Rewild yourself

on running away to the wonders of the forest

Dear Wild and Wonderful Readers,

I hope this letter finds you well. It’s been a challenging week for words. I have spent many hours sitting with a white page. Finally, I ran up into the forest behind my home and the words came rushing in. Exhale.

All of this is to say, Wild and Wonderful is a little late into your boxes and I am grateful for your patience.

Thank you, as always, for reading and for your support.

With love and kindness,

Kate xx

---

the trail at the edge of the forest

For about the hundredth time this year, I am running away, in plump pink sneakers, black quick-dry shorts and a light green t-shirt.

It’s late on Sunday afternoon, and though the sun still hovers above the horizon, I know, as all parents must, that it’s time to sort dinner and the things for tomorrow. And yet, I am running out the front door and I do not look back.

I am not being dramatic. I am a mother of four young children, heart-sore and tired, running away to find who it is that I am and to remember all the things that I love. And besides, I always return home.

*

Around the corner, past the sage-green double story house, the garden with fluffy cream roses, the black Labrador prowling its fence, and along the street lined with silver birch trees, until I reach the edge of the forest.

I leap in. And my world becomes earth and leaves, wings and sky.

At first the forest is nothing more than a tight green gully with a scattering of slender eucalyptus trees and a dirt trail that curls up into the hills behind the city. I follow, running past a trickling creek, bottlebrushes¹ in bloom with wands of red, purple, yellow and cream, and a sandstone bench tucked behind a bustle of cutting grass², willing me to linger, if only for a moment.

The trail rises, rocks burst out of the earth. My body groans, first a deep burn in my thighs, then a clenching in my chest, and in my mouth, the taste of blood, though I know I cannot be bleeding. I have learned to love this feeling, to crave the way it hurts, the way it pushes me closer to the edges of my body. Upwards I go, swinging my arms a little faster, urging my legs to follow.

At a crest I turn off the main trail and onto a pad made smooth by the passage of animals — wallabies, pademelons, and bandicoots³ but also dogs and feral cats. This is an urban forest after all. It is not a wild place, if any place can be called wild at all.⁴

I drop under a eucalyptus branch, hanging like an arch, and around a native cherry tree, its tiny fruit the same shade as its new shoots. Beneath my feet, sticks and bark and leaves, bright green weeds, yellow grass. It’s messy and chaotic and yet, somehow beautiful. I remember to hold onto this feeling when I return to my own home, messy and layered in other ways.

*

The trail begins to flatten and I slow a little. Beside a clearing, a crumble of pale sandstone boulders resting on the earth, old and weathered by time and the wind. I press my palms onto the warm crust and push one leg back and bend the other, until I feel a stretch.

I watch, I listen. And my body fills with the forest — an orchestra of birds, how I wish I knew their calls by name; a rushing of leaves in the deepening sky; the egg yolk eye of a Black Currawong watching me; a dark chain of ants carrying pieces of a dead skink⁵ across the trail; and the sun cutting diagonal stripes through the trees, draping everything in a warm honey. I savour it all.

And as I open to the landscape something within me shifts. Not in the usual way — pulse, contraction, flow, and motion. Those parameters no longer exist. No, I am becoming more tree and moss, less blood and flesh.⁶

Where once my fingernails grew, now leaves shoot into the loosening air. My arms stretch towards the light, bending above the undergrowth. My face, no longer lit by the sun, is the sun, radiating a boundless energy, a fire within.⁷

Look at my skin peeling, sagging in strips to expose a delicate body, fresh and alive. Moss on my feet. Lichen on my eyebrows. Birds in my hair. And in my hands, wild seeds — the beginning of dreams and everything in-between.

I am re-wilding.⁸

*

It has been half an hour and I can no longer remember what it is I was running from. My home — a weatherboard house with a red door and edible garden, bulging with collections and creations. My family — thick with children and various animals, thrumming with a fierce and forever love. My thoughts — knotted and looping and too much.

Perhaps you are a parent, or you have caring responsibilities, and you have a sense of what I am feeling — the shock of being needed, always. Perhaps you are are here too and you know about the wonders of the forest.⁹

*

Overhead, three yellow-tailed black cockatoos fly away from the forest, towards the River. They shoot across the sky like a black arrow — one ahead, two behind — wailing as they go. I know this call. Rain is coming, wind perhaps. I follow, their dark bodies like a constellation in the sky.

Over the chain of ants, around the native cherry tree, under the eucalyptus arch, down the steep and rocky trail to the gully, along the street lined with silver birch trees, and all the way home.

When I open the front door, no one is waiting. I find my children in the garden, jumping on the trampoline. My husband serving dinner in the kitchen. I take my shoes off, tuck them into the shelf by the back door, wipe the sweat from under my nose, and sit down on the back deck that looks out at our garden.

Now a feeling, a rush of something within. Not joy or hope or the fluttering of wings. It is the feeling of a forest — wild and sweet and flourishing.

---

A nature poem

Invitation
Mary Oliver

Oh do you have time
        to linger
                for just a little while
                       out of your busy
and very important day
        for the goldfinches
                that have gathered
                       in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
        to see who can sing
                the highest note,
                       or the lowest,
or the most expressive of mirth,
        or the most tender?
                Their strong, blunt beaks
                       drink the air
as they strive
        melodiously
                not for your sake
                       and not for mine
and not for the sake of winning
        but for sheer delight and gratitude—
                believe us, they say,
                       it is a serious thing
just to be alive
        on this fresh morning
                in the broken world.
                       I beg of you,
do not walk by
        without pausing
                to attend to this
                       rather ridiculous performance.
It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.

---

Things I have loved reading on Substack

• Ever been to a 'protestival'? by

  Annabelle Lukin
  . ‘Colourful kayaks bobbing around on a choppy ocean, while a frighteningly enormous ship full of dirty and planet destroying coal motored its way from Australia’s shores’.

• Wheels of change, Reciprocal Climate Action with

  Betje
  and
  Gillian & Li'l Bean
  . Are you feeling a bit overwhelmed at the state of the world? Cartoons and words to get you started.

• Walking solves things, walking can be radical by

  Lucinda Bain
  . Go on lace up your shoes and head outside.

---

A few other things

• If you would like to read more about the meaning of the word wild, this article, What Do We Mean When We Talk About Wilderness, is a good place to start.

• I enjoyed a wonderful weekend of writing workshops with the brilliant

  Bri Lee
  and a room full of lovely literary people. I have a few ideas rattling around my head, and a few new skills to practice.

• Bri and friend Alice Rose have a new venture — Bibliocarta — Travel for readers and a library for travellers. First trip is to Morroco in March 2025. Details here. I am envious.

• If you are following along, you may know that the brain tumour community is close to my heart. Last week Brain Tumour Alliance Australia hosted their annual Head to the Hill event at Parliament House in Canberra, Australia. If this is a cause that resonates with you, there is a link here with highlights of the day.

• On raising boys - “Sid did a fart and I breathed it in. Will I get sick?”. I laughed and then I read this article. Lots of farts can be a sign of good gut health.

• Hope is a cupboard — We are getting cupboards in our bedroom. Proper built ins, ceiling high, made to fit. My husband rolls his eyes, but I am excited and I cannot wait for those smooth lines and clutter hiding spaces. I know cupboards won’t make the task of raising a family any easier. But I am willing to give it a go.

• There are 29 chicken eggs in our incubator in the laundry. And so we will have fluffy yellow chicks before Christmas and in the next newsletter!

• Thinking about a few wild adventures after Christmas. Islands, bikes, mountains. What’s on your horizon?

• Dreaming of mountain mornings like this.

Sunrise from the Florentine range, Mount Field National Park, Tasmania

Until next time,

wishing you time to linger,

just for a little while,

in your favourite place outdoors.

Kate xx

1. The scientific name is Callistemon. They are referred to as bottlebrushes because of their cylindrical, brush like flowers.

2. The scientific name is Saw Sedge.

3. A marsupial is group of animals that carry their young in a pouch.

4. ‘Wild is a word like “soul”. Such a thing may not exist but we want it and we know what we mean when we talk about it”. Kathleen Jamie

5. a lizard

6. After Waymaking — An anthology of women’s adventure writing, poetry and art,

7. After the poem Rewild Yourself by Caroline Mellor. You can read the poem here.

8. Rewilding is a process of restoring ecosystems to their natural, pre-human condition. It’s about letting nature take care of itself. To rewild yourself means reconnecting with nature, finding balance, and embracing a more authentic and simplified way of living.

9. Much has been written about the benefits of spending time in nature — Shinrin-yoku ‘forest bathing’, bioaphilla, eco-therapy, re-wilding, nature play, green desking, girl mossing, and adventure dates.