This past weekend, I co-hosted a Forest Gathering with Nature in a pine grove at a nearby park. When planning the Gathering, I shared with Nature that I wanted to focus on the themes of Resilience, Reciprocity, and Resistance. Yet, I felt particularly drawn to Reciprocity for this one. Almost immediately, Nature responded with two simple words: "Feed me."
Taking this literally, I decided on a mandala-making activity using food that forest dwellers might enjoy. I gathered bird seed, walnuts, carrots, oranges, apples, berries—natural offerings I thought participants would enjoy using as “art materials.”
As I began explaining the activity to the group at the pine grove, I noticed some inner tension about mandala-making in Nature. On one hand, creating mandalas with natural materials feels like a powerful act of appreciation—a mindful, creative expression of connection and beauty. These practices feel deeply needed, especially in these tumultuous times.
But on the other hand, I’ve seen how nature-based art can unintentionally harm the very environments we seek to honor. Rocks turned into sculptures might displace insects. Flowers picked for beauty are no longer feeding pollinators. Stones stacked in rivers disrupt ecosystems. Nature’s beauty is already whole, already art. Perhaps the most reverent thing we can do is to discover and appreciate the mandalas Nature creates on its own.
I also questioned whether offering food to Nature was appropriate. There's much debate about feeding wildlife—about its impact on animal behavior, ecosystems, and human interference. After reflection, I concluded that a one-time winter offering likely wouldn’t harm the balance. Wild creatures might benefit from the nourishment without becoming dependent, and it felt aligned with the spirit of reciprocity for this Gathering.
What I didn’t fully grasp until after the event was that Nature’s call to “feed me” might have had layers of meaning. One of those layers was feeding myself. After all, I am part of Nature too, aren’t I?
The mandala-making was not just an act of giving—it was also a way of receiving. It nourished the part of me that craves creative expression. It reminded me how difficult I find it to accept freely given gifts—whether from people or from Nature. Sunrises, sunsets, the bright moon—these are gifts I am quick to appreciate but slow to truly receive. I often observe them with gratitude, yet bypass the vulnerability of allowing myself to feel their unconditional generosity.
Perhaps this is one of Nature’s greatest lessons: to show me that receiving is not selfish, but reciprocal. Nature gives unceasingly—through light, air, nourishment, beauty—and we, as part of Nature, are meant to receive as much as we give.
This Gathering was a reminder of the mutual nourishment that reciprocity entails. Feeding Nature, feeding others, and feeding ourselves are all part of the same cycle. To live authentically within that cycle is to embrace not only our ability to give but also our capacity to receive. And in that exchange lies the potential for profound healing.
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