on the compost crock. She banged the lid against the side several times. Then she spoke and it was pure gibberish. Alarmed, I looked at Nelson. He looked back at me, confused. Asking his mom a couple of questions elicited more gibberish. I grabbed the phone and called 911. He started talking calmly to her, asking her to smile, lift her arms, and repeat a few more sentences.

The rest is a blur of paramedics, an evening snowstorm, and then many decisions being made.

And here we come back to the story of the trees in the backyard.

In the late winter of 2019, the largest of the two had started leaning. And the lean wasn’t towards our house, it was towards the neighbor’s. This oak was 50+ feet tall and would have taken a couple people to fully hug it.

After a big storm, I brought Nelson out and pointed to the root system. It had lifted noticeably.

We scheduled the tree service to come out and remove the tree.

I cried the day they took it down limb by limb. I winced, both in awed and horror, when they dropped the final hunk of trunk. The yard looked wrong somehow with that glorious tree missing from the landscape.

Before the tree guys left, one of them said to me, “Come over here and look at this other tree.” It was nearly as large as the one they just removed.

He started poking the base with a screwdriver. “This tree,” he said, “needs to come down too. It’s all eat up with ants and the inside is hollow.”

This not being my house nor my sole decision, I said we’d keep an eye on it and sent the tree guys on their way.

About a year and half later, we could truly see that this giant needed to be removed as well.

Another tree service arrived and the tree was dismantled limb by limb. My husband had asked the guys to leave some of the wood for us to burn. In actuality, they left half of the downed tree strewn across the yard and took off.

For the next month, my 80 year old mother in law and I would go out into the backyard and move logs. Nelson cut up the biggest pieces and we moved them. By the end, we’d created a double wall of logs stacked two deep that stretched half of the fence line (nearly 30 feet). It was insane.

But, we repurposed the tree stumps: one as a firepit holder and the other a bird watering station. Several years in a row, there as also a stunning mayfly hatch. I thought the stump was on fire one day when I looked out the window, but it was millions of bugs flying out of it! STUNNING to watch. The stump also became a feeding source for woodpeckers and a hiding place for our resident squirrels and chipmunks.

Now, let’s fast forward to a few months ago (summer of 2025).

Nelson and I purchased this house after his mom passed in the spring.

I started looking at those piles of logs as a nuisance because, in letting the cats out in the backyard, they’d learned to climb up the logs and hop over the fence into the neighbor’s yard.

In an effort to stop them from escaping, I began moving the logs. And since they’d been sitting there for almost five years, those logs were rotting.

For five or six weekends, I’d move logs. First I created a new compost area surrounded by double stacked logs. Any log that was really falling apart got thrown a bit farther into a different pile. As I cleared the logs, I raked all of the compost left behind into a huge pile. I also created a log barrier around the iris patch. These were precious flowers that came from Nelson’s family farm down in Peachland, NC

I wanted to preserve these flowers from the dog’s enthusiastic scratching after his pee breaks.

By the sixth weekend, I was stronger, itching from chigger bites, and done moving all those stupid logs.

A couple weeks later we acquired nine raised beds from a farmer in SC. I wanted to move my strawberry patch form the side of the house where they didn’t enough sun, water, or attention to a more visible spot.

In order to prep the beds, I first need to fill them: step one – add sticks and branches. I didn’t really have sticks and branches, but oh boy did I have rotting logs! I got to work moving these rotting logs again, filling the bottoms of half of the raised beds. Then I needed leaves, which I also had in abundance. Next, I went to the huge pile of compost that I had raked up after moving the logs and shoveled that into the beds. Finally, I started pouring bags of soil on top. My folks had quite a bit of garden soil they’d purchased a couple years ago and decided not use. I had enough for five of the six raised beds.

As I was shoveling yet another load of compost into a bed, a thought struck me: what if those two trees we’d taken down years ago KNEW that I would need those rotting logs and the compost they created for just this moment? What if those trees were planning to feed me all those years ago? They and the strawberries made a plan: the trees lives were done and ready to enter a new life cycle as compost. The strawberries were patient and steadfast as the logs slowly decomposed. The cats sparked a new idea in me: move the logs! That started a chain of events that led to me moving 128 strawberry plants. I swear those strawberries were GIDDY with excitement as I was transplanting them to their new beds. Was I imagining this excitement? Maybe, but the energy felt awfully real in my hands and in my chest.

Those huge trees provided glorious shade for so many years. When they were gone, sunlight poured into the backyard, changing the whole ecosystem. I started gardening in earnest. Now the remains of those trees help me grow food, create more compost, and the cycle of life continues.

It wows me to think that those trees, this land, and even the strawberries planned this out together seven years ago. Who knew I’d own this house, tend this little plot of land, and find such kinship with them all? Honestly, they knew. I’m just now putting all the pieces together. Lucky me.

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I write about making your own way in the world, from working outside of culture, to knowing your insides more deeply. I am deeply in love with growing my own food, traveling to see all of Nature’s beauty, and baking sourdough bread.

A small sampling of stories I’ll tell:

• Receiving a physical gift from the river

• A rock that totally flirted with my husband

• Seeing like a cat in the dark

• How my daily sit spot changed me

• Meeting my husband in spirit before I met him “in person”

• Selling everything I owned to hit the road and travel with my hubby for two years

• How I feel guided, protected, supported by unseen (but very FELT) forces

• Tiny daily synchronicities that have become “normal”

• Meeting the Spirit of the River

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There are also perfectly ordinary things about me, too:

• I LOVE Calvin & Hobbes, the cartoon. Once wrote a philosophy paper on it in college. Deeply wish I still had that paper.

• Finally finished college just before I turned 30. I was on the “11” year plan, working full-time, going to classes at night and on the weekends, pet-sitting as my side hustle to make additional money.

• I left a job when my boss offered me a .25 cent raise.

• I’ve never worked in corporate. I don’t understand it, the collective delusion of working for an entity whose sole purpose is to make as much money as possible.

• I’ve been a coffee drinker (black, please) forever but recently started trying out herbal teas and going to fancy “High Tea” experiences with a friend. Turns out, being a little fancy is pretty fun.

• If I could live outside, I would. My favorite times in life are when I’m living out of tent: paddling 340 miles across Florida over 23 days, rafting 140 miles of the French Broad River, rafting through Grand Canyon for 16 days. Even living in our motorhome for almost two years was a very “close” feeling with nature.

• I didn’t get married until I was 39 years old. Glad I waited!

• I’m childless by choice.

• I love my dog, but deep down I’m totally a cat person.

• My body loves beans and greens…but pizza, I just can’t quit you!

• I’ve written five books. The first three were…meh. The last two I still love. A sixth book is brewing.

• I’ve been self-employed since 2003. That feels like an eternity. There have been highs and lows and trade-offs. It isn’t glamorous, but the freedom is worth it.

That’s enough for now. Thanks for reading! I’ll keep writing.

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On Wednesday, my biz coach and I were talking about my writing: how I’m not really doing it, how I keep “forgetting” what I believe, and how it makes me itchy to put my real, actual thoughts out there. I realized in one swift moment (which stunned me breathless): I am [still] afraid of revealing what I believe. Some old (young?) part of me is afraid to say what I want (because what I wanted didn’t matter so much growing up). Some old (young?) part of me fears being judged. And some old (young?) part of me is very afraid of being told she’s “too much” or “too loud” or (gasp!) very WRONG again.

F*ck.

Here I am STILL at 53 years old, holding myself back, not saying the whole thing, and fearing judgment. Being invisible (which appears to be my superhero trait, is turning out to be a problem and not a superpower after all).

How old does one need to be to let this isht go?

But lo, the Universe wasn’t done with me. She wants to make sure THIS TIME I get the whole message. Repeatedly

Here’s me reading Substack this morning drinking my coffee, wrapped in a blanket all cozy and feeling fine, when I click on a piece by entitled The Last Room. In it he uses the exact word I’ve been trying to avoid: EXPOSED.

Yikes.

John’s story cuts through me:

“So when she said “ego death,”
what I heard was exposure.

What I heard was the end of hiding in plain sight.
What I heard was the risk of standing upright
and letting my voice land where it lands. 

I admit I have not been willing to risk standing upright and letting my words land where they land. ← This might shock some people, who see me as opinionated, strong willed, and full of words.

However, I know the truths inside me haven’t fully been revealed. Sure, I do tell some truths. I write a post where I’ve been inspired or agitated. I write it quickly, sloppily, and hit “publish” while hoping for the best (depending on the day, I want it to go viral or to not be seen/judged at all). I retreat quickly from the keyboard into more learning, more classes, more reading, more passive activity to avoid the raw active act of WRITING HOW I SEE AND EXPERIENCE THE WORLD.

I acknowledge this to John in the comments while feeling deeply uncomfortable in my gut. I click away, only to be confronted AGAIN by another piece. This one, written by called The Lies We Inherited, The Truths We’re Excavating. As I read, I realize I am personally due for a real reckoning. He goes on to tidily and painfully deliver it to me with nine clear examples.

Double yikes.

Michell’s words reinforce how damaging my habit has become:

“There’s no shape you can fold yourself into that will make you universally acceptable. Someone will always find you too much or not enough. So you might as well be “too much” in the direction of your own becoming. Take up the space that belongs to you.”

I loved that my business coach said, “Send me your writing and I can help you judge if it’s going to get you cancelled.” I laughed, but also realized that was true. I was deeply worried about losing clients, losing friends, making family members angry, or even having “the internet” become dangerous and burn. me. down.

So, here I am again with a choice: stand up and claim space while writing all the things or continue to linger in the shadows, enjoying my very private wanders in the woods, safe with my own thoughts and safe from the judgement of other people’s criticisms.

John shares this precipice isn’t ego death; it’s ego truth. It’s an invitation to know myself and to let others really know me, too.

Threatening or freeing?

It’s time to decide…

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You can hear the river flowing nearby. Maybe you hear some bird words nearby, too. You haven’t heard the blaster yet or the best call of the day: COFFEEEEEEE!

You gotta pee, so not getting up is not an option anymore. The sun is just starting to creep up, knocking the chill will happen as soon as it crests the canyon rim. That’s an least an hour or two from now.

Unzipping your bag lets a bit of the morning chill in. First bottom layer, second bottom layer, socks. First top layer, second top layer, third top layer, hat. Chacos.

Then you’re up and headed to the groover. You whisper good morning to the two or three other early risers. One does a little dance and sings a little song - you can count on her for morning enthusiasm and always a song. Another is scrubbing her short hair. As you wait in the groover line, you can count on her for a solid warm morning hug. They’re the best! The other, dressed in her stand out orange river slippers, is heading for the coffee pot already. You feel a tug of envy. Mmmmm, coffee. Business first, though.

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Finally, hot mug of coffee in hand (thanks early morning rising guides - ya’ll are the BEST!!!), you join those morning folks in the chairs, deliberately arranged to point at the river. Everyone loves watching the river wake up.

Birds are busy. Sunlight strikes the river over there. Oh look - a mama deer and her baby are coming down the steep green hillside for a drink and a nibble of the grasses.

Others are waking up, too, wandering by to the groover, too, mostly silent in their trek.

Finally, everyone is up, ready to eat, and warmed with coffee (or tea). The day is in front of us, but sitting quietly, chatting (or not), and letting the morning arrive...it’s my absolute FAVORITE time on a river trip.

Want to experience some of this magic for yourself? I’ve got four chairs waiting for butts. Wanna put yours in one? Late August is when we launch.

https://coaching.mrslaine.com/wildher-gates-of-lodore.../

I happened by a mirror and stopped in recognition. “Oh hello gorgeous self! How are you this morning?” I asked...myself.

I smiled. Met my own eyes. Was gladdened by what I saw, unwashed hair, no makeup, tired face, and all.

I am glad in my own company. I am in love with my face. I am accepting of my squishy, menopausal body. I love the company of trees and birds and squirrels. I collect rocks and feathers and little doodads I find when I’m out walking. The small elephant I found months ago turned out to be the PERFECT thing for a client discussion today. I am also a homeowner now (WEIRD) and have officially lived in this house longer than I have lived ANYWHERE in my entire life. Did I mention this is weird?

And yet, it’s been quite a journey getting to this new place.

But the longer I’m here (in this mindset, in this body, not specifically this house or town), the more I like it here.

I no longer want to be at war with myself or others.

I do not care to be “right,” to be seen, or to be admired.

I no longer wish to be busy, overwhelmed, or cranky (though sometimes I am).

And I am definitely not hustling, striving, or bio-hacking ever.

I am actively practicing gathering peace around me (like pools or layers of skirts, I’ve read from someone, somewhere). I’m also gathering peace in my mind, in my body, in my house, in my relationships, and in my work.

I have zero tolerance for nail polish on my nails, makeup on my face, or bras on my body. This last one is an inconvenient truth and one which I have not yet made peace with because as a woman with a certain cup size, that’s a LOT to let hang loose.

Regardless...

The more I step into peace, the more I find space for stillness, curiosity, and levity (like talking about my boobs and menopause).

The truth is, so many things used to MATTER. It all seemed so urgent and important and necessary. It had to go a certain way, BE a certain way, and most of all, stuff had to HAPPEN. If I wasn’t making it happen, what good was I?

But something about turning 50 a few years ago started a radical change. Menopause is pounding a lot flat (except for my stomach!). I am very nearly out of fucks, which gives me so much room to shrug and say, “I just genuinely don’t care to get my panties in a bunch about that.”

I am aware I find more peace when I avoid scrolling through the book of face. And LinkedIn? I can barely stomach it. Even Substack, which I used to LOVE (and still love in some ways), has become more A.I. infested with shouty Notes and long form content clearly not entirely (or at all) written by the actual person who posts it. Discernment is key here.

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Instead, I’d like to invite you to meet me in the forest. We can watch all the ways the leaves fall, enjoy the clouds racing by, and listen to the wind. We can pull out our cameras for a mindful wander and snap a few photos for memories or art. We can enjoy the silence, enjoy being together, and even sit and share some real things going on for us. In fact, let’s watch a sunset together.

I’m pretty sure this is how we are supposed to do life. Enjoying our own company and the company of others, including the more than human world. We’ve just forgotten how to practice BE-ing because we’re so busy DO-ing.

That’s okay...I’m here to invite you (and myself) to practice remembering.

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Rather, I have a bunch of disjointed thoughts, ideas, discoveries, and feelings that jumbled out of my pockets as we walked around the Class V Rainie Falls, bounced thru a bunch of fun Class II and III rapids, sluiced (inelegantly at times) thru the Narrows and Coffee Bar, and literally pinballed thru Class IV Blossom Bar.

My thoughts start with: everyone should experience the magic that is a multi-day river trip on a wild and scenic river. Being completely out of cell and internet service is a gift for your brain, body, and soul.

Sleeping in a tent resets your circadian rhythm. So good for your overstimulated self, even if gettin' up off the ground gets harder after 50.

Pooping in a bucket keeps us all humble and generally comes with an excellent view.

There is no better laughter than from a bunch of perfectly sober women who have thoughts about life, wield wickedly creative minds, and have no hesitation about riffing off one another for days and days.

There are a thousand inside jokes that I will forever snort-laugh about. "We need a virgin! Can we get a virgin?" My abs STILL hurt from the non-stop laughing.

We had river hair and DID NOT CARE.

Never forget the bees, flies, and skeeters are part of the experience, too, as much as the otters, GBHs, fish, and mergansers. Sadly, no bears were spotted on this trip.

River time is like taffy. It stretches w i d e and slow and then folds in on itself in the strangest and most delightful ways. There's simply nothing like it.

You haven't really lived until you've (1) been escorted thru a fire zone by a forest service official and (2) watched up close and personal a dozen passes of firefighting helicopters hover nearly on top of your rafts (or your layover day beach) as they suck up or scoop water in giant orange buckets to fight the nearby fires.

STARS. In our world awash with light pollution, you simply DO NOT KNOW how many stars are up in the night sky.

River food is the best, second only to the 7am river COFFEE call.

Living out of one personal dry bag and a couple of rafts is a privilege, a radical simplification of life, and a focus on what matters. We have more than we need. Don't ever forget it.

Raft guides are the bomb. Chefs, cleaners, water readers, safety professionals, naturalists, historians, comedians, hike leaders, and more. They do it all for days and then do it again all season. They work HARD, ya'll.

Community matters. Help each other. Receive the help given. Be kind to each other. Laugh. A lot. Sleep well.

There's no peace like floating-a-river peace. It's a part of me and I crave it like I crave oxygen.

But that's not actually true.

Because when you engage me as a trusted advisor, I won't always tell you what you want to hear.

I will often test your assumptions, set fire to your "box" and poke holes in your beliefs (at least, the ones causing you pain, the ones keeping your stuck, and the ones that limit your possibilities/options).

Does that feel safe or offer safety?

No. No it does not.

But right now, I don't think any of need that kind of saccharine safety.

What we are all being called to create is radical INTERNAL SAFETY.

Said another way, we need to build and strengthen our INTERNAL TRUST.

It starts with body wisdom. It threads in heart wisdom. And it weaves together intuition until you have this beautiful tapestry of internal surety that you can deploy anytime, anywhere. (And this doesn't mean you won't ever be wrong.)

I won't sugar-coat this either.

Building this is hard work. It's confronting. In the short-term, it's destabilizing even.

But over a period of months and years?

That's where you lay the foundation correctly with deep presence.

That's where you thread things together with patience and attention.

And when the weave comes together? That's the beautiful tapestry of your inner power, inner compassion, and deep inner LOVE. It's the strongest, most effective power in existence.

You become both rock-solid in yourself AND able to be flexible and dynamic in any situation (especially the challenging ones).

That's internal safety - and it's priceless.

And even though it is summer, and my backyard feels like an oven set to broil and also jammed full of mosquitos, I can wander in my backyard for an hour, not working, no even playing, but resting in the beauty of the birds, chipmunks, growing vegetables, blooming flowers, and shady trees. Until the mosquitoes nearly eat me alive and that's my signal that it's time to get inside for inside play or rest.

All this is to say, start everything from a place of peace. Listen to your body. Rest in your heart. Play with your intuition. Repeat.

That's what my clients and I are doing.

It's what I'm doing and have been doing for a lot of years (some more successfully than others; some definitely LESS successfully that others...but those are stories for a whole ‘nother post).

And when people ask my about being a Martha Beck Certified Wayfinder Life Coach and an ANFT Certified Forest Therapy Guide who takes clients on immersive experiences for hours or days, and ask how I built this business this way, I say:

Start everything from a place of peace. Listen to your body. Rest in your heart. Play with your intuition. Repeat.

Your life won't look mine. But the life you create will be one you LOVE.

Here’s my version of Martha’s Space, Silence, and Stillness meditation, if you’d like to try it.

Ordinarily, I go to the woods alone, with not a single
friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore
unsuitable.

I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds
or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of
praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit
on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost
unhearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love
you very much.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Problem is, I can't seem to stop inviting people to walk, or sit, or kayak, or backpack, or raft with me. See, I've learned that the people who are willing to go outside are my kind of people. But it's not just the people who are willing to go outside (for some it's only ever about getting to the next destination, and FAST), it's the ones who are willing to be quiet enough for long enough that they hear the river singing. They hear the rocks laughing. They hear the trees chatting.

These are my kind of people - the ones who find meaning and magic and wonder in being outside, not to reach any particular destination, but to BE WHERE THEY ARE.

Present.

Your presence is a gift to me. And to the trees, the rocks, and the rivers.

They know you and see you. And they delight in being seen and known BY YOU.

Truthfully, I've been wrestling with frustration that I've only got four seats filled for my upcoming "wildHER Rogue River Adventure."

But, I KNOW the five women (including my co-host Sylke) who are coming to the Rogu

e river with me. I know they know how to hold stillness. To be present in the moment.

I also know they know how to sing, and dance, and laugh, and wear tutus and blow bubbles and eat desserts and talk with their hearts open.

If it ends up just being the six of us, I am content. I am present to their spirits, their hearts, and their brave and enthusiastic YESSES when we sent out the invitation.

Why?

Because no matter how few or how many show up, there's surely magic that happens on any river trip.

Sleeping in the warm sand under the stars. Listening to the river sing all night. Receiving the care and delicious food that our professional Outfitter will provide us with during the trip. Watching the landscape change subtly. Watching each of us BE CHANGED by the river experience.

I almost always wake before dawn. Unless I have to pee, I'm in no hurry to leave my cozy sleeping bag. I enjoy the cool morning breeze. Sometimes there are bats overhead, squeaking with joy as the first bugs begin their morning dances. I rub my face in my soft pillow and cricket my legs against my bag. I enjoy the support of the sand underneath me.

The call for COFFEEEEEEEEEEE comes soon enough.

We gather in our chair circles, with sleepy hellos and quiet greetings of "good morning."

The light changes as the sun creeps over the rim of the canyon. Birds sing, we eat, we gather to chat, and we set intentions for the day. Tents are disassembled, gear and boats are packed. PFDs are on, tight, and soon we are pushing off into the current for a day of adventure.

Friends, there truly are few experiences as magic as a river trip. I'm so fortunate to offer them as part of my work. To offer them with a fantastic co-host. And so eager to meet these women on the banks of the Rogue in September.

https://coaching.mrslaine.com/wildher-rogue-river-women-retreat/

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Feel the dew on your bare feet as you walk across the morning-wet grass.Sway with the breeze until your skin feels loosened.

Soak up the sunshine to heat the marrow of your bones.

Sing with the birds a raucous and rowdy noise.

Welcome the morning with an open heart, sending ripples of fierce compassion everywhere, even unto the darkest folds.

There is peace here, if you'll allow it.

When was the last time you sat out in the rain and just got wet rather rushing inside the nearest climate controlled box?

Heck, when was the last time you sat out anywhere in Nature and just...SAT? No devices, no scrolling, no talking, just watching, listening, smelling, feeling, even tasting the air?

Join me for exactly this - I have oodles of opportunities for any budget. And trust me, if you're feeling wound up about the state of the world right now, spending time in Nature - unplugged - is THE THING that will help you.

#1: Forest Bathing at Daniel Stowe Botanical Garden in Belmont, NC on Saturday 4/26 from 9 am- 12pm. And we'll be laying in a field from 1 - 2pm also (no charge for the laying in the field).

#2: VIRTUAL Forest Bathing - Moss Hour with Sylke Laine the first Monday of each month OR An Outside Perspectives with me the second Thursday of each month

#3 Forest Bathing at Turtle Island Preserve in Boone, NC June 7th from 9 am- 12pm

#4: The FULL IMMERSION option: Go wildHER with me on the Rogue River in Oregon for five days of river rafting September 14 - 20th.

All details and registration information: https://angiestegall.com/forest-bathing-experiences/