roots, rivers, and second chances
In the stillness of the trees, I found a louder truth—one that didn’t need words to speak.
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The roots of my obsession with the wild were planted in the sunburnt days of my childhood. Back then, growing up in a city known for its waterfalls, I wasn’t drawn to neatly trimmed parks or perfectly arranged gardens.
No. It was the wild, chaotic beauty just beyond the city limits that pulled me in—untamed woods, hiding their secrets just waiting to be found.
My bike, a dusty two-wheeler, was my partner in crime. Together, we tore through hidden trails, the ones not everyone knew about.
The air was alive with birds calling out, leaves crunching under my wheels as I zipped by, fast enough to feel the wind bite, slow enough to soak it all in.
The backpack on my shoulders was always bouncing, always half-empty, ready to be filled with whatever the day had to offer.
The best part…
Wild raspberries.
In the thick of summer, they were everywhere, waiting to be plucked.
I'd hop off my bike, crouch down among the thorns, and load up my containers. Every berry, a little burst of victory. Each handful, proof of my small adventure. A sweet reward for wandering off the beaten path, for embracing the wild instead of the paved.
These moments weren’t about just nature.
They were about freedom, exploration, and the thrill of finding something that wasn’t handed to you. Something you had to search for.
A trio of willows stood tall outside my apartment complex, their branches drooping like nature’s own drapes. They weren’t just trees; they were the backdrop to endless summer days.
Their trunks were fortresses. Their branches were mystical beings.
And me, I was the creator of all kinds of wild, imaginary worlds beneath their canopy, while those leafy tendrils swayed in the breeze, sharing secrets only they knew.
In their shade, I found refuge. From the heat. From boredom. From everything.
One of them, my favorite, was a wise old willow with a trunk thick enough to carry the weight of time. I named it 'The Weeping Sage.'
It had this air of mystery, like it held stories from centuries past. I’d sit under it for hours, its branches stretching wide above me, listening to the leaves rustle in a language I could almost understand.
It wasn’t just shade—it was a hideaway for my thoughts.
A place where everything slowed down, the world softened, and I could just be.
Those afternoons were more than childhood play. They were the roots of something deeper, something that stuck with me long after I stopped climbing trees.
They planted in me a bond with the earth, with nature, that grew and grew.
A connection I’d return to again and again for comfort, for inspiration, for peace.
Not just a memory—but a lifeline.
As adulthood’s weight pressed down and the cracks of a painful separation split open my world, I found myself pulled back to the wild.
Nature, once a backdrop for my carefree days, had become my refuge. A place to hide when everything else felt too loud, too much. The quiet pull of the outdoors called to me again, but this time, it wasn’t about play.
It was about survival.
I started walking. A lot. Right into the heart of Hamilton, where waterfalls dot the landscape like hidden gems. Solitary hikes became my therapy. My escape.
The crunch of gravel underfoot kept me grounded, each step syncing with my heartbeat, forcing me into the present.
Every trail, every climb, felt like a path toward healing.
The ups and downs, the unexpected twists—they mirrored my own journey.
Nothing was predictable.
But there were moments—breathtaking, fleeting moments—that reminded me hope was still out there, waiting.
The waterfalls became my destination.
Their roar matched the storm raging inside me. I’d stand there, staring at the relentless surge of water crashing down over the cliffs, and it was like my emotions had found a voice.
But in that chaos, there was something else. A reminder. No matter how hard the fall, the water kept flowing. On and on. Forward, no matter what.
The forests surrounding those trails were my silent companions. Towering trees stood like sentinels, unmoved by the storms, their quiet strength a reminder that resilience doesn’t always make noise.
Watching them shift with the seasons, I felt a flicker of something—maybe it was hope. Maybe it was just the reminder that nothing stays the same forever. That after every winter, spring comes.
After every loss, something new tries to grow.
One spring day, I found myself at Albion Falls.
The water was fierce, crashing down over jagged rocks, misting the air around me. I stood there, soaked, and let the roar of it drown out everything else.
The pain, the fear, the doubt—all of it seemed to wash away in that moment.
It was raw.
It was real.
Nature, in all its relentless beauty, had a way of reminding me that everything keeps moving.
Even me.
Out there, everything made sense.
Life's rhythm—birth, growth, decay, death, and the inevitable rebirth—played out right before me. It was a dance, a constant cycle, but somehow, in the noise of city life, I’d forgotten how to listen.
But in the woods it was loud and clear.
The pulse of it all—nature, life, me—beat as one.
Every step I took deep into the wild felt like a conversation. Not in words, but in sound. The squirrels’ playful chatter from the trees, birds announcing a new day, the soft shuffle of wind through leaves—it all spoke.
Not to my ears, but somewhere deeper. They were storytellers, revealing truths about life, truths I missed in the chaos of the world I’d left behind.
One morning stood out.
It was crisp, cold even, and the sun barely peeked through the trees, casting light like it was slicing through the shadows.
Something pulled me in further, like a silent invitation.
With each step, crushing leaves beneath my boots, camera ready to catch whatever beauty lay ahead, something stirred. It wasn’t just about taking a walk. It was about finding something that had been missing—a connection.
In that moment, standing there with trees towering around me, leaves dancing in the breeze, and a brook babbling nearby, I felt it.
Not just peace, but belonging. Real, tangible belonging.
Nature didn’t see me as separate. I was part of it—just another thread in its vast, complicated web. The trees were my brothers. The wind was a close friend. And that brook spoke to me like an old confidante, steady and comforting.
It hit me then.
This wasn’t just about healing.
Nature wasn’t fixing me; it was waking me up.
Showing me the threads that tied us all together, threads we ignore in our digital lives, our isolated bubbles. Out there, surrounded by the wild, I wasn’t an observer anymore.
I belonged.
And as the sun filtered through, casting its dappled light on everything around me, a calm settled in my chest.
I was home.
Right there, with the trees and the wind and the water.
This was where my soul could rest, could dance, could breathe.
—Ryan Puusaari
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P.P.S. "Nature doesn’t fix you; it reminds you that you were never broken in the first place."
Healing Thoughts — A Journey of Reflection, Poetry, and Healing, Made Possible by You
Healing Thoughts isn’t just another book—it’s a living, breathing collection of reflections, inspiring quotes, and poetry, all pulled from the heart of this community.
Through the highs and lows, the moments of growth and vulnerability, your support made this book a reality.
Each page is a step toward healing, filled with wisdom, introspection, and emotional insight to guide you on your personal journey.
This book is more than just words—it’s our story.
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