When the Earth Becomes the Pra

Listening for God in the wind, the branches, and my own breath

There are days when words will not come, when even prayer feels like speaking into the wind. On those days, I go outside.

The earth does not ask me to make sense. The wind does not need me to be strong. I can sit beneath the sky and let everything fall apart quietly. Somewhere between the ache in my chest and the slow rhythm of my breathing, something begins to shift.

Meditation is not always about stillness. Sometimes it is simply about not running. Not from the pain, or the noise, or the longing to be somewhere else. It is sitting in the moment until it softens around the edges.

When I meditate outside, I listen to the branches sway in the wind, each one whispering something ancient and familiar. The birds chatter back and forth, taking turns at the feeder like neighbors sharing a meal. The farm cats stretch in the sun, chasing leaves as they roll across the yard, alive with small joy.

In moments like this, I do not need incense or sacred music. The prayer is already happening. The earth breathes with me. The Spirit that guides me does not speak in thunder or fire, but in the rhythm of wings, the hush of grass, and the steady pulse of a world that keeps turning, no matter how heavy life feels.

I have learned that the body remembers peace, even when the mind forgets how to find it. The sound of rain becomes a mantra. The pulse of my heart becomes a drumbeat of survival. The light through the trees becomes a scripture I never learned but somehow understand.

Prayer happens here, not in words but in being. In breathing when I would rather not. In noticing the robin’s call after the storm. In remembering that creation itself is one long exhale of God, and I am still part of that breath.

There are days when I sit on the porch, hands open, and say nothing at all. And yet, I feel heard. The silence holds me like an old friend who does not need explanations.

When the world feels too heavy to carry, I lay it down in the grass. The earth always knows what to do with pain. It breaks it down and turns it into something that can grow again.

Maybe that is all prayer really is. A quiet offering of what hurts, given to something bigger than me, trusting that even the roughest soil can grow something holy.

Author’s Note

There was a time when I searched for peace everywhere except the present moment. I thought it lived in the next place, the next answer, or the next version of myself I had not ruined yet. But peace is not found in escape. It is found in return.

Meditation, prayer, and nature are how I come home. When I sit beneath the sky and listen to the wind in the branches and the rhythm of my own breath, I remember that God never stopped speaking. I had simply forgotten how to listen.

If this reflection speaks to you, I invite you to read the first chapter of my memoir, I’m a Nobody, Are You a Nobody Too?, where I share the journey that taught me how light still finds us, even after loss. You can download the free first chapter here: newleafcoachingandconsulting.org/nobody