In 2022 I moved to Clevedon, near Bristol. As soon as I saw the oak tree behind my flat, I started sitting under it. It’s not in some beautiful, remote place – it’s on an urban hill surrounded by grassland – but as a solitary tree on the side of a hill, it drew my attention.
I was burned out. For 10 years, I had run a nonprofit tackling plastic pollution. We had got the government to ban plastic cutlery and polystyrene takeaway packaging, and supermarkets to ban plastic cotton buds. They were major achievements, but it was hard work and I was exhausted. I was transitioning away from activism, and only working three days a week.
Looking for more calm in my life, I had a slightly crazy idea: what would it be like to meditate under the same tree every day for a year? I decided to start on the winter solstice of 2023.
The first few months felt heavy and bleak. There was a lot of rain and I was buffeted by storms and intense winds. I always took a little square of sheepskin to sit on, and sometimes a hot-water bottle. Not much was happening under the tree and I felt a bit daunted at the idea of doing this for an entire year. Some days I questioned why I was doing it, but I wanted to stick with the challenge.
I usually spent the first 10 minutes sitting still and looking around to enjoy what was happening. I’d then close my eyes and meditate for 20-30 minutes, come home and write notes and a poem. Looking back at the ones I wrote that winter, they feel quite introspective.
Spring brought a sense of hope. Winter had felt like a period of pause; now it was as though someone had pressed play. The day the daffodils came out under the tree felt like a celebration. I’d watched them coming, and every day I thought, “They’re going to burst any moment.”
Suddenly I had company, this big bright clump of flowers next to me – but after two weeks, they were gone. They had been 50 weeks in the making; it filled me with awe at how transitory life can be. Then the forget-me-nots came, and from there it just exploded. The barren grassland turned into a riot of life and colour.
It was incredible to witness all the micro changes in nature. The buttercups seemed to arrive overnight, as did the crickets – one day there were none; the next, they were singing all around me. Another day, I heard a new bird song. “Ah, the swifts have arrived,” I thought. All this sitting in stillness refined my senses. I’d return home glowing most days.
By summer, it felt as if everything in the meadow was resting – except me. Though I appreciated my ritual, during the day I was still exhausting myself, working, making music and writing poems. But I realised this was about reconnecting with nature, so I should do what nature was doing. It took an effort to slow down, but it was needed.
Everything felt calmer under the tree, and without the usual distractions, my meditation was clearer. Once, I opened my eyes to see a deer in front of me. Then a dog ran across and the deer took off.
I felt my mental and physical health improve. I no longer had backache, and my sense of peace and awe skyrocketed. I felt a happiness I hadn’t experienced since childhood and rediscovered a sense of playfulness.
Sitting with the oak also changed my perspective of time. Previously, I would try to control things, but I had become more patient and trusting of their natural timing.
On a late summer’s day, the swifts were unusually active – they were having a screaming party. The next day they were gone; it was as if they had been announcing their departure. By autumn, the winds had picked up and the leaves had started to turn.
On my last day, on the winter solstice of 2024, I took my guitar and sang my thanks to the tree for offering me sanctuary for a year. The challenge was complete and I had a newfound resilience. I was also relieved to be able to travel and see family.
You don’t need to go far to find a spot in nature where you can sit and reflect. Nature knows what you need, and is always ready to offer it – you just need to be quiet enough to receive it. I still visit the tree most days – though admittedly I tend to skip the rainy ones.
As told to Fleur Britten
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