Nature as a throughline

I don’t remember a moment when I realised that nature mattered to me.

It’s always been there — not as an idea, but as a kind of internal compass.

When I look back over my life, the pattern is obvious. I’ve consistently chosen work that kept me close to the outdoors, or at least in service of helping others experience it. Teaching and leading at Chewonki. Working behind the scenes at Compass Light Productions on projects like Sunrise Earth, helping bring the natural world into people’s homes. Years at Outward Bound, shaping access and invitation rather than instruction. Founding Happier Outside and experimenting with ways to help people step outdoors more often — through products, walks, retreats, community.

This has been my life’s work.

And still, it doesn’t fully capture my deeper purpose.

When the Work Is Aligned — and Still Not Complete

For a long time, I didn’t question the alignment between my values and my work. I was doing meaningful things with good people, in service of something that felt necessary. That matters. It still does.

But lately, I’ve become more aware of a subtle gap — not dissatisfaction, exactly, but a sense that the expression of my work hasn’t yet caught up with what I know to be true at a deeper level.

Not about nature itself. About how we relate to it.

Most of our cultural stories still frame nature as something we go to:

• on weekends

• on vacations

• when we’re burned out

• when life has become too much

Even the most well-intentioned outdoor experiences can quietly reinforce the idea that nature is separate from real life — a place to visit, recover, and then leave behind.

That framing no longer sits comfortably with me.

Integration, Not Escape

I live next to a state park in Maine. I hike most weekends. I’m grateful for that access, and I use it fully.

But I also walk my road. I stand in the yard. I spend time in unremarkable places on purpose. And I make a point of going to different landscapes — not to collect experiences, but to keep my relationship with the living world fresh and responsive.

What I’m interested in now isn’t immersion for its own sake, but integration.

How do we build work lives that don’t require recovery from themselves?

How do we rest in ways that actually restore us?

How do we play without needing permission or justification?

And how might nature be woven through all of it — not as an add-on, but as a given?

The Practice That Makes Everything Else Possible

What I know for certain is this: I couldn’t be asking these questions — let alone moving toward new directions — without a daily outdoor practice.

Being outside every day grounds me. It regulates me. It keeps me honest.

Not in a dramatic way. More like a tuning fork. If I skip it too often, I can feel myself losing resonance — becoming more abstract, more impatient, less connected to what actually matters.

Daily time outdoors doesn’t give me clarity so much as capacity.

Capacity to listen. To sit with uncertainty. To let new ideas take shape slowly instead of forcing them.

At this stage of my life, that feels essential.

A Different Kind of Curiosity

I’m no longer interested in convincing people that nature is “good for you.” The evidence is ample, and frankly, beside the point.

What I’m curious about now is more foundational — and more collective.

What would it look like if our worldviews assumed regular contact with the living world as a baseline, not a luxury? If we stopped designing lives that pull us away from what steadies us?

I don’t have answers yet. But I do have a lifetime of paying attention — and a daily practice that keeps me grounded enough to keep asking.

That feels like the right place to begin.