This post is an AI summary using my writing voice, based on the transcript of the live video chat.

On Earth Day, I found myself in good company: Corie Feiner, some beautiful humans from Substack, and the quiet companionship of poems, memories, and the hum of the forest within me.

I shared a bit about how I became a Forest Therapy Guide—not because I had a grand plan, but because the internet whispered something sacred into my soul one day during a desperate rabbit hole dive. Forest bathing. I’d never heard of it before, but something in me said: this is for you. And just like that, the path unfolded. Or maybe I wandered off the path and found something better.

Wandering Willow—the name of my Substack—emerged from that moment of remembering. Remembering writing, remembering nature, remembering myself. I had written as a teenager, scribbled poems through my twenties, but somewhere in my thirties, I got lost. Forest therapy helped me return. Or maybe writing returned to me, like an old friend showing up at the door with a flask of tea and a story to tell.

Before this, my path was winding: pastry school, food service (which will absolutely humble you), an office job, and a soul-numbing position in the title industry that had me helping banks reclaim homes. I thought I could separate myself from the weight of that work. I couldn’t.

And then came nature—soft, persistent, and wildly honest.

Forest therapy doesn’t require a deep forest. A single tree in a parking lot will do. It’s about presence. Slowing down. Listening. Letting a dragonfly guide you to the mud.

“Recipe for Good Mud” was born during one of my solo wanders in training, a poem that practically wrote itself as I followed the signs—literal and metaphorical—left by nature. It’s a reminder that we can return. That even in a world of notifications and noise, there is a quiet place waiting.

Another poem, “Letting Go”, came from my window—ivy clinging to trees, showing me what I needed to learn about clinging, releasing, and becoming water again. Nature doesn’t always require our physical presence. It meets us where we are. We are nature. Drinking water, eating food, existing in a body—we are already participating.

And “Any Wings Will Do”—a simple longing to fly, inspired by watching vultures (which, yes, took me a minute to identify—your forest therapy guide is still learning, okay?). It was my reminder that no matter the shape or color, flight is flight. We just need the willingness to rise.

I’m not in the woods every day. Sometimes I’m curled up inside, letting the basil plant by my desk remind me of the sun. And that counts. A houseplant. A cat. A breeze through an open window. The earth isn’t asking us to be perfect. Just present.

We ended the gathering with a quote from Robin Wall Kimmerer that still lives in my chest:

“Knowing that you love the earth changes you, activates you to defend and protect and celebrate.

But when you feel that the earth loves you in return, that feeling transforms the relationship from a one-way street into a sacred bond.”

If you’ve been feeling far from the land, or far from yourself—know that it’s okay to start small. A breath. A window view. A poem. A seed.

You are already part of this world, wild and precious.

And if you write a Dear Dirt poem (thank you, Sharon Olds, for the prompt), tag me and Corie Feiner . We’d love to read it. Let’s remember together.

Wandering onward,

Sam

PS Thank you Tamy Faierman M.D., Tim Jagodzinski, Andrew Shell, and many others for tuning into my live video with Corie Feiner! Join me for my next live video in the app.

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