Returning to Your Roots

Life, or more aptly my mother, had once again wounded me in ways that mothers are not meant to wound their daughters. The harshness of that January day insisted that I walk the land with grief as my invisible yet potent companion. An icy wind nipped at my unprotected cheeks and fine participles of sand chafed my skin—as if the elements themselves understood how exposed my heart felt. The cold stung my eyes, causing them to water—or perhaps they were tears masquerading as my body’s reflexive response to protect itself, helping me release some small part of a grief that felt too vast to bear?

Salty sea air coated my lips, evoking an ancient memory of life’s origins in the primordial ocean four billion years ago. This ancient remembrance always comforts me, that we carry humanity in our marrow, that we belong to something older than our current pain. There is strength in knowing your ancestors walk with you. A habit from girlhood, I pocketed seashells, broken and eroded by the tides. Even in their jaggedness, there was beauty in the shimmering palette of sea-kissed colors and the profusion of textures. Was the ocean inviting me to reflect on the beauty and poignancy of my own recent fracturing? Not to romanticize the pain of rupture—but to trust that fragmentation, too, belongs to the sacred process of becoming?

As much as I enjoyed the solitude of walking miles of deserted beaches, I felt the call of a hidden forest, shielded from view behind the dunes. Dunes and scrub forest grew denser, until the land suddenly revealed her own woundedness. Months earlier, lightning struck and fire ravaged the forest. Wax myrtle and saltbush had reclaimed the barren soil, but loblolly pines stood lifeless—grey, bark-bare ghosts against the winter sky. The forest felt like a mirror.

The forest reminded me that life turns in cycles of birth and death. Fire does not disrupt the forest’s life cycle; it is essential to becoming and the creation of life itself. Fire clears litter from the forest floor, reducing competition from oaks and maples. Fire enriches the soil, creating fertile seedbeds ready for germination after seed fall. Fire thins the tree canopy so sunlight can nurture new growth. Destruction inevitably becomes preparation.

I did not yet know how to metabolize my recent relational death, but something in me recognized a truth—my story was not over. What felt like devastation was also purification. What felt like loss was an illumination of places long held in shadows. What felt like vulnerability was in fact homecoming, reclaiming parts of my Sovereign Self.

Assateague National Seashore is one of my sacred places, and I returned four years later, seeking solace and wisdom in a new season of grief. The tranquility of miles of empty winter beaches, with their invitation to deep reflection, was disrupted by summer’s abundance. Families staked their claim to the land, if temporarily, with umbrellas and coolers. Children shrieked with delight. Bluetooth speakers pulsed. I did not begrudge these fellow travelers their joy—but I had come seeking quiet counsel and comfort from the land.

The heat was oppressive, approaching 110 degrees. The ocean breeze made the heat tolerable, but beyond the dunes it was close to unbearable. I trudged inland, searching for the wounded forest I remembered so clearly, the one that mirrored my Soul, curious about its renewal. Had I lost my way?

The cry of a gull caught my attention and I looked up. Above the verdant canopy, those same grey sentinels stood in silent witness over a forest reborn, proof of the symbiosis in ruin and renewal, catastrophe and renaissance.

In a universal language beyond words, the forest invited me to reimagine this chapter of my life—where rebirth is inevitable, where destruction is revision, requiring only patience after lightning strikes. The wheel of life, like the cycles of the seasons, turns, decisive and inescapable—whether we consent or not. The duality of breaking and mending gifts us with a poignant journey of becoming where we live into a future that brings us closer to our most precious, authentic expression of Self.

The forest did not promise me an end to wounding, for life lived robustly entails suffering. She did not promise reconciliation. She promised only this—the journey of becoming continues. The Sovereign Self, ancient and resilient, waits beneath the ash—like a seedling, ready to reclaim her light.

Invitations for Reflection

Naming the Lightning: Where in your life has lightning struck? What part of you felt most exposed in that moment? What story did you begin telling yourself about that wound?

Surviving the Fire: What in your life feels scorched or stripped bare right now? What might be quietly preparing itself beneath the surface? Are you pushing regeneration, or trusting the process as it emerges?

The Ancientness in Your Marrow: When have you felt connected to something older and more rooted than your current pain? What does your Sovereign Self know that your wounded Self forgets? If you trusted your resilience as much as the forest trusts fire, how would you move differently?

Storywork Alchemy: What story have you been telling your Self and others about this season of your life? Is that story fixed—or still unfolding? Even if you feel shattered, how might this moment be shaping your becoming

©2026 Gretchen Martens, All Rights Reserved.

Find a place in nature where you can walk. You can also do this in your backyard, or indoors if you have mobility issues. As you walk, gather small stones and fallen leaves, acorns, or twigs. Please do not pick foliage from living trees or bushes. If you are doing this inside, you will need to have these things, or substitutes, on hand.

As you pick up fallen items—leaves, acorns, or twigs—name the things that you want to release. Ask the leaf, twig, or acorn to hold this intention and to let its power over you release as the object from nature decays. “Leaf, will you hold my intention to release my anger, letting it melt into the healing soil of this forest as you return to soil?” Replace the object on the forest floor. You are leaving what you no longer want to carry with the supportive elements of Mother Earth. Continue until you have released everything you are ready to release on this day. You can always return to this threshold practice when the next things feel ready to release.

Now that you have cleared space, releasing what you no longer wish to carry, you are ready to honor what you wish to keep and to invite new things into your life. As you find a stone, whisper to the stone what you are keeping or what you want to invite in. “Dear stone, will you help me keep my sense of Self? Dear stone, will you hold my intention to invite in abundance?” Place each stone in your pocket. Continue until you feel you have named everything that is important to name on this day. You can always return to this threshold practice as you move into new phases in your becoming.

As you prepare to return home, place the stones in a circle, blessing the circle of intention consistent with your own faith tradition. If this commitment feels fragile, you can ask the stones for permission to bring them home and create an altar as a symbol of your commitment to your becoming. Promise to return them to the land when your commitment feels stronger, or is fulfilled.

Complete this wander by reflecting and journaling, if you wish.

• What feels lighter or freer? Where does this spaciousness live in your body?

• What feels more aligned or rooted? Where does this grounding live in your body?

• Was it harder to release the old or invite in the new?

• How does the practice of creating spaciousness expand your possibilities in the future?

 ©2026 Gretchen Martens, All Rights Reserved.