Soul Walk at Pickerel Lake
Sit Spot Reflection #1 – The Pond
I was apprehensive about this. Spend 3–4 hours in nature, on your own, with no real purpose but to be. What was I going to do with myself without a purpose or a goal? Hike this trail, run this course, bike this route, ski this hill—some means of completion. A beginning and an endpoint. An accomplishment.
I can’t say I didn’t also think about being alone in the woods and the whole man-vs.-bear question. For some reason, I’m not afraid when I run through the woods by myself. Maybe that gives off the “I’m strong, I can get away, don’t mess with me” vibes. Some moronic sense of security that would protect me, versus the “I’m out here alone and vulnerable trying to find myself” vibes.
But now I’m out here. On a much less-used—if not completely unused, other than by those trying to click miles—part of the trail. I’m sitting by a quiet pond teeming with life. I scared away a barred owl. How cool it would have been if I had come lighter into the space, instead of tromping down the trail. I’ve seen turtles, dragonflies, water bugs, squirrels, and countless insects. (The bugs are super annoying today—it doesn’t help that it’s humid and almost 90 degrees.) A small family of deer came to drink at the pond.
There is endless birdsong, the buzzing of those annoying bugs, frogs plopping into the pond and hitting their low baritone notes alongside their chirping cousins in the trees. The rustling of leaves as animals move through the woods. Thunder in the backspace of my hearing. The swaying of the trees in the slightest breeze. One hundred shades of green coloring the shapes of thousands of leaves. A woodpecker.
And all I can think is—how could you not love this? How could you be afraid of this? This simple little park, just 15 minutes from my house. Full of life and possibility, and creatures doing the next right thing. Living in reciprocity with each other, waiting for the thunder that brings the rain, that will feed the plants and the pond, that will nourish this life.
If it weren’t for this incessant fly buzzing me relentlessly, I could sit here all day and wonder what had worried me about spending hours here. How silly it seems now.
I am home.
I was apprehensive about this. Spend 3–4 hours in nature, on your own, with no real purpose but to be. What was I going to do with myself without a purpose or a goal? Hike this trail, run this course, bike this route, ski this hill—some means of completion. A beginning and an endpoint. An accomplishment.
I can’t say I didn’t also think about being alone in the woods and the whole man-vs.-bear question. For some reason, I’m not afraid when I run through the woods by myself. Maybe that gives off the “I’m strong, I can get away, don’t mess with me” vibes. Some moronic sense of security that would protect me, versus the “I’m out here alone and vulnerable trying to find myself” vibes.
But now I’m out here. On a much less-used—if not completely unused, other than by those trying to click miles—part of the trail. I’m sitting by a quiet pond teeming with life. I scared away a barred owl. How cool it would have been if I had come lighter into the space, instead of tromping down the trail. I’ve seen turtles, dragonflies, water bugs, squirrels, and countless insects. A small family of deer came to drink at the pond.
Through the thick, humid air, there is endless birdsong, the buzzing of bugs, frogs plopping into the pond and hitting their low baritone notes alongside their chirping cousins in the trees. The rustling of leaves as animals move through the woods. Thunder in the backspace of my hearing. The swaying of the trees in the slightest breeze. One hundred shades of green coloring the shapes of thousands of leaves. A woodpecker.
And all I can think is—how could you not love this? How could you be afraid of this? This simple little park, just 15 minutes from my house. Full of life and possibility, and creatures doing the next right thing. Living in reciprocity with each other, waiting for the thunder that brings the rain, that will feed the plants and the pond, that will nourish this life.
I could sit here all day and wonder what had worried me about spending hours here. How silly it seems now.
I am home.
Sit Spot Reflection #2 – The Dock
I’m thinking about the layers. When I look at the lake, I see layers: the water close by, then the aquatic plants, then the darker water beyond, and the sky reflected upon it. Across the shore, there’s bright green vegetation—the lighter greens of the plants that grow at the water’s edge, rising into the darker greens of tall oaks, pines, maples, beeches, and birches behind them. From the smallest water skimmers to the largest trees poking high into the blue sky, there are so many layers of life.
Your senses are like layers, too—taking in all of nature’s dimensions through sight, sound, smell, and touch. Just when it gets too hot, the sun slips behind a cloud and the breeze picks up—as if the forest itself knows what’s needed and responds. Everything out here works in quiet relationship. No one is in charge, and yet everything belongs.
We are just one of the layers, too, in this vast landscape. Your significance becomes rather apparent when you think of it in this way—your place here, now.
Maybe that’s what scares the insignificant the most—the ones who puff themselves up to seem important, loud, in control. When they face nature, really face it, they feel small. Because out here, they are small. No more significant than a patch of sphagnum moss, a water skimmer, or the highest leaf on a hundred-year-old tree.
We spend lifetimes trying to find our place and purpose, holding onto the belief that we must make it better—never stopping to consider that it’s already perfect the way it is. And maybe our whole role is simply to witness.
This soul walk reflection is written by Sara Wesche, April 2025 cohort. Pickerel Lake Park, Rockford, Michigan.