The Sounds & The Cicadas

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Hey Reader 🌿

Welcome to the 4th issue of Coming to Our Senses! 🌿

This is a monthly ritual of sensory activation, a chance to pause and find presence within the daily grind of our lives. A way to carve out moments of awareness, to create islands of peace amidst the currents of our responsibilities. Each month, we harvest knowledge together, awakening a new way of seeing, feeling, listening—to life, to ourselves, to the world that breathes around us.

It’s easy to move through life on autopilot, to get caught up in meeting expectations, in the hum of urgency that modern life demands. But here, we practice something different. We practice presence. We practice noticing. We practice reconnecting with the wild parts of ourselves that still know how to listen.

So let this be your invitation: Find a moment. A notebook. 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 plant the seed and let it grow.

“Look to your people, your life. It is not by accident that this advice is the same among great healers and great writers as well. Look to the real that you yourself live. The kinds of tales found there can never come from books. They come from eyewitness accounts.

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The authentic mining of stories from one's own life and the lives of one's own people, and the modern world as it relates to one's own life as well, means that there will be discomfort and trials. You know you are on the right path if you have experienced these: the scraped knuckles, the sleeping on cold ground—not once, but over and over again—the groping in the dark, the walking in circles in the night, the bone-chilling revelations, and the hair-raising adventures on the way—these are worth everything. There must be a little, and in many cases, a good deal of blood spilled on every story, on every aspect of your own life, if it is to carry the numen, if a person is to carry a true medicine.

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I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories from your life—your life—not someone else's life—water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom. That is the work. The only work."

― Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run With the Wolves

I’ve been sitting with this book again, revisiting its dog-eared pages, each one offering new insights, quiet revelations—almost as if they’ve been waiting for me to return. Years ago, this book found me at the right time, and now, it feels like a conversation I need to be having again. A call to return—to the wild, to the instinctual, to the truths we bury beneath the weight of shoulds and obligations.

This book speaks to something I have felt my whole life—the pull back to wildness, to instinct, to the untamed parts of ourselves that have been layered beneath expectation. The stories Estés shares are more than folklore. They are maps. Maps leading us back to our deepest knowing, our intuition, our raw, unpolished truth. The wild woman archetype isn’t just poetry; she is a remembering—of how to listen, how to create, how to belong to ourselves before we ever sought permission to exist.

And so it feels fitting that I am here, preparing for a Rewild Self Discovery Expedition, holding this book in my hands again as I prepare to guide others through their own untangling. This is a pilgrimage of sorts, a journey I organise through The Rewild Legacy Charitable Trust—the nonprofit I founded to help women reclaim their vitality, their purpose, their sense of self. A guiding light in the thick of life’s turbulence, an opportunity not just to rediscover who we are, but to truly celebrate how far we've come.

This week, my team and I will welcome ten brave women who are ready to step into something deeper. Ready to unravel, to explore, to rewild themselves.

These words find their way to you from a rustic bach in the Marlborough Sounds, tucked away in the quiet of Waitata Bay, where the depth of the Sound stretches endlessly beneath me, where the air vibrates with the unrelenting hum of cicadas. Their chorus rises and falls, a pulsing rhythm that feels almost like the heartbeat of nature itself—constant, alive, ancient. The warm, gentle breeze moves through the trees, carrying with it the scent of salty sea spray and the faint sweetness of honeysuckle blooms, thawing out my body—one that is used to the colder conditions of the southern end of the South Island. Here, the warmth seeps into my bones. The tension melts. The slowness soothes.

Here in this wild and sacred place, we will speak our stories out loud—who we are, where we have come from, the paths we’ve walked. We will go deep, mirroring the Sound itself, navigating our own internal waters, just as the tide moves through these inlets.

These experiences are a reminder that all of it—every ache, every triumph, every moment of struggle—is part of our evolution. We are not meant to take the easy way through. We are meant to learn. To be cracked open. To blossom and bloom through the richness of our experiences, through soil thick with lessons learned, through life in all its textures—the beautiful, the mundane, the heart-pounding, the exhausting, the exhilarating.

Again and again, I see a thread that weaves through these spaces: the tension between people-pleasing and self-alignment. The way we hold ourselves back to meet expectations, the way we shrink, hesitate, or quiet our voices.

And yet, here, in these wild places, there is permission to let it go. To stand in our own truth. To find rhythm in both the ease and the effort, the titration in and out, the chaos and the stillness.

Because ultimately, we are all connected—to each other, to the land, to the stories we tell and the stories we are still learning how to write.

And that? That is the beauty of it all.

Pain, struggle, uncertainty—they are not detours from the path; they are the path. Every scrape, every bump in the road, every moment we are brought to our knees, we are being asked to listen—to slow down, to feel, to notice the spaces within us that are calling for light.

In these moments of deep change, we are not meant to rush toward fixing. We are meant to sense. To feel into the wound, not to cover it up, but to understand what it is asking of us. To let it soften us, guide us, reshape us.

Just like water shapes stone over time, the events of our lives carve new pathways within us. Resistance only creates jagged edges—flow smooths them into something else entirely.

What happens when we stop bracing against life and instead open to the sensations moving through us?

And so, I invite you into your first activation—a moment to step into gentle movement and allow the currents within you to guide your awareness. A practice of balancing, of softening, listening to the body, and of meeting yourself exactly where you are.

Finding Stillness in Movement

If the wound is where the light enters, then movement is how we allow it to flow.

We carry so much tension in our bodies—whether from holding too much, bracing against life, or rushing to meet expectations that were never ours to begin with. We forget that our bodies are not just vessels to be pushed and pulled through the world. They are instruments, receiving stations, finely attuned to the unseen currents around us.

Right now, wherever you are, I invite you to pause. Close your eyes. Take a slow breath in through your nose and hold for a moment. Then sip in just a little more air at the top. Feel the expansion—your ribs, your belly, the way your shoulders subtly rise. Then exhale, releasing it all through your mouth or nose, whichever feels most natural and comfortable. Do this a few times, letting your breath anchor you to this moment.

Now, bring your awareness to balance. Feel where your weight naturally rests. Are you leaning slightly to one side? Are your feet pressing evenly into the ground? Gently begin to shift—rock slightly forward and back, then side to side, exploring the sensation of movement within stillness. This isn’t about control; it’s about attunement.

Slowly, let yourself move in a way that feels intuitive. Maybe rolling your shoulders, stretching your arms overhead, shifting your weight from foot to foot. Feel into the gentle adaptation of your body, the way it subtly adjusts to maintain equilibrium. Invite a sense of play. Stand on one foot—tempt yourself to fall, lean into your edges. If you stumble, let a smile come across your face. Begin again.

Then, begin to slow it down. Find your center, your secure base. Where do you feel steady? Where do you feel open? Where do you feel like a channel, a conduit of light? Let the movement grow smaller, softer, until you settle once more into stillness.

Now, just listen.

What do you hear?

Imagine a rolodex in your mind, flipping through the layers of sound. Start with the furthest sound you can perceive—if your listening to these words wash over you, maybe you also hear the distant hum of cicadas, the whisper of water rippling, the trees swaying in the wind.

Wherever you are, tune into what you can hear without attaching much thought to it. Scanning your surroundings with your ears. Then, bring the sounds closer. The rustling of leaves, the shifting of fabric, your own breath. Finally, let your attention draw inward. The gentle rhythm of your heartbeat. The gurgle of your belly. The quiet hum of simply being alive.

When you are ready, allow your eyes to gently flutter open. Let your gaze move across the room or the space around you. Notice something you hadn’t before.

A texture, a flicker of light, a subtle movement. Acknowledge it. Blink. Repeat several times in the space you are in.

Then, take one hand to your belly, one to your heart.Offer thanks—to your body, to your breath, to the life within you and around you. Bow in reverence to your own existence within the greater rhythm of life.

Stillness is not the absence of movement—it is a deeper kind of listening. It is where we become receptive, where the wisdom of the body and the world can finally reach us.

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The Chorus of Transformation: The Wisdom of Cicadas

To be here in the Marlborough Sounds at this time of year is to be bathed in vibration. The cicadas—the kihikihi—are everywhere. Their presence is undeniable, a living hum that wraps around the land, pressing into your bones, moving through your skin. Some days, their song feels like an orchestral wave, an entire body massage through sound. Other times, it’s an eruption of movement, little dive bombers whizzing past my face as I walk through the bush, their buzzing bodies brushing against my hair, demanding I notice them. Reminding me to keep my mouth closed as I walk so as not to take in an unintended flying snack. 🤣

But in the stillness before the dawn, before their chorus begins, the world breathes a different rhythm.

I wake early, slipping outside long before the first light cracks the horizon. The air is cool, thick with the hush of night. The ruru, the morepork, calls—a tether to the unseen, to the ancestors that watch over me. In these early hours, there is a presence that can’t quite be put into words. The kind of knowing that rests in your bones, that whispers through the trees, that places unseen hands on your shoulders and nods in acknowledgment:

You are here. You are showing up. Keep going.

I bow to the sliver of the moon & converse with the stars. My meditation transforms into asana and as my movements evolve, the sky becomes lighter and lighter in wake of the rising sun.

And then, the first cicada stirs.

A single clicking sound in the distance. Then another.

A ripple begins, moving closer, gathering momentum until suddenly, the entire forest is alive with sound. A full-bodied, buzzing vibration that fills the air, a signal of arrival, of transformation, of a new day taking shape.

It is impossible to separate their presence from their symbolism.

Cicadas spend years underground—anywhere from three to five years burrowed in the soil, unseen, unheard, waiting.

And then, when the time is right, they emerge. They climb, they shed, they take on a new form. Their old selves fall away, left behind on tree trunks, on bark, in the places they no longer belong. And with their new wings, they rise, singing at full volume, unapologetically loud, as if making up for lost time.

How fitting it is, then, that we are here for this retreat.

This time, this place, this experience—it is a shedding. A shedding of old ways, of what no longer serves us, of the skins we’ve outgrown & acknowledging the skins we've been in. Like the cicadas, we are emerging, stepping into something new, something expansive. There is no shrinking here, no silencing, no staying small. We are meant to sing.

In Māori tradition, insects—including cicadas—often appear in stories about Tāne, the guardian of the forests and birds. It is said that the regular rhythm of the cicadas' song was used as an indicator of changing seasons, a reminder of cycles, transitions, and the interconnectedness of life. Their emergence from the soil aerates the earth, their bodies return as nourishment when they pass. They are part of the balance, the exchange, the great cycle of life.

Perhaps that is why their presence feels so profound. They remind us that transformation is not just an idea—it is a process. A messy, raw, and necessary process. We are allowed to outgrow, to step forward, to sing without apology.

So as we listen to them—whether in the overwhelming symphony of midday or in the first few notes of dawn—may we take their lesson to heart.

May we honour the time spent underground.
May we allow ourselves to shed what no longer fits.
May we rise. And when we do, may we sing.

Revisiting the Past, Listening to the Present: Right Relationship with Self, Others & the Unfolding

The last time I was here, it was for something entirely different—yet, in many ways, it was the seed of everything I’m doing now.

A year ago, I ran my first creative workshop/retreat alongside my dear friend, Jane Pike. We called it Coming to Our Senses, and what unfolded in that space stirred something deep inside me and became the theme for the monthly newsletter you are engaging with right now. It was a bridge—a meeting place between Rewilding and something I hadn’t even realised I was missing. A reconnection to my inner author, my creative pulse, my own voice.

It reminded me that creativity isn’t separate from embodiment. That writing, storytelling, and deep inner reflection are just as much a part of Rewilding as movement, breath, and ritual. That to be in right relationship with the world around me, I first had to be in right relationship with myself—the part of me that creates, that senses, that listens deeply.

It was a shift. A huge shift.

Since then, I’ve been carving out more space for these conversations—within myself, with nature, and with those who cross my path. I’ve been exploring what it means to be in right relationship with my work, with my time, with nature, with my creative cycles. And, most importantly, with others. The way we exchange energy, stories, wisdom, and presence.

And now, looking at these images—ones that captured a version of me from that time—I feel the weight of everything that has unfolded since. Where I was. Where I am now. What has been revealed in the space between.

So as you engage with these images, I invite you to do the same.

Questions to Explore:

• Where in your life are you being called to deepen your relationship—with yourself, with others, with your creativity?
• If you could meet yourself in this moment a year ago, what would you say? What would you listen for?
• What creative sparks have been waiting for you to pick them back up?
• How has your way of perceiving beauty and connection changed over time? What do you notice now that you wouldn’t have then?
• What does being in right relationship mean to you right now? Where does it feel strong? Where is it asking for more care?

Let this be a reflection on growth, on change, on the way relationship itself evolves over time. The way something small—a conversation, an experience, a photograph—can ripple forward in ways we never expect.

Because sometimes, we don’t realise what something means to us until we circle back to it again.

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Honeysuckle: The Sweetness & The Tangle

Japanese honeysuckle (Lonicera japonica) arrived in New Zealand in 1872, brought over as an ornamental plant admired for its fragrant blooms and lush, trailing vines. At first, it was welcomed—planted in gardens, trained over trellises, celebrated for the way its scent lingered in the evening air. By 1926, it had naturalised in the wild. Between 1940 and 1970, it spread rapidly across the Auckland region before making its way down to the northern South Island. Today, the worst infestations are found in the Rai Valley and the Marlborough Sounds, where it blankets native bush, smothering young saplings and disrupting the delicate balance of ecosystems that have existed for centuries.

This duality—its beauty and its unchecked spread—makes me think about right relationship. What happens when something intended to bring sweetness grows out of control? When it takes up too much space, overpowering what was already there?

Honeysuckle thrives on boundarylessness. It climbs, spreads, and takes root wherever it pleases. Left unchecked, it becomes a disruptor, a reminder that even beauty can cause harm when it forgets to exist in balance with its surroundings.

On a recent lecture I attended as part of a long training I’m in, we were discussing the idea of self-transcendence—what it means today and what it meant to those who came before us. A thought that surfaced was this: we are without boundaries. When fully realised, this truth is both freeing and unsettling.

So how do we navigate the terrain?

How do we stretch, grow, and expand—without losing our roots? How do we embrace movement while honouring the integrity of where we stand? How do we make space for both sweetness and structure, for wildness and balance?

Honeysuckle, in its excess, teaches us this: growth is not inherently good unless it is intentional. Expansion, without awareness, can suffocate the very thing that made us whole in the first place.

So maybe the lesson is this: to know where we take root, to understand when to reach and when to stay, when to weave ourselves into something greater, and when to pull ourselves back before we forget the shape of who we are.

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A Plant With a Story to Tell

Honeysuckle has long been a symbol of love, longing, and devotion. In Greek mythology, it was tied to the story of Daphnis and Chloe—lovers who could only be together while the honeysuckle was in bloom. In English folklore, growing honeysuckle around a home was believed to bring protection and good fortune, while farmers once hung its branches in cowsheds on May Day to ward off misfortune.

And yet, its nature is one of unrestrained expansion.

Perhaps this is why, across time and cultures, honeysuckle has also been associated with attachment, entanglement, and temptation. In the Victorian language of flowers, it symbolised deep emotional bonds, both passionate and constricting—a reminder that devotion, when unchecked, can become possessive.

Reclaiming Right Relationship

Honeysuckle’s presence here in the Marlborough Sounds is a message of something larger—the impact of human choices, the unintended consequences of what we bring into new landscapes. It is a lesson in balance, in awareness, in understanding when something has taken more than its fair share.

But rather than simply eradicating it, we are choosing to engage with it differently. This week, on our Rewild Self Discovery Expedition, we will harvest honeysuckle at sunrise, the optimal time for florals, and distill its essence. In this way, we step into relationship with it—not just taking, but learning, listening, asking:

• What can this plant teach us about boundaries, about beauty, about resilience?
• Where in our own lives do we need to temper attachment with space?
• How can we extract the medicine from the things that challenge us, rather than simply labeling them as problems?

When we move into relationship with the plants around us, we begin to understand them differently—not just as objects in the landscape, but as living presences with their own stories, their own wisdom.

So I invite you—just as with last month's practice—to choose a plant this week and sit with it. One you love, or one that challenges you. Research it. Observe it. Ask it what it can teach you.

Because when we begin to see the land as something we are in relationship with—rather than something to control or extract from—we begin to move differently. We step into a deeper kind of knowing.

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Embracing the Sweetness

For all its unruly nature, honeysuckle carries a gift—its intoxicating fragrance, its delicate floral nectar, its long history as a plant of devotion and tenderness. Across cultures, honeysuckle has been a symbol of love, fidelity, and protection. In traditional medicine, it’s been used as a cooling remedy, known for its ability to soothe heat, ease inflammation, and support immunity.

There’s a fine line between abundance and excess, between generosity and depletion, between allowing something to flourish and knowing when to prune. So, in the spirit of reciprocity, let’s work with this plant. Let’s honour its presence by transforming it into something intentional—a way to savour the sweetness while also remembering the importance of balance.

If you live in an area with invasive species—whether it’s honeysuckle, wild fennel, blackberry, or something else entirely—how can you use it? How can you harvest with purpose, reducing its impact while benefiting from what it has to offer?

Maybe it’s through foraging and making tea, tinctures, or syrups. Maybe it’s weaving with vines, creating dyes, or simply learning from the way it grows.

It Always Comes Back to Water

Here in Waitata Bay, the water is a softer kind of wild. It doesn’t crash or rage—it holds, receives, welcomes. It moves in quiet ripples through the inlets, brushing up against the land in gentle strokes. Though as I write this, the wind is whipping white caps through the deep hues of blue, but still much less violent then what must be happening out on the open sea.

I want you to find a place like this, peaceful & still if possible. A body of water that feels like an old friend. That calls to you—not just as a place to swim, but as a place to be held. Maybe it’s a river that has wound its way through your valley for centuries. Maybe it’s the ocean, stretching endlessly, vast and knowing. Maybe it’s a lake tucked away, still and reflective, mirroring everything around it.

Wherever it is, go there with intention. Step into the water not as a visitor, but as something that belongs to it. Engage in your senses as you feel the coolness touch your skin. Edge in or jump in, whatever calls to you in the moment. Let the water meet you, greet you, wrap around you like an embrace.

And then, float.

Let your body soften, feel the weightlessness as the water rises to support you. Notice how sound shifts here—the muted hush of the world above, the gentle pop and crackle of fish nibbling along the ocean floor, the lapping of water against your ears. Your breath becomes louder, more present, your heartbeat a steady drum inside your chest.

Inhale—feel your belly rise, lifting you effortlessly.​
​Exhale—feel the release, the slow sinking, the surrender.

If you’re someone who tends to sink naturally (or if floating just isn't your thing), grab a pool noodle for this one—safety first! Let yourself be suspended, be held, be reminded that you don’t have to do anything but exist. Notice the areas where you haven't let go, and invite those parts of you to rest. See what happens.

Close your eyes. Let the water move beneath you, cradling you in its rhythm. Let it remind you of the softness in you, the resilience in you, the way you are meant to flow, not fight.

Notice how you move without effort. How you are held without resistance. How the water, without hesitation, makes space for you.

Stay as long as you need.

When you step back onto land, pause. Feel the difference. The way your skin holds the coolness of the water, the way your body feels reinvigorated, the way your breath has slowed. Acknowledge the water that held you. Maybe that’s a quiet thank you, a hand skimming the surface in gratitude, or just the simple knowing in your bones that you’ve been changed—even just a little.

Because this is it. This moment. This breath. This body, this life.

It is in this surrender that we find strength.

We are not meant to stay the same. We are not meant to cling to the shoreline. We are meant to move, to change, to surrender to the tides that call us forward.

So go. Find the water. Let it remind you of who you are. Let it show you the way forward.

And when you come back to shore, may you return lighter, clearer, and more alive than before.

Closing Words: Letting Yourself Drift, Letting Yourself Land

This past month has reminded me—again—that we are never separate from the world around us. The water, the trees, the creatures that hum and buzz and call—they are not just scenery, they are speaking to us, always. The question is: are we listening?

So I leave you with this: notice. Notice how your body responds when you step into cold water, how sound shifts when you float, how the air feels different before the first light of morning. Notice the moments when you feel most alive, most still, most fully yourself. Follow those moments. Let them guide you.

And when you find yourself gripping too tightly, trying to force an outcome, trying to control the current—remember the water. It moves not by resistance, but by trust. It doesn’t fight the rocks in its path; it flows around them. It adapts. It carries. It carves out whole landscapes without force, but through time, presence, and unwavering movement forward.

If nothing else, I hope this serves as a reminder to loosen your grip, to exhale, to wade in without needing to know exactly where the river will take you. Because it will take you somewhere. It always does. I suppose that's the great unknown magic of life right?

If you are wanting to explore further:

Ways to Rewild With Me

🌿 The Art of Rewilding Workshop | March 27th, 28th, or 29th, 2025
A 1:1 exploration for those craving deep connection to self, creative expression, movement, transformation, nature immersion and the kind of soul-level remembering that only wild, ancient rain forest of the West Coast can stir.

🌿 Online Self-Paced Workshop | Rewilding Your Values​
A guided exploration of your core values—the truths you stand on, the ones that shape your life whether you realise it or not. This is about coming back to what actually matters.

🌿 Custom Rewild Portrait Experience | Anywhere in Aotearoa​
More than a photoshoot—this is a reclamation. A chance to see yourself through a different lens, to embody your wild self in the landscapes that feel like home. This is a ceremony, a ritual of deepening the connection to all parts of you.

🌿 The Rewild Legacy Charitable Trust​
Stay connected with our upcoming retreats, expeditions, and community offerings. The work continues—join us [here].

And with that, we draw this session to a close.

May this season of transition bring you clarity, courage, and the freedom to move as water moves—not through resistance, but through trust. May you learn to soften where you once held firm, to carve your path without force, to surrender to the unseen currents that are already carrying you forward. May you let yourself be held, be shaped, be transformed by the very elements that have always known your name.

Wherever you stand—on solid ground or in the depths of uncertainty—know that you are part of something vast, something moving, something alive. And when the moment comes, when you feel the call to wade in deeper, to surrender fully to the flow, may you push off from the shore, unafraid, with the deep knowing that you are not alone.

Because my friend, you are not. We are in this together. xx

From my wild heart to yours ❤️‍🔥,

Kass ✨

​www.kassandralynne.co.nz​

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