Trail Notes: Things I think about....

Forest bathing has been growing in a way that feels organic—like the forest is doing the inviting now.

A few more people have begun reaching out. Sessions are slow, gentle, and intentionally small. Some days it’s one person walking the path with me, and that feels perfect. Other days we have a small circle breathing under the canopy, following the same principles I teach the children:
presence, curiosity, kindness toward our own bodies.

I’m beginning to sense that this part of my work is ready for its next phase—still quiet, still intentional, but more visible. More offerings through spring. More space for educators who are carrying too much. More invitations to arrive exactly as they are.

And I’m letting the forest lead.

I didn’t set out to build a 427-page living curriculum.

I really just wanted to help a friend.

A colleague of mine was stepping into a Montessori elementary classroom, and I remembered how much I loved those first few years — the wonder, the stories, the way the children-built worlds out of beads and questions. I remembered how Cosmic Education felt like this wide-open sky. I wanted her to feel that, too.

And then, as things tend to do, it spiraled. (In a good way.)

Somewhere between drafting timelines and rekindling old Great Stories, I realized I was coming home. The past few years — with all their disruptions and disconnections — had quietly dimmed something in me. COVID hit, the world tilted, and my compass spun for a while. Maybe yours did too.

But working on The Spiral Companion™ reminded me of the rhythm that still lives in this work. The joy. The breath. The audacity of helping children fall in love with the universe and themselves at the same time.

So I kept writing. And weaving. And laughing at myself for turning “just a little support doc” into a cosmic roadmap.

This is not a perfect curriculum. But it’s alive. And that’s enough for me.

If you’re a guide out there — new or seasoned, wandering or grounded — I hope this spiral gives you something to hold onto. A reminder that you’re not returning. You’re arriving. Again and again.

Thanks for walking this trail with me.

With love and a little cosmic dust,
— Marie

There’s something timeless about walking through a forest—the way the light filters through the trees, the hush of the wind through the branches, the rhythmic crunch of earth beneath my feet. I always find that, after a little while, my breathing slows to match the pace of the trees. They don’t rush, and neither do I.

I’ve been thinking about how natural this feels, how in some places, it’s not just a pastime but a way of life. In Sweden, they call it friluftsliv—a deep connection to outdoor living. It’s woven into their culture, but also, interestingly, into their healthcare. There, doctors sometimes prescribe time in nature as part of treating depression and anxiety. It makes sense. Studies show that walking in the forest can lower stress, ease depression, and lift the mood in ways that a walk down a busy street just can’t.

But I don’t think we need research to tell us this. We know it in our bones. The moment we step into the trees, something shifts. The air feels different. The sounds are softer. The mind clears a little.

It doesn’t have to be a deep Swedish forest. A park, a backyard, a handful of trees at the edge of a field—it’s enough. Enough to stop, breathe, and remember what it feels like to move at the rhythm of the earth.

Next time the world feels too loud, step outside. Let the trees remind you.

As we walk along the path of life, we often find ourselves adjusting our steps—sometimes slower, sometimes quicker—depending on where we are and who we’re with. It’s a bit like code-switching, that natural shift in how we express ourselves based on the environment or the people around us. You know, how we speak to a close friend versus a colleague or a stranger. It’s an instinctive way of aligning with the groups we encounter, making us feel connected, understood, and safe. Code-switching is a human tendency, one that helps us navigate different spaces. And yet, no matter how much we switch up our steps or our language, there’s a common thread that unites us all: our human need to belong.

We are constantly drawn to find our tribes, those groups where we feel at home, where we can relax and let down our guard. And just like that, the need to organize and classify creeps in, naturally helping us label the spaces we inhabit. We group, we sort, we define, and by doing so, we understand where we fit in.

But here’s the thing—does the search for belonging always have to result in exclusivity? Do all tribes need to welcome others?

It’s a complicated question. Some groups are open by nature, embracing those outside their circle and allowing room for differences, new perspectives, and shared growth. Other tribes, however, may feel the pull to protect their identity, maintaining strong boundaries. Maybe it’s a sense of preservation or a fear of losing the things that make them “themselves.” But what happens when tribes close their gates?

This is where the conversation about cultural boundaries comes in. Boundaries are important. They help define who we are, what we stand for, and how we relate to others. But when we’re too rigid about those boundaries, we can inadvertently shut out the very thing that might help us grow—visitors. And visitors are just that: not intruders, but those who are seeking connection, who want to understand, share, and learn from us just as much as we can learn from them.

The tension between preserving culture and welcoming the unfamiliar is an ancient one. Some cultures and tribes can stand firm in their values while gently extending an invitation to others to join, learn, and share. There’s power in being strong in our identity while still being open to what the world has to offer. But it’s a fine line to walk, one where both openness and protection must be balanced with care and intention.

So, what do we do as individuals, as part of these tribes? We ask ourselves: How do we hold on to our core while remaining open to the beauty others bring? How do we create boundaries that allow for connection and growth without losing what’s most meaningful to us? It’s a dance, really—a constant shifting of steps between the need for belonging and the invitation to explore new paths.

As we continue down our personal trails, let’s remember that every tribe has the potential to evolve, to grow stronger by embracing others and their unique gifts. It’s the balance of holding on to our essence while being open to the unexpected visitors who may change the course of our journey.

Walking the trail today, I let my mind chew on this new reporting policy at school. Every heightened disagreement, every physical interaction—documented. Who, what, when, where, how it was handled. At first, it felt like a burden, like trust being replaced by paperwork.

But as my feet find their rhythm on the packed earth, I start to wonder—maybe these reports aren’t just about liability. Maybe they tell a story. A child who keeps getting into scuffles at recess. A pattern of frustration bubbling up in math. A kid who always seems to be on the edges of conflict but never quite in it.

The trees around me hold their own records. Scars in the bark. A place where lightning struck. Rings inside marking years of drought and years of abundance. Maybe our reports do something similar—not just logging incidents but showing us growth, struggle, resilience.

I pause at a fallen log, running my fingers over the rough surface. The forest doesn’t need paperwork, but maybe, in our world, some stories do need to be written down. Maybe the challenge is making sure we’re writing them for the right reasons.

I keep walking, still not sure where I land on all of this. But at least out here, I don’t have to file a report about it.

I step into the woods, and nothing new happens. No sudden revelations, no grand sense of arrival. Just the quiet recognition of a place I already belong to. My breath shifts—not because I remember to slow it, but because the trees make sure I do. They always do.

The trees don’t greet me. They don’t need to. They just keep being trees—steadfast, steady, growing at the same slow, patient pace they always have. I don’t wonder if they notice the light shifting. I know they do. They move with it, the way they always have, the way they always will. I trust in that.

I drag my fingers over a patch of rough bark, not because I’m searching for something, but because I like the way it feels. Solid. Honest. The wind moves through the branches, not whispering some secret wisdom—just being wind. I know its voice. It has nothing to prove.

The air smells like dirt, like pine, like things breaking down to become something new. I take it in, letting the phytoncides do their thing—not because I read about them, but because I know, in my bones, that nature gives back. Always.

There’s no need to rush, no need to make this a moment. The trees don’t ask for ceremony. They just ask that I show up, as I am. So I do. I sit. The ground holds me. The trees breathe, and I breathe with them. And that is enough.