Why Stillness Is The Doorway To Hearing The Forest Speak

The Sacred Feminine Practice That Helps Me Hear What Plants Are Saying

Sam Messersmith

was one of my first friends here on Substack. I still remember our very first “coffee chat” all those months ago… and the first thing that pulled me in was her energy. And her laugh. If you’ve met Sam, you know exactly what I mean.

Since then, through calls and her words, I’ve gotten to witness her more deeply—and truly, I’m in awe. Of her sensitivity. Her soulfulness. Her presence. Her connection to the Earth, to the forests… my gosh.

She’s someone who doesn’t just love the forests—she listens to them. Speaks to them. Let them move through her.

As someone who doesn’t just love—but deeply respects—her heart, her soul, her mind… I’m so honoured to host her words here, in Remembering SELF.

I can't wait for you to sink into her energy and feel what I’ve felt.

Thank you, Sam—for trusting me with this. It means more than you know.

I recently read a piece by Linnea Butler, MS, LMFT, called The Sacred Pause: When Stillness Is the Medicine, and it stirred something in me. She mentioned silence and stillness, and how those are necessary ingredients for expansion and transformation.

I thought of how silence is considered the absence of talking. As if nothing is there, just an emptiness. But! The void is where creation comes from, where WE come from. Big Womb Energy. I couldn't stop thinking about how silence, stillness, and wombs are intricately connected.

There's something profound about the womb as a space of creation born from silence. Life begins in the dark, quiet depths where there's nothing to do but receive, grow, and become.

The womb doesn't rush or perform. It simply holds space for what wants to emerge. And perhaps that's what stillness offers us, too. A return to that original creative silence, that receptive darkness where new awareness can take root.

When I'm in nature and able to communicate with the land around me, that connection always begins in stillness. I have to sit. Simply observe. Let go of any agenda.

I have to return to something womb-like, a state of patient receptivity where I'm not trying to make anything happen, but simply creating space for what wants to be born through me.

That’s not always easy.

Sometimes I want to wander, to explore, to follow curiosity’s call. There's nothing wrong with that. It's a beautiful, active way of being.

But there's also a quieter way. A receptive way. And we need both.

The Art of Receiving

In The Power of Receiving by Amanda Owens, a book given to me by my friend

Teri Leigh 💜

, it’s said right at the beginning that receptive states are the foundation of receiving.

These are states like:

• Silence

• Meditation

• Observation

• Noticing

• Being

• Sitting

• Presence

These are soft, open states of awareness. They carry the sacred feminine energy of receptivity, the same energy that governs the womb space. Not gendered, but energetic. Like the womb, these states don’t grasp or demand. They simply hold space and allow.

In contrast, the sacred masculine holds action, direction, doing. And in our culture, the outward-facing, productive energy is praised far more than the quiet presence of listening.

Giving is rewarded.

Receiving is overlooked.

But there is an art to receiving.

There is a magic to softening, to opening, to becoming the sacred vessel. To returning to that womb-like state of creative receptivity, where we trust that something is always wanting to be born through our willingness to simply be present.

Listening to the Land

To truly hear the trees, the plants, the wind, you have to become still enough to notice. That’s when the whispers come. That’s when the messages arrive.

I’ve seen it again and again. I’ve experienced it. I can anticipate it now.

If I were to go into the forest, sit alone, and melt into presence (with no people around, no distractions pulling me into self-awareness or performance), I know what would happen. I know communication would come.

It’s not that people are bad. It’s just that when I’m around others, my attention often shifts to how I’m being perceived. I start to think about normalcy, politeness, and the “right” way to be. And that pulls me out of presence.

So I seek places where I can be alone. Secluded. Hidden in the arms of nature.

I can only speak from my own experience. I am not sure what this practice looks or feels like to other people.

For me, when I am around plants and alone, I sometimes get thoughts in my head. It’s my voice, but not something I was thinking of. It’s as if I were not the one to generate the thought, but here it is inside my mind.

I personally don’t see anything or get any visuals. Sometimes it’s just a pull, a random urge to do something. Something weird like pulling oracle cards for turtles and locust trees.

Becoming Part of the Landscape

One spring day, I visited a local state park known for its wildflower reserve. People usually come expecting something like a manicured garden, but that’s not how wildflowers work.

Wildflowers are subtle. Seasonal. You have to know how to look. You have to bend low to the ground and let your eyes adjust to their language.

That day, I found a little groove. Five trees standing in a field near an old cabin along the trail. The cabin once hosted writers, so of course I was drawn there, chasing the lingering echoes of their words.

I knelt in the grass and sat among the flowers. I leaned my back against a tree, becoming part of the scene, letting the land hold me.

Someone happened upon me and gasped.

"Holy crap, there’s a girl here!" they exclaimed, laughing nervously as they walked away with their friends, still startled by my presence.

Apparently, I had blended into the landscape so well that they hadn’t seen me at all.

That’s my favorite way to be in nature. Faded into the edges. Observing. Quiet. Becoming part of the place.

Birds often react the same way. They come close, unbothered, until they finally notice I’m there and flit away.

I become part of the landscape.

That’s when the land begins to speak.

That’s when the secrets come.

The Practice

You don’t have to do anything fancy.

Just become still.

Let your breath slow.

Let your mind and body soften.

And in that openness, you may begin to receive.

So if you want to speak with the plants, the land, the unseen wisdom all around you:

• Become silent

• Become still

• Become open

• Practice

With time, you’ll begin to recognize the feeling of connection. You’ll notice when the forest wants to speak. Spoiler alert: the forest wants to speak all the time.

You’ll find yourself drawn to certain places. You’ll have your journal ready, or maybe you’ll just receive and embody the message.

Sometimes, you’ll write and not even realize what you’re writing. You’ll finish, look back, and wonder where the words came from. You won’t remember writing them, and that in itself is the message.

Not from you.

But through you.

From the forest.

From the land beneath you.

From the energy that always surrounds you.

When you’re still enough to feel it.

Silent enough to hear it.

Open enough to receive it.

A Gentle Next Step

Try this practice to deepen your connection with the land and your intuition:

Find a quiet spot—outside in nature if possible, or simply by a window.

Sit comfortably and become still.

Let your breath slow. Let your senses open. Notice what's around you without needing to interpret.

Observe.

Pay attention to any shifts—a thought that doesn’t feel like your own, a tug toward a specific plant, a sudden mood or memory.

Open your journal.

Begin writing whatever comes. You can try these prompts:

• What do I feel drawn to right now, and why?

• If this tree/plant/stone could speak, what would it say?

• What part of me is waking up in this stillness?

Write for 5–10 minutes without editing. Let the words flow through you.

They may not come from you, but they are absolutely for you.

Sam is the author of

Wandering Willow

, a space for reflection, rewilding, and deep connection—with yourself, nature, and the stories that shape your life. Rooted in Forest Therapy and a passion for storytelling, you'll find musings on nature’s wisdom, the heart’s wild truth, and the journey of remembering who you are.
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