I’m lying on a bench underneath an arbor, looking up at the wisteria on the trellis. Sun peeks through the cracks of the bench. I sit up and look at the tree to my left, my eyes following the fractal beauty of the branches, watching how they replicate themselves in ever-smaller degrees of scale.
I’m at my “sit spot,” a specific place that you visit regularly to observe the environment and cultivate a deeper connection with the natural world. I visit my sit spot about three times a week, and it’s always a pleasure.
Before this one, I’d tried another off the Hikshari’ Trail, but I had to ride my bike there, and I wanted somewhere easily accessible by foot. The whole point of a sit spot is to go regularly enough to observe changes in granular detail and get to know it intimately. Mine is a 10-minute walk from my Old Town apartment.
I’ve known this spot for many years but never claimed it as my own until a few months ago. I always liked it but didn’t feel a personal relationship with it or a sense of stewardship. Now we’re becoming close friends.
It’s not my first sit spot. When I was a kid, in the springtime, I’d gaze dreamily at the dogwood blossoms outside my bedroom window. Technically, a sit spot is in nature, but I think it still counts even if you’re inside, as long as you’re observing nature nearby.
And I’m by no means alone. People I’ve talked to remember their childhood sit spots with mathematical precision. My husband’s was in his back garden, out of sight of the house, in a stately old pear tree in which he built a platform on which to sit and enjoy his secret world.
Sometimes at my sit spot, I lie on the bench, like I am now, looking up at the way the wisteria wanders in and out of the wood slats; other times I use “owl eyes,” a technique recommended in nature mindfulness practices, which involves softening your gaze and using your wide-angle peripheral vision. Instead of staring at a fixed point, I lean back and zone out slightly to take in more information, such as the grass, the sky, the branches to my left, the fence to my right — remaining completely still and without turning my head. This way I notice details I might otherwise miss, like the play of the wind in the grass blades or the ants crawling under the bench.
Other times I write in my journal, listen to the birds, or do some yoga poses on the grass. I might take a picture of the bench and try to sketch it later. Often, as I’m sitting on the bench, ideas come to me that I doubt would have surfaced at home.
I admit I occasionally scroll — but not for long. It feels impure in this special place. Nor do I listen to music.
Chances are, you may have your own sit spot, whether you call it that or not — a corner of your property, a particular log at your favorite beach, or a bench you always visit on a nearby trail.
Visiting a sit spot is an ancient practice, rooted in Indigenous and Paleolithic traditions. Native and tracker cultures relied on quiet observation and sensory immersion to read the land, watch wildlife and survive in harmony with local ecosystems.
The phrase “sit spot” became popular in the 2008 book Coyote’s Guide to Connecting with Nature by the naturalist Tom Brown Jr. and his protégé Jon Young. Aimed at teachers, parents and outdoor educators, the book provides tools and practices to encourage young people to cultivate a relationship with nature. The purpose of a sit spot, the authors say, is to enable a person to switch from being a casual visitor to a familiar presence in the natural place.
Sit spots are well known in literature, probably the most famous one being Henry David Thoreau’s cabin in Concord, Massachusetts, where he went to “live deliberately.” His daily practice of sitting by the water, observing the seasons and interacting with wildlife epitomizes the use of a sit spot.
And closer to home, Humboldt’s own environmental activist Julia “Butterfly” Hill, sat on a piece of plywood in the canopy of an ancient redwood tree for two years in the late ’90s. While protesting against logging, she meditated to stay calm and maintain her connection to nature.
Sighing, I stand up and stretch. I’ve checked out the wisteria, admired a spider web and done a couple of sun salutations. It’s time to go. As I stroll through the fence that partitions the garden, I give my bench one last parting look and head back to home.
Louisa Rogers (she/her) is a writer, painter and paddleboarder who lives in Eureka and Guanajuato, Mexico.
This article appears in Reports from the Grand Jury.