Cultivating Our Relationship with the Natural World

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Hey Reader 🌿

Welcome to our third issue of Coming to Our Senses! 🌿

This is a monthly ritual of sensory activation to look at different ways we can find presence within the daily grind of our lives. Practical ways in which we can carve out moments of awareness and establish islands of peace. Different approaches to tap into the true wonder of life amidst the shadows, finding glimmers where we can and embracing the process as we navigate this path.

Each month, we’ll carve a channel for that flow—clearing space for movement, for truth, for the art that’s been waiting to emerge. Creativity isn’t something you force; it’s something you allow. It rises in the rhythm of your breath, the way your body sways when you walk, the thoughts that drift in like waves when you finally get quiet enough to listen.

So let this be your invitation: Find a moment. A notebook. A scrap of paper. A quiet place where your mind can ripple and expand. Let yourself soften. Let yourself wonder. There is something inside you waiting to take shape, to spill over the edges and find its own form. Creation is already happening—you just have to let it flow.

“Sometimes I wish I could photosynthesize so that just by being, just by shimmering at the meadow's edge or floating lazily on a pond, I could be doing the work of the world while standing silent in the sun.”

― Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass

How often do we give ourselves permission to exist in this way? To shimmer at the meadow’s edge, to float lazily on a pond, to let the work of the world happen through us rather than feeling like we must constantly chase after it?

There is a kind of photosynthesis available to us, I think. Not in the literal sense, but in the way we allow ourselves to absorb life—to take in beauty, warmth, stillness, and let it nourish us. To rest without guilt. To trust that even in our stillness, we are enough.

I think many of us feel—the desire to contribute, to create, to be of service to the world, but without the constant effort, without the exhaustion that comes from always doing. What if simply being was enough? What if we could absorb energy, nourishment, and purpose just by existing, by soaking in sunlight and standing still in our place?

Plants know this. Water knows this. Neither force fights to exist; they simply are. A river does not rush out of urgency—it moves because that is its nature. It carves through stone not with force, but with patience. It shapeshifts effortlessly, adapting to its surroundings, yielding when needed, yet never losing itself.

Maybe this is why I feel so drawn to water, to open spaces, to the quiet moments when I let my breath settle and my senses expand. It’s a kind of quiet alchemy—a way of participating in the world without needing to control it. A way of remembering that we, too, belong to the rhythms of nature.

Water is the blood that courses through our Mother Earth, much like the blood that runs through our veins. Our gut biome mirrors the soil biome. When the soil is unhealthy, when the waters are stagnant or poisoned, so are we. This is not metaphor—it is the reality of our interconnectedness.

When I ask you to see yourself in nature, to be still with the quiet hum of the world and feel that same nature within you, it is not some airy, abstract thought. It is because you are nature. Viktor Schauberger observed that water moves in spirals, just as DNA does—a self-sustaining dance of energy, memory, and creation.

Studies suggest that every drop of water carries its own imprint, much like our own fingerprints. Each raindrop holds a story—of where it has been, of what it has touched, of the life it has sustained. Water is not just a passive element—it is an active participant in life. It holds memory, it transfers information, it responds. Exposed to sound, to emotion, to electromagnetic waves, it shifts, forming intricate patterns that capture the unseen. If every drop carries an imprint, what does that say about the water within us?

We are more water than anything else. Our cells, our blood, the very essence of our being is shaped by the same forces that move the tides. The songs we sing, the words we speak, the emotions we hold—they all ripple through us, structuring the fluid medium of our bodies. And just like the waters of the earth, we are constantly receiving and transmitting.

Ancient cultures understood this long before science caught up. They spoke of sacred springs that could heal, of rivers that carried messages between worlds, of the deep knowing held in the well of still water.

And if water remembers, what does it mean to immerse ourselves in it with intention? To step into the ocean, the river, the lake—not just as recreation, but as communion? The cellular tides that rise and fall with our emotions, the way tears—whether from joy, grief, or laughter—taste of salt, just as the sea does. We are not separate from the water we step into; we are reflections of it, moving through cycles of flow, resistance, renewal. When we enter cool, living water, we are not simply bathing; we are resetting, aligning, attuning. We are cultivating our relationship to the consciousness of water and the memory we hold within us.

So the next time you stand at the edge of a body of water, pause. Listen. Place a hand on your heart and feel the tide within you. You are not separate. You are part of the same rhythm, the same great remembering.

Finding Flow in the Chaos

Life rarely moves in a straight line. It twists, bends, and at times, feels like it’s pulling us in directions we never expected. But water teaches us that chaos doesn’t have to mean disorder. It moves in spirals and vortices, following unseen rhythms that keep it alive and energised. Chaos doesn’t have to mean disorder. In nature, chaos is simply movement we have yet to understand—a dance of forces interacting, expanding, contracting, recalibrating. Viktor Schauberger saw this deeply: water doesn’t simply surrender to gravity, it generates its own energy, winding forward with intelligence, adapting, creating.

What if we let ourselves move like this? What if, instead of resisting the currents of life, we trusted the path unfolding beneath us?

For our first practice, I invite you to explore flow—not just in the external world but within yourself:

“A Meditation in Times of Chaos” by East Forest is a guided practice that encourages awareness of breath, detachment from thought, and a return to the body’s natural rhythm. It mirrors the movement of water—the way a river carries us, not through force, but through surrender. Finding our flow back to the great mother, Ocean.

Meditation for Chaotic Times... East Forest PREVIEW   ​

Listen with an open heart. Let this be a moment to recalibrate, to soften, to follow the currents already moving within you. Take time to reflect on your experience and note down / sketch anything that may have bubbled up to the surface.

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Water as a Teacher: The Wisdom in Flow

My time on the West Coast over the recent holiday break was a deep exhale after what always seems to be an annual rush of never-ending work. Teetering on the edges of burnout, I found myself repeating the same promise I made last year—I’ll be more prepared next time—as I strained my eyes against the computer screen, finishing my last rounds of editing before finally shutting it all down and heading for the wild West Coast, the place where my soul feels most at home.

With out a packed schedule, without the urgency pressing in, I felt myself slip into a different rhythm—one dictated not by a calendar, but by the pull of the tide, the song of the birds, the vibration of the cicadas, the hush of the trees, the slow surrender of dusk over the water. I wandered without feeling lost, exploring new paths carved out by the hands of history—remnants of the old mining days near Mokihinui and the winding trails of the Old Ghost Road.

Each day, I swam in new rivers, lakes, and the open ocean, feeling how water has a way of dissolving the edges between self and world, between thought and presence. I felt the sun on my skin, the shock of cold water against my body, and the way the tropical humidity lifted my mood, even when the rain came pouring down.

Time felt different there—fluid, unhurried, unmeasured by deadlines or outcomes. There was no rush to be anywhere, no need to create for an audience, no expectation beyond the moment itself. We explored for the sake of exploration, followed curiosity without concern for where it led. We cooked and shared food slowly, lingering over meals, laughing over mugs of tea & elderflower champagne, slipping into deep conversations about life, love, purpose, and the unknowable mystery of it all. I picked up my camera not to capture something perfectly, but to witness—to document beauty simply because it was. The ancient trees stood indifferent to my presence, the rivers carved their paths as they always had, the waves kissed the shore in a ferocious rhythm older than time itself. And I existed in it all, untethered and free.

In this practice, I want to share a piece of that experience with you—not just through words, but through images. Below are four photographs from my time on the West Coast. Each holds a memory, a story, a lesson, a moment of stillness or motion. I invite you to sit with them, to let them speak to you in their own way.

Questions you might want to Explore:

• How does this image mirror your inner world right now?
• What part of yourself recognises this image?
• What story does this image evoke?
• How does the image shift your perception of time?
• What elements speak the most to you in this image?

Take a moment to sit with these photographs—not just to see them, but to feel them. Let them pull you in, not just as an observer, but as if you were standing there, breathing in the air, feeling the movement of water, the weight of the sky, the hush of the land. Notice what shifts in your body, what emotions rise, what memories surface. Water doesn’t teach in words—it teaches in sensations, in rhythms, in the spaces between.

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The Plants, Our Ancestors, Our Stories

The West Coast has always been a place of extremes—wild, untamed, relentless in its beauty. It was once the frontier of industry and ambition, where men carved their way through some of the densest forests and most unforgiving landscapes in search of gold and coal. They blasted railways through gorges, built bridges over roaring rivers, and traversed alpine passes that were never meant to be tamed. The air would have been thick with the scent of damp earth and burning coal, the clang of pickaxes echoing through the valleys, the relentless hunger for riches driving them deeper into the unknown.

But time, like water, reclaims what was never meant to be held. The mines have long since emptied, the railways are now ghost trails winding through the bush, and the once-thriving settlements have become historic landmarks. What remains are the stories of those who walked before us—and the plants, standing as the true keepers of time.

The Kawakawa, the Mataī, the Nīkau Palm—these ancient beings have witnessed it all. They stood before the first picks struck the stone, before the first railway split the mountains, and they remain long after the last carts were emptied. They are the silent historians, holding the essence of the land within their roots, their leaves, their towering forms.

Kawakawa: The Heart-Shaped Healer

Kawakawa is no ordinary plant—it has adapted, evolved, and cultivated its own defences over time. Its leaves contain a potent natural insecticide, strong enough to protect itself from most hungry insects and even ward off the kūmara moth, which once threatened kūmara crops. Māori would burn Kawakawa branches among their kūmara plantations to shield them from destruction, using the plant not just as medicine for people, but as a protector of the land itself.

There is one insect however that is unaffected by its chemical defences, the looper moth has made Kawakawa its chosen host, its caterpillars feasting on the leaves with an almost sacred precision. These bite-marked, hole-riddled leaves are not damaged—they are activated. It is believed that the caterpillars instinctively select the leaves with the highest concentrations of nutrients and bioactive compounds. The plant, in response to being eaten, alters its chemistry, increasing the potency of its medicine—a poignant example of the alchemy of nature.

So when you harvest Kawakawa, remember: the holiest leaves hold the strongest medicine. These are the leaves that have been tested, transformed, and made more potent through their dance with the looper moth. And as always, when foraging, move with respect—A) ask permission from the plant and its forest kin, and B) take only what is needed, choosing the leaves that have already offered themselves to the cycle of life.

Kawakawa reminds us that healing is not about perfection. It is about resilience. Transformation. It is in the places we’ve been nibbled at, reshaped, and broken open that the deepest medicine is found.

Mataī: The Keeper of Strength

The might mataī tree was considered to be among the chiefly trees. Its worn and weathered bark flakes off in great chunks with the appearance of being beaten with a hammer, like the survivor of many battles. The image of this large matai on the road to Karamea is a vision of a tree that survived the battle in a time where clearing the forests took place in order to make way for infrastructure and human ambivalence. The embrace of the rata climbing, a steady form of comfort over time as the branches reach up to the top of the canopy.

As I laid on the roots of this tree, it surprised me to think that it begins it's life as a tangled shrub of wiry leaves & twigs. These young plants look so different from the forest giant I laid beneath, feeling the pulse of life as it reaches down into the forest floor beneath me.

The wood of this tree was often used for waka and for musical instruments. The edible berries were gathered in large baskets and eaten. Beneath the surface of the bark revealed a sap that produced a beverage known as "mataī beer". The taste is reminiscent of the berries: sweet and bitter at the same time.

The message of the Mataī is this: stand firm in what you are becoming, trust in your unfolding, and know that even in stillness, growth is happening beneath the surface—roots deepening, connections forming, unseen forces are at work, and transformation is happening in ways you may not yet recognise.

Nīkau Palm: The Ancient Guardian

The Nīkau Palm is a survivor of deep time, a testament to endurance in a land that has seen it all. It is Aotearoa’s only native palm, the last standing member of an ancient lineage that once thrived in a world far warmer than the one we know today. Back in the Miocene era, New Zealand was a lush, subtropical paradise, draped in not only ferns & palms, but also cinnamon, species of coconut, acacia, and eucalyptus. As the ice ages came and reshaped the land with massive glacial walls, every other palm in this part of the world perished—except for the Nīkau.

And here’s the kicker: despite its tropical origins, despite its ancestry rooted in warmth and abundance, the Nīkau adapted. It didn’t just survive—it held its ground, reshaping itself to thrive in the temperate forests and rugged coastlines of Aotearoa. And while the world around it changed—gold rushes came and went, settlements rose and fell—the Nīkau remained, swaying in the seaspray & coastal storms.

The name Nīkau means No Nuts—and for good reason. Unlike its coconut-bearing cousins of the Pacific, this palm doesn't produce edible nuts which would have been a disappointing discovery to early Polynesian ancestors. What it lacks in coconuts, it makes up for in presence. Its towering fronds once provided shelter and its young shoots were harvested as a delicacy. It has been here long before us, and it will likely be here long after, standing as a reminder: true resilience isn’t about force—it’s about adaptation. The Nīkau doesn’t fight the elements; it moves with them. It bends, but it does not break. And in doing so, it teaches us something about what it means to endure—not just to survive, but to belong.

Cultivating Conversations with Your Plant Allies

I want to invite you into a simple but powerful practice this week—one that asks nothing of you except presence.

Step outside and find the plant messengers that surround you. Who are the guardians of your land? The tree ancestors who have stood watch over shifting seasons, the ones you may not have noticed until now. This can be any plant, tree, shrub or bush that calls your attention.

Pause. Let yourself be drawn to one. Maybe it’s a towering giant or a scrappy little weed pushing through the cracks. Run your fingers along its bark, its leaves. Feel the way it moves with the wind. Close your eyes and breathe with it.

Then, if you feel called, go deeper. Follow the rabbit hole on Google or pull out some books and learn its name, its history, its medicine. If you feel so inclined, break out the art supplies and draw or paint an artwork of your new plant friend.

What role has it played in the world? In your world?

✨ Some questions to explore:

What pulled you toward this plant or tree?

What feelings, memories, or sensations does it bring up for you?

If this plant had a message for you, what would it be?

Nature is always in conversation with us. We just have to be quiet enough to listen.

Tell me what you find—I’d love to hear which plants are speaking to you. 🌿✨

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A Toast to the Guardians: Kawakawa Martini (Mocktail)

In last month's journal, I wrote about distilling rose hydrosol, a process of drawing out the delicate, ephemeral essence of the petals. My botanical journey has continued, and while on the West Coast, I had the chance to harvest fresh Kawakawa—one of Aotearoa’s great medicine plants—to bring home and experiment with.

We crafted a beautiful batch of Kawakawa hydrosol, and the result was something special. Cloudy with flecks of oil denser than water, its appearance alone speaks to its potency. The scent is grounding—peppery, earthy, carrying the richness of the land it came from. It feels like an old-world remedy, a reminder of the reciprocal relationship we hold with the plants around us.

This Kawakawa Martini is a toast to that wisdom—a beautiful, booze-free alternative to the classic martini. The botanical citrus vermouth in this drink brings a complexity that is mind-blowing—the salinity reminiscent of the brine in a dirty martini, yet lifted by bright citrus notes that feel like a portal to another time. Each sip is an invitation to appreciation, to gratitude, to connection with whomever you are sharing this tasty treat with.

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Sip it slowly. Feel the warmth, the bitterness, the sweetness. Let it be a moment of pause, a way to connect to the medicine that has moved through various forms of water, through fire, through time—just as you have.

Find the recipe here: KAWAKAWA MARTINI RECIPE courtesy of Alembics NZ​

Recognizing What Nourishes You & Where Your River Flows

If nothing else, I hope this monthly journal of inquiry inspires you to feel the world with all of your senses—to go beyond the idea of presence and truly experience it in the core of your being. It’s easy to say be authentic, be here, be now, just BE, but what does that really mean? How do we move from concept to embodiment? How do we translate this knowing into words, into action, into something meaningful enough to forge a path forward—one that cultivates a world of wonder before us?

What inspires us to build relationships with our natural allies? To move through life seeing everything as living, breathing, and alive?

We live in a world that glorifies urgency, production, and relentless forward motion. But as we’ve explored together, life does not always move in straight lines. It spirals. It bends. It follows rhythms deeper than the ones we try to impose. The rivers do not rush to meet the ocean out of obligation; they move because it is in their nature to flow—to carve, to reshape, to surrender to the great mother’s embrace.

The depth of our existence is mirrored in our willingness to uncover the layers of our conditioning—to sit with the questions, to be still enough to hear the messages that are always being offered to us.

This month, I invite you to take a moment to recognise what truly nourishes you. What actually fills YOUR cup? Where does your energy move freely, and where does it feel dammed up? Are you fighting the current, or are you letting yourself be carried, reshaped, softened by the journey? Water, trees, the plants that have outlived generations—they do not resist their unfolding. They belong to time, to patience, to trust.

You, too, belong to that.

This is the foundation of reciprocity—not just taking from the land & the waters, but tending to it in return. We can learn from the trees, from the rivers, from the plants that offer themselves to us so freely. We can listen before we take, ask before we harvest, leave more than we gather.

Step outside. Place your hands in the stream, your feet in the ocean. Feel the breeze move through the trees. Let the plants speak to you, in their quiet way, in their own time. They have always been here, whispering, waiting for us to remember that we are not separate from nature—we are an intrinsic part of it.

Drink deeply from this knowing. Let it settle into your bones. And when you feel ready, move forward—not with force, but with trust, with reverence, and in your flow.

If you’d like to dive deeper into this journey together, here are three ways we can adventure side by side. Whether it’s through mentorship, movement, meditation, a Rewild Portrait Experience, or attending a workshop, I’d be honoured to walk this path with you:

1. ​Sign up for my Online LIVE Workshop 12th February: Rewilding Your Values: Building a Life of Intention and Meaning
2. ​The Art of Rewilding: A Guided Journey : Return to your Wild Self in the heart of the Wild West Coast / South Island NZ
3. ​Book in for your Rewild Portrait Experience: The ultimate transformative experience realising yourself as art.

And with that, we close this chapter—until next time.

Tell me, what’s feeling most alive for you right now? What’s stirring beneath the surface? Hit reply and let me know how this landed for you. Share your words, your thoughts, the moments that resonated. I’d love to hear from you.

May you find slowness in the rush, wonder in the ordinary, and the courage to walk your path with presence and love. Thank you for being here, for listening, for feeling. Your presence matters, and I’m so grateful to be on this waka with you—navigating the currents, trusting the flow, and journeying together toward deeper connection. 🌿

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From my wild heart to yours ❤️‍🔥,

Kass ✨

​www.kassandralynne.co.nz​

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