Go Find Your Tree Again

You don't need permission to have a favorite rock.

When I was a kid, I had a tree that was mine.

Not officially, of course. It was just a regular tree in the backyard of the rented farmhouse where I spent a good portion of my childhood. But I visited my tree often. I climbed it regularly - its big, strong limbs were perfect for sitting. I brought my sketchpad up into its branches and drew the birds I saw in the yard. I leaned against it when I was sad. I read Zilpha Keatly Snyder’s The Egypt Game under its shade.

And in that deeply serious, deeply imaginative way that kids have, I loved it.

That tree was my place. My grounding post. My little sanctuary in a world that often felt too loud or confusing or math-filled.

And then, like many of us do, I grew up. I moved, a lot. Then I (tragically) became an adult and I had jobs, bills, errands, and so many tabs open in my brain that I forgot what it felt like to be still in one spot just because it was mine.

I lost my place. And for a long time, I didn’t think I could have another.

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I don’t think we talk enough about this: how strange it is to outgrow our childhood haunts, or leave them behind, and not know what to replace them with.

There’s something deeply human about having a favorite tree, or a corner of beach, or a certain rock at the edge of the woods where you go to think. As kids, we claim places with our whole hearts. But as adults, we tend to think we’ve aged out of that kind of intimacy with the land.

We get practical. We get busy. We go for hikes, sure, but they’re usually part of a loop, or a workout, or a destination-focused day. We don’t always make space for just being somewhere, again and again, long enough to call it ours.

But here’s what I want to tell you: you’re allowed to have a favorite tree again.

In fact, you should.

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A few years ago, I started visiting the same bench at one of my favorite trails. Not because it was the best view, or the most secluded, or the Instagrammable sort of bench that deserves a “Take a moment” plaque, but because it was the one I kept coming back to.

It was at a trail junction I passed often. One day I sat down. And then I did again. And again. I brought my coffee there. I journaled there. I brought my sketchbook there. I once cried there, dramatically and messily, after a rough week.

And somewhere along the way, it became my spot.

It’s not glamorous. It’s just mine.

It’s where I go when I need clarity. Or quiet. Or just to touch base with the world outside my own spinning thoughts.

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I think every adult needs a place like that. A spot in nature that isn’t just “a nice trail” or “a pretty overlook,” but a recurring, returning, revisitable place.

It doesn’t need to be deep in the wilderness. It could be a tree in a city park, or a stone at the edge of a pond. It could be a tucked-away bench by the dog park, or the shady side of a footbridge. Anywhere that makes your shoulders drop just a little when you see it.

Go visit it more than once. See it in different seasons. Let your memories pile up like leaf litter. Take photos, even if they are completely mundane, and then revisit them.

Give it a name, even a silly one. Especially a silly one. Call it Fern Rock. Or Goose Lookout. Or The Council of Oaks. Or Dave. (Every trail system should have at least one landmark named Dave.)

Let it be your anchor. Let it be your reflection point, your companion.

You don’t need permission to do that. But if you feel like you need permission - here it is: you have permission. Get a little silly, a little nostalgic. It is good for your heart and soul and mind and body in a metric that can’t be measured by your fitness tracker.

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Here’s the thing about having a place: it becomes a witness.

You don’t even need to say anything profound there. You just need to arrive, sit and notice. Let the breeze do what it does. Let time pass. Let this new place know who you are.

Because nature remembers. Not with journals or checklists. But in quieter ways. The pressed grass where you sit. The slightly clearer spot you brushed leaves off one too many times. The rhythm of your footsteps on the path in. It may not literally recognize you. But something in you will start to recognize yourself when you’re there.

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Maybe this year, you bring your coffee to that same tree once a week.
Maybe you walk the dog to the same overlook and watch how the light changes.
Maybe you let birthdays, anniversaries, endings, beginnings - all the little milestones of being alive - pass through this one place, gently and without fanfare.

And maybe, over time, you find that you’re not just visiting it anymore.

You belong to it. And it belongs to you.

There’s a lot of pressure these days to go big. To travel far. To rack up miles and trails and jaw-dropping views. But there’s a quieter kind of awe available to anyone willing to stay put for a while. To know one place well.

You don’t have to summit anything to feel connected.

So consider this your very official, wildly enthusiastic permission slip to go find your “place.”

The tree. The rock. The sandy patch of shoreline where the ducks are always a little rude.

Visit it. Care for it. Let it care for you. Name it. Talk to it, if you want. Draw pictures there, even if you are terrible at drawing. It’s okay to be bad at things. Bring it news. Tell it secrets. Be weird about it. Be you about it.

Because if there’s anything that nature keeps trying to remind us, it’s this:
We’re not separate. We’re part of it.

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See You On The Trail is always free to read, but I’m never sad to have a little support: